Vareland is no place for the soft. It is a land of mud and iron, where loyalty is bought in blood and silver changes hands like a curse.
The rain hadn’t stopped for three days, and Keld reckoned it never would.
He sat in Commander Marrick’s tent and watched the officer drink. The tent smelled of mildew and sweat and whatever Marrick was pouring down his throat — grain alcohol cut with something medicinal that made the eyes water from three feet away. Outside, someone screamed about the latrines overflowing. A mule brayed. The razorcats were circling the picket lines again, waiting for something to die.
“Duty,” Marrick said, the word tasting worse than the rotgut in his bottle. “You still believe in that shit?”
Then the tent flap tore open.
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