Grim walked down the stairs in a haze. He felt as is his feet were not his own and they betrayed him every third step. He clutched the handrail as he descended one step at a time. Below him, the floor had started to clear. Couples leaned on each other, glassy eyes filled with drunken glee. Through the open door, Grim could see carriages being brought around to the front. Footmen hauled drunken nobles into their seats and set out for the long ride home. Some to the castle, some to homes in the inner city, and others to estates beyond Bleakridge.

Grim emerged into the emptying floor, passing the guards by the stairs. He spotted his father by the wine table. The man held a red spotted rag to his head, scowling as he drank from a goblet. Grim crossed the room to meet him. The Earl took notice of him as he neared and his scowl deepened.

“Where’s your sister?” he asked.

“What the hell happened to your head?” Grim countered.

The man’s nostrils flared, and he drank from the glass. “I tripped.”

Grim snorted. “Fine. Don’t tell me.” He looked up the stairs behind him and shrugged.

His father stared at him. “Your man’s alive.”

Grim cocked his head. “What?”

“The men call him Billy. He was here tonight.”

Grim's suspicion that there was more of a story to his father’s wound grew. A pang of guilt ran through him. With all that had happened in the past few days, he had forgotten Billy was gone. “If he deserted, then why would he be here?”

Rodger Thorne leaned closer. “I thought to ask you the same thing.”

A lance of fear shot through Grim. He leaned against the wine table and met his father’s stare. “I know nothing. And your insinuation borders on insult. The Sons tried to fucking kill me today in case you forgot.”

The Earl grunted and looked across the sparsely populated hall. The closest guest was over a dozen paces away and music still wafted through the air. Grey eyes settled on Grim. “Grain.”

Grim raised an eyebrow. “Grain?”

The Earl nodded. “The Taran Ambassador, he and I came to an arrangement. After the coming winter storms subside, Taran ships will bring grain to Bleakridge. Enough to feed the whole of the Rills for a year.”

Grim’s brow furrowed. “What? Why would-” Then it hit him. Grim’s lips twisted. “We’d starve if grain didn’t come from the south.”

The Earl nodded. “Dependence is the collar that shackles us.”

Grim found it hard to breathe, fighting the urge to look over his shoulder. “Can we even afford that?”

The edges of the Earl's lips twisted upwards as he barred his fangs. “Gods, no. You’ve seen the armory beneath the Forgers guild. Steel doesn’t come cheap. I can barely afford to run this damned city.” He paused. “Plenty of gold in the south though.”

“Soldiers like to get paid.”

“You’d be amazed what a man will do for three meals a day and assurances that his family will be cared for. Men made remarkable sacrifices in the final years of the last war. Most unsung. Even more, forgotten.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The man turned away. His stare became distant for a moment before he returned his gaze to Grim. “Besides, if the only reason men follow you is for gold, you don’t need more gold. You need better men. Your generation is filled with repressed rage Grim. I am not blind to this. I doubt I’ll have difficulty finding recruits.”

Grim let out a deep breath, mixed feelings of dread and excitement washing over him. “This is happening.”

The Earl nodded.

“Where do the Sons fit in?”

The Earl waved dismissively. “They don’t.” He grabbed a glass of wine from the table and drank. As wine passed his lips, a southern nobleman stumbled past, supported by his lady. Both were laughing as they wandered to the door.

The Earl set the glass back onto the table. “However, they keep Longreen occupied and that makes them convenient for my purposes. They’ll fall in when the time comes.” The man sighed and ran a hand through his mostly grey hair. “We need only hold it all together until winter thaws.”

Grim kept quiet, listening to the now distant murmur of voices. He flinched as his father laid a hand on his shoulder. A trickle of blood ran down the Earl’s face and the man wiped it away with his rag, expression unchanging. “Now I’ve been honest with you.”

The question was unspoken but the implication was obvious. Grim leaned closer to his father and in a low voice told him about the Greencloaks he killed, about saving Marc’s life and how the Son promised they would meet again.

Rodger Thorne ran a hand across his face, eyes focused on Grim. “He would meet with you again?”

Grim nodded and turned his head as he heard approaching footsteps. Ilyena descended the final steps to the hall’s floor. She strode to them, shooting Grim a look of annoyance. “What the hell Grim, where did you go?”

Grim shrugged and she brushed past him, looping her arm into the Earl’s. She frowned up at his bloodied face but made no comment. Together they began to walk toward the large double doors. Grim had no choice but to follow them or be left behind. Green-clad nobles formed a small crowd outside as they waited for their carriage to be brought around. Grim followed his father as the man shamelessly cut to the front, pressed a hart into the hand of a footman and told him to fetch their driver. The man took off at a sprint. Good coin bought good service. The huddled nobles stared at them but didn’t dare say anything. Not loud enough for Grim to hear at least.

Within moments their carriage pulled around the fountain, a footman opened the door and they climbed inside. A tense silence settled over the interior as they were jerked into motion. Grim watched as the huddled nobles and the manse grew smaller, the doorway a beacon of light in the dark. He let out a deep breath, watching the fog appear more like smoke in the darkness. His sister’s eyes glinted as they flicked to him.

Grim frowned. “What?”

The silence stretched. “Nothing.” Her eyes turned from him to the gardens passing by. The only sound was the thumping of hooves and the muted conversation of guards by the wrought iron gate. Campfires along the road lit the interior of the carriage as they passed through the army of Greencloaks. Grim could now see the fire in his father’s eyes that he had long thought dead. His heart quickened as he looked across the field of drinking men, knowing they would all be dead before long. The thought chilled his spine as he imagined the grass watered with blood. Grim swallowed.

The main gates opened at their approach and the waiting Thorne guardsmen fell in around their carriage. The clacking of goat hooves on the cobblestone drowning out the foreign voices.

As they passed through the two great double doors, the Earl turned to Ilyena. “Well?”

“He’s drawing the coastal garrisons into Bleakridge. He’ll have another five hundred men within a week.”

The Earl ran a hand across his face. “And the work camps?”

“At full strength through the winter.”

Grim raised an eyebrow. “He’s consolidating his forces here? Does he suspect something?”

“Longreen is many things but not a fool. He’s survived the War in the north and the last Taran War after it. The steps to the title of Marshal are paved with the bodies of one’s foes. Let us be certain not to be next. He may doubt my loyalty or simply fear the Sons. It matters not. We will bury them when the time comes,” The Earl said.

He turned back to Ilyena. “Anything else of note?”

She shrugged, “Just the usual plea to the King to return home,” she said, “And the usual letter of refusal.” She paused. “In the letter, he made mention of steel possibly being of use to the crown.”

Rodger Thorne leaned back against the bench. “Did the king make note of his suggestion?”

Ilyena shook her head.

“Then we are safe for the time being.”

Grim closed the heavy wooden slat over his window. He felt anything but safe.