The frost bit deep that morning, but the firepit had been cleared.

Two lines formed—uneven, unsure, faces wrapped in scarves and suspicion. Raive stood at the edge of the makeshift circle, arms folded, lips thin.

Between the lines, two men knelt on opposite sides of the clearing.

One, barefoot, bruised, a peasant with calloused hands and frost-pink knuckles. Brenn of the grain-cart. Third file.

The other wore padded gloves, boiled leather, and the smug sharpness of petty station. Seldren of House Markholt's baggage train. Cousin to a baronet, word was.

Yesterday, Seldren had taken half a sack of oats from Brenn's rations.

Brenn had punched him in the face.

Now they'd both chosen trial by duel.

Because the law allowed it.

If witnessed.If sanctioned.If bound in oath.

Raive turned to the assembled crowd. "Witnesses?"

A priest stepped forward—old, limping, with incense still clinging to his sleeves. "Sanctioned. Bound in frost. Oaths spoken. May the losing blood teach restraint."