Chapter Six A Blanket Bought With Hunger
Morna did not complain.
Caelan noticed it before anyone else because he had begun to measure her in small, quiet ways. The angle of her shoulders when she stood. The speed of her hands when she tied cloth around a wound. The steadiness of her breath after a long day when the barrack reeked of damp straw and sickness.
On the sixth day in Blackwood, that steadiness began to fray.
It started with her fingers. They trembled once when she lifted her basket. A single misstep, quickly corrected. Then a pause at the trench, as if she had to remember the order of simple tasks. She masked it well, but Caelan saw the split second where her eyes lost focus and returned.
He told himself it was fatigue. Everyone was fatigued. Even the guards looked dull around the eyes, their irritation fueled by boredom and stale power. Yet Morna was the sort of woman who accounted for fatigue. She rationed effort like a healer rationed herbs.
When a woman like that began to spend more than she had, it meant there was debt in her bones.
By midday, Morna’s cheeks held a faint flush that did not match the cold. She moved slower. She pressed her lips together as if to hold back coughs. Once, when she turned away from a guard, Caelan saw her swallow hard, then wipe her mouth with the back of her hand as if it tasted wrong.
Caelan’s stomach tightened.
Morna could endure bruises and hunger. Illness was different. Illness was invisible until it was not, and in a place like Blackwood, invisible meant no one cared until you collapsed.
And if she collapsed, Valerius would replace her.
Tools were allowed to remain sharp only while they were useful.
Caelan watched the yard from the kitchen shed, paddle moving through thin mash. The guard on duty had stepped outside to shout at a work party, leaving Caelan alone with Brenn and the sour smell of boiled oats.
Brenn leaned close, voice low. “Your healer is pale.”
Caelan kept stirring. “Aye.”
“She will be pulled from the archer line if she slows,” Brenn warned. “They will call her lazy.”
Caelan’s jaw tightened. “They will call her whatever serves them.”
Brenn grunted. “Truth.”
Caelan’s thoughts ran in tight circles. He measured what he had. He measured what he lacked.
He had no proper herbs. He had no blankets to spare. He had no authority. He had only patterns, small gaps, and a willingness to do what he had once sworn he would never do.
The truth of that last part pressed at him like a bruise.
He served bowls at midday, keeping his portions cautious. He shaved from the guard bucket as he had learned to do, never from a prisoner’s share. It was a small corruption made in the name of fairness. It still tasted like theft in his mouth.
When he finally returned to the barrack, Morna was sitting against the wall with her basket in her lap, head bowed. Her braid had slipped loose at the nape, strands clinging to her skin as if she had sweated beneath her hood.
“Morna,” Caelan murmured, crouching near her.
She lifted her head. Her eyes were sharp but glassy, as if she had to focus on him deliberately.
“I am fine,” she said, too quickly.
Caelan did not argue aloud. Arguing made noise. Noise drew attention.
He reached toward her wrist as if checking a bandage, then pressed his fingers lightly against the pulse point.
Her skin was warm. The pulse was faster than it should be at rest.
“You are not fine,” he said quietly.
Morna’s jaw tightened. “I have had worse.”
“That is not the measure,” Caelan replied.
Morna’s mouth twitched, almost amusement, but it died immediately. “You are turning into a healer.”
“I am turning into a man who notices,” Caelan said.
Morna’s gaze flicked past him toward the barrack door. “Do not fuss,” she murmured. “If they think I am weak, they will take my knife.”
Caelan swallowed. “They will take more than your knife.”
Morna went still for a heartbeat.
Caelan lowered his voice. “You need rest.”
Morna’s eyes narrowed. “Rest is not assigned here.”
Caelan felt anger flare, then forced it down. Anger did nothing. It was a waste of fuel.
“Then we make it,” he said.
Morna’s expression sharpened with suspicion. “How.”
Caelan’s throat tightened. He did not want to say the name. Names carried weight. Names pulled you toward choices you could not undo.
“Ivor,” he said quietly.
Morna’s face hardened. “No.”
Caelan’s jaw clenched. “He has access.”
“He has hunger and selfishness,” Morna snapped in a whisper. “He will demand a price.”
Caelan stared at her, the dim light catching the sheen in her eyes. “Everything here has a price.”
Morna’s breathing hitched. She looked away as if the words had struck too close.
Caelan softened his voice. “I will pay it.”
Morna’s head snapped back. “With what. Your pride.”
Caelan did not flinch. “With my rations.”
Morna’s eyes widened. “No.”
Caelan leaned closer. “You cannot heal if you are shaking with fever.”
Morna’s jaw tightened. “I can manage.”
Caelan’s voice went rough. “You are managing because you refuse to admit helplessness exists. It does.”
Morna stared at him, and the look in her eyes was not anger alone. It was fear, naked and quick, the fear that she had been building her life against since her sister’s death.
Caelan saw it and felt his chest tighten. He wished that he didn’t need to push her there. He hated that the camp made pushing necessary.
He lowered his voice. “Let me do this.”
Morna’s lips parted as if to argue again, then she swallowed and nodded once, sharp and reluctant. “If you do,” she whispered, “you do not give him anything that harms others.”
Caelan hesitated. “I will not give him secrets,” he said.
“That is not what I asked,” Morna replied.
Caelan’s stomach tightened. “I will not take from a prisoner’s bowl.”
Morna’s gaze held his. “That is not what I asked either.”
Caelan felt the trap in her words, not meant as cruelty, but as truth. Harm came in many shapes, and the cleanest theft could still lead to suffering elsewhere.
“I will choose the cost I can carry,” Caelan said at last.
Morna’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds like Valerius.”
Caelan flinched, and she saw it.
Morna’s voice softened slightly. “Do not let him live in your mouth.”
Caelan exhaled slowly. “He already lives in my head.”
Morna’s hand brushed his wrist, light. “Then do not let him take your hands too.”
Caelan stood, shoulders aching, and moved toward the middle of the barrack where Ivor lounged as if straw were a feather bed. The rogue looked too comfortable for this place. Comfort was either skill or deception. Either way, it was dangerous.
Ivor’s eyes tracked Caelan’s approach with bright interest. “Well, well,” he murmured. “The quartermaster comes to bargain.”
Caelan crouched near him, keeping his voice low. “I need a blanket.”
Ivor’s grin widened. “Everyone needs a blanket.”
Caelan held his gaze. “You have access to one.”
Ivor leaned back, arms spread. “I have access to many things. The question is, what do you have access to.”
Caelan’s jaw tightened. “I have rations.”
Ivor’s grin sharpened. “Ah. The currency of the desperate.”
Caelan’s fingers curled into his palm. “Name your price.”
Ivor’s eyes flicked toward Morna’s corner, then returned to Caelan. “For her,” he said softly.
Caelan did not answer. Silence was safer than denial.
Ivor continued, voice low and pleased. “Two days of your portion. And one favor.”
Caelan’s stomach tightened. Two days was a lot. In Blackwood, two days could be the difference between standing and collapsing.
“I will give you one day,” Caelan said. “No favor.”
Ivor laughed quietly. “You still think you can negotiate with rules.”
Caelan’s jaw clenched. “One day,” he repeated.
Ivor’s gaze turned sharp. “Do you think I steal for sport,” he asked. “I steal because I want out, and out requires risk. Risk requires payment.”
Caelan held his gaze. “Two days will kill me.”
Ivor’s mouth curved. “Not if you are clever,” he said. “You are always clever. You find ways to make the ledger balance.”
Caelan felt heat rise. He forced it down. “If I die, you lose a piece you plan to use.”
Ivor’s eyes narrowed. “Do not flatter yourself.”
Caelan leaned in slightly. “You need order. You need a man who can watch rotations and count steps. You need someone who can keep a plan from turning into panic.”
Ivor stared, then his grin returned, slower. “You are learning,” he murmured.
Caelan’s throat tightened. “One and a half days,” he said. “And no favor.”
Ivor’s grin widened. “You cannot give half a day of hunger,” he said. “Hunger is whole.”
Caelan’s jaw clenched. “Then one day and a promise,” he said. “A promise that if we run, you are not left behind.”
Ivor’s eyes lit with interest. “Now there is a favor,” he said.
“It is not a favor,” Caelan replied. “It is a condition.”
Ivor tilted his head. “You are still trying to name it cleanly,” he said, voice almost gentle. “Call it what it is. A bargain.”
Caelan’s stomach twisted. Bargains were how men justified theft and betrayal. He had always despised them.
Yet here he was.
“One day of my portion,” Caelan said. “And you are included when we escape. If you betray us, you are not included.”
Ivor laughed under his breath. “Threats from a starving quartermaster. Bold.”
Caelan kept his gaze steady. “It is not bold. It is honest.”
Ivor’s grin faded into something more assessing. “You would truly leave me,” he murmured.
“Yes,” Caelan said.
Ivor studied him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Very well,” he said. “One day. And your promise.”
Caelan’s throat tightened. “I will not promise you escape,” he said. “Only that if escape comes, you are not abandoned.”
Ivor’s grin returned. “That is enough.”
Caelan’s mouth tasted like ash. “When.”
Ivor’s eyes flicked toward the door. “Tonight,” he said. “After the late watch changes. The drunk archer will be on the platform. He drops his gaze often.”
Caelan’s pulse quickened. “How do you know.”
Ivor’s grin widened. “Because I watch everything,” he said. “You are not the only man with a ledger in his head.”
Caelan stared at him, feeling the wrongness of needing this man.