The Regressor and The Rising Storm- 03

Dawn clawed its way over Varkaine Keep, the frost-rimed courtyard alive with the clatter of picks and the low grumble of men. Thirty miners stood in loose ranks, their breath curling into the brittle air.

These were not green boys or beggars—their hands bore the scars of decades in the pits, their eyes sharp as flint. At their head stood Bran, the mining chief, his face a topography of old collapses and hard seams. He watched Kairus approach, his lone eye narrowing. 

The boy looked too much like his father. 

Alden Varkaine had earned his title young—*the Black Knight of the Frostmarch, they'd called him after he'd held Wolf's Cleft against the southern clans with fifty men. The miners remembered. They'd raised tankards to his name when he'd marched home bloodied but unbroken. But war glory didn't fill bellies, and the man who'd once shattered shield walls now presided over empty coffers and rotting granaries. 

Respect lingered. Trust was thinner. 

"Well?" Bran called, hefting his pick. "We wasting daylight or what?" 

Kairus stopped before them, Garrick a half-pace behind—the knight's presence a silent reminder of Alden's authority. The miners straightened, if only slightly. 

"Western ridge," Kairus said. "We dig there." 

Bran spat. "Ridge's dry as the river, boy. Been tapped since your grandsire's day." 

Murmurs rippled through the men. A gaunt miner with a cough like gravel shook his head. "Ain't no ore there, m'lord. Just cursed rock." 

Kairus didn't flinch. "You're wrong." 

Bran's laugh was a dry rasp. "Respectfully, my lord, What d'you know of the deep rock?" 

"I know the Verris levy bled us dry," Kairus said, loud enough to cut through the mutters. "I know winter's coming. And I know that ridge holds more than rock." 

Bran exchanged a glance with the gaunt miner. "Even if you're right—which you ain't—digging there's a month's work. We got families to feed." 

"You'll have double rations for every man who joins me," Kairus said. "Paid from my share." 

Ser Garrick stiffened. "The count hasn't authorized—" 

"The count," Kairus cut in, "entrusted this to me." 

A lie, but the knight's jaw clamped shut. Alden's orders were clear: Let the boy burn his pride. Then we salvage what's left. 

Bran scratched his stubble. "Double rations, eh? And if we find nothing?" 

"Then I'll work in the south pits beside you. No title. No privileges." 

The men stirred. The south pits were a death sentence—collapses every moon, air thick with lungrot. 

Bran studied him. "Why?" 

"Because if I'm wrong," Kairus said, "I deserve worse." 

Silence. Then the gaunt miner snorted. "He's his father's son, alright. Stubborn as a stone." 

A few chuckles. Bran spat again, but there was no heat in it. "Two weeks. And you better pray that pretty nose of yours can smell ore." 

As the men shouldered their gear, Garrick leaned close. "A bold wager, my lord. Let's hope there is something in the ridge" 

Kairus ignored him. 

Alden watched from the keep's ramparts, his silhouette broad-shouldered even in decay. Bran paused at the gate, looking up. 

"He really signed off on this madness?" 

Kairus' voice carried, cold and clear. "He did." 

Bran grunted. "Then let's hope the Black Knight's luck still holds." 

The gates creaked open. As the column trudged into the frost-bleached hills, Kairus glanced back. His father was gone.