The warden's iron mitten hooked into the throat-seam of Velis's wool, hauling until the brass eyelet tore. "Touch him again, and I feed your knuckles to the blast pit." The voice fell like iron dropped into slop. Garrach walked into the lantern ring, greatcoat dripping black mire, broad blade still sheathed across his spine. He didn't look at Velis. He stared straight at the quartermaster, whose sneer froze on his gums. "Commander," the officer said, recovering a thin sliver of venom. "Regulations require flogging for unit endangerment. You witnessed it yourself. The boy threw his carcass over a condemned traitor." "The boy is my personal orderly," Garrach said flatly. "Assigned two hours ago by my authority. If he rots, he rots under my hand. Stand down, or pull steel." Silence seized the cavernous loading bay. Jom, trembling behind a stack of rusted oil drums, chewed his knuckles until red welts showed. The two wardens hesitated, looking to the quartermaster. The quartermaster spat dark tobacco onto Garrach's boot tip. "Your pet, then. Keep him close, sir. See what happens when the provosts sniff out your little exemptions." "Get out," Garrach whispered. He spun on his heel, his coat flaring, the wardens trailing him into the gloom. Garrach did not offer a hand. He wheeled around, grabbed Velis by the scruff of her tunic with enough brute force to lift her toes off the gravel, and shoved her toward the lower tunnels. "Wash the slime off. Dress in clean wool. You have ten minutes." "Sir?" Velis managed, coughing against the crushed fabric. "Ten minutes. Or I drag you naked." *** The Pit Tap smelled of sour malt, unwashed hides, and boiled turnip mash. Built into an abandoned cistern three levels below the gun batteries, it served as the Vanguard’s only outlet for spent blood and stolen coin. Red tallow candles guttered in iron wall-sconces, throwing oily shadows across scarred benches. Garrach pushed Velis into a corner booth, then threw himself down opposite her, his massive knees bracketing hers under the splintered timber. He looked terrible. His jaw muscles twitched; his pale skin had a feverish, mottled hue, and his grey eyes darted everywhere except at her face. "Drink," Garrach snapped, shoving a mug of cloudy potato liquor toward her. "Sir, what are we doing here?" Velis asked, keeping her tone low, raspy, fighting to maintain her brother's cadence. "You're too soft," Garrach snarled, downing his own pewter cup in one swallow. He slammed it down, wood groaning under the blow. "You look like a starved choirboy. You act like a wet nurse. It disgusts me. It makes the men talk. It makes... me think things that belong in a lunatic cage." Velis shrank back an inch. "I apologize for my conduct during the charge—" "Shut up. Look over there." At the counter stood a woman with thick auburn curls pinned up with brass bodkins, her forearms scarred from grease-spits, laced into a grease-spotted canvas apron. Garrach raised two knuckles. The barkeep nudged the maid, muttering in her ear. She smoothed her coarse skirt, took up a pitcher, and ambled over. "This is Marda," Garrach said, voice dry as sand. "You are going to court her. Take her behind the salt stores like a normal soldier. Touch a woman, Velid, and become a proper hound of the front." Velis felt the blood drain from her ears. "Sir, I really don't think—" "Sit down, boy," Garrach hissed, leaning forward. His pupils were blown wide, black rims swallowing the slate grey. "Be a man. For once in your miserable conscripted existence. Show me you have normal blood in your veins." Marda slid onto the bench right beside Velis, pressing a soft, warm hip directly into hers. The scent of lavender soap and stale grease hit Velis's nose. "Well now," the maid purred, raking blunt nails down Velis’s wool sleeve. "The officer said you were shy. Pretty face for frontline meat, aren't you? Let's feel if there's any muscle under those rags." "I—good evening, miss," Velis stammered, pulling her arm back, but Marda caught her wrist, leaning in until her corseted chest pressed flat against Velis's side. "Polite, too. I like polite ones. They don't bite unless you ask." Marda laughed, sliding a palm up the inside of Velis's knee toward her crotch. Velis wrenched sideways to evade the groping palm. "Wait, madam—please, the officer is watching—" "Let him watch," Marda giggled, leaning over, her cleavage filling Velis's vision as she aimed her mouth directly at Velis's neck. Across the table, a wooden board splintered. Garrach gripped the timber lip. His skin went chalk-pale, temples corded with knotted blue veins. He stared at Marda's palm against Velis's trousers, ribs heaving like an ox dragged through bog-mud. "Get off him," Garrach said. It was barely a rumble. Marda paused, mouth open. "Sir? You said fifty coppers if I—" "GET OFF HIM!" With a roar that silenced the entire tavern, Garrach drove his boots into the floor and threw his weight upward. The heavy oak table flipped end over end, crashing into the next row of benches in an explosion of shattered mugs, sloshing alcohol, and screaming patrons. Marda shrieked, tumbling backward onto the sawdust. Before Velis could scramble to her feet, an iron fist hooked her neck-band. Garrach hauled her backward over the fallen benches, choking her windpipe, dragging her past the frozen drinkers like a sack of barley. "Garrach—sir—stop!" she choked out. He didn't answer. He dragged her out the low doorway, through the reeking latrine passage, and shoved her violently into the dead-end masonry of the munitions alcove. The impact against the frozen stone knocked the air from her lungs. Before she could recover, Garrach slammed his palms onto the wall on either side of her head, caging her entirely. His breath came fast, ragged, smelling of distilled starch and raw iron, puffing white in the sub-zero draft. He leaned down. His eyes were wild, unhinged, tracking from her brow down to her parted, trembling mouth. "What are you?" he whispered, voice cracking into a ragged plea. "What kind of curse did the mud spawn in you?" He was mere inches away. His chest pressed against hers, hard muscle against the agony of her flattened bindings. Velis could not move. Her throat locked. Garrach leaned in further, tilting his head, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch over hers, close enough that she felt the scorching heat of his lips against her skin. A low, wounded sound escaped his throat. Then he tore himself away. With a feral shout, Garrach spun and drove his bare, naked fist straight into the granite wall. The stone cracked. The wet sound of bursting skin followed, thick droplets of crimson spraying across the damp masonry. He stood there, panting, forehead resting against the bloody stone, his knuckles ruined. "Report to the eastern redoubt at third bell," he rasped, not looking back. "Get out of my sight before I hang you myself." He pushed off the wall and stalked into the dark, his heavy tread fading down the iron gallery. Her legs buckled. She slid down the freezing masonry, dropping into wet lime-dust, binding linen cutting hard against her ribs. Her hands trembled so violently she could barely steady herself against the floor. As she reached out to steady herself, her palms scraped an object half-buried in the muck beneath the wall sconce—dropped during the scuffle, trampled into the grit. It was a brass-cornered ledger stamped with the supply house crest. Velis froze, listening for footsteps. Nothing but the dripping of condensation. She thumbed the oiled leather clasp open. Inside, inked in the Quartermaster’s crabbed, unmistakable scrawl, were names, squad designations, and tally marks alongside dates. *Third Platoon, Private Renald — delivered alive to Northern Maw.* *Eighth Squad, Recruit Varek — delivered alive to Northern Maw.* *Payment received: 40 silver crowns per beast-feed crate.* Her thumb traced down the freshly inked entry at the bottom of the page. *Seventh Squad, Recruit Velid — pending clearance for Maw pen tonight.*

The Blind Date