They filed out one by one, the fire's glow spilling across their faces as the longhouse door opened to the evening.

Jerric moved in the middle of them, his steps unsteady but forward, guided not ungently by Lira's steady hand and Kelan's stone-solid presence at his back. Both bent their heads toward him, their voices quiet, but Harold felt it more than heard it—Oath Perception thrumming, their bond-voices carrying straight into the boy. Comfort. Warning. Promise. The kind of weight that could only be carried when shared.

Daran followed close behind, his sharp eyes fixed on Jerric, the man's frame radiating readiness to take over when the time came. His hand rested near his blade, but it wasn't threat—it was responsibility. Already he had taken the order as his own.

Master Olrick lingered a pace behind, his short legs carrying him slower. He looked up at Harold as he passed, beard twitching with a grin. "Well. If we're handing out Brands and destiny like bread at supper, I'll expect mine to come with a pint of proper ale and a soft bed, eh?"

The tension cracked just enough for a few of them to snort or shake their heads. Olrick's eyes twinkled with the satisfaction of cutting through the heaviness, and then he shuffled after the others, muttering, "Hells, boy's got more trouble in him than my whole class of apprentices put together. Better keep him busy before he burns the place down."

The door thumped shut behind him, leaving Harold by the hearth, the flames crackling low, the weight of command heavy but steady on his shoulders.

The door shut, leaving the hall in firelight and silence. Harold turned, and Hal was still there — massive, scarred, eyes pale as ice and burning with life.

For a long moment they just looked at each other, the bond carrying what words never could. I missed you. The feeling passed like a hand pressed against the chest, steady and sure.

Harold exhaled, some of the weight easing from his shoulders. "I felt your victory," he said at last. "You made good time back. That bear didn't give you any trouble, did it?"

Hal's ears flicked back, and the bond pulsed with the wolf's sharp satisfaction. He stepped closer, brushing Harold with his shoulder, nipping him gently on the arm. The growl low but not unfriendly. It wasn't that long ago he was that small wolf he subdued in the snow.

No trouble. A pass in the mountains — rear of the valley. We took it. Images pressed into Harold's mind through the bond: steep cliffs, narrow ledges, the clean bite of wind at higher peaks. The trail was rough, but passable and a path only a hunter would find.

Hal's gaze lifted, ears pricked toward the door where the others had gone. The bond tightened like a tug on Harold's chest.

Follow out front, the wolf said, the thought rough and primal. My pack is there.

Harold pushed off from the hearth, following Hal as the wolf padded toward the doors. The heavy wood creaked open, cold night air washing over them. Hal strode through without hesitation, Harold falling into step behind him.

They rounded the corner, and Harold slowed.

A cluster of children stood in the open space near the half-finished longhouse, whispering, wide-eyed, fingers pointing. Their chatter stilled as Harold came into view — but their gazes weren't on him. They were fixed on Hal.

The wolf's silhouette loomed in the evening's torchlight, and he wasn't alone. Shapes moved with him, shadows stretching long across the packed dirt. Wolves. Almost three dozen of them, lean and sharp-eyed, slipping out of the dark to close around him. Most bore the faint glow of a Brand, but most did not. They followed him still, their tails low, their steps measured, their eyes locked on their Alpha.

The Ashen wolves padded at the front, streaked with a fiery ash, flanked by two larger frost wolves whose breath steamed in the cold air. But there was another, a fifth wolf unlike the rest. Nimble and lean where the others were thick with muscle. His fur was shadow-black, drinking in the firelight until he seemed half-made of night itself. If you weren't careful, your eyes would pass over him entirely.

The bond pulsed hard in Harold's chest, the throb of a living truth. His breath hitched despite himself. Hal had filled every Brand slot and more, yet it wasn't the Brands binding them. It was him. His will and strength. His Dao binding them just as thoroughly as his Brand could. He could feel it then. Hal had stepped firmly into Tier 2 and Squire in both of his Dao's. The opportunity he chased had paid off in a more phenomenal way than Harold expected.

He was Alpha. And the pack followed.

The children whispered louder now, some pointing, some clutching each other's sleeves, voices bubbling with awe and excitement.

Harold's lips twitched, faint, into something that might almost be pride.

Hal turned his head, ice-pale eyes catching Harold's. The bond flared once, simple and undeniable.

This is what I am now.

The whispers of the children rose, hushed awe bubbling into chatter. Harold stepped forward, his voice low but carrying in the torchlight.

"You see them?" he said, his scarred face turned toward the wide-eyed children. "This is Hal's pack. Wolves follow strength, not kindness. They follow loyalty, not words. They follow an Alpha."

He let his eyes sweep the young faces, the wolves shifting in the torchlight. "Remember this. Every one of you — strength draws strength. Loyalty demands loyalty. That's what you're seeing here. Not magic."

As he finished, Hal moved. The great wolf padded forward, the ice-pale glow of his eyes fixed only on Harold. Then, without hesitation, he dipped low, pressing his massive head down until his neck was bared before Harold's hand. A display no wolf gave lightly — submission, acknowledgement, bond.

The children gasped, one of the younger boys whispering, "He bowed…"

But not all were silent. From the back of the pack came a growl, low and defiant. One of the unbranded wolves bristled, its hackles raised at the sight of its Alpha bowing to anything.

The challenge never had time to grow.

From the shadows, the black wolf flowed like water. One heartbeat he was mist at the edges of the torchlight, the next he was on the growler's back, a blur of teeth and force. They hit the ground hard, the dark wolf pinning the challenger with a savage, effortless grace. For a breath he looked like shadow itself, reforming solid only once his weight crushed the rebel into the dirt.

The growl cut to a yelp, then silence. The rest of the pack held still, eyes on Hal.

Hal did not rise from his bow until Harold gave him the smallest nod. Only then did he lift his head, the Alpha's place secure, the dark wolf's presence a whisper of deeper, stranger power at his back.

Harold held Hal's gaze a moment longer, then straightened, voice steady.

"Take them out. Patrol the perimeter. This place is theirs to guard as much as ours. When the time comes, we'll carve a den for you in the mountains — a place of your own. For now, keep the fire here safe."

Hal's eyes burned pale, the bond thrumming. Then it wasn't just Hal.

One after another, voices pressed into Harold through Oath Perception — faint but clear, like echoes from a choir. Each Branded wolf acknowledged the command, a chorus of loyalty that pressed heavy into his chest. We hear. We guard.

Even the Ashen wolves' flame stirred, the frost wolves' weight rumbling through, The shadowy wolves acknowledgement flowing through the bond.

Hal's own answer carried over them all, firm and steady.

It will be done.

Then they moved.

Silent as snowfall, the pack padded into the evening air. The children fell hushed, awe washing over them as three dozen wolves melted into the darkness. Snow began to drift, flakes catching torchlight as they settled into the dirt, dusting fur and steel alike.

Hal was last to turn, his pale gaze flicking back once to Harold before he slipped into the storm, the dark wolf shadowing him so closely he seemed to fade into his steps.

The children stood frozen, breath misting in the torchlight, their eyes wide as the last echoes of paws faded into the valley. Snow whispered down, soft and steady, settling over the dirt and the half-finished timbers of the longhouse.

From the side, boots crunched over fresh snow. Rynar approached slowly, his ledger hugged to his chest, his sharp eyes following the wolves as they vanished into the dark. He stopped beside Harold, gaze still fixed on the treeline where Hal had gone.

"Impressive beasts," he muttered at last, his tone halfway between respect and calculation. "Loyalty like that… I could find a hundred buyers for it in a hundred cities. But no coin's enough to buy what you've built there."

He exhaled through his nose, still staring into the dark, his expression unreadable.

Harold's eyes lingered on the treeline a moment longer, then he turned to Rynar. The merchant was still hugging his ledger, snow settling on the fur lining of his coat.

"Come on," Harold said, his voice low but firm. "Walk with me."

Rynar arched a brow but fell in step without protest, boots crunching side by side as they crossed back toward the longhouse. The warmth inside hit them as they stepped through the doors, the fire snapping in the hearth, the smell of stew and woodsmoke thick in the air.

Harold gestured toward one of the long tables and dropped onto the bench, motioning for Rynar to sit across from him.

"I want to go over the ledgers," Harold said, tone sharp, soldier's business again. "Specifically what we gained from the raid into the dungeon."

Rynar's eyes gleamed faintly, and he set the ledger down with a pat. "A sensible request," he said, voice sly with a merchant's pride. "It wasn't just blood and grief down there. There's value in what we pulled out — and I've tallied every scrap of it."

He opened the book, parchment rustling, ink lines neat and precise under the wavering firelight.

"Here's what we brought back, accounted for and sorted," he said.

Spears

: thirty in total. Crude, but serviceable. "Iron heads, hafts a bit short, but they'll keep men at reach."

Crossbows

: fourteen. "Lightly made. Better suited for kobold arms than human shoulders, but with a little work they'll fire true enough."

Blades

: twenty-three small swords. Rynar snorted. "Closer to long daggers in a man's hand, but sharp iron is sharp iron."

Shields

: thirty-two. "Hide-stretched frames. Lighter than what we'd want, but they'll stop a bolt or a blade once or twice before giving."

Foodstuffs

: sacks of dried meat and root vegetables. Some grain "Enough to keep the camp fed for the better part of three weeks, stretched thin. A blessing, considering how many mouths we've got now."

Miscellany

: leather scraps, crude armor pieces, a scattering of iron fittings. Various crates, fangs and kobolds hide. "Not much, but Illga's already muttering about what could be melted down or reforged."

He tapped the page with one finger and leaned back, eyes glinting in the firelight. "Nothing elegant. Nothing fine. But enough to arm hands and keep bellies from gnawing for a while."

Rynar closed the ledger with a soft snap, his gaze flicking to Harold. "Not wealth, mind you. Survival. Which, given the cost, had better be enough."

Rynar's finger slid further down the page, his tone shifting slightly, a merchant's relish creeping in.

"Beyond the common arms and scraps, we also pulled back… curiosities."

Shamans' Icons

: bone-carved talismans, six in total. "Marked with symbols older than most ink I've seen. Their worth is more spiritual than practical to us, but someone will pay for them."

Berserker's Cleaver

: a brutal weapon, iron-heavy and serrated, still stained dark. "Too unwieldy for most men, but its bite's as ugly as its look. Same goes for the hide armor he wore—thick, ugly, and strong enough to turn a cut. Anyone able to give Kelan and Daran trouble was strong."

Rynar leaned back, hesitating, then gave Harold a pointed look. "And then there's… the chest."

Harold's brow furrowed. "Chest?"

"Aye," Rynar said, lowering his voice as though the fire might overhear. "Strange thing. None of us saw it in the altar chamber until after Ferin and Lira cut down the head shaman. The two of them swore it blinked into being when he fell."

He tapped the ledger with one sharp nail. "Inside, we found a pouch heavy with coin. Silver, mostly. A handful of gold. Enough to matter."

He flipped the page, tone tightening. "There was also a mage's focus. Ebony-black, bone tipped. Death-aligned, by the feel of it. Tier Two, if my appraising skill holds true. I can tell you what it's worth to a buyer, but not what horrors it'll conjure."

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Rynar's voice dropped lower, eyes narrowing in the firelight. "And the last piece…" He drew in a long breath, as though even naming it bound him. "A bundle of grapes. Perfect and untouched by rot or dust, as if picked this morning. I've never seen the likes, only heard of them. But I know what they are — and exactly how valuable. They'll awaken bloodlines. Or at the very least, purify a race. Advance it."

He let the words settle, the fire popping in the silence.

"These aren't trinkets, Harold. They're the kind of things people fight to seize. On my world, these are very, very hard to find. And never sold. Not for any price."

Rynar closed the ledger with a snap, his hand resting on it like a man bracing against the weight of the truth.

Harold leaned forward, the words striking him harder than he expected. "Bloodlines?" His voice came out rough, unguarded. "I didn't think such things could be cultivated by a fruit."

Rynar gave a small, sharp smile, but his eyes stayed hard. "Few do. Fewer still ever see one. On my world, these would spark small wars. Lords would fight over such a bounty."

The firelight danced between them, shadows flickering across Harold's scarred face. His lips pressed into a thin line, his mind racing with names and faces — Hal. Lira. Kelan. Even the boy, Jerric. Each one a possibility, each one a gamble.

But he didn't speak it aloud.

Instead, Harold exhaled through his nose and leaned back on the bench. "Whatever they're worth, I'll keep the grapes, the sword, and the focus with me. They stay in my hands. I'll keep them safe until I decide where they go. Tonight, at the ceremony." His gaze hardened, pinning Rynar. "Keep quiet about them. Please."

The word please was rough in his throat, a soldier's edge dulled just enough for trust.

Then his tone flattened, final as stone. "That's the end of it."

Rynar inclined his head slowly, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "Aye, Commander. My lips are sealed."

Rynar studied him a moment longer, the firelight catching the gleam in his eyes. Then he chuckled low, shaking his head.

"You know, Harold," he said, patting the ledger like it was his favorite child, "I never thought I'd see the day I'd hand over something worth more than fiefs… and not charge interest. Must be going soft."

He stood, tucking the ledger under one arm, and added with a sly grin, "Don't make me regret it. I'm a miser by trade — but miserly or not, I know where my fortunes are best kept. And that, for my sins, is here with you."

Harold raised a brow at him, but Rynar only waved a hand, already turning for the door. "I'll gather the items and the others. Ceremony won't hold itself. Try not to brood too hard before then, eh?"

The thin man shuffled off, covered in his furs, muttering about fools and fortune under his breath, but Harold caught the weight beneath the words. Loyal, in his way.

Left in the warm hush of the longhouse, Harold rose and moved to the hearth. He ladled a bowl of stew, the rich scent of broth and meat filling his nose. The simple weight of the bowl in his hands grounded him more than all the talk of bloodlines and gods. For a moment, he just stood there, breathing in the steam, letting the warmth seep into his fingers.

He found Meala first, her apron dusted with flour, sleeves rolled up as she moved among the people with her usual quiet command. Passing out baked bread without a word, he held the bowl out to her.

She blinked, then smiled tiredly, wiping her hands on her apron before taking it from him. "You look like you needed this more than me," she said softly, but she still drew him toward one of the benches.

Already seated there was the dwarven brewer woman, her dark hair braided tight, her broad shoulders relaxed in a way Harold hadn't seen since she arrived. Her presence carried a steadiness of its own, the faint pulse of her Dao of Community humming like a hearthfire in the air. She made space without asking, patting the bench beside her.

Harold sat, the wood creaking under him. Meala split the bread three ways without complaint, pressing a portion into his hand before keeping her own. The dwarven woman took hers and raised it in a small, quiet toast.

"To hearths that hold," she said.

It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The Dao of Community rippled out from her words like warmth from an open fire, settling over Harold's shoulders. Around them, a few of the others instinctively leaned closer together, voices dropping to softer tones, bowls raised a little higher.

Harold felt the weight in his chest ease, just a fraction. Not gone and not forgotten — but softened. Meala's warmth beside him, the brewer's Dao steady in the air, the murmurs of the people filling the longhouse — all of it binding him to the living, to the small comforts that came between battles.

He spooned stew into his mouth, swallowed, and let the heat fill him. For the first time that day, the silence in his head wasn't sharp.

The stew was nearly finished when one of the axe brothers ducked into the longhouse, his face shadowed but solemn. He paused just inside the door, eyes sweeping the gathered people, and then spoke low.

"It's time."

The benches scraped as men and women rose, gathering themselves. Cloaks were pulled tighter against the cold. A hush settled over the longhouse as the people filed toward the doors, the weight of the moment drawing them together.

Harold rose with them, his hand brushing the edge of the table as he fell into step beside the dwarven woman. She carried herself with quiet strength, her braid swinging heavy against her back as she moved.

"Ragna," Harold said, using her name for the first time, "how are you finding it here?"

She looked up at him as they walked, her mouth curving into a small, knowing smile. "I'm glad my brother took you up on this place. There is good here, Harold. A place that can be built." Her eyes softened as they passed into the torchlit night, snow drifting down around them.

She tilted her chin, voice steady but threaded with iron. "We had other offers, you know. But they wanted us as trophies — two brewers for their own halls, to polish their image and sip from our barrels." She shook her head. "Here, we can do good work. Be appreciated for it. And more than that—" her smile widened, "—there are opportunities here. Not to mention the old legends we share it with." She gave him a look, clear and unwavering.

Harold grunted, not sure if it was approval or protest that tried to rise in his chest. He only nodded once, the snow catching in his hair as they stepped out into the night with the rest of the settlement, heading toward the fire prepared for the fallen.

"I'm glad you decided to come," Harold said at last, his voice low but carrying over the crunch of boots on snow. "The people needed last night — needed the ale, the laughter — after the endless work I've driven them through. You gave them that."

He glanced down at her, the torchlight flickering across his scarred face. "I hear your Dao will be good for this place. I don't know much about such things myself. But I'm glad to have you here."

Ragna's smile softened, her breath fogging in the night air. "And I'm glad to be here. You'll see, Harold. Community isn't something you command with orders — it's something you tend, like a fire. We'll keep it burning."

Together they walked on toward the fire, where the settlement had begun to gather, the flames licking higher in the night as the ceremony for the fallen began.

The snow crunched underfoot as Harold walked with the others toward the far side of the plateau. The mountain loomed above, silent and dark against the falling flakes, its presence like a sentinel over the settlement.

Ten graves lined the edge of the rise, each one cut clean into the frozen earth. At the head of every grave stood a stone marker, roughly shaped but steady, the names etched deep into the rock. Beneath each name, words had been carved — short and sharp, the manner of their death recorded with the same blunt truth soldiers shared among themselves. No poetry, no pretense. Just how they had stood, and how they had fallen.

A small fire burned near the graves, its flames dancing in the wind, the crackle a thin thread of warmth against the chill. Families pressed close around it, children allowed to shuffle to the front, their wide eyes catching the flicker of firelight on the stone. No one sent them back. They had as much right to stand here as anyone else.

Harold moved to the front, his boots sinking slightly into the snowy ground, the murmur of the people falling quiet as he passed. He stood a moment, the weight of every eye on him, and then Kelan stepped forward.

The stone-shaper drew in a breath, his hands flexing at his sides. The ground rumbled faintly, and a slab of stone rose up from the earth, forming into a simple podium before Harold. No flourish, no ornament. Just clean lines, solid and unyielding, as though it had always belonged there.

Harold laid a hand on it, feeling the rough stone beneath his palm, and let his gaze sweep over the crowd — the graves, the fire, the people gathered in the shadow of the mountain.

The silence deepened, waiting for his voice.

Harold rested both hands on the rough stone podium, his eyes sweeping once over the graves, then the faces gathered close. His voice was steady, carrying against the mountain's silence.

"Tonight we remember ten who fell."

He paused, letting the weight of that number settle.

"They weren't born into one banner. They weren't trained from boyhood to march under a single cause. We are a new company — outcasts, strangers, brought together in a place that should have broken us. But when the test came, they stood. They gave their lives to save one of our own. To prove that here, in this camp, no one stands alone."

He drew in a breath, jaw tight. "Now every one of you knows. In the face of adversity, you'll have brothers and sisters at your back. That bond is bought in blood — and theirs was the price paid."

His eyes shifted to the graves, and he began to read, each name etched into the stone, each death blunt as the chisel that carved it:

"Torven Hale — cut down by crossbow fire holding the line." "Emric Stout — his spear broken, he stood until they dragged him under." "Kara Venn — shield raised, bolt in her throat, died with it still braced high." "Derrin Loth — axe in hand, berserker's cleaver split him." "Jorek — crushed in the press, still swinging as he fell." "Ilmae Dorn — stabbed through, but carried her comrade back before collapsing." "Farlan Dren — trampled in the charge, struck until he could rise no more." "Sevik Orne — throat torn out by a beast, his sword buried in its chest." "Ralca Threnn — bled out with her hand on a wound not her own." "And Veyric Tal — the youngest of them. First in the climb, struck by a spear. He did not falter even as he fell."

Harold's gaze lifted back to the crowd, the firelight hard against the scars of his face.

"All adversity takes its tithe. These ten were chosen. And tonight, we mark them not as outcasts or nameless dead — but as the first of us. The proof that this place, this people, will endure."

He let the silence hold, the fire snapping in the cold air.

The silence stretched as Harold finished, the firelight snapping and the snow falling soft around them. Then a murmur rose — not loud, but steady. A child's voice whispering the names. A woman bowing her head. The axe brothers striking their hafts once against the earth in salute.

It spread through the crowd, each in their own way acknowledging the ten laid to rest. No one voice lifted above the others, but the weight of it pressed heavy and right.

Harold let it settle, then straightened over the podium. His voice cut through the quiet, steady and sure.

"All things end," he said. His eyes swept the crowd, catching faces in the torchlight. "But we will live till that day."

The words struck hard, and this time the response came unified — a ragged chorus of voices repeating them back. All things end. But we will live till that day.

The fire cracked, brighter for a moment, the cold driven back by the heat of voices together.

Then Harold stepped down from the podium, his boots crunching in the snow. His face was still carved from stone, but his tone shifted as he spoke again, just loud enough to carry.

"Tonight we grieve," he said. "But we also honor the living. Deeds don't go unmarked here."

The crowd stirred, the weight of sorrow easing by inches, replaced by a spark of anticipation. Men and women glanced at one another, a few even straightening with pride. The children pressed closer to the fire, their eyes wide, sensing the turn.

Rewards for courage. Recognition for those who had stood tallest in the darkest hours. The ceremony was not just for the dead — it was for the living who carried their memory forward.

The murmurs quieted as Harold stepped back to the chest Rynar had set down. He lifted the lid fully this time, and the firelight caught on something strange — a small bundle wrapped in leaves, glowing faintly in the flicker of flame.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as Harold unwrapped it, revealing a cluster of grapes so perfect they looked carved from crystal, each orb shimmering with a faint inner light. Fourteen in all.

Harold held them up for all to see. "These were taken from the dungeon," he said, voice cutting through the whispers. "They're no ordinary fruit. They carry power — the kind that can awaken bloodlines, purify what you are, advance it. They're worth more than gold, more than kingdoms. And tonight, they'll go to those who earned them."

The fire popped. Snow hissed softly against the flames.

He called the names again, this time not just to honor, but to reward.

"Daran. Kelan." They stepped forward, and Harold pressed one grape into each of their hands. The men bowed their heads, solemn despite the murmurs of awe from the watching crowd.

"Ferin. Auren." Two more grapes, the hunters' eyes flickering with something between disbelief and respect as they accepted them.

"Rysa." The small healer stepped forward, her fingers trembling as Harold placed the fruit in her palm.

Then Harold turned, his voice louder. "And the civilians who stood where it was not their place — but made it their place." One by one, those who had taken up axes, picks, and crude blades came forward, each handed a grape.

By the end, the last of the fourteen was gone, resting in the hands of those who had bled and proven themselves. The platoon stood silent in the back, watching with a mixture of hunger and respect. Harold's eyes found them, his voice steady.

"The grapes are gone for now. But hear me well — this is not the last reward. You will have your chance, your share, in time. Every deed will be measured. Every sacrifice honored. Nothing will go unnoticed."

The firelight glowed against their faces, and for the first time that night, hope mingled with the grief.

The crowd still buzzed from the passing of the grapes, voices hushed with awe, hands clutching fruit like treasures. Harold let it breathe for a moment, then lifted his voice again.

"There is another whose deeds can't be ignored," he said, his gaze sweeping the gathered faces before settling on one in particular. "Lira."

The crowd parted as she stepped forward, her frame slender but unshaken, her flame-bright eyes reflecting the fire. She looked tired still — worn down from the dungeon and the ritual she had nearly torn apart with her fury — but she stood tall, chin lifted, every inch the healer and warrior both.

"You kept people breathing when death would have claimed them," Harold said, his voice rough but clear. "You stole a ritual from the shaman himself, turned his power against him, and held back what would've broken us. Every one of us standing here owes you their life in some way."

He reached into the chest and pulled free the black focus — ebony-dark, bone-tipped, its surface gleaming faintly with runes none of them recognized. The fire seemed to dim a little as he held it.

Harold looked at it for a moment, then back to her. "This was theirs. A tool of death. I can't tell you all it does — and I won't pretend to. But it belongs in the hands of someone who understands life and death better than any of us. Someone who can wield it without being swallowed by it."

He stepped closer, holding it out. "That's you."

The crowd murmured again, low and approving, as Lira took the focus with careful hands. Her expression was a strange blend of reverence and quiet steel — not pride, but acceptance. She bowed her head once to Harold, then to the people, the firelight painting her in stark contrast: a figure balanced between life and death, claimed by neither.

The firelight danced across Lira as she stepped back into the crowd, the death-focus cradled against her chest. Harold let the moment linger, then turned once more to the chest at his side.

He pulled free a pouch, the clink of silver and a few precious gold pieces carrying sharp in the silence. His scarred hand lifted it, and his voice carried over the gathering.

"And to the soldiers. The ones who took the line, held the wall, and bled with no promise of glory — you will not be forgotten."

He untied the pouch, pouring coin into his palm so all could see. "Not much. Not yet. But coin spends, and it is yours. Payment for courage. For standing when you could have run."

He moved down the line, pressing silver into calloused hands. Each soldier received their share, simple and unadorned, but the weight of it brought pride as strong as any speech. For a few, Harold clapped a shoulder, his gaze steady and unflinching. The message was clear: you are seen.

When the last coin was handed out, Harold stepped back toward the podium. The fire crackled, and snow hissed as it fell into the flames.

"That's all," he said, his tone clipped but final. "We've honored the dead. We've rewarded the living. Tomorrow, we work again. Tonight… we rest together."

He gave the smallest nod, and the ceremony broke. Murmurs rose, families clustered together, and cups of ale began to pass through the crowd. Grief remained, but it sat alongside pride now — a balance forged in fire, blood, and coin.

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