Cold Promises

The night dug into Hollow Hearth's survivors like broken nails under the skin.

The bitter cold.

The endless dark.

The stink of smoke and blood ground deep into every breath.

Calder stood under the sagging eaves of a half-rotted barn, watching as Father Bryn and Branwen spoke to the men of the settlement.

Their voices were low.

Measured.

Careful.

Like a gambler talking a starving dog away from a bone.

No one rushed forward.

No one cheered.

The men of the settlement listened, arms crossed, faces blank.

Hunger made them cautious.

Not brave.

They'd survived Thornhollow's taxes and Thornhollow's enforcers by keeping their heads down, burying their pride deeper with every passing season.

Now Bryn and Branwen asked them to dig it up again.

To wager blood on a blade they'd only just met.

Promises were whispered —

not crowns, not kingdoms.

Simple ones.

A full belly.

A sharp sword.

A chance to spit in Thornhollow's eye before they died.

It took hours.

The old moon rode high before the first man nodded.

Another spat into the dirt and grunted his agreement.

By morning, a handful stood ready.

Not because they believed.

Not because they hoped.

Because they were too tired to run anymore.

And because the cold truth was easier to swallow than the long hunger waiting for them under Thornhollow's yoke.

Calder left the talking to them.

While Bryn and Branwen bartered with desperation, he moved among the warband and the broken villagers who still clung to them.

The settlement offered shelter, if only barely.

Rotting houses.

Sodden straw.

Walls leaning like drunks against the wind.

Still better than sleeping in the mud.

Still better than freezing under the broken stars.

They packed into crumbling homes, curled against hearths that hadn't held real fire in years.

Armor stayed close.

Blades closer.

No one trusted anything but the steel at their side.

Calder sat against a wall that bowed inward with every gust of wind, Dog's Hunger across his knees, cloak wrapped tight.

Sleep didn't come.

Only the slow grind of exhaustion, the ache of bruised muscles, the flicker of memories he had no use for anymore.

He listened to the bones of the house creak.

Listened to the rasp of Vryce's breathing.

Listened to the cold settle deeper into the stone.

Waiting.

Always waiting.

At first light, they moved.

No banners.

No horns.

Just the crunch of boots on frozen mud, the wet coughs of men who hadn't tasted clean air in years, and the grim scrape of weapons gathered from the fallen.

They left the first settlement with more than they'd come.

A dozen new bodies.

Axes that still held edges.

Spears long enough to matter.

Not an army.

Not yet.

But closer.

The march was slow.

Painfully slow.

The old stumbled.

Children cried.

Carts groaned under the weight of everything that hadn't already fallen apart.

Every mile felt like three.

They should've reached the next place by early afternoon the next day.

Instead, the sun was already bleeding out behind the hills when they saw it.

The second settlement stood stronger.

A patchwork wall of stone and timber ringed the village.

Torches burned on iron spikes hammered into the frozen earth.

Watchmen stalked the perimeter, weapons at the ready.

It wasn't much.

But it was alive.

Calder slowed the column well short of the gates.

Eyes scanning every shadow, every window cracked open just enough to watch their approach.

Father Bryn walked forward with Branwen at his side, their cloaks snapping in the sharp wind.

The boy stood straighter now.

His hands didn't shake when he gripped his sword.

There was steel building under the bruises.

Calder didn't trust it.

Steel bent.

Steel broke.

And Branwen had too much soft inside still.

The gates creaked open.

A handful of men stepped out.

Hard men.

Scarred.

Cautious.

Their armor was mismatched, but well kept.

Their weapons nicked, but sharp.

They didn't lower them as Bryn and Branwen approached.

Good.

Calder respected them more for that.

One man led the group.

Lean, sharp-shouldered, a scar cutting down the side of his neck like someone had tried to peel him open and failed.

He wore old leather patched with hide, a battered short sword at his hip, and a knife that looked like it had kissed a hundred ribs.

A wolf's grin played at his mouth, but his eyes were cold.

Dead cold.

He took one long look at Branwen.

Then at Calder.

And he smiled wider.

The kind of smile that promised nothing but sharp teeth.

"You're the ones stirring the hornets," he said, voice rough but steady.

He gave a light bow, mockery and respect twined together.

"Name's Torren."

Calder didn't answer.

Just stared.

Measured.

Filed the name away.

The ones who smiled too quick were the ones who drew blood without blinking.

And Torren looked like he already had a dagger halfway unsheathed behind his grin.

Father Bryn spoke, words slow and careful, trying to bridge the gap.

Branwen followed, offering terms stripped down to the bone.

No crowns.

No titles.

Just survival.

Just a chance to kill the men who had ground their boots into the Marches until nothing was left but ash and memory.

Torren listened.

Smiling all the while.

Calder stayed silent.

Watching the way the man's fingers twitched near his belt.

Watching the way his men shifted like a pack, trusting him to speak but ready to fight without asking.

Watching the way the villagers at the walls leaned closer, listening, hoping, fearing.

The Marches didn't make kings.

It made wolves.

And tonight, Calder could feel the pack gathering teeth.

Torren's wolf's grin widened.

He gave a short nod toward the gates behind him.

"Best not talk business on the road," he said.

"Come inside. Share a fire. Share a cup."

His men shifted at his back, hands resting easy on hilts and spears.

Ready. Watching.

Not hostile.

Just prepared.

Calder caught the calculation in it.

Hospitality, sure.

But not trust.

They'd be guests behind sharpened doors.

Treated well enough — as long as they didn't twitch wrong.

It was better than camping in the mud.

Barely.

Branwen nodded stiffly, cloak whipping in the wind.

Father Bryn murmured something low and approving.

Calder stayed silent, Dog's Hunger resting heavy across his back, eyes sweeping the wall tops, the half-hidden faces peering down.

Every step forward was a gamble.

But the Marches never offered sure things.

Only blood and broken promises.

Without a word, Calder moved.

The battered column behind him followed, shuffling forward toward the waiting gates.

And as the heavy doors groaned wider, Calder felt the old, familiar weight settle deeper across his shoulders.

The kind that told him no deal worth making ever came without a dagger pointed somewhere under the table.