The quiet after a bad show was always louder than the applause, and the quiet after turning three Crown spears into white lilies and a fourth into a man-eating briar bush had teeth in it.
Noll Vey kept his core perception tucked low inside the western wall of the hall, letting the fuel-less hearth throw its steady orange warmth across the flagstones while the iron bar on the main gate cooled in its brackets. Outside, down by the lower bend where the cart track met the valley road, Captain Arda Dorn had left a single muddy sentry with a horn and a dry wool cloak. Inside, the stone smelled of boiled willow bark, wet boot leather, and the sharp vinegar tang of Tessa Dene’s temper.
She had gone to the scullery sink ten minutes ago to scrub road mud off her cuffs, which told Noll she was still furious with him. When Tessa was annoyed, she threw a turnip below his niche. Hurt enough to weigh her words, she scrubbed wood until the grain showed raw.
Near the hearth curb, Sergeant Berr stood watch in his rusted gorget and split leather breastplate, his dented service shield resting upright against his shin. Every five minutes since he had climbed out of the foundation pit weeks ago, the dead sergeant had kept the same barracks habit: tapping the four dry phalanges of his left hand against the iron rim of his shield. Click-clack-click. It was an old border-guard rhythm for counting paces…
