Hence the summons.
And hence the forge-branded “birthmarks” Jerry was charging a day’s wages for.
Nero sighed. He’d be the only one without a mark tomorrow.
Good.
He had no intention of going.
The next dawn stank of burned fields. The eastern provinces were torching their crops now—blight, desperation, or both. More starving people eager for the priests to offer salvation.
At the docks, Malachai barked orders like a man possessed. Then came the list.
“New orders. Everyone named on the summons is required to report to the palace. Your name’s on it, Nero.”
Nero grunted, jaw tight.
Malachai shrugged. “You don’t go, they’ll drag you. People’s army is starting to look a lot like the royal one.”
Nero glanced at him. “Did you know the royals?”
A strange flicker crossed Malachai’s face. “No one really did. But Queen Elspeth… she understood trade. Protected the routes. Look at the harbor now. Two ships where there used to be thirty.”
The work that day was brutal. Malachai had vanished by mid-morning probably trying to drum up business, leaving his smirking nephew Gareth in charge.
“Well, well,” Gareth sneered. “Is it true, Your Majesty? Should we bow now, or wait until you're crowned?”
The older dockworkers chuckled, tired and brittle. Elias rolled his eyes. “Leave it, Gareth.”
“I give the orders.” Gareth jabbed a finger toward the salt barrels and Nero. “You. Move those. Alone.”
The work of three men, meant to break his back.
Nero didn’t argue. Just lowered his head and got to it.
By midday, his hands were split and raw.
“You look like shit,” Elias muttered, passing him a water skin. “Drink.”
Nero nodded his thanks, grateful for even that.
“Gareth’s off drinking. Said we’re done when the last barrels are moved. Come on, I’ll help.”
They worked in silence, then walked home together as the day cooled. They weren’t friends, their once close community had been ripped apart with war and betrayal. Friends was a luxury Nero could no longer afford.
“What’ll you do tomorrow?” Elias asked.
“Don’t know,” Nero said honestly.
“I hope you go.”
Nero frowned. “Why?”
“Because maybe we get lucky, and it's one of us. Imagine if the Silver Wolf bonded toGareth.”
Nero didn’t reply. He turned toward the barn, the fields behind it now dead and blackened, the land his grandfather had taken pride in reduced to memory.
He sat on an old milking stool, unwrapped a stale hunk of bread, and re-read Eryken’s note.
