Chapter Four The Arithmetic of Survival
Morning in Blackwood began with the bar sliding free and a shouted number that turned bodies into objects. The sky could be clear or thick with mist, it did not matter. The camp woke when Valerius’s men decided it would, and the prisoners rose because staying down meant boots.
Caelan was already awake when the door scraped open.
His shoulders ached in twin bands, one from the fall at Black Burn, one from the clubbing that followed.
Morna’s torn padding kept his collarbone from grinding against straw, but sleep had still come in sharp fragments.
He rose carefully, tested his range of motion, then forced his breathing slow.
Panic was not a privilege he could afford.
They shuffled into the yard, heads down, thin cloth snapping in the wind. Morna moved beside him, gaze lowered, hands tucked into her sleeves for warmth. Even with her eyes down, she watched: who limped, who coughed, who was missing.
Elara trailed close, quieter now, but that quiet felt like fear burrowing deeper rather than leaving. Ewan stood on Caelan’s other side, hands wrapped in cloth Morna had tied, trying not to wince when his fingers flexed.
A camp clerk walked the line, slate in hand. He paused near Caelan and made a mark. “Kitchen shed,” he said.
His stylus shifted to Morna. “Healer. Shed.”
Elara was sent to haul straw with a group of women. Ewan went with the wood party again, shoulders slumping, eyes dull with exhaustion he had not yet earned by years.
Caelan followed a guard to the kitchen shed and found what passed for food. Two iron pots, one holding ash-tasting water, the other holding a thin mash of oats and cabbage. A broad prisoner scraped the pot’s bottom while two archers watched from the platform outside.
“Stir,” the guard ordered.
Caelan took the paddle and stirred, keeping the motion tight so his shoulder did not flare too hard. He watched the guard’s eyes, the way they lingered on hands and faces, searching for defiance.
When the guard left, the broad prisoner glanced at Caelan. “Kincaid,” he said quietly.
Caelan did not deny it.
“Quartermaster,” the man added, as if the title carried its own scent.
Caelan’s jaw tightened. “Aye.”
The man gave a low grunt. “Name’s Brenn. They shave portions. Every tenth bowl, a ladle disappears into a bucket for Valerius’s inner men.”
Caelan kept stirring. “Storehouse?”
Brenn’s gaze flicked toward the yard. “Past the north watchtower. Two locks. The inner key stays with Valerius.”
Two locks meant two layers. Outer could be breached. Inner required access, theft, or leverage. Caelan filed it away like a line in a ledger.
Bowls were poured soon after. Caelan’s task was not only stirring, he realized, but distribution. They lined prisoners by groups, work parties first, then camp labor, then the injured.
Choosing who eats.
Valerius’s words returned, cold as river water. Caelan kept his hands steady.
He poured as evenly as he could until a guard noticed and frowned. “Not your job to be generous.”
Caelan lowered his gaze. “Aye.”
He adjusted, shaving each portion by a fraction, the way the guard expected. The ease of it made Caelan’s stomach churn. You could learn to bend without hearing your own bones crack.
When the last bowl was served, the guard scraped the remaining mash into a separate bucket and carried it toward the inner yard. Brenn’s eyes met Caelan’s for a brief moment, confirmation and warning.
Caelan rinsed the paddle and waited.
The door opened again and Morna was shoved inside, basket in hand, jaw set tight. A guard barked, “Tend the hand. Then you go to the archer line. If you waste time, you lose your supper.”
An archer thrust his swollen hand toward her, embarrassed and irritated. Morna washed her hands, turned his palm up, and slid her knife in with quick precision. He hissed. She did not apologize. She eased the splinter free, pressed cloth to the wound, and smeared salve.
“Do not grip a bow until the throbbing stops,” she said.
“And if I do anyway?” he snapped.
“Then it will rot,” Morna replied. “Ignoring pain does not make it smaller.”
The archer muttered thanks that sounded like it hurt him, then left.
Morna exhaled slowly and pulled a small cloth bundle from her basket. Inside were a few bread heels and a pinch of dried berries.
Caelan’s eyes narrowed. “From where.”
“From an archer who thinks his hand matters,” Morna said. “I treated him. He chose to give.”
“It will be noticed,” Caelan warned.
“Everything is noticed,” Morna replied. “That is the point. The question is what they do with what they notice.”
She tore a bread heel in half and offered him a piece.
Caelan hesitated. Accepting it meant stepping into the camp’s hierarchy, eating better because Morna’s skill bought favor. It also meant more strength for tomorrow, and tomorrow would demand strength.
He took it, then broke it again. “We share,” he said quietly.
Morna watched him.
“Not only us,” Caelan added. “Elara. Ewan. Anyone close to failing.”
Morna’s gaze softened by a fraction. “This is not much.”
“It is enough to begin,” Caelan said.
They ate quickly, small bites, keeping their bodies calm and their faces blank. For a moment, the shed held a pocket of being human.
Then a man stepped in wearing rags like the rest, yet carrying himself like he still had choices. Dark hair, bright grin, eyes that flicked to the bread in Caelan’s hand.
“Well,” the man said lightly. “The quartermaster has found his calling.”
Morna stiffened. Caelan’s grip tightened.
The man bowed with mocking flourish. “Ivor,” he said. “In case you’re wondering who is bold enough to walk into a shed with archers outside.”
“You should not be here,” Caelan said.
“And yet,” Ivor replied, grin intact.
Morna’s voice was quiet and cold. “What do you want.”
“Conversation,” Ivor said. “Cooperation. A trade between people who understand systems.”
Caelan’s eyes narrowed. “We are prisoners.”
“I’m an experienced one,” Ivor said cheerfully. Then he lowered his voice. “You distribute food now. You think you can keep it fair.”
“It should be fair,” Caelan said.
Ivor’s grin sharpened. “Here, the only fair thing is that everyone suffers. But you do not have to suffer forever.”
Morna’s eyes flashed. “If you came to spread despair, leave.”
“I came to offer a way out,” Ivor said, and the lightness slipped for a heartbeat.
Caelan’s pulse quickened. “If you know a way, you would have taken it.”
“I need allies,” Ivor admitted. “I can lift a key, watch a rotation, start a distraction. I cannot outrun bows alone.”
“And what do you want,” Caelan asked.
“Food,” Ivor said plainly. “Extra portions. And a promise that when you run, you do not leave me behind.”
Morna’s jaw tightened. “You will sell us.”
“Only if you give me something worth selling,” Ivor said, still smiling.
Caelan felt the trap and the opportunity sitting in the same place. Clean hands were an illusion here. Survival was not.
“I do not trust you,” Caelan said.
Ivor spread his hands. “Good. Trust is for fools. Use me instead.”
He stepped back as if granting Caelan space to decide. “Think quickly. Hungry men do not think well.”
Then he slipped out, quiet as smoke.
Morna’s voice came low and urgent. “He is dangerous.”
Caelan nodded. “So is this camp.”
Morna’s eyes held his. “You cannot control him with rules.”
“No,” Caelan admitted. “But I can control myself with rules. That is all I have.”
A guard shouted, ordering Caelan back to stirring. Morna was sent to the archer line again, basket hugged close. They separated without looking like they had formed a plan.
After the noon mash, Brenn caught Caelan’s eye and jerked his chin toward the back of the shed. Caelan followed as if fetching water, careful not to move too quickly.
“You want to help them,” Brenn said, voice low.
“I want them alive,” Caelan replied.
Brenn’s gaze slid toward the yard. “Alive is expensive. The guards will notice your bowls.”
“They already notice everything,” Caelan said.
Brenn snorted. “Aye, but they notice some things with a club.” He hesitated, then added, “If you insist on playing at fairness, do it like a man who understands accounting. You cannot add to one without subtracting from another.”
Caelan’s jaw tightened. “I know.”
“Then pick the subtraction that will not kill you,” Brenn said. “A guard’s bucket is safer than a prisoner’s bowl.”
Caelan met his eyes. “That is what I did.”
Brenn’s mouth twitched, almost approval. “Good. Now stop looking guilty. Guilt makes you slow.”
Caelan returned to stirring with Brenn’s words lodged like grit in his teeth. He had lived by the belief that rules kept people safe. Here, rules were the cage. To protect anyone, he had to work in the gaps, and working in gaps felt too much like becoming a thief.
The afternoon dragged. Morna returned twice to the shed, once to rinse bloody cloth, once to collect a pinch of dried leaves from a sack the guards kept for her.
Each time she moved with the same controlled calm, but Caelan saw how the work took from her.
Not just physical energy, but the constant strain of being watched while she tried to keep her mind clear.
On her second return, she carried a small cup of thin broth, granted by an archer whose hand was healing well. She set it on the bench between them.
“Drink,” she said. “Your shoulder will swell more if you are empty.”
Caelan looked at the cup. “That should go to someone weaker.”
Morna’s gaze hardened. “You are weaker than you pretend. If you cannot lift tomorrow, they will drag you to work anyway. Then you will be a burden to the people you keep trying to protect.”
Caelan’s throat tightened. He hated being called out with clean logic. He took the cup and drank, the broth hot and salty, more comfort than it deserved to be. Heat spread through his chest. He exhaled slowly.
Morna watched him, then said quietly, “I also brought this.”
From her basket she produced a strip of cloth, neatly folded, and a pinch of crushed leaves wrapped in paper.
Caelan’s eyes narrowed. “What is it.”