The command tent wasn't a tent anymore — not truly.
Three layers of wool, canvas, and boiled leather kept out the wind, but not the rot. Beneath the stitched sigils of Old Dainhold and the Rivercross Wolf, the stench of mold and wet parchment remained king.
Helgar sat at the table. Alone.
Then Calder entered.
No salute. No nod. Just presence.
"You let the boy speak," Calder said, not accusing. Observing.
Helgar didn't look up. "He already spoke in blood."
"Blood is cheap in the Hollow. It clings to any fool with a blade."
Helgar finally looked at him. His eyes were steady. "And yet no other fool returns with six breathing men."
Calder crossed to the relic bowl. Tapped it once. Let the motion hang.
The bowl did not stir.
"He draws noise," Calder said. "And the bowl grows quiet."
"You fear him."
"I fear nothing born in mud. But I fear what the mud remembers."
Helgar stood. Slowly.
"Your cousin's claim was invalid. The Stone Barrow answer came sealed. With glyph-burn."
"From a cursed stone and a half-dead man. Who walks alone. Who answers no doctrine but his own."
Helgar leaned forward.
"Exactly."
Outside, in the windless dusk, Veiss stood beside the chapel tent.
Tarn waited.
"You're being discussed," Veiss said.
"I thought I was being ignored."
"That too. Which is more dangerous."
Tarn shifted. "Did I misstep?"
"Yes," Veiss said. "But cleanly. That's rare."
They walked toward the practice yard, boots leaving shallow imprints.
"Helgar may be moving," Veiss said. "But Calder will not bend. Not without cracks."
"Then we crack him."
"No. We let him crack himself. But first…"
He handed Tarn a folded strip of hide parchment. "This came from the riverbound relic shrine. Unmarked. They claim it's for you."
Tarn opened it.
There was no writing.
Only a symbol.
Three teeth. A broken ring. And a mark like a saint's eye — closed.
"What does it mean?"
"It means," Veiss said, watching him, "the chapel now wants to listen."