The bell rang on time.
That was the first thing that felt wrong.
After storms, after rearrangements, after the yard learned new rhythms the bell was late or early or uneven. Today it rang exactly when it should. Clear. Unhurried. As if the last days had never happened.
Eryk woke at the sound and sat up at once. His hands were already open in his lap. They did not need to be told.
Outside, the yard moved in straight lines again.
Snow still lay in patches where the sun had not reached, but the paths were clear. Ash had been spread thick over the ice. Buckets stood where they always did. The pump creaked in its old tired way. Even the dogs barked with the lazy irritation of routine.
Blackstone had decided to return to normal.
Hala set them to water first, then grain. No quarry run before midday. No shouted corrections. No pulled names. Just work.
Eryk carried without error.
At the pump, Tomas worked beside him again. His hands moved faster than they had a week ago. Where three boys had once shared the handle, now only two did.
"You hear anything last night?" Tomas asked quietly.
"No."
"They closed the lower access for a count. Foremen went down with the steward's men at dark."
Eryk lifted the bucket and set it aside without spilling.
"They always do that after storms," Tomas said. "Reset the lists."
They did not speak again.
By midmorning, the grain sacks were stacked. The stew pot steamed. Tools were counted and returned to their hooks. Even Gerrit leaned in his usual place by the kitchen door as if nothing in his world had been disturbed.
Then the clerks came.
Two of them this time. Both with ledgers under their arms. One was the narrow man from before. The other was younger and moved as if the book weighed more than the world.
They stopped near the pump.
The steward joined them moments later. His boots were clean. Ink stained his cuffs as always.
"Hold," he said.
The yard slowed to a halt.
Men froze where they stood. Buckets were set down. Dogs were silenced with a hand gesture from Gerrit. The quarry hammers were already quiet today.
The steward nodded to the first clerk.
"Read."
The clerk opened his ledger and began.
The names were spoken without emphasis. Not as commands. Not as judgments. Just statements.
"Marek. Pit."
Eryk felt nothing move in his chest.
"Tomas. Yard."
Tomas exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Fen. Quarry."
A murmur shifted through the workers near the sheds.
"Bran. Yard."
Bran's shoulders loosened slightly.
"Hala. Kitchen."
She did not react.
Names fell and found their places again.
Eryk waited.
"Hollowford boy," the clerk said.
The steward raised a hand.
"Name," he said mildly.
"Eryk," the clerk corrected himself. "Yard."
The sound passed through Eryk without heat.
The steward watched the quill scratch the line into place.
Behind them the second clerk had his own ledger open. He followed along, checking entries, drawing small marks in the margins.
When the reading ended, the steward gestured once.
"Resume."
The yard breathed again.
Work returned as if it had only been paused, not broken.
Eryk lifted a grain sack and felt the old familiar pull in his shoulders. It was heavier than stew, lighter than wedges. The balance was right.
As he turned, he noticed a space near the tool shed.
One place in the line stood empty.
Not new empty. Clean empty.
A broom had already passed there.
He did not look a second time.
At midday, Hala sent him for water alone.
At the pump the handle moved too easily. Eryk glanced down and saw that the bucket rope was new. Fresh fibers. Tight twist.
Someone had taken the old one down.
He pumped.
The water came up dark and smoking as usual.
As he carried it back, Gerrit stepped into his path.
"Hollowford," he said. "After the meal, follow the clerks to the middle store. They want a boy who doesn't drop."
"Yes."
"They're sorting effects."
"Yes."
Gerrit let him pass.
The word stayed with him.
Effects.
At the middle store the clerks spread three small piles on the long table. A pair of boots with uneven soles. A patched shirt with one sleeve mended twice. A narrow wood-handled knife with a crack in the scale.
The younger clerk held a slip of parchment.
"Confirm," he said.
The older clerk nodded without looking.
"Whose?" Eryk asked before he could stop himself.
The clerks paused.
The older one finally lifted his head. His eyes were colorless in the half-light.
"You do not require that information to carry," he said.
Eryk took the boots.
"They will be reissued," the younger clerk added. "Once checked."
The shirt was damp with old sweat. The knife was still warm.
Eryk carried them to the numbered bins at the back of the store. He placed them where he was told.
When he returned, the table was bare.
In the yard, nobody mentioned Kett's name.
Nobody mentioned Marek.
Nobody mentioned the man buried shallow.
The only sound that broke the usual pattern was the pump.
At the end of the day, when the bell released them and the work drained out of the yard, Eryk noticed that the shed line had changed again.
One pallet had been removed and the gap filled with fresh straw between the others.
Too close together now.
Lysa caught his arm briefly at the door.
"You did not ask today," she said quietly.
"What?"
"About the cloth and boots."
He shrugged.
Her mouth tightened in something that was not quite approval.
"That is how people last here," she said. "By turning effects into tools. And names into space."
She let go of his arm and went inside.
That night, the shed smelled slightly different.
Not of sweat and straw alone.
There was a faint trace of new linen. Of lime.
Someone had been cleaned out.
Bran lay with his hands folded across his chest.
"They took three today," he said softly. "One from the pit roster. Two from the night list."
Tomas stared at the rafters.
"They always clear the night list after storms," he said. "Storms make accidents messy."
No one asked which three.
Eryk lay on his side with his hands in front of him. His fingers were still stained faintly dark from the old knife handle.
He scraped at them with his thumb until the marks dulled.
In the dark, Blackstone breathed again with its slow mechanical patience. Chains creaked at distant intervals. Somewhere a foreman laughed once and stopped.
Three people had vanished today.
No cries.
No struggle in the yard.
No sound that lingered.
Only a broom line.
A new rope.
An empty pallet.
Three objects placed in bins.
Eryk pressed his hands together.
They did not tremble.
They carried.
They sorted.
They returned.
And in that, he understood something with a clarity that did not hurt at all:
Blackstone did not kill people.
It converted them.
And tomorrow, it would do so again.