The fires still smoldered behind them.
Garran Vale rode at the head of his company, the charred remains of Althred's hold a smear of black on the horizon. The spoils weighed heavy in their wagons — sacks of grain, a chest of coin, and what few arms and horses they could salvage.
The bodies they left behind.
The sun was high by the time Goldmere's towers came into view. Smoke from the town's hearths mixed with the stench of the battlefield still clinging to their mail and cloaks.
Jorik rode beside him, spitting a bloodied tooth into the grass. "Fucking levy bastard took a piece of me, captain."
"You'll live," Garran grunted.
"Pity," the Northman smirked.
The gates of Goldmere opened without challenge. The guards eyed them with something between fear and disgust. Mercenaries earned no friends in a lord's court, no matter how many heads they stacked.
The company split off toward the northern fields to make camp. Garran and Jorik dismounted, handing their reins to a silent stableboy, and made for the hall.
Inside, the same stench of old smoke and tallow clung to the air. Ranmere's court was assembled — the old lord upon his chair, a gathering of petty knights, minor lords, and cutthroats clustered around the great hearth.
Ser Edran Ranmere was there too, leaning against a pillar, his face unreadable.
The herald announced them.
"Captain Garran Vale, returning victorious."
A hush fell.
Garran stepped forward, blood still caked on his cloak.
Ranmere's good eye fixed on him. "It's done?"
"Aye," Garran said. "Althred's dead. His hall's burned. No rebel left breathing."
A faint smile touched the old lord's scarred mouth. "Good. Goldmere owes you coin."
A servant brought forth a chest, its iron lock unlatched. Inside, stacked silver stags gleamed in the firelight.
"Your due," Ranmere said. "And more than that."
He gestured, and a slender man in green robes stepped forward, bearing a scroll. He unrolled it and read.
"By decree of Lord Aldric Ranmere, the captain known as Garran Vale is granted the title of Steward of Thornholt — to hold in lord's name, to raise levy and tax, until such time as it pleases his lordship otherwise."
A murmur swept the hall. Thornholt was a ruined border keep a day's ride north. Bandits and wolves nested in its shadows, its fields long choked with weed and ash.
It was a gift, yes — but also a test. And a deathtrap.
Jorik leaned close. "They mean to see if you die there."
"I know," Garran murmured.
He stepped forward, taking the scroll.
"I'll hold it," Garran said. "And the lands around it."
Ranmere's grin widened. "See that you do. If you tame that stretch of earth, you may one day claim a banner of your own."
The words hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown.
Garran inclined his head. "My thanks, my lord."
The old man gestured. "Go. Feast, drink. The hall's open to you tonight."
But Garran saw it — in Ser Edran's gaze, in the cold glances of the other lords — none of them expected him to live a month. Thornholt was a broken place. No men, no stores, no coin beyond what he'd just won.
A mercenary's grave.
And yet… the taste of it stirred something in Garran's chest.
Land. A title. The start of a name.
He left the hall with Jorik at his side.
In the courtyard, the Northman clapped him on the back. "Well, steward," he grinned. "Shall we go see this Thornholt? Or drink ourselves blind first?"
Garran looked to the north, where grey hills rose like jagged teeth.
"We ride at dawn," he said. "I've no mind to let wolves keep what should be mine."
And in the distance, a storm was gathering.