They played dice with dirt-caked fingers and a half-melted Saint coin.
"Three. Barrow calls it," said Fenn, the lanky quarter-scout, flicking his bone die toward the dented pot lid they used as a table.
"Barrow calls nothing," muttered Jael, a trench-runner missing two teeth. "Barrow just burns what it doesn't like."
"You weren't there," said the third man — Rikk. Quiet one. Spear shift. Clean blade, broken laugh. "I saw the boy come back."
"Tarn?"
"No. The ghost. Or whatever came back with his eyes hollowed out."
"You always say eyes," Fenn said, pushing a finger into the stew bowl. "But it's hands that tell it. He didn't fumble the writ. Not once. Held it like it could bite."
"Because it could."
Jael scoffed. "And now he sits at Veiss' table."
"Veiss doesn't take dogs."
"Then maybe Tarn ain't a dog."
Rikk leaned forward, voice low. "Did you see Calder's mouth when he read the glyph? Twitched. Just once. Like he swallowed a rat whole and it scratched the way down."
They laughed, but not fully.
Someone outside the tent struck flint too many times. Sparks hissed. The stew caught flame briefly, then died.
No one spoke for a moment.
Then Jael whispered, "I heard the relic-bowl tilted toward him. Not just sat still. Tilted."
"Relics don't tilt."
"Exactly."
Rikk sat back. "So if he's rising—"
"Then who's falling?"