THE BONE AND THE ANVIL - Ten Shards of Shatter-Glass

Two days after the oil lamps

Shatter-Glass

Two days after the oil lamps went out in the

House pit, the grease-stained floorboards had already been half-forgotten by the townsfolk, but the bruises on

Kian’s ribs remained a sharp, violet reminder every time he drew a breath.It was mid-morning in the barracks yard.

The mud had frozen into a crust of grey mail over the ruts, crunching loudly under the boots of the quartermaster’s mule as it dragged a wagonload of salted herrings toward the mess-tents.Kian stood beside

Tent 31, using a strip of scrap leather to scrape the dried clay off his left shin.

His knuckles were still wrapped in greasy white rag-strips where

Orlo’s teeth—or perhaps his own stubborn teeth—had torn the skin during the final grapple in the sawdust.”Rhyd.”Kian looked up.Sergeant

Ostrander stood three paces away, holding a small, heavy canvas sack stamped with the green lead-seal of the garrison treasury.

Ostrander didn’t look happy; his notched ear twitched with every breath, and his mouth was set in the hard, pinched line of a man forced to swallow a toad.”Major

Wilhelm’s orders,” Ostrander muttered, tossing the canvas sack through the air.

It landed with a dull, heavy clink in the frozen mud right at

Kian’s feet. “The inquiry council ruled it a split verdict.

Brocke gets his medal for the official dispatch, and the garrison registrar balanced the ledger by carving up the alpha bounty.”Kian reached down, picked up the sack, and untied the hemp string at the neck.He tipped it into his palm.Ten small, jagged fragments of processed

Shatter-Glass rolled out onto his calloused skin.

They weren’t smooth like glass marbles; they were sharp-edged, translucent slivers that burned with a cold, steady blue-white radiance.

The air around his hand instantly chilled, carrying that familiar, sharp smell of ozone and winter rain.Ten shards.

Exactly half of what

Orlo had demanded in the watchtower, but enough—according to old

Jarek—to trigger a proper

Hegemony body-fusion for a conscript with a strong constitution.”Don’t go thinking you’re a gentleman now, rat,” Ostrander spat, turning on his heel. “Quell’s got you on trench-duty at the south gate tomorrow.

Shards don’t buy you out of a shovel.”The

Sergeant crunched away across the frozen ruts, leaving

Kian standing alone in the grey light.”Ten pieces?”A low, gravelly voice rumbled from behind the canvas flap of

Tent 31.Orlo stepped out into the yard.

He looked nearly as bad as

Kian—his broken nose was packed with salt-soaked lint held in place by a strip of dirty linen across his forehead, and his left eye was still ringed with a deep, ugly shade of eggplant-purple.

But he was wearing a brand-new wool tunic—standard

Hegemony grey, unpatched—and carried a heavy, single-bit iron felling axe over his shoulder, the steel edge gleaming with fresh machine-grind.Orlo stopped two feet from

Kian, looking down at the glowing blue shards in the boy’s palm.”That’s half of what we asked for,” Orlo grunted, crossing his massive arms over his chest.

He winced slightly as the motion pulled at his cracked ribs, his jaw tightening. “The high-born bastards stole our silver,

Wilhelm kept the rest for his private cellar.””Half is enough to buy boots that don’t leak,” Kian said softly.

He closed his fist around the shards, the cold blue light bleeding faintly between his scarred fingers. “And enough to get you that axe.”Orlo looked down at the iron tool resting on his shoulder, then back at

Kian’s face.For the first time since they’d shared the mildewed canvas of

Tent 31, the southern giant didn’t sneer.

The thick, white scar across his upper lip twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but it lacked the old, venomous edge.”I spent my share on two things,” Orlo said, his voice dropping into a gruff, heavy rumble. “A full sack of dried salt-pork from the mess-sergeant—so we don’t have to eat that grey turnip water for a week—and this.” He patted the ash handle of the felling axe. “The old one broke when

Scag-Beast’s neck.”He shifted his weight, his heavy boots crunching on the crust.

He looked at

Kian’s hand—at the raw, bandage-wrapped knuckles and the thin, pale wrists that looked like they’d snap under a heavy pack.”You took my overhand right in the second round,” Orlo said suddenly, his tone dropping into a low, gravelly murmur. “Most men from the valley… even the ones who think they’re tough… they drop their hands when they’re tired.””I wasn’t tired,” Kian lied, a faint, dry shadow of a grin touching his split lip. “I was just resting my head on your chest.”Orlo let out a short, explosive bark of laughter that ended in a sharp wince as his ribs protested.

He reached out a hand the size of a ham shovel and gave

Kian’s uninjured shoulder a single, heavy thud—not a blow meant to knock him down, but the solid, brutal greeting of one working soldier to another.”You’re a stubborn little bastard,

Rhyd,” Orlo grunted, turning back toward the tent. “Don’t go dying on me at the south gate tomorrow.

I’m not sharing my salt-pork with a ghost.”