Choices were made every day: what to eat, what to wear, and where to go.
But the choice Bran had to make had nothing to do with any of these.
He had to choose between blood and conscience, or between family and friends.
Bran buried his face in his hands. He could not serve both loyalties, yet each tore at him.
His pack had become his family when Aiden went missing, presumed dead. They comforted him and urged him to move on.
For now he said nothing, but he had to decide soon. Silence would no longer protect him.
Bran sat by the fire in the cave, the smoke thick in his throat. They were still waiting for more recruits to arrive. The men Aiden gathered had no moral compass; they responded only to the call of coins. They needed no reason.
By nightfall the men ate more than their portions. They left nothing for the new recruits. Bran refused to look at the eyes of those who wanted to challenge him for his share of food.
