The gates of Black Hollow yawned open under a sky bruised purple and red.
Torren led the way, his stride loose and easy, but his eyes sharp as broken glass.
He didn't bother hiding the men on the walls, bows strung, watching every step Calder's force took through the churned mud of the village outskirts.
Professional caution.
Calder respected it.
"Welcome to Black Hollow," Torren said, spreading his arms like a showman welcoming strangers into a cursed carnival.
The grin never touched his eyes.
Calder said nothing.
Dog's Hunger rode heavy on his back, hand never far from the hilt.
Black Hollow stank of woodsmoke, cold iron, and the bitter sweat of men who had survived one winter too many.
It wasn't a fortress.
It wasn't even a real village anymore.
Just another wound on the land, stubbornly refusing to fester into nothing.
They housed the women, the children, and the broken ones first.
Shoved into old homes patched with broken stones and frost-stiffened mud.
The villagers tolerated them.
But only just.
Hard looks.
Turned backs.
A muttered curse or two spat into the dirt.
No blades drawn yet.
Calder counted that as a small mercy.
The warband — what little was left of it — took to the sheds and old storage buildings without complaint.
Better than freezing under open sky.
Barely.
Later, when night dragged its ragged claws over the village, Calder, Branwen, and Father Bryn were summoned deeper inside Black Hollow.
To the hall.
It wasn't grand.
But it spoke.
Heavy stone walls braced by timber.
A thick wooden table carved deep with years of anger and desperation.
Tattered furs on benches.
A cracked, scorched crimson banner hung behind Torren's seat — some forgotten lord's last shame turned into decoration.
A few battered rings glinted on Torren's fingers.
A long knife rested easy at his belt.
A man who measured power by what he could steal and hold.
Calder took his seat without a word.
Branwen sat straighter, shoulders tense.
Father Bryn smoothed his robe and folded his hands, the picture of patient diplomacy.
Torren sprawled back like a wolf with a full belly, one boot resting atop the table's scarred surface.
The fire cracked low.
The Marches breathed slow beyond the stone.
Father Bryn leaned forward, voice low and steady.
"You've seen Thornhollow's work. His tax collectors. His enforcers. You know what happens to villages that don't toe the line."
Torren shrugged.
"Seen it. Lived it. Don't see how tying myself to your bloody cause changes it."
Branwen pushed, voice firm despite his youth.
"We don't ask for blind loyalty. Only a shared enemy."
Torren grunted.
"Enemies are easy to find. Harder to live past."
Father Bryn pressed again, his tone sharpening.
"Black Hollow's no fortress. Thornhollow will come, same as he always does. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon enough."
That stung.
Calder saw it.
The shift in Torren's posture.
The flicker behind his sharp grin.
A man forced to look ahead at his own grave.
"Better to stand before they come knocking," Branwen said.
Torren traced the rim of his mug with one scarred finger, slow and thoughtful.
"You're not wrong about Thornhollow," he said finally."And there's worse odds to wager on than men already neck-deep in trouble."
He raised the mug in a lazy salute — a mockery of a pledge.
"I'll stand. Until it stops making sense."
Father Bryn nodded, the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.
Branwen sat back, tension bleeding from his shoulders.
Calder said nothing.
Only watched.
Always watching.
Torren leaned forward, sarcasm curling around his words.
"So now that this merry band's assembled — what's the grand plan?"
The rough map was unfurled between them — ink smudged, corners burned.
Calder spoke first.
Short. Sharp.
"Take nearby villages," he said, voice flat."Secure them before Thornhollow tightens his grip."
He tapped a gauntleted finger against the map.
"Men, steel, food. Whatever's standing — take it whole.Break only what's needed."
Branwen glanced between Calder and Bryn, hesitation ghosting across his face.
Until recently, he'd have followed Calder without question.
Now Father Bryn's words pulled at him too, soft as a noose slipping over the neck.
Father Bryn steepled his fingers thoughtfully.
"Strength gathered in fear alone scatters at the first hard wind," he said."We need more than just bodies. We need cause."
He shifted, tapping another line of villages further along the map.
"Secure the nearby settlements, yes — but not with sword at their throats. Win them. Let them see a banner worth bleeding for."
"If we rally them willingly, they'll stand when the storms come."
Branwen added, quieter but supporting.
Torren chuckled low, fingers drumming on the table.
"Both fine notions," he drawled.
He nodded at Calder.
"Break their backs fast enough and they can't stab you later."
Then at Bryn.
"Or love you enough not to try."
A smirk.
"Depends how much you trust hungry men holding sharp things."
Calder didn't rise to it.
Just tapped his gauntleted finger against the nearest village mark again.
Clinical.
Pragmatic.
Truth.
The argument circled —
Calder's hard pragmatism,
Bryn's careful idealism,
Branwen caught between them.
And Torren —
never committing,
always twisting their own words into weapons he could use.
The fire sputtered low.
Cold air gnawed at the seams of the stone walls.
It was Torren who nudged the next shift.
Casual. Mocking.
"Careful though. Don't put too much weight on old banners. Veyne did, and look where that got them."
He tossed the words like a dagger across the table.
Branwen flinched, a muscle ticking at the edge of his jaw.
He spoke after a long moment, voice low but unflinching:
"Veyne was my family."
Silence.
The fire crackled dry as old bones.
Father Bryn blinked — then smiled thinly, the glint of new opportunity sharp in his eyes.
Torren's fingers stilled on the table, the wolf's grin tightening.
Both men already plotting behind their faces.
Calder watched without moving.
Measured the hunger rising behind their masks.
Schemes flaring to life like dry tinder.
Anselm Hold.
A broken relic.
Now a symbol.
A banner made from blood and ruins.
Father Bryn's voice came smooth and steady:
"Anselm could rally more than just desperate blades. It could give the Marches hope again."
Torren chuckled, dry and cutting.
"Hope's just another word for bait."
But he didn't dismiss it.
Not anymore.
Branwen's hands curled into fists on the table.
Resolve — and the first dangerous hints of pride — burning in his face.
Calder stood, Dog's Hunger sliding into the firelight's reach.
"First the villages," he said, flat as an axe falling.
"Then the Hold."
No arguments.
No cheers.
Only the brittle sound of men readying themselves to bleed.
The Marches didn't raise kings.
It raised corpses too stubborn to stay buried.
And sometimes, that was enough.