Chapter 15 — Cracks

Morning brought shouting.

Two men argued by the supply crates, voices rising, arms waving. One had a ledger board clutched to his chest, chalk dust smearing his tunic. The other jabbed a finger toward the rows of meat hanging to dry.

I couldn't follow every word, but I caught enough. Shortage. Dues. Caller.

The word again: caller. Not lord, not master. Caller.

The argument drew a crowd. Half the camp stood watching, some jeering, some silent. The leader appeared only at the end, stalking forward with his bow over his shoulder. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. A look was enough to silence them, though their faces stayed sour.

Tov leaned in close to me, voice low. "See that? They're not as united as they want you to think. Too many mouths. Not enough coin. And the caller's dues come first."

"What happens," I murmured, "when they can't pay?"

He grinned, but it was tight, humorless. "Then someone pays with flesh."

The crowd dispersed, the meat and crates counted again, chalk marks redrawn on the board. Order restored, but brittle.

Later, as I sat with Merlin, stroking the fur around his tired chest, I mapped it out the way I would any failing system. Leadership by intimidation instead of incentive. Resources stretched between internal consumption and external tribute. A structure that works only as long as no one tests it. I'd seen this pattern before—organizations held together by a boot and a ledger, vulnerable at the joints, likely to crack hard when the pressure points shifted.

This camp wasn't a hive. It was a cage. And cages crack if you press hard enough on the right places.