Chapter 14 The Unclaimed Dead

Morning arrived wrapped in a thick gray mist, and the battlefield looked almost peaceful from a distance. Only when Zevran stepped onto the blackened earth did the illusion fall apart, broken weapons still scattered among the bodies, crows circling overhead and waiting for the collectors to leave.

Garrick handed him a hook. "Keep your mind on your work."

"I will."

"I mean it."

Zevran met the old demon's eyes for a moment before nodding. Garrick had grown quieter since the night Zevran came home injured, asking fewer questions than before, though somehow that silence carried more suspicion than his usual complaints ever had.

They separated to begin the day's collection, and hours passed without incident. Zevran deliberately ignored the faint warmth beneath the sleeve covering the silver mark on his palm. Since leaving the First Grave, he'd sworn not to use the Eyes of the Forgotten unless he had no other choice, because the power had already shown him it always demanded something in return.

"Collector!" An overseer's voice cut across the field. Zevran turned. "Over here."

Near one of the collapsed siege towers, several workers stood around a body lying face down in the mud.

"What happened?" Zevran asked.

Borik scratched his beard. "Found him like this."

The dead man wore ordinary collector's clothing, and his cart stood only a few feet away, half loaded with corpses.

"Who is he?"

"Renn," Borik said, and Zevran felt the name land heavier than expected. Everyone knew Renn, a man who rarely spoke, worked harder than anyone else, and always went home before sunset without fail.

An overseer knelt beside the corpse. "Looks like the tower collapsed on him."

Borik frowned. "That's strange."

"What's strange about it?"

"The tower's been lying there since the battle. It hasn't moved in days."

The overseer shot him a warning look. "Accidents happen." Nobody argued, because nobody ever argued with an overseer. "Load him. We'll report it as a workplace accident."

The workers obeyed, and Zevran reached for Renn's shoulder to help lift him. The instant his fingers touched the body, the warmth behind his eyes returned, and he almost pulled away. Not here, he told himself. Not now. But another thought followed right behind the first one. If this wasn't an accident, someone deserved to know the truth of it. He closed his eyes. Just one look, he promised himself, and the battlefield disappeared.

Renn was alive again in the vision, pushing his cart through the evening mist after everyone else had already gone home. A voice called out behind him, and he turned to find three figures waiting, their faces hidden beneath dark cloaks.

"You found something," one said.

Renn shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

A gloved hand produced a small leather pouch, coins spilling faintly against the leather, more money than a collector could earn in years. "Give it to us."

"I don't have anything."

The second figure drew a knife. "You should have taken the money instead."

Renn tried to run and never made it three steps before steel flashed, pain, and then darkness swallowed everything.

The vision shattered, and Zevran staggered backward, his head pounding so hard he nearly dropped to one knee.

"Easy." Borik caught his arm. "You look awful."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

Zevran forced himself to breathe evenly. It wasn't an accident. Someone had murdered Renn, plain and simple, and dressed it up as a falling tower afterward. His gaze drifted to the dead man's right hand, still tightly closed even now, as though he'd refused to let go of something even in death.

The overseer noticed too. "Open it."

One of the workers pried the stiff fingers apart, but nothing fell out, only a deep imprint pressed into the palm where something had once rested. Whatever Renn had been holding was already gone.

The overseer frowned. "Strange," he muttered, then ordered the body loaded onto the cart without another word, and everyone returned to work. Everyone except Zevran, whose thoughts refused to settle. Someone had questioned Renn about something he'd found on the battlefield, something valuable enough to kill for and hide afterward.

"What did you see?" a quiet voice asked, and he looked up sharply to find Garrick standing beside him.

"I saw nothing."

The old demon studied him for several long seconds. "You keep saying that."

Before Zevran could answer, shouting erupted farther down the field as a patrol of House Nocthar soldiers rode through the mist, their commander carrying a folded parchment.

"Listen carefully!" Every collector stopped working. The commander unrolled the parchment and read from it in a voice meant to carry. "By order of House Nocthar, every body recovered from this battlefield will now be searched before burial. No exceptions." His cold gaze swept across the crowd. "If anyone is found hiding battlefield relics, ancient tokens, or unidentified objects, the punishment is death."

Silence swallowed the field. Zevran felt the bronze tag hidden beneath his clothing as though it had suddenly grown heavier, and for the first time since entering the First Grave, genuine fear settled deep in his chest. They weren't searching for treasure at all. They were searching for someone who had already found it, and Renn, it seemed, had died simply for getting close enough to the same secret to be noticed.