The march camp settled uneasy for the night. Fires burned low, scattered along the muddy road, and the mist came down thick, curling against the trees like old breath. Garran sat by a small pit fire with Haim and two others, the flickering light barely enough to chase the dark from their faces.
An old mercenary named Dren held a skin of cheap wine and a strip of dried mutton that might've once been goat. He passed the skin around, eyes darting to the shadows.
"I don't like it," Dren muttered.
"You don't like what?" Haim asked, stripping a hunk of meat with his teeth.
"This ground. Bad land. Too many old killings. I've marched roads like this before. Men go missing in the mist."
Garran took the skin, swallowed a burning mouthful. "Men go missing everywhere, Dren."
"Not like this." The old soldier made a crude sign with two fingers and spat into the dirt. "Bad omens. You'll see."
"I'll wager a copper you piss yourself before dawn," Haim grinned.
"Done."
They laughed, but it came out tight. The tension clung to the camp like wet cloth.
From the main fire ring, the crack of dice and low curses echoed. Men wagered coppers, relic charms, the promise of a cloak if they died. The siege wages had been light, and most of the coin was already traded for cheap wine, broken blades, or carved bone trinkets said to ward off crows.
A group of levies argued over a sack of barley. One claimed it was his by blood-right, his brother's last haul before he died at Stonegrave. Another swore it was taken fair in the night.
"You lot fight over a sack of barley and I'll show you what old rope tastes like," Orlec barked, limping past with his spear in hand. The men quieted.
He dropped beside Garran, stretching his bad leg out with a wince. "Council's done."
Haim leaned forward. "How ugly?"
"Ugly enough. Rowe's playing careful. He means to bleed Calrow's Ford out, cut the grain roads, burn the barley fields. No Bleak men this time."
"That's coin for us," Dren said.
"Or graves."
Garran looked toward the Ford's direction. The mist swallowed the hills. Somewhere beyond, men with old grudges and empty bellies waited.
"Rowe spoke your name again," Orlec told him.
Garran's jaw clenched. "What for?"
"You spoke well at council. Crows whisper when bastards get clever."
"That's dangerous."
"Everything's dangerous," Orlec said. "But it keeps you alive."
A runner passed, a thin boy no older than fifteen. "Mooring lines at the west camp broke. Cart slipped. Four dead."
"No peace even in sleep," Dren grunted.
"You should get some, Crow-mark," Orlec told Garran. "Rowe wants you sharp come dawn. He'll send for you."
"And if I'm not sharp?"
"Then you're dead, and someone else bleeds in your place."
They sat in silence a while, watching the flames crackle. Somewhere across the road, a soldier sang an old tune about a woman with a crow's tongue and poison in her blood.
Haim took another swig of the wine skin. "You ever think about leaving, Garran? Walking from all of it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it follows you."
Dren chuckled darkly. "That's true. Every debt, every dead man's face. Marches'll swallow you if you run."
Orlec stood, grunting. "Sleep while you can, boys. We bleed at dawn."
He limped into the mist, cloak trailing. The others scattered, leaving Garran and Haim by the dying fire.
Haim chewed the last of the meat. "When this one's done, let's find a town that hasn't burned. Some place with dry straw and a fat innkeep. No soldiers. No lords. No crows."
"You'll die in the mud like the rest of us, Haim."
Haim grinned. "A man can lie to himself before dawn."
They watched the embers burn low. Garran's hand rested on his sword hilt, the weight of old blood debts and buried names pressing down in the dark.
The Ford waited.
And so did the old sins clinging to the March.