Chapter Eight A Vow in the Dark
The night in the yard was meant to make them small.
Valerius had called it a choice, but choices in Blackwood were shaped like traps. Speak and a man bought a dawn with another man’s blood. Stay silent and everyone paid, ration halved, strength drained, bodies failing one by one until the camp became tidy again.
Caelan stood with Morna at his side, Elara pressed close behind them, Ewan on the other side. Torches threw greasy light across the mud. The wind cut through wool and skin alike, and time stretched until it felt like another chain, one that could not be broken because it was made of hours.
He kept his face blank because Valerius watched faces.
He kept his shoulders squared because the guards watched slumped backs as if weakness were an invitation.
He kept his hand on Morna’s because without it he feared he would drift into the kind of cold anger that made men reckless.
Her fingers were warm against his, warmer than they had been in days.
The stolen bread had put color back into her cheeks.
The fever had loosened its grip. She still swayed when she shifted her weight, but she was upright.
Alive.
That had to mean something.
Around them, whispers rose and died. A man two rows down began to sob quietly and was struck hard enough to silence him.
A woman near the rear sank to her knees and was hauled up again by her hair.
The cruelty was not hurried. It was methodical, a reminder that Valerius did not need to raise his voice to be obeyed.
Caelan’s mind tried to count, to turn misery into something measurable. How many guards. How many torches. How often they paced. Which men looked tired. Which men looked eager. He forced the habit to continue because the alternative was to feel.
Feeling was dangerous.
Near midnight, Valerius descended from the platform and walked through the ranks, hands clasped behind his back. He moved like a man inspecting livestock. Guards followed at a respectful distance, not because they admired him, but because they feared being in his path.
He stopped near Caelan, close enough that Caelan caught the faint scent of clean soap, an insult in this place.
Valerius’s gaze slid over Morna. “Your healer stands straighter tonight,” he said mildly.
Caelan did not answer.
Valerius looked to Caelan, calm as a man discussing weather. “Hunger has sharpened you,” he said. “You are less certain, but more effective.”
Caelan’s jaw tightened. He kept his eyes lowered.
Valerius’s voice softened. “Do you see now how quickly a group becomes desperate enough to turn on itself.”
Caelan’s fingers tightened around Morna’s hand. “We will not,” he said quietly.
Valerius smiled faintly. “You already have,” he replied, and moved on.
Morna’s breath hitched. Caelan felt her squeeze his hand once, steadying herself and him.
Elara whispered, barely audible. “He knows.”
Caelan did not answer. He did not know how much Valerius knew. That was part of the terror. Valerius did not need certainty to punish. Suspicion was enough.
Hours crawled. The torches burned low. The guards’ boots grew louder as they grew tired and annoyed. Dawn felt impossible until the sky finally paled, a thin, miserable light bleeding into the yard.
Valerius returned to the platform, expression unreadable. “No one speaks,” he said. “Very well.”
A ripple of dread moved through the prisoners. Caelan felt it like a wave.
“The ration will be halved for three days,” Valerius continued, voice mild. “You may thank your loyalty for the lesson.”
Then he lifted a hand. “Back to work.”
The ranks broke, bodies shuffling as if sleep were a distant dream. Caelan’s legs ached. His shoulders burned. He helped Morna keep her balance as they moved.
She leaned closer, voice hoarse. “Three days,” she whispered. “Half.”
Caelan’s throat tightened. “We will manage.”
Morna’s gaze cut to him. “Do not lie to me,” she murmured.
He swallowed. “We will endure,” he corrected.
Morna’s eyes held his for a heartbeat, then she looked away, jaw set. Endure. It was the only promise any of them could still make without turning it into a lie.
Work that day was a blur of cold and fatigue. Caelan stirred porridge so thin it looked like water that had heard of oats. Brenn muttered curses under his breath and watched the guards with narrowed eyes.
“They are pleased,” Brenn said quietly when the guard stepped away. “They like this.”
Caelan kept stirring. “They like control.”
Brenn’s gaze flicked toward the yard where men moved slower than yesterday. “Control and profit,” he murmured. “Sick prisoners cost more than dead ones. Valerius will ride that line until it breaks.”
Caelan’s stomach tightened. Morna’s fever had eased, but hunger could bring it back. Hunger could bring it back for all of them.
At midday, a man collapsed near the trench. Guards laughed and dragged him aside, leaving him in the mud as if he were a sack that had split open.
Elara watched with wide eyes, fingers clenched. “He’s not moving,” she whispered.
Caelan’s jaw clenched. “Keep your eyes down.”
Morna’s voice came low. “If we cannot get food, we need something else,” she murmured.
“Herbs,” Caelan said.
Morna nodded. “There are weeds by the fence line. Bitter, but edible. If I can get close enough, I can bring some back.”
Caelan’s gaze sharpened. “They will see.”
“They already see,” Morna replied, and there was a hard truth in it. “The question is what they care about.”
That evening, they returned to the barrack with shoulders slumped and mouths dry. Caelan’s belly felt like a hollow stone. Morna moved stiffly. Ewan’s hands shook. Elara looked like she might fold in on herself if someone raised a voice too sharply.
The barrack smelled of damp straw and sweat. Men lay down without speaking, too tired for anything but breathing.
Caelan tried to sleep. His body wanted it. His mind refused.
He saw the storehouse again. He saw the spilled slurry, the guard’s boots, Ivor sliding past. He heard Morna’s voice saying slope, not line. He heard Valerius’s calm certainty that they had already turned on one another.
He shifted on the straw, restless. Morna lay beside him, eyes open, staring at the ceiling as if she were counting cracks in the boards.
“You are awake,” Caelan murmured.
“So are you,” Morna replied.
Silence held for a moment, heavy with everything neither of them wanted to say.
Caelan’s voice came out rough. “I thought they would beat someone at dawn.”
Morna’s throat moved as she swallowed. “They want us alive,” she said quietly. “Alive enough to work. Afraid enough to break.”
Caelan stared into the dim. “Three days,” he murmured. “Half.”
Morna’s mouth tightened. “We have already eaten the bread. There is no second miracle coming.”
Caelan’s jaw clenched. He thought of Ivor, of his grin, of his promise that hunger would speak louder tomorrow. It already did. Hunger spoke with an ache that made men foolish and with a weakness that made them slow.
Caelan turned his head toward Morna. In the dim, her face was drawn, eyes bright with fatigue. He could see the stubbornness in the line of her jaw, but also the fear beneath it.
Fear of helplessness.
Fear of being unable to fix what was coming.
Caelan’s chest tightened. “You should rest,” he said.
Morna’s laugh was soft and humorless. “Rest does not fill a belly.”
“No,” Caelan admitted. “But it keeps you from collapsing.”
Morna looked at him, eyes narrowing. “You cannot hold me up forever.”
Caelan swallowed. “I am not trying to hold you,” he said. “I am trying to keep you here.”
“Here,” Morna echoed softly. “In Blackwood.”
“In this life,” Caelan said, and the words surprised him with their bluntness.
Morna’s gaze stayed on his. “Do you believe we will leave,” she asked quietly.
Caelan’s instinct was to say yes, to make a vow and cling to it. But vows in Blackwood were thorned things. They cut the mouth that spoke them if they were false.
“I believe we must,” he said.
Morna’s lips parted, then closed again. “That is not an answer.”
Caelan exhaled slowly. “I do not know,” he admitted. “I plan. I watch. I count. But I do not know.”
Morna’s eyes softened, and something in her expression shifted, not pity, but understanding. “That is the first honest thing you have said tonight,” she murmured.
Caelan felt heat rise in his chest, a tight ache he could not name. Honesty in this place felt like standing naked in the snow.
Morna shifted closer, just enough that their shoulders touched. “When my sister died,” she whispered, “I swore I would never again let myself hope for something I could not make with my own hands.”
Caelan’s throat tightened. “Hope is not made,” he said quietly. “It happens.”
“That is why I hate it,” Morna replied, the word sharp with old pain, and then she let it go. “Hope makes you forget to prepare.”
Caelan swallowed. “You have prepared,” he murmured.
Morna’s fingers curled into the straw. “I have prepared for sickness and wounds. Not for men like Valerius.”
Caelan’s jaw clenched. “Neither have I.”
Morna turned her head and looked at him fully. In the dim, her eyes caught what little light there was, bright and steady. “You have changed,” she said quietly.
Caelan’s breath caught. “Aye.”
Morna’s voice was low. “I told you I would tell you when you went too far.”
Caelan swallowed. “Have I.”
Morna’s gaze searched his face. “Not yet,” she whispered. “But you are close enough that I can see the edge.”
Caelan’s mouth went dry. “I am trying to keep you alive.”
“I know,” Morna said. Her voice softened with something that felt like grief. “That is what frightens me. Because you would burn yourself to keep me warm.”
Caelan stared at her, the words sinking in. He thought of giving his portion to Ivor. Of spilling the bucket. Of standing in the yard with his hand on hers like she was the only anchor in a sea of mud and torches.
He had never been a man who burned.
He had been a man who contained.
Now containment felt like a lie.