Grim fingered the silver lion, feeling the smooth contours of the coin, before laying it down on the wooden table. Across from him, Billy grinned a gap-toothed smile as he reached for the cup of dice. Grim watched as the rugged man shook the cup and released the dice. They spilled onto the table, bouncing across the gaps in the wood.

Seven.

To Grim’s right, Edgar groaned. Billy barked a coarse laugh as he scooped up the small pile of coins. Grim smirked. “I think that’s your sixth win in a row. Must be your lucky day.”

Billy ran a hand through his graying hair. “The dice love salty old bastards. When you get to my age, the sun will shine out of your arsehole too.” Billy turned from Grim, raising his hand to flag down one of the serving girls. “Another round, m ’dear,” he yelled over the din of the tavern.

Edgar snorted, sharing a glance with Grim. They both knew Billy was cheating, just not how. But, as long as he kept buying their drinks, it was hard to care.

Grim shifted in his chair, the links of his armor clinking as he gazed across the well-kept tavern. The place was filled to the brim with hardly an empty chair in sight. The sounds of merriment and drunken laughter mixed with the high notes of a lyre filled the air. His eyes drifted to the far side of the room where eight men in green cloaks sat, nursing their drinks. Their distinctive tanned skin and southern features set them apart from the other patrons, marking them as outsiders.

The locals gave them a wide berth, and when one of the men glanced his way, Grim averted his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to pick a fight. He assumed they were on patrol, same as his squad. There was no reason for the Southerners to give them trouble, but their presence still made him uneasy. Tension always filled the air when Greencloaks and Rillish soldiers shared a room.

His skin itched as he felt their eyes on him. He forced himself to focus on the homely bar girl bringing them their drinks. He smiled at her, trying not to let his nervousness show.

“Here you are, sirs,” she said, setting the wooden mugs on the table.

“Thanks,” Grim muttered as he grasped the mug, feeling the cool foam splash over his hand as he sloshed it around. He took a long draw of the bitter brew, releasing a satisfied sigh as he finished.

The girl curtsied to him. “Course m’lord,” she said before turning away to return to fetch the next mug of ale on the bar.

Edgar chuckled. “She just call you a lord?”

Grim narrowed his eyes. “I am a lord.”

Billy knocked his mug against the table. “Aye, and my cock hangs below my knee,” Billy said, “Only one of those statements is an exaggeration.”

Grim rolled his eyes. Admittedly, he didn’t feel too lordly after being shafted with guard duty during the ass end of winter. The snow outside nearly came up to his knees. Patrolling this time of year meant walking from the castle to the nearest tavern and hoping you didn’t lose a toe or two along the way.

Billy sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Besides, you shouldn’t be saying that too loudly with the King’s boys hanging around,” he said, nodding in the direction of the green-cloaked soldiers.

Grim tugged at the fur and mail armor around his neck, doing his best to hide the raised brand running along his throat- an elongated X that marked him a bastard. He could still remember his piercing pain and smell of seared flesh. The look in his father’s eyes as he held the glowing iron to his son’s throat. That look was as branded to his mind as his flesh.

Cold. That was the only description for the man.

Grim drank.

Edgar spoke up in a low voice. “They’re eyeing us,” he trailed off.

Grim glanced toward the table across the room. Sure enough, the Greencloaks were looking their way as they talked among themselves.

Grim ran a hand along the axe hanging from his belt. Billy followed his gaze. “C’mon. Let’s get the hell out of here before they start something.”

Billy rose to his feet, and Edgar followed suit, their hands now resting along the haft of his axe. Grim tossed an extra silver lion onto the table before slinging his iron-rimmed shield over his shoulder and following in their wake as they headed towards the door.

A drunken voice called from the Greencloak table. “Oi, Thorne boys! Where you running off to?”

Grim ignored him, following close on Billy’s heels as he led them between the crowded tables.

The voice called again “Hey Bastard, don’t leave yet. I was just about to tell the story of when I plowed your mother.”

Grim froze in his tracks, his hand tightening around the haft of his axe. Other conversations around the room died as patrons sensed the rising tension.

“Cost a pretty penny. An Earl’s bitch doesn't come cheap,” The voice continued.

“Boy. Ignore them. C’mon,” Billy beckoned.

Grim marched forward with leaden feet. His mother was famously a whore. His father was forced to set her aside after the war in favor of a southern bride. She did what she needed to survive. While he could barely remember her face, the words still set his temper aflame. He gritted his teeth and marched forward.

Edgar spat in the direction of the Greencloaks as they walked past. The soldiers responded with guffaws. Another voice called out. “Just like a Rillman to show his back.”

Billy put his hand to the door leading outside.

“Reminds me of Varna,” The voice continued.

“Where?” another Greencloak asked.

They collectively broke out into heightened laughter. Grim winced. All that was left of Varna was ruins. All that was left of its people- bones and ashes. The second largest city in the Rills was long ago wiped off the map at the behest of the King.

Billy’s hand fell from the door. Grim knew he’d been there when the city was lost- watching as it burned from afar. It was one of the few stories he wouldn’t talk about.

It’d been twenty years, but some wounds never heal.

As Billy turned to face the Greencloaks, Grim locked eyes with Edgar, edging uncomfortably. Billy spat on the tavern floor. “Aye we lost the city, but I’ve got ten notches in my axe with your fathers’ names in them from that day.”

The tavern fell quiet. Even the music had stilled, the bard having seemingly disappeared into the shadows of the bar. Those patrons unfortunate enough to have picked a seat between the Greencloaks and the door were rushing from their seats, away from the growing conflict.

The Venaran officer at the table rose to his feet. He was a gentleman of soft edges with fancifully tailored facial hair across his round face, his distinguished station marked by the golden sun clasping his cloak around his shoulders. The man leaned on the table, a swarmy grin spreading across his face as he met Billy’s heated gaze. “I think I just heard the King’s peace be broken. If you boys lay down your arms and walk away with your tails between your legs, I’ll let it slide.”

“Come get them,” Billy said, raising his axe.

The officer hesitated as he sized Billy up, nervousness in his eyes. But he had the numbers. He drew the blade at his side.

Grim drew his axe and hefted his shield, falling in at his sergeant’s side. Edgar rushed to followed suit as the Greencloaks collectively drew their swords, the bronze glimmering as it reflected the firelight.

Grim took a deep breath as his pulse pounded. He’d never been in real combat before. His palms began to sweat, and he tightened his grip on his axe as the Greencloaks approached, forming a wide ring around them.

Billy edged their unit away from the open area in front of the door, closer to the table they vacated. Less room for them to be surrounded. Their opponents fanned out as they prepared to charge. Grim braced himself.

As the Greencloak officer raised his sword to signal the attack, the door of the tavern slammed open, revealing a score of men bearing masks resembling a hoard of various animals. Billy cursed beneath his breath, ducking beneath his shield as the distinctive twang of bowstrings sounded.

Grim grunted as an arrow slammed into his shield, nearly knocking him back a step. He dug in his heels, glancing to Billy and Edgar. Arrows sprouted from their shields, but they were no worse for wear. Pandemonium exploded into being as screams of pain and alarm rent the air. Grim snapped his eyes back to the Greencloaks. They were caught in the flank, the arrows decimating their numbers. Wounded men clutched at the arrows piercing their lungs as they reeled from the masked warriors streaming through the door, leaving trails of blood in their wake.

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The newcomers roared, rushing into the tavern, their feet pounding against the floorboards. Civilians tripped over each other as they scrambled from the charge, many running to huddle behind Grim and his companions. Grim broke the arrows off his shield with his axe, straining at the effort as he watched the butchery unfold, Greencloak blood watering the floorboards.

“Hold,” Billy muttered, as if they had a choice.

It had barely begun before it was over, the strangers wiping their bloody axes on the cloaks of the fallen. Grim scanned the masks as dark eyes watched him from behind the facades of bears, wolves, rams, and human skulls. It seemed all the Rillish clans were represented tonight. They were the Sons of the Reaper, self-proclaimed freedom fighters. For Grim’s part, he didn’t think men like them were worth the shit beneath his boot, and they constantly proved him right. Everything they did just made the occupation worse.

He watched as they dragged anyone dark-skinned enough to be from the lands south of the Rillls to the center of the floor and unceremoniously caved in their skulls, piling the bodies atop the fallen soldiers. While some worked, others took seats at the tables, finishing off the dregs of whatever beer was within reach.

A man wearing a wolf’s mask broke from the pack and approached them, meeting Billy’s gaze unapologetically. “We have no quarrel with you-”

Billy cut him off. “Sure as shit didn’t feel like it a moment ago,” he said, glancing to the pair of arrows sticking from his shield.

The masked man ignored that, laying his axe over his shoulder. “Give us the rest of the southerners and we’ll let you and your men go.”

Grim glanced behind him to see a dark-skinned man and woman huddled amongst the score of pale Rillish faces. They met his gaze with wide, pleading eyes.

Billy hesitated a moment. “Take them,” he said, lowering his shield and stepping to the side. An objection stuck in Grim’s throat. He swallowed hard and lowered his arms.

No point in dying with them.

Grim felt sick, taking in the look of betrayal on their faces, lowering his head as he stepped to the side. What crime had they committed? Being born?

The pair cowered, screaming as the wolf approached with a pair of comrades in tow, his every step darkening Grim’s dread. Their cries were soon cut short as their corpses joined the pile. Bile rose in Grim’s throat, burning as the attackers smeared blood from their victims across their wooden masks. Without another word, the bloodied Sons funneled from the tavern, disappearing into the snow and darkness outside.

As the last man disappeared from the tavern, Billy released a sigh of relief, letting his shield clatter to the floor, collapsing into a nearby chair. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead despite the cold air billowing in from the open door. “That could have been a lot worse,” he said, voice tinged with relief.

Grim grimaced in agreement, looking over the dead as he walked amongst them, boots squelching through their blood. The woman lay atop the pile, her brown eyes glistened with residual tears, face a rictus of fear. He leaned over and closed her eyelids with a gentle hand, sighing as he did so.

Edgar watched him quietly, his gaze shifting toward the door. “We should get out of here before another troop of Greencloaks wanders by and tries to pin this on us.”

Around the tavern the patrons whispered, the occasional sob breaking the muffled quiet. After a long moment, Billy nodded in agreement with Edgar. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a gloved hand. “Aye, let’s get back to the castle.”

The surviving patrons were already filing out, doubtless having the same thought and not wanting to stick around for whatever reprisal was sure to come. Grim fell into step beside Billy as he led them out onto the snow-covered street. Outside, trails of blood disappeared into the darkness of surrounding alleyways. He could almost feel their eyes on him as he trudged down the cobbled streets of the inner city.

Gargantuan piles of snow lined the roadway, nearly as tall as Grim stood. He couldn’t wait for the thaw. Spring was near. They walked in silence down the dark streets, following the flickering light of the torches that hung from sconces along the roads. A gust of wind blasted down the roadway, sending up a flurry of snow. Grim cursed as he brushed ice from the brown curls of his beard.

“Cold as the Reaper’s tits,” Billy muttered as he turned right down a side street, leading to the market square.

Grim could only grunt in agreement, his ears already going numb.

“So, who’s going to tell the Earl?” Edgar asked, glancing between Grim and Billy.

Grim scowled at the thought. “Any chance he won’t find out we were there?”

Billy snorted.

Grim sighed. “And you want me to break the news, don’t you?”

“Who better than his favorite son?” Billy asked, a grin splitting his face despite the cold.

“I’m his only son,” Grim muttered.

“Didn’t say you were a good one,” Billy answered, “But, he’s less likely to skin you alive than he is me.”

Grim shook his head. He had his doubts. “Fine, I’ll see if I can catch him tonight.

They continued in silence down the roadways, the icy snow crunching beneath their boots. The roads were deserted, the wind howling as it screeched through the alleys. Grim released a sigh of relief as the buildings and piles of snow fell away to reveal a wide-open square filled empty merchant stands, their canopies hung heavy with ice. Small mountains of snow were pushed to the edges of the square. Only the most important roadways were left open this time of year. But, it hardly mattered; the market saw little foot traffic until the thaw.

Grim’s eyes inevitably drifted towards the circle of crosses raised in the center of the square. Silent corpses hung from the crosses, suspended by iron nails rammed through their elbows. The weight of their own bodies grotesquely twisted their shoulders into a mockery of wings. Around their necks were wooden signs detailing their various crimes. Most simply read ‘traitor’.

The lucky ones were hung in winter. The cold ensured they didn’t last long. In summer, their cries could be heard for days unless cut short by their loved ones. Otherwise, it’d be a race between thirst and the inevitable purification of their wounds.

Edgar followed Grim’s gaze. “Poor bastards,” he muttered.

Grim could only nod in agreement as he stared at the frosted corpses.

Billy grunted. “Quit lollygagging, lest we be joining them in the morning.”

Edgar paled a shade whiter and Grim shared his concern. Would the Marshall think to make an example of them? Was standing aside treason? He felt sick just thinking of it, his mind rushing back to faces of the southerners he let die. What they’d done was certainly a betrayal. Of that, he was sure.

Grim averted his green eyes from the corpses and looked skyward, to where Bleakridge castle sat high above the city proper, perched upon the cliff face that gave the castle and city their name. Torches along its ramparts glowed like stars in the night, a siren’s call to safety and warmth.

Grim redoubled his pace, his comrades trudging after him as they trekked through the darkness.

***

Grim took a long, deep breath as he stood just beyond the door to his father’s bedchamber, praying his breath didn’t reek too harshly of ale. He ran a hand through the coarse, dark curls of his growing beard. Divines, he desperately needed a trim. It was getting out of hand. Doubtless, his father would disapprove. He sighed, glancing to the flickering firelight streaming through the crack beneath the door.

The clack of boots against stone sounded behind him and Grim squinted at the pair of Briar Guards, his father’s elite soldiers, patrolling the halls of the inner keep. They shot him quizzical looks as they passed. It was the fifth time they’d passed in the many minutes Grim spent staring dumbly at the door. He grumbled, gritting his teeth as he raised his fist to knock, pounding against the oaken door.

He heard the scrape of wood against stone followed by the padding of footsteps. A moment later, the latch clicked, and the door opened to reveal his father. Stony, gray eyes regarded him from a face of hard lines and harsh edges. His father was one of the few men who could meet Grim’s gaze at eye level.

A moment of stiff silence passed between them, his father seeming to read him like an open book. A hint of a frown tugged the corner of the man’s lips. “What happened?” He asked.

Grim averted his eyes, glancing past his father into the foyer beyond. The hearth was lit, its lonely light casting a warm glow over the pair of wooden sitting chairs and green banners lining the stone walls. Trophies from battles long past. Grim swallowed, then walked inside, closing the door behind him.

His father gestured for him to take a seat in one of the foyer’s intricately carved, wooden chairs near the fire. Grim obliged, feeling the warmth of the fire grow more intense as he drew nearer. He shrugged off his cloak and draped it across one of the sitting chairs as he fell into it. He released a deep breath then told him what happened at the tavern, knowing that sparing any detail would only make things worse when the Earl found out himself.

As Grim finished his story, his father maintained an expression of stony calmness. Grim fidgeted under his gaze as he waited for the chastisement to begin, their punishment to be revealed.

The Earl said nothing, letting the silence linger until he finally rose from his seat, walking to the bar along the far wall. He grabbed a carafe full of a deep red liquid and a pair of iron goblets. As he placed them on the small table between the chairs and began to fill them, Grim looked around, noticing the sheaths of paper scattered along the desk tucked in the corner of the room, thin, slanted words illuminated by the candlelight. His father rarely slept these days, the effort of keeping the city from falling into anarchy occupying his days and nights. Grim did not envy the man before him.

His father fell into the chair beside him and passed Grim a goblet full of the wine. Grim took a long draw from it. As he swallowed the burning liquid, his father spoke, “You were leading your squad tonight.”

Grim blinked, his confusion made evident by the look he gave the Earl.

“It’s the only way the other men will survive this. They won’t kill you- probably.” The Earl drank deeply from his goblet.

Grim swallowed, “Kill? We didn’t do anything.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” his father agreed, nodding. He lifted his head to meet Grim’s gaze. “Or you distracted the Venaran soldiers for an ambush by the Sons. Perhaps you’d been planning this attack in secret. Maybe you laughed as they killed the southerners. Maybe you even joined in the killing.”

Grim’s face drew a hard line. “I didn’t do any of that.”

“It doesn’t matter what you did,” his father said, “It only matters what people say you did.” The Earl’s goblet clanked as he set his goblet down on the small end table. “Tell me, what makes a better story- The bastard who stood helplessly by as rebels massacred some southerners? Or, the bloody bastard who joined in the murder for the fun of it?” The Earl leaned forward, holding Grim’s gaze. “Which story do you think the Sons will tell?”

The blood drained from Grim’s face as the gravity of the situation dawned on him. “But- I-” He trailed off, realizing there was nothing to say. He set the goblet on the table, its contents forgotten as he rubbed at his eyes with his other hand, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

The ensuing silence dragged on as they both stared into the flames of the hearth. “What will they do to me?” Grim asked, dreading the answer.

His father was quiet a long moment, his brow creasing into a slight furrow as he considered the question. “That’s for me to negotiate.” He ran a hand through his slowly graying black hair, releasing the strands with a small sigh. “Get some rest. I suspect we’ll be having an unexpected meeting with the Venaran Marshall tomorrow.”

Grim nodded stiffly, wordlessly rising to his feet. He grabbed his cloak off the chair and glanced over his shoulder at his father as he walked to the door. The man’s eyes were locked on the fire, his jaw tense. Grim passed through the doorway into the hall. Behind him, the latch clicked shut with a sense of finality.