The birds were the first warning. Kaelen Thorn noticed them because nobody else did. A dozen blackwings exploded from the trees on the eastern side of the King’s Road, scattering into the gray morning sky in a frenzy of beating wings. They climbed sharply, wheeled north, and vanished over the pines. Kaelen watched them go while the wagon beneath him continued to creak along the muddy road, its iron-rimmed wheels grinding through ruts carved by generations of merchants, soldiers, pilgrims, thieves, and fools. Harness buckles jingled with every step of the draft horses. Somewhere farther back in the caravan, one of the teamsters was singing a song about a farmer’s daughter and a traveling priest, and doing considerable violence to both the tune and the dignity of the farmer’s daughter. Nothing else seemed unusual. That bothered Kaelen.

He shifted on the driver’s bench and studied the tree line again. Dense pine and black oak crowded the road there, their trunks disappearing into a tangle of bracken and shadow. The King’s Road curved gently northeast before disappearing between two low ridges perhaps half a mile ahead. The ground rose on one side and fell away slightly on the other, funneling travelers into a stretch where they could see little beyond the next bend. Perfect ground for an ambush. The thought came automatically. Kaelen frowned. He had been trying for six months to stop thinking that way and had made remarkably little progress.

Beside him, Jorek Vale hunched deeper into his wool coat and rubbed his gloved hands together. The merchant was a broad man in his early forties with thinning brown hair, a carefully trimmed beard, and the perpetually worried expression of someone whose entire fortune was currently distributed among twelve wagons traveling through bandit country. He glanced toward Kaelen. “Cold?”

Kaelen didn’t answer.

Jorek waited a moment before looking at him again. “Kaelen?”

“Stop the wagons.”

The merchant blinked. “What?”

“Stop the wagons.”

Jorek followed his gaze toward the road ahead. The lead wagon continued steadily onward while two mounted guards rode alongside it, laughing about something Kaelen couldn’t hear. Beyond them, the road remained empty. “Why?”

Kaelen stood on the moving wagon, one hand resting against the wooden frame for balance. “Because we’re about to be robbed.”

Jorek stared at him. “What?”

“Stop the wagons.”

“How in the seven hells do you—“

“Jorek.”

Something in Kaelen’s voice ended the argument. The merchant snatched the brass whistle hanging around his neck and blew twice. The shrill notes cut through the morning, and confusion rippled backward through the caravan as teamsters pulled on reins and shouted to their horses. Wagons slowed, wheels grinding into mud, while guards turned in their saddles to see what had happened. Kaelen jumped from the bench before the wagon had completely stopped. Mud swallowed his boots nearly to the ankle, but he ignored it and moved toward the head of the caravan.

“What’s happening?” The question came from Rellan, one of Jorek’s hired guards. He was a lanky man with an impressive mustache, a dented kettle helm, and the dangerous confidence of someone who had survived enough fights to believe that meant he understood them.

Kaelen pointed toward the eastern woods. “Get the riders off the road.”

Rellan followed his finger, squinting into the trees. “I don’t see anything.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then why—“

“Get them off the road.”

Rellan looked toward Jorek rather than obeying. Kaelen caught the hesitation immediately. There it was—the moment every badly organized group encountered when danger arrived and nobody knew who was actually in charge. Jorek climbed awkwardly down from the wagon and slapped mud from his coat. “Do what he says.”

Rellan’s eyebrows rose. “But—“

“Now.”

That settled it. Rellan turned and shouted, “You heard him! Darin! Kel! Get those horses behind the wagons!”

Kaelen was already moving. He counted without consciously deciding to do so. Twelve wagons. Six guards besides himself. Eight teamsters. Jorek and his clerk. Three merchants traveling with their goods. A woman named Sella and her ten-year-old son, heading north to live with relatives after her husband’s death. Twenty-one people in all, with perhaps seven who could be trusted in a fight if Kaelen counted himself.

He looked at the terrain again. The road was too narrow to maneuver properly. The ground to the west was soft and partially flooded from recent rain. The woods to the east offered excellent concealment, and the low rise ahead could hide another dozen men without difficulty. He didn’t like the rise at all.

“Turn the first three wagons.”

Jorek stared at him. “Turn them?”

“Across the road.”

“My wagons aren’t barricades.”

“They’re about to be.”

“Kaelen, those axles cost—“

“How much does dying cost?”

Jorek opened his mouth, reconsidered, then shouted over his shoulder, “Turn the damned wagons!”

The teamsters scrambled to obey. Kaelen grabbed the bridle of the nearest draft horse and helped pull the lead wagon sideways while the driver fought the reins. “What are we doing?” the man asked.

“Making them come around us.”

“Them who?”

Kaelen looked toward the woods. “That’s what I’d like to know.”

The birds hadn’t returned. That mattered. A disturbed flock normally settled somewhere nearby once the danger passed, but these had kept going. Something was moving through those trees—something large enough to keep them moving, or several somethings.

The wagons ground into position. Kaelen pointed toward the second. “Put that one there. Leave enough room for a man to pass between them.”

Rellan frowned as he helped guide it around. “Why leave a gap?”

“Because I want them to think we made a mistake.”

Rellan studied him for half a second, then smiled. “Right.”

Kaelen didn’t return it. “Put two men behind that wagon. Spears.”

“We’ve only got one spear.”

“Then give the other one something long.”

One of the teamsters raised a wood axe uncertainly. “This?”

“That’ll do.”

Jorek came up beside him, breathing hard from helping with the horses. “What about the rear?”

“Keep three wagons lengthwise. If they’re smart, they’ll hit both ends.”

“And if they’re not?”

“Then we’re fortunate.”

“You have an unsettling definition of fortunate.”

Kaelen ignored that and looked over the civilians. “Sella.”

The widow looked up sharply, one arm already wrapped around her son. Kaelen pointed toward the fourth wagon. “Take him under there. Stay behind the rear axle.”

“Under it?”

“Whatever happens, don’t run into the trees.”

Her son looked at Kaelen with wide eyes. “Are there bandits?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you going to fight them?”

“If they insist.” Kaelen lowered himself enough to meet the boy’s gaze. “Stay with your mother. If somebody tells you to move, you move. Otherwise you stay exactly where you are. Understand?”

The boy swallowed and nodded.

Kaelen straightened and looked around. “Archers?”

Rellan pointed at himself and another guard. “Me and Kel.”

“Get on the third wagon.”

“On it?”

“Higher position. Better angle into the trees.”

Rellan glanced at the canvas-covered cargo bed. “Also makes us excellent targets.”

“Then crouch.”

Rellan snorted. “You always this cheerful?”

“No.”

“Good. I’d hate to see you in a bad mood.”

Kaelen went to Jorek’s wagon and retrieved his shield. It was old, round-topped and slightly tapered, wood reinforced with steel and faced with worn leather. Once, the black falcon of the Valerian Royal Army had been painted across its surface. Kaelen had scraped the insignia away months ago, although the leather remained lighter where the emblem had been. He slipped his arm through the straps and tightened his grip.

Jorek noticed. His eyes lingered briefly on the scraped leather before he looked back at Kaelen. “Anything else?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Get down.”

Jorek frowned. Then Kaelen heard it—a faint metallic click from the woods. Crossbow mechanism.

“Down!”

The bolt hissed over Jorek’s head as Kaelen slammed into him. They hit the mud together just as three more bolts flew from the trees. One struck the wagon with a heavy thunk, another punched through the canvas, and somewhere behind them a horse screamed.

“Contact east!”

The words tore out of Kaelen before he could stop them. Military words. Army words.

Rellan didn’t care. He rose behind the wagon, drew, and loosed an arrow toward the trees. “There!”

Figures burst from the undergrowth. Nine at first, then twelve, with more shapes moving behind them. Leather armor, scarves across their faces, axes, short swords, hunting bows and crossbows. Bandits.

“Hold!” Kaelen shouted.

One of Jorek’s guards ignored him and charged.

“Hold, damn you!”

Too late. The man sprinted from behind the wagon with his sword raised. A crossbow bolt struck him below the collarbone. He spun and collapsed into the road.

“Kel!” Rellan started forward.

Kaelen caught the back of his armor and dragged him down. “No.”

“He’s hit!”

“And you’ll join him.”

Kel writhed in the road twenty feet away. A bandit broke from the trees and ran toward him. Kaelen waited as the distance closed—ten yards, eight, six. “Now.”

Rellan rose and fired. His arrow struck the bandit high in the thigh. The man stumbled, screamed and collapsed, but two more came behind him. Kaelen stepped through the deliberate gap between the wagons.

The first bandit swung an axe. Kaelen caught it on his shield, the impact jolting through his shoulder. Instead of retreating, he stepped inward and twisted, trapping the axe against the shield rim before driving the pommel of his sword into the man’s face. Bone crunched. The bandit stumbled backward, and Kaelen kicked his knee sideways. The man dropped.

The second attacker came in with a sword held too high. Kaelen saw the shoulder move before the blade. He ducked beneath the swing, stepped past it and slashed across the man’s forearm. The sword fell into the mud. Kaelen shoved him backward. “Take him!”

The teamster with the wood axe stared for half a heartbeat before swinging the handle rather than the blade. It caught the wounded bandit across the temple and dropped him.

The teamster stared at the man on the ground. “I hit him.”

“I noticed.”

“I’ve never hit anyone before.”

“Consider celebrating later.”

Another bolt struck Kaelen’s shield hard enough to turn him half sideways. He stepped backward through the gap. “Close it!”

Two men shoved crates into the opening as bandits hit the barricade. Rellan and the second archer fired downward from the wagon. One attacker climbed onto a wheel, only for Jorek to swing a shovel into his face. The bandit fell backward with a curse. Kaelen glanced at the merchant.

Jorek stared at the shovel in his hands. “Don’t say anything.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

A movement behind Jorek caught Kaelen’s eye. Another bandit had made it around the wagon and was raising a blade. Kaelen crossed the distance in three strides. “Down!”

Jorek dropped without questioning him. Kaelen’s sword caught the attacker’s blade with a sharp ring of steel. The bandit was younger than Kaelen had expected—seventeen, perhaps eighteen, with fear visible above the scarf covering his mouth. Not a hardened killer. Hungry, desperate and frightened. Still holding a sword.

The boy swung again. Kaelen parried and forced the blade wide. “Drop it.”

The boy hesitated.

“Drop the sword.”

He glanced toward the trees, then back at Kaelen. Then attacked.

Kaelen knocked the blade aside and slammed his shield into the boy’s chest. The impact threw him onto his back. Kaelen stepped forward and put the point of his sword against his throat. “Don’t.”

The boy froze.

Kaelen kicked the fallen sword away. “Stay down.”

The battle shifted around them. The bandits had expected frightened merchants and scattered guards. Instead, they had found a barricade, elevated archers and defenders who had somehow become organized before the first shot. Their advantage was disappearing. A whistle sounded from the trees. Twice. Retreat.

“Let them go!” Kaelen shouted.

Rellan already had another arrow nocked. “They’re running!”

“Let them.”

“They’ll hit someone else!”

“Maybe, but if we chase them into those woods, we’ll be fighting on ground they chose.”

Rellan’s jaw tightened, but he lowered the bow. The surviving bandits disappeared among the trees. Silence returned almost immediately—not true silence, but the strange compressed quiet that followed violence. Horses snorted and stamped. Someone was crying. A wounded man groaned. Men breathed too loudly while staring at the trees, still expecting the world to erupt again. Kaelen waited. Ten seconds.

Twenty. Thirty.

“Rellan, watch the woods. Nobody leaves the barricade.”

“Right.”

Kaelen sheathed his sword and went to Kel.

The wounded guard lay on his back, hands trembling around the crossbow bolt protruding beneath his collarbone. “Don’t pull it,” Kaelen said.

Kel’s face had gone gray. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good.”

“Feels like shit.”

“That’s because you’ve been shot.”

Kel laughed once and immediately regretted it. “You’re a comforting bastard.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Kaelen examined the wound. The bolt had entered high. There was no bubbling blood and no obvious arterial spray. Lucky, perhaps, though Kaelen had seen enough wounds to know that luck sometimes took time to decide whether it was finished with a man.

He looked toward Jorek. “Medical kit.”

The merchant nodded and ran.

Kaelen placed folded cloth around the bolt to stabilize it. “Can you move your fingers?”

Kel flexed them weakly. “Yes.”

“Feel this?”

Kaelen pressed against his fingertips.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“You a healer?”

“No.”

“You seem to know what you’re doing.”

“I know enough not to yank a crossbow bolt out of someone’s chest beside a muddy road.”

“Reassuring.”

Jorek returned carrying a leather case. Kaelen stabilized the bolt and wrapped the wound as tightly as he dared. “There’s a healer in Ravenford?”

“Several.”

“How far?”

“Half a day.”

Kaelen looked at the sky. “We make it in four hours.”

Jorek stared at him. “With twelve wagons?”

“Eleven.”

“What?”

“Leave the damaged one.”

“That’s three hundred crowns of—“

“Jorek.”

The merchant stopped.

Kaelen pointed toward Kel. “Four hours.”

Jorek followed his gaze. His expression changed almost immediately. “Four hours.”

“Good.”

Behind them, the young bandit Kaelen had spared tried to crawl toward his sword. Rellan kicked the weapon away. “Don’t.”

The boy froze. Rellan grabbed him by the collar and dragged him upright. “What do we do with this one?”

The boy’s eyes went immediately to Kaelen.

Kaelen stood. “What’s your name?”

Silence.

“Name.”

“Finn.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

Kaelen looked at him. Finn looked away.

“Sixteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“How many more are in the woods?”

Finn said nothing. Rellan drew his knife. “We can find out.”

Kaelen looked at him. “Put that away.”

Rellan frowned. “He’s a bandit.”

“I know.”

“He tried to kill us.”

“I noticed.”

“So?”

“So put the knife away.”

Rellan held Kaelen’s gaze for a moment. Kaelen could see the argument forming, but something in his expression apparently discouraged it. Rellan finally sheathed the knife.

Kaelen turned back to Finn. “How many?”

“Twenty-three.”

“We saw twelve.”

“Others were supposed to circle around.”

Kaelen glanced toward the western side of the road. Soft ground. Little cover. “They didn’t.”

Finn shook his head.

“Why?”

“They saw the wagons turn. Bran called them back.”

“Bran leads you?”

Finn nodded.

“How long have you been robbing travelers?”

No answer.

“Finn.”

“Three months.”

“Why?”

The boy’s expression hardened. “Because starving’s worse.”

Jorek scoffed. “There are farms everywhere.”

“Not ours.”

Something in Finn’s voice made Kaelen look more closely. “What happened?”

Finn shrugged, although there was nothing casual in it. “Tax collectors.”

Jorek’s expression tightened. “Which lord?”

“Does it matter?”

Kaelen almost answered yes.

Instead, he said, “No.”

Finn looked surprised.

Kaelen crouched and picked up the boy’s sword. Cheap iron, badly maintained, more useful for threatening merchants than fighting anyone competent. He handed it to Rellan. “He’s coming with us.”

Finn went pale. “No.”

“You’d prefer the woods?”

“They’ll kill me.”

“Who?”

“Bran. For getting captured. For telling you anything.”

Kaelen studied him. The fear looked genuine. “Bind his hands. Not too tight.”

Rellan did.

Finn watched Kaelen as the rope went around his wrists. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

Kaelen glanced toward the blood on his sword. “You stopped fighting.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s enough.”

Something moved behind Finn’s eyes. Confusion, perhaps. Kaelen turned away before the boy could ask anything else. He didn’t want gratitude and certainly didn’t want anyone looking at him as though he’d done something noble simply because he’d chosen not to murder a surrendered seventeen-year-old. He had known men who would. Men wearing better armor than Finn. Men carrying banners. Men with ranks. Men who could make terrible things sound reasonable simply by calling them orders.

Kaelen looked down at his shield and the pale scar where the Royal Army falcon had once been painted, then deliberately turned it away.

“Break the barricade. We’re moving.”

* * *

The caravan resumed within half an hour. They abandoned the damaged wagon after transferring everything they could carry, and Jorek complained through the entire process. Kaelen suspected complaining was simply how the merchant dealt with fear.

“Two hundred eighty crowns,” Jorek muttered as the ruined wagon disappeared behind them.

“You said three hundred earlier.”

“I recalculated.”

“Comforting.”

“You know what that wagon cost me?”

“Less than a funeral.”

Jorek glared at him. “You have a very irritating way of being correct.”

Kaelen settled back onto the driver’s bench. “People have mentioned it.”

“Who?”

“People who found me irritating.”

That earned a laugh, and for a while they rode in silence. The forest gradually opened around them. Fields appeared, followed by winter wheat, small farmhouses and low stone walls. Signs of civilization returning. Kaelen kept watching the ridges.

Jorek noticed. “They’re not coming back.”

“Probably not.”

“Probably?”

“Would you prefer I lie?”

“Occasionally.”

Kaelen almost smiled.

Jorek flicked the reins. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Turn twelve wagons into a fort.”

“Experience.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I have.”

Jorek studied him. “You were Army.”

Kaelen watched the road. “Was.”

“Valerian?”

“Yes.”

“Officer?”

Kaelen said nothing.

Jorek’s gaze dropped toward the scraped shield resting beside Kaelen’s leg. “Thought so.”

Kaelen looked at him. “What gave it away?”

“The fact that six armed men who barely know you started obeying you before the first arrow flew.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means something.”

“It means they didn’t have a better idea.”

Jorek chuckled. “Whatever helps you sleep.”

Kaelen’s expression changed before he could prevent it. Jorek saw.

The humor disappeared from his face. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Whatever I just stepped on.”

“You didn’t.”

Jorek knew enough not to press. That raised Kaelen’s opinion of him a little.

After another mile, Jorek said, “Ravenford’s a good town.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Thinking of staying?”

“No.”

“You haven’t seen it yet.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Where are you going?”

“North.”

“That’s a direction.”

“That’s why I chose it.”

Jorek laughed. “You’re a strange man, Thorn.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You get told things a lot.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“What occupation?”

Kaelen looked at him.

Jorek sighed. “Right. North. There’s not much north.”

“Good.”

“Cold.”

“Fine.”

“Orcs.”

“Fine.”

“Goblins.”

“Fine.”

“Giants, if the stories are true.”

Kaelen shrugged.

Jorek stared at him for a moment. “What exactly are you trying to get away from?”

Kaelen looked toward the horizon. For one heartbeat, he smelled smoke. Not the wood smoke drifting from farmhouse chimneys. Wet thatch. Burning grain. Horsehair. He heard a voice from another life, hard and impatient. *Captain Thorn, you have your orders.* Then another image: his own insignia lying on a command table. Two silver bars beneath a black falcon.

*Then find yourself another captain.* Kaelen blinked. The road returned. Jorek was still watching him.

“South,” Kaelen said quietly.

Jorek nodded, without a joke this time. “North it is.”

* * *

They stopped once before noon to check Kel’s wound. The guard remained pale but conscious, which Kaelen took as encouraging. He made him drink water while Rellan sat nearby sharpening his knife.

Kel looked suspiciously into the cup. “Not ale?”

“No.”

“This is why nobody likes officers.”

Kaelen’s hand stopped against the bandage.

Kel noticed. “Was I right?”

“About what?”

“Officer.”

Kaelen tightened the wrapping.

Kel winced sharply. “That answer enough?”

“You’re cruel.”

“Drink.”

Kel obeyed, muttering something impolite into the cup.

Rellan watched Kaelen finish checking the wound. “You saved his life.”

“Not yet.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No.”

Rellan sighed. “I thought you were being an ass when you stopped us.”

“You weren’t entirely wrong.”

“I mean before the ambush.”

Kaelen checked once more for fresh blood. There was none. “Good.”

Rellan leaned his elbows on his knees. “I’d have chased them.”

“I know.”

“I’d probably be dead.”

“Possibly.”

“You could say something comforting.”

Kaelen stood. “You aren’t dead.”

Rellan barked a laugh. “Fair.”

The humor faded from his face after a moment. “I’ve guarded caravans twelve years. Never saw the birds.”

“You will next time.”

Rellan nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Kaelen turned away, disturbed by the exchange more than he wanted to admit. *You will next time.* One lesson. One man. That was how it started.

Teach someone to watch the tree line. Teach another to keep formation. Show someone how to defend a bridge. Eventually they looked to you before acting. Then someone put stripes on your sleeve. Then bars on your collar. Then a company stood when you entered a room. Then someone above you pointed at a village on a map and told you what duty required.

Kaelen walked toward the edge of the road. The fields stretched eastward, peaceful beneath the gray sky. He rubbed his thumb across the callus along his sword hand.

“Kaelen?”

He turned. Sella approached with her son following behind. The boy carried something wrapped in a piece of cloth.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said.

“No need.”

“There is.”

Kaelen started to object, but she continued before he could. “You put us somewhere safe before the fighting started.”

“That was the sensible place.”

“None of the other guards thought of it.”

“They were busy.”

Sella smiled slightly. “You really don’t like being thanked.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Kaelen had no useful answer.

Her son stepped forward and held out the cloth. “I found this.”

Kaelen accepted it and unfolded the material. Inside lay a crossbow bolt, its metal head bent slightly from striking something hard.

“I pulled it out of your shield,” the boy explained. “You can keep it.”

Kaelen examined the bolt. “Why?”

“So you remember.”

He almost laughed. “Remember what?”

“That you got shot.”

“Technically, the shield got shot.”

The boy considered this with great seriousness. “Then give it to the shield.”

Kaelen looked at Sella.

She shrugged. “He’s ten.”

“That explains very little.”

The boy grinned.

Kaelen wrapped the bolt again. “I’ll keep it.”

“Good.”

The boy ran back toward the wagons.

Sella remained for another moment. “He thinks you’re a hero now.”

Kaelen’s expression hardened before he could stop it. “I’m not.”

She studied him. “I didn’t say you were.”

Kaelen looked at her.

“I said he thinks you are.”

Then she turned and followed her son. Kaelen remained beside the road with the wrapped crossbow bolt in his hand. For reasons he didn’t care to examine, the distinction made him deeply uncomfortable.

* * *

They saw Ravenford shortly after midafternoon. The road climbed a long ridge, crested, and suddenly the northern frontier opened before them. Kaelen stopped without consciously deciding to do so. The town filled the valley below. The Raven River descended from distant mountains in a silver ribbon, widening as it curved through fields and orchards before passing beneath a broad stone bridge near the town’s northern walls. Beyond the bridge, slate and timber rooftops crowded together around a squat gray fortress rising from a rocky hill. Ravenkeep.

Smoke curled from hundreds of chimneys. The King’s Road descended toward a fortified southern gate, while outside the walls sprawled barns, workshops, livestock pens and houses that had long ago outgrown whatever defenses Ravenford’s founders had imagined sufficient. Farther north, the land rose steadily toward dark mountains whose highest peaks carried streaks of early snow. Kaelen stared. His eyes moved automatically.

South wall approximately twenty feet. Old masonry with newer repairs. Two gate towers. Ditch too shallow. No proper outer earthworks. Several buildings had been constructed far too close to the walls. North side protected by the river. Bridge could be defended. High ground east— He stopped himself.

*Not your problem.* He looked away.

Jorek pulled his wagon alongside him and smiled. “There she is.”

Kaelen said nothing.

Jorek watched him for several seconds. “Doing it again.”

“What?”

“Whatever it is you do.”

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You looked at that town for ten seconds and somehow managed to disapprove of its walls.”

Kaelen frowned. “The ditch is too shallow.”

Jorek laughed loudly. “I knew it.”

Kaelen shook his head and started walking. Behind them, the caravan descended. As they drew closer, Ravenford became less picturesque and more real. Mud replaced distant beauty. Carts backed up outside the gate. Farmers argued with guards. Children chased geese through puddles. Somewhere beyond the wall, a blacksmith hammered steadily against an anvil. The smell of fresh bread mixed with horses, river water, wood smoke, livestock, leather, sweat and too many people living too close together.

Ordinary life. Kaelen found himself watching a little girl run beside a wagon while her father pretended not to notice her stealing apples from a barrel. Something tightened in his chest. He looked away.

At the gate, two Ravenford guards inspected Jorek’s papers. One recognized the merchant and grinned. “Back again? Thought you said last time you’d never take the southern road again.”

“I say that every time.”

The guard noticed the blood on one wagon, and his smile disappeared. “Trouble?”

“Bandits.”

“Where?”

“Half a day’s ride south.”

“How many?”

Jorek looked toward Kaelen. Kaelen pretended to be interested in the gate hinges.

The guard followed Jorek’s gaze. “You?”

Kaelen sighed. “Twenty-three according to the prisoner. Twelve attacked.”

“You have a prisoner?”

Rellan pushed Finn forward.

The guard swore softly. “Bandits this close? Anyone killed?”

“No.”

Kel groaned from the wagon. “Nearly.”

The guard immediately called for help. Two watchmen arrived carrying a litter, and Kaelen helped them lower Kel onto it. The wounded man grabbed his wrist before they could carry him away.

“Thorn.”

Kaelen looked down.

Kel swallowed. “Thank you.”

Kaelen considered telling him not to.

Instead he said, “Get healed.”

Kel smiled weakly. “That’s almost kind.”

“Don’t spread it around.”

They carried him away. Rellan approached and held out his hand. Kaelen looked at it.

“You leaving?” Kaelen asked.

“Jorek says you’re done here.”

“I am.”

Rellan nodded but kept his hand extended. Kaelen finally took it.

“Next time,” Rellan said, “I’ll watch the birds.”

Kaelen released him. “Watch the people first.”

“What?”

“Birds tell you something frightened them. People tell you what.”

Rellan absorbed that, then nodded. “Right.”

Kaelen regretted saying it immediately. Another lesson. Another man. He turned toward Jorek.

The merchant held out a small leather purse. “Your pay.”

Kaelen weighed it in his hand. “Too much.”

“Bonus.”

“We agreed twelve.”

“There’s twenty.”

Kaelen handed the purse back.

Jorek frowned. “Take it.”

“Twelve.”

“You saved my caravan.”

“I did my job.”

“You saved three hundred crowns of cargo.”

“You lost a wagon.”

“Two hundred eighty.”

“You changed the number again.”

“Market conditions.”

Kaelen stared at him.

Jorek grinned and pushed the purse back toward him. “Take the damned money.”

Kaelen removed eight silver crowns and returned them.

Jorek stared at the coins in his palm. “You are terrible at being a mercenary.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You know where you’re staying?”

“No.”

“Broken Crown.”

Kaelen raised an eyebrow.

“It’s an inn.”

“Encouraging name.”

“Best stew in Ravenford. Owner’s terrifying.”

“More terrifying than bandits?”

“Much.”

“Good.”

Jorek pointed through the gate. “Main road. Cross the market. Sign has a king falling off a horse.”

“Why?”

“Because his crown broke.”

“I gathered that.”

“No, I mean that’s literally the sign.”

Kaelen shook his head.

Jorek climbed back onto his wagon. “Three days?”

Kaelen looked at him. “What?”

“You said you’d stay three days. Two weeks ago, when I hired you. Ravenford for three days, then north.”

Kaelen glanced toward the distant mountains. “That’s still the plan.”

Jorek smiled. “Plans change.”

“Not this one.”

“Of course not.”

The wagon rolled forward. Kaelen watched it disappear into Ravenford, then adjusted the weight of his pack and walked through the gate. Three days. Find another caravan. Keep moving north. That was all.

He had enough money. No obligations. No uniform. No command. No king. No army. And no villages burning behind him. Three days. Then gone.

A bell began ringing somewhere inside Ravenford, but Kaelen barely noticed it. He joined the crowd moving toward the market while above the gate a raven lifted from the battlements, caught the wind, and flew north toward the mountains. Kaelen watched it for a moment. Then he kept walking.

Ravenford smelled like bread, horses, wet stone, woodsmoke, and too many people trying to occupy the same stretch of road. Kaelen had been inside the walls for less than five minutes when a wagon nearly ran over his foot, a woman carrying three chickens shouted at him for standing in her way, and a boy with a basket of onions tried to sell him a map of the northern frontier that appeared to have been drawn by someone who had never traveled farther north than the nearest tavern.

“Only three coppers,” the boy insisted, walking backward in front of him. “Shows every road between here and the Ashwalker country.”

Kaelen glanced at the piece of parchment. “The Raven River is on the wrong side of town.”

The boy looked down at the map. “Depends which way you’re going.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Two coppers.”

Kaelen stepped around him.

“One?”

“No.”

The boy stopped following him. “You’ll regret it when you get lost.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

“Everyone does.”

Kaelen almost turned around to ask what that was supposed to mean, but the boy had already attached himself to a farmer entering through the gate. Ravenford’s main road climbed gradually from Southgate toward the center of town. The original settlement had clearly been built around military necessity rather than convenience. The streets nearest the wall were broad enough to move wagons and troops quickly, while those farther inward had narrowed over generations as houses, shops, sheds, market stalls and workshops encroached wherever someone had discovered a few unused feet of ground. Buildings leaned toward one another across alleys barely wide enough for two men to pass shoulder to shoulder. Gutters carried muddy water toward the river. Wooden walkways crossed the worst sections of street, though judging by the number of broken planks, trusting them required more faith than Kaelen possessed.

The bell he had heard outside the gate continued ringing from somewhere toward the center of town. It wasn’t an alarm. Nobody appeared concerned. Shopkeepers continued arguing with customers, children continued running through the streets, and a woman on a second-story balcony continued shaking a rug directly above pedestrians who seemed accustomed to the abuse.

Kaelen moved with the crowd while taking in the town despite himself. The south wall remained visible whenever the buildings opened enough to offer a view. Jorek had been right: Ravenford was a decent place, at least by frontier standards. The streets were crowded but not desperate. Most buildings were maintained. The guards at intersections appeared alert. Merchants displayed goods openly instead of behind iron bars. There were beggars, but not many. Kaelen saw no bodies abandoned in alleys, no soldiers extorting shopkeepers, and no groups of armed men wandering around as though the law existed primarily for other people.

That alone placed Ravenford ahead of several towns he’d visited during the previous six months. The road widened suddenly into Northmarket, though the name seemed misleading since the sprawling square sat closer to the town’s center than its northern wall. Hundreds of stalls filled the open space beneath patched canvas awnings. Farmers sold apples, potatoes, onions and late-season vegetables beside merchants offering dyed cloth, pottery, iron tools, leather goods and small luxuries brought north from the Valerian heartland. Dwarven traders occupied one corner of the square, their stalls displaying tools and metalwork that attracted crowds despite prices Kaelen considered borderline criminal. The bell stopped. Its absence left the market strangely louder.

Kaelen paused beside a stone fountain and looked across the square. Ravenkeep rose beyond the rooftops on a rocky prominence overlooking the river, its square towers weathered but solid. A wide road climbed toward the keep through Old Town, where stone buildings replaced the timber-and-plaster construction common around the market. He found himself assessing the fortress automatically. Ravenkeep wasn’t large enough to withstand a serious siege, but it didn’t need to be. Its position commanded the bridge, river approaches and main road. Whoever had built it understood the value of controlling movement rather than merely building impressive walls. Kaelen caught himself again. He had been in Ravenford perhaps ten minutes and had already evaluated its gate, walls, market, bridge and keep.

Three days. Then north. He turned away from Ravenkeep.

“Watch yourself!”

Kaelen stepped aside just before a pair of boys carrying a wooden crate barreled past. Something inside squawked angrily.

“Sorry!” one called without slowing.

Kaelen continued toward the western edge of the market, following Jorek’s directions. He saw the inn before he found its sign. The building occupied the corner where Northmarket narrowed into a street leading toward the river. Three stories of dark timber framed pale plaster walls, with a broad stone foundation and a slate roof patched in several places with mismatched tiles. Smoke poured from two chimneys. A stable occupied the rear courtyard, and judging by the number of horses tied outside, business was good. Then Kaelen saw the sign. Jorek had not exaggerated.

A painted king was indeed falling from a horse. His arms flailed in opposite directions while a golden crown flew from his head and split neatly in two against a rock. The artist had given the horse an expression of unmistakable satisfaction. Beneath the painting, faded letters announced: **THE BROKEN CROWN** Kaelen stared at it.

“Subtle.”

He pushed through the door. Warmth struck first, followed by the smell of onions, roasted meat, ale and fresh bread. The common room was larger than he’d expected, with heavy wooden beams crossing the ceiling and a broad fireplace occupying most of the northern wall. Long tables filled the center of the room while smaller ones lined the walls. A staircase climbed to the upper floors near the bar. Several travelers sat drinking despite the hour, while two dwarves argued over a game involving carved stones and increasingly personal insults. A gray-haired woman stood behind the bar holding a mug in one hand and pointing at a man with the other.

“I said two coppers.”

“I gave you two.”

“You gave me one.”

“I gave you two.”

“You put one on the bar.”

“I put two on the bar.”

“Then apparently one grew legs and ran away.”

The man looked around as though hoping witnesses might rescue him. Nobody volunteered.

The woman leaned forward. “You owe me a copper.”

“This is robbery.”

“No. Robbery is when somebody takes your money without permission. This is commerce.”

“What happens if I don’t pay?”

She smiled. The man immediately placed another copper on the bar.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” she said.

Kaelen decided Jorek had described her accurately. The woman noticed him before he’d taken three steps into the room. Her eyes moved from his boots to the sword, shield, pack and mud-stained coat with the efficiency of someone accustomed to deciding whether strangers represented customers, trouble, or both.

“Room?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Three coppers.”

“For the night?”

“For the room.”

Kaelen waited. She waited longer.

“Does the room come with a night?”

“If you’re lucky.”

Kaelen placed three coppers on the bar.

She swept them into her palm. “Name?”

“Kaelen Thorn.”

“Occupation?”

He looked at her. She looked back.

“Why?”

“If you burn the room down, I like knowing what sort of idiot did it.”

“Caravan guard.”

“Good. Caravan guards usually only break furniture.”

“I’ll try to control myself.”

“Do that.”

She reached beneath the bar, retrieved a wooden key and slid it toward him. A small brass plate stamped with the number twelve hung from the ring.

“Second floor. End of the hall. Bath’s another copper. Hot water’s two.”

“Why does heating water cost twice as much as the room?”

“Because rooms don’t have to be carried upstairs in buckets.”

Kaelen considered the logic and found no immediate flaw in it. “Food?”

“Stew.”

“What’s in it?”

“Meat.”

“What kind?”

She narrowed her eyes.

Kaelen raised a hand. “Stew’s fine.”

“Four coppers with bread.”

“Four?”

“Good bread.”

“It had better be.”

“It is.”

Kaelen paid.

The woman turned toward the kitchen and shouted, “Tomas! Stew!”

A voice answered from somewhere beyond the doorway. “I’m in the stable!”

“Then stop being in the stable!”

“I thought you told me to clean it!”

“I’ve changed my mind!”

There was a pause.

“How was I supposed to know that?”

The woman’s expression became dangerously calm. “Tomas.”

“Coming!”

She looked back at Kaelen. “Children.”

Kaelen glanced toward the kitchen. “Yours?”

“Gods, no.”

The answer came quickly enough that Kaelen nearly smiled.

“My sister’s,” she continued. “She and her husband died three winters ago. Fever. Tomas and Mira have been infesting my establishment ever since.”

“You sound fond of them.”

“Don’t spread that around.”

Kaelen looked at her. She looked at him. Something about the exchange felt familiar. He decided not to mention it.

“I’m Mara Venn,” she said. “Since apparently we’re introducing ourselves.”

“Apparently.”

“And before you ask, yes, I own the place.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“Good. I hate obvious questions.”

A lanky boy of perhaps seventeen emerged from the kitchen carrying a bowl, a loaf of bread and an expression suggesting the world had been designed specifically to inconvenience him. His brown hair stuck up in several directions, and straw clung to one sleeve.

“Aunt Mara, if I leave the stall half-cleaned, Bramble’s going to—“

“Table seven.”

The boy saw Kaelen and immediately stopped complaining. His attention went to the sword. Then the shield. Then the armor visible beneath Kaelen’s coat.

“You an adventurer?”

“No.”

“Mercenary?”

“No.”

“Soldier?”

“No.”

Mara snorted.

The boy frowned. “You’ve got a sword.”

“So do a lot of people.”

“You’ve got armor.”

“It’s useful when people with swords become unreasonable.”

The boy considered this. “Have you killed a dragon?”

“No.”

“A troll?”

“No.”

“Giant?”

“No.”

“Necromancer?”

“No.”

Tomas’s disappointment deepened with every answer. “What have you killed?”

“Tomas,” Mara warned.

Kaelen took the bowl from him. “Time.”

The boy blinked. Mara laughed. Kaelen carried his meal toward an empty table near the fireplace. Tomas followed.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It will.”

“When?”

Kaelen sat. “Give it time.”

Tomas stared at him, trying to decide whether he’d been insulted.

Mara shouted from the bar, “Stable!”

The boy sighed. “Coming.”

He started toward the door, then turned. “I’ve got a sword.”

Kaelen looked at him.

“Well, not a sword exactly. It’s wooden. But it’s weighted like one.”

“Who told you that?”

“Man who sold it to me.”

“He lied.”

Tomas looked offended. “You haven’t even seen it.”

“If someone sold you a wooden sword and told you it was weighted like steel, he lied.”

“How do you know?”

“Wood doesn’t weigh as much as steel.”

Tomas opened his mouth, reconsidered, then pointed at Kaelen. “I’m going to show you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“You’ll see.”

“I’m sure I will.”

Mara’s voice came from behind the bar. “Tomas!”

“Stable!”

The boy finally left. Kaelen tore a piece from the bread and tasted it. Mara had not lied. It was excellent. The stew was better. For the first time since the ambush, Kaelen allowed himself to relax.

Not completely. He sat with his back toward the wall and could see both the main entrance and the kitchen door. His shield rested within reach. His sword remained belted at his side. He knew there were seventeen people in the common room, including the two dwarves, and had already identified which three were armed. But by his standards, he was relaxed. He had eaten perhaps half the stew when the front door opened and a small girl walked in carrying something dead by the tail. Kaelen stopped chewing.

She couldn’t have been older than twelve. Dark brown hair had been tied into a rough braid, though several strands had escaped and hung across a face smeared with dirt. Her boots were muddy, her skirt had a tear at one knee, and she held a dead rat in one hand as though carrying a particularly disappointing vegetable.

“Aunt Mara!”

Mara looked up. Then closed her eyes.

“No.”

The girl crossed the room. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You’re holding a rat.”

“I know.”

“No.”

“Hobb says it’s the biggest one he’s seen this month.”

“No.”

“He gave me a copper.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t going to keep it.”

“Then why is it in my inn?”

The girl looked at the rat, apparently considering the question for the first time. “I wanted to show Tomas.”

“Tomas is in the stable.”

“Good.”

“Do not take the rat into the stable.”

“But—“

“Mira.”

The girl sighed dramatically and turned toward the door. Her gaze landed on Kaelen. She stopped. Kaelen had the sudden and unpleasant certainty that his peaceful meal had ended. Mira walked toward him. She looked at the sword. Then the shield. Then him.

“Are you an adventurer?”

“No.”

She frowned.

“Tomas said there was an adventurer.”

“Tomas was wrong.”

“He’s wrong a lot.”

“I noticed.”

She looked at his shield. “Did something shoot you?”

Kaelen followed her gaze. The crossbow bolt had left a fresh gouge near the rim.

“Earlier today.”

Her eyes widened. “Bandits?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Twelve.”

“Did you kill them all?”

“No.”

“How many?”

“Mira,” Mara called from the bar.

“I’m talking.”

“I can see that.”

Mira looked back at Kaelen. “How many?”

“Not enough to make this conversation interesting.”

She thought about that.

“You’re strange.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Did you kill a dragon?”

“No.”

She looked disappointed in exactly the same way Tomas had.

Kaelen pointed toward the rat. “Did you?”

Mira looked down at it. “Hobb did.”

“Then he’s more impressive than I am.”

She considered this and nodded. “Probably.”

Mara laughed loudly enough that several people looked over.

Mira turned toward the door again, then stopped. “What’s your name?”

“Kaelen.”

“I’m Mira.”

“I gathered that.”

“How?”

“Your aunt shouted it.”

“Oh.”

She walked three steps before turning again. “Are you staying?”

“Three days.”

“Why only three?”

“Because then I’m leaving.”

“Where?”

“North.”

“Why?”

Kaelen looked at her. Mira waited.

“Because that’s where I’m going.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It is to me.”

Mira seemed dissatisfied, but Mara rescued him. “Rat. Outside. Now.”

Mira left. Kaelen returned to his stew. Mara walked over carrying a mug and set it in front of him.

“I didn’t order ale.”

“You looked like you needed it.”

“How much?”

“Free.”

Kaelen eyed her suspiciously. She noticed.

“Don’t get excited. First one’s free because I feel sorry for you. The next costs money.”

“Why do you feel sorry for me?”

“You’ve met both children.”

Kaelen took the mug.

“Fair.”

Mara nodded toward the door Mira had disappeared through. “She’s going to ask you about that sword until you either show her how to use it or leave town.”

“I’m leaving town.”

“Smart.”

“In three days.”

“Less smart.”

Kaelen drank. The ale was decent. He found himself wondering whether three days might be too long.

* * *

By late afternoon, Kaelen had bathed, changed into a clean shirt, inspected his equipment and decided Ravenford was unlikely to kill him before supper. His room was small but clean. A narrow bed stood beneath the window, with a washstand, chair and battered wardrobe occupying most of the remaining space. The window overlooked the street toward Northmarket. From there, Kaelen could see the upper towers of Ravenkeep and a portion of the river beyond the rooftops. He sat on the bed with his shield across his knees. The gouge from the crossbow bolt was deeper than he’d thought. He removed the bent bolt from his pack and set it beside him. *So you remember.* Kaelen stared at it.

The boy had meant the ambush. Kaelen had enough things he remembered already. He ran his thumb across the faded leather where the Royal Army insignia had once been. Removing the painted falcon had taken most of an afternoon and ruined a good knife. He could have bought another shield, but that would have felt too much like hiding from an object. The shield wasn’t responsible for anything. Neither was the sword. Steel did what the hand holding it commanded. That was the problem.

He leaned the shield against the wall and stood. Three days. He needed supplies before heading farther north. A heavier cloak. Lamp oil. Another whetstone. Perhaps a proper winter bedroll if the mountains were already carrying snow. He also needed information about the northern roads and preferably a caravan traveling in that direction. Simple.

Useful. Nothing requiring anyone to follow him. Kaelen buckled on his sword and went downstairs. The common room had grown considerably busier. Laborers occupied one table, caravan guards another. A pair of merchants argued about wool prices near the fireplace. The two dwarves from earlier were still playing their game and had apparently moved from insults about intelligence to increasingly elaborate accusations involving each other’s ancestors. Tomas was carrying mugs. Mira was sitting on the bar eating an apple.

Mara was pretending not to notice. Kaelen reached the door just as raised voices came from outside. Not unusual. He kept walking. Then he heard a familiar word.

“Goblin.”

Kaelen stopped.

A man’s voice answered, louder. “I said get away from me.”

Another voice followed, harsher. “You people have been stealing livestock all month.”

A third man laughed. Kaelen looked toward Mara. She had heard it too. Her expression tightened.

“Hobb,” she said.

Kaelen remembered Mira mentioning the name. He opened the door. Three men stood near the inn’s stable entrance. Caravan guards, judging by their clothing. Kaelen recognized none of them from Jorek’s company. All had been drinking. One held a mug. Another wore a sword. The third had a knife at his belt.

They had surrounded a goblin. Hobb Tanner stood barely five feet tall, though broad shoulders made him appear larger. His skin was dark green mottled with brown, his nose broad and slightly crooked, and one pointed ear had a notch missing from the top. He wore a stained leather apron over work clothes and carried a bundle of cured hides across one shoulder. A heavy wooden club hung from his belt, but his hands remained deliberately away from it.

“I haven’t stolen anything,” Hobb said.

The largest guard shoved him. Hobb stepped backward.

“Funny,” the guard said. “Cattle disappear. Sheep disappear. Travelers disappear. Then I find one of you living inside the walls.”

“I’ve lived here eleven years.”

“That supposed to impress me?”

“No. Mostly it means you’re late.”

One of the other guards laughed. The large man didn’t. Kaelen leaned against the doorframe. He could walk away. Not his town. Not his problem.

Hobb shifted the hides on his shoulder. “I’m going home.”

The large guard stepped in front of him. “We’re not finished.”

“I am.”

“Don’t turn your back on me.”

Hobb looked tired rather than frightened. “You want me to face you while I leave?”

The second guard laughed again. The large man’s face reddened. Kaelen sighed. There was always one.

“Move,” Kaelen said.

The guard turned. “What?”

Kaelen stepped away from the doorway. “He’s trying to leave. Move.”

The man looked Kaelen up and down. “This isn’t your business.”

“Correct.”

That confused him.

Kaelen continued, “I’d like to keep it that way.”

Hobb looked at him.

The guard set down his mug. “You know what that thing is?”

Hobb sighed. “Here we go.”

Kaelen glanced at him.

“Sorry,” Hobb said. “I’ve heard this speech.”

The guard ignored him. “Goblins have been raiding farms north of town.”

“Has this goblin?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

The guard stepped closer. “Maybe you should keep walking.”

“That’s what I was doing.”

“Then do it.”

Kaelen nodded. “As soon as you move.”

For several seconds neither man moved. People had begun watching. Kaelen disliked audiences. The guard’s hand settled on the hilt of his sword. Kaelen’s eyes dropped to it.

“Don’t.”

The man smiled. “You afraid?”

“No.”

The answer came without bravado, which seemed to bother the guard more than a threat would have.

Hobb spoke quietly. “This isn’t worth it.”

Kaelen agreed. Unfortunately, the guard didn’t. He drew his sword. Not far. Perhaps six inches. Enough. Kaelen moved.

His left hand clamped around the man’s wrist while his right caught the sword hilt. He stepped inside the guard’s reach, twisted the wrist outward and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest. The guard stumbled sideways. Kaelen took the sword from him before he realized he’d lost it. The entire exchange took perhaps two seconds. Kaelen reversed the weapon and offered it back hilt-first. The guard stared.

“Take it.”

The man hesitated.

“Or don’t.”

He snatched it.

Kaelen leaned closer. “Next time you draw steel, decide whether you’re actually willing to use it before somebody decides for you.”

The man’s face had gone pale beneath the alcohol flush. His companions suddenly found the street extremely interesting. A new voice cut through the crowd.

“Problem?”

Four Ravenford guards approached. The woman leading them wore a mail shirt beneath a dark blue surcoat and carried a sword with the comfortable familiarity of someone who didn’t need to touch the hilt to remind people it existed. She appeared near forty, with short black hair threaded by early gray and a thin scar running from the corner of her jaw toward her left ear. Her eyes moved over the scene. The drunken guards. Hobb. Kaelen. The partially drawn sword. She understood most of it immediately.

“Hobb?”

Hobb shifted the hides again. “Captain.”

“What happened?”

“Apparently I’m responsible for every missing sheep north of Ravenford.”

The captain looked at the caravan guard.

“That true?”

He scowled. “We were talking.”

“With your sword out?”

“He grabbed it.”

She looked at Kaelen.

Kaelen said, “After he drew it.”

The captain’s gaze stayed on him for several seconds.

“Name?”

“Kaelen Thorn.”

“Passing through?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Three days.”

Something almost resembling amusement appeared in her eyes.

“Everyone says that.”

Kaelen frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

It clearly meant something.

She turned toward the drunken men. “You three. Southgate barracks.”

“What?”

“You’re spending the night somewhere without ale.”

“We didn’t do anything.”

The captain’s expression didn’t change. “Excellent. Then you’ll have nothing to complain about while you’re there.”

One of the men started to argue. His friend grabbed his arm. Good friend. They went.

The captain looked toward Hobb. “You all right?”

“I’ve had worse conversations.”

“Go home.”

“That was the original plan.”

Hobb started away, then paused beside Kaelen. “Thanks.”

“No need.”

Hobb studied him. “You don’t like being thanked.”

Kaelen stared.

Hobb smiled slightly. “Mara said.”

Of course she had. Hobb continued toward the market. The captain remained. Kaelen became aware that she was studying him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing a remarkable impression of something.”

She ignored that. “You military?”

“No.”

“Used to be?”

Kaelen said nothing. Her eyes moved briefly toward his boots, stance, sword belt and shield strapped across his back.

“Officer?”

Kaelen’s irritation sharpened. “Does everyone in this town ask strangers that?”

“Only the ones who stand like officers.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

Kaelen folded his arms.

She offered her hand. “Mara Ellisar.”

He looked at it. She raised an eyebrow. Kaelen shook it. Her grip was firm.

“Captain of the Watch,” she said.

“I gathered that.”

“You’re staying at the Broken Crown?”

“Apparently everyone knows everything here.”

“Small town.”

“Four thousand people isn’t small.”

“It is when half of them gossip professionally.”

Kaelen glanced toward the inn. Mara was standing inside the doorway. She smiled innocently.

He looked back at Ellisar. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Don’t disarm any more idiots unless you absolutely have to.”

“I’ll try.”

“Try harder.”

She started away.

Kaelen said, “Captain.”

Ellisar turned.

“Goblins really raiding north of town?”

Her expression changed. Only slightly. Enough.

“Some farms have lost livestock.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“No.”

Kaelen waited. Ellisar studied him again.

“You’re only here three days.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Then enjoy the stew.”

She walked away. Kaelen watched her go. That had been an answer. Just not the one he’d asked for.

* * *

By evening, the Broken Crown was full. Kaelen had intended to eat, ask Mara about northbound caravans and go to bed early. Instead, he found himself sitting at the end of the bar while Mara polished mugs and Tomas attempted to convince him that a wooden practice sword purchased from a traveling merchant was a legitimate training weapon.

“It has lead in the handle,” Tomas insisted.

Kaelen turned the wooden sword over in his hands. “No, it doesn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the balance is terrible.”

“It’s supposed to be heavy.”

“It’s supposed to teach you how a sword moves.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No.”

Tomas frowned. “What’s wrong with it?”

Kaelen set the weapon across two fingers. The blade immediately tipped downward. “Too much weight forward. Grip’s too thick. Crossguard’s decorative. If you practice with this long enough, you’ll learn habits you’ll have to unlearn later.”

Tomas looked genuinely wounded. “I paid eight coppers.”

“You paid seven too many.”

Mara snorted.

Tomas glared at her. “You said it looked good.”

“I said it looked like a sword.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Kaelen handed it back. “You’re learning.”

Tomas examined the weapon as though betrayed by it. “Can you show me?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t teach swordsmanship.”

“Can you?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Kaelen took a drink.

“Because I don’t.”

Tomas stared at him.

Mara intervened. “Leave him alone.”

“But—“

“Tomas.”

The boy took his wooden sword and retreated toward the kitchen. Kaelen watched him go.

Mara leaned against the bar. “You were hard on him.”

“He asked.”

“He’s seventeen.”

“Old enough to be told when something’s useless.”

“You could show him a few things.”

Kaelen looked at her.

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

She resumed polishing the mug.

After a moment, Kaelen asked, “Any caravans heading north?”

“Depends how far.”

“Far.”

“Helpful.”

“Beyond the frontier settlements.”

Mara stopped polishing.

“Why?”

“Because that’s where I’m going.”

“Most caravans don’t go beyond the settlements this time of year.”

“Any merchants?”

“Maybe. Ask Jorek.”

“I just spent two weeks with Jorek.”

“Then you’re already familiar with disappointment.”

Kaelen smiled despite himself. Mara noticed but graciously didn’t mention it.

“There’s a fur caravan expected in three or four days,” she continued. “Usually turns around and heads toward the northern camps.”

“Three or four?”

“If it arrives.”

“What does that mean?”

Mara put the mug down.

“Roads aren’t good.”

“Bandits?”

“Some.”

“Goblins?”

“Some.”

“What else?”

She studied him. Kaelen waited.

“People have gone missing.”

The words were casual. Too casual.

“Travelers?”

“Travelers. Hunters. Farmers.”

“How many?”

“Enough.”

Kaelen’s attention sharpened. Mara noticed. Before she could continue, the front door opened and cold air swept into the common room. A town crier entered wearing Ravenford’s blue-and-gray colors. Two watchmen accompanied him. Conversation gradually quieted. The crier stepped onto an empty chair.

“By order of Baron Aldric Vayne, Baron of Ravenford and Warden of the Northern March, let it be known that a reward of five hundred Valerian gold crowns is offered for information leading to the discovery and safe return of citizens missing from the northern settlements.”

The common room went silent. Five hundred gold crowns was not a casual reward. It was enough to buy a modest farm. Enough to equip a small mercenary company. Enough to make stupid men brave and cautious men reconsider their priorities. Kaelen watched faces change around the room. The crier continued.

“Any person or company willing to investigate the disappearances is ordered to report to Ravenkeep tomorrow at the ninth bell. The Baron’s representatives will provide maps, known locations and statements from witnesses.”

Someone near the fireplace called, “How many missing?”

The crier looked down at a parchment.

“Current confirmed count is sixty-three.”

The room erupted.

“Sixty-three?”

“Gods.”

“That’s no bandit raid.”

“How long?”

The crier raised his hand.

“Silence!”

Eventually the room settled.

“Three northern settlements have ceased communication with Ravenford. Millbrook has failed to send its grain tithe. Dunvale’s weekly supply wagon has not arrived. Two hunters sent to check the road to Westmere did not return.”

Kaelen felt something cold move through him. Three settlements. The crier continued.

“Baron Aldric has dispatched two patrols. The first failed to return. The second discovered three members of the first patrol dead approximately nine miles north of Millbrook. Their deaths remain under investigation.”

Kaelen heard Mara swear quietly.

Someone asked, “What about the villages?”

The crier looked back at the parchment.

“No survivors have yet been located.”

A murmur moved through the room. Kaelen’s hand tightened around his mug. He told himself it meant nothing.

Villages lost contact for dozens of reasons. Floods. Disease. Bandits. Monsters. Poor roads. Local disputes. People abandoned settlements. Then someone near the back asked the question Kaelen didn’t want answered.

“Whole villages? What about the families?”

The crier nodded.

“Entire families are among the missing.”

Something disappeared from the room. Not sound. Not light. For Kaelen, everything simply became farther away. The bar beneath his hand was no longer polished oak. It was a campaign table. Rain struck canvas overhead. A map lay beneath a man’s hand. A finger touched a village drawn beside a river.

**DUNMERE** A voice spoke. *The rebels have been receiving food and shelter from the village.* Another voice. His own. *Then arrest the people helping them.* *We don’t have the men to search every house.* *Then evacuate the village.* *Anyone still there is either aiding the rebels or protecting someone who is.* Kaelen remembered staring at the man across the table. Remembered realizing the order had already been decided. *Burn it.* Kaelen blinked. The Broken Crown returned. Mara was looking at him. He released the mug.

His knuckles had gone white.

The crier was still speaking. “The reward is five hundred crowns. Anyone interested should report to Ravenkeep tomorrow morning. The Baron strongly advises against traveling north alone.”

The crier stepped down. Noise flooded back into the room. Everyone had an opinion.

“Goblins.”

“Has to be.”

“Sixty-three people?”

“More than sixty-three if nobody counted the farms.”

“What killed the guards?”

“Could be orcs.”

“Or wolves.”

“Wolves don’t take villages.”

“Dire wolves might.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Five hundred gold.”

“Not enough.”

“More than enough.”

“For you, maybe.”

Kaelen stood. Mara watched him.

“Where are you going?”

“Ravenkeep.”

“The meeting’s tomorrow.”

“I heard him.”

“It’s nearly dark.”

“I noticed.”

She leaned both hands on the bar. “You told me you’re leaving in three days.”

“I am.”

“North.”

“Yes.”

“Which is apparently where sixty-three people just disappeared.”

Kaelen looked toward the door.

“That’s inconvenient.”

Mara studied him for a long moment. “You were planning to ignore all of this until he said families.”

Kaelen looked at her. She didn’t look away.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.”

He reached for his coat.

Mara said, “Ravenkeep won’t see you tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because Aldric’s steward will tell you to come back tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll know where the entrance is.”

“You already know where the entrance is.”

Kaelen stopped. Mara’s mouth twitched.

“Military?”

He closed his eyes briefly.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because you’re terrible at hiding it.”

“I’m a caravan guard.”

“You’re a caravan guard who spent half an hour looking at Ravenford like you were deciding how to defend it.”

Kaelen stared at her.

“Jorek,” she said.

“Of course.”

“He also told me about the bandits.”

Kaelen pulled on his coat.

Mara lowered her voice. “Whatever you’re running from, Thorn, walking into something worse doesn’t necessarily put more distance between you and it.”

He stopped. That was closer than anyone had come. Too close.

Kaelen looked at her. “I’m not running.”

Mara raised an eyebrow. He sighed.

“Fine. I’m running.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“People who know they’re running sometimes eventually figure out when to stop.”

Kaelen didn’t answer. He turned toward the door. Tomas stood near the kitchen holding his ridiculous wooden sword. Mira sat beside the fireplace. Neither child said anything. That was somehow worse. Kaelen opened the door and stepped into the evening. Cold air hit his face.

Northmarket had begun closing. Merchants packed stalls while lamplighters moved along the streets, touching flames to iron lanterns. Ravenkeep stood above the town, windows glowing gold against the gathering darkness. Kaelen looked north. Beyond the walls, beyond the bridge, beyond the farms and roads and forests, entire families had vanished. Not his responsibility. He had no commission. No authority. No obligation.

Five hundred crowns. That was all. A job. Three days. Investigate. Collect the reward. Keep moving north. Simple. He started toward Ravenkeep.

Behind him, the Broken Crown’s sign creaked in the wind.

* * *

Ravenkeep was older than the town surrounding it. Kaelen could tell before reaching the gate. The fortress had been constructed when Ravenford was little more than a military crossing, and whoever had built it hadn’t cared about beauty. Thick gray walls rose directly from the rocky hill. Square towers overlooked the river and bridge. The approach climbed sharply enough that an attacking army would arrive exhausted before reaching the gate, and the road curved twice beneath positions from which defenders could rain arrows, stones or boiling water onto anyone unfortunate enough to be invited upward during a siege. Kaelen approved. Then became irritated with himself for approving. Two guards stood beneath the gatehouse.

One raised a hand.

“Keep’s closed to petitioners.”

“I’m here about the missing villages.”

“Tomorrow. Ninth bell.”

“I know.”

The guard looked at him. Kaelen looked back.

“Then why are you here?”

“I wanted to see the keep.”

The second guard laughed. The first did not.

“Come back tomorrow.”

Kaelen nodded. He turned.

“That’s it?” the second guard asked.

Kaelen looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“You climbed all the way up here just to have him tell you what you already knew?”

“Apparently.”

The guard laughed again. Kaelen started down the hill. He had learned something. The guards were alert. The gate was properly manned. And there were twice as many watchmen on Ravenkeep’s walls as a town this size normally required. Mara hadn’t exaggerated. Something had Ravenford frightened. Halfway down the hill, Kaelen stopped.

From there he could see beyond the northern wall. The Raven River caught the last light of evening as it wound toward the mountains. The stone bridge crossed it in a single broad span, the road beyond disappearing between scattered farms before entering dark forest. Somewhere beyond those trees were three silent villages. Sixty-three missing people. Probably more. Kaelen rested one hand on the stone wall beside the road. For an instant, another village existed beyond the darkness. Dunmere.

He saw smoke on the horizon. Hours after he’d walked away. He had stood on a ridge and watched it rise. He remembered telling himself there was nothing he could do. He had resigned. The soldiers weren’t his men anymore. The order wasn’t his. The responsibility wasn’t his. None of that had stopped the smoke.

Kaelen pushed away from the wall.

“Five hundred crowns,” he muttered.

The explanation sounded weak even to him. He descended toward town. Tomorrow morning, he would hear what Baron Aldric knew. Then he would investigate. Find the missing villagers if they were still alive. Collect his money. Leave Ravenford. That was all. Kaelen repeated the thought as he walked through the evening streets.

By the time he reached the Broken Crown, he almost believed it.

Kaelen woke before dawn because someone was trying to kill a chicken. At least that was his first impression.

A prolonged squawk rose from the alley behind the Broken Crown, followed by a crash, an angry woman’s voice, another squawk and a boy shouting, “I’ve got it!”

Kaelen opened his eyes. Gray morning light seeped through the shutters. He stared at the ceiling.

“Don’t have it!” another voice shouted.

Mira.

“I almost have it!”

“That’s not the same thing!”

Something struck the wall beneath Kaelen’s window. The chicken screamed again. Kaelen closed his eyes. Three days. He had chosen to stay here three days. That decision was beginning to look increasingly questionable.

He threw back the blanket and sat on the edge of the bed. His sword leaned against the wall within reach. His shield rested beside it. The crossbow bolt Sella’s son had given him lay on the washstand where he’d left it the night before. For several seconds, Kaelen simply sat there. Morning. Ravenford. The missing villages. Dunmere.

He had dreamed about the smoke again. Not the village itself. He rarely dreamed about the village. His mind preferred the ridge, perhaps because the ridge had been where he’d stood when there was nothing left to decide. Smoke rising beyond trees. Orange beneath black. Someone riding south in the distance. Kaelen watching. Always watching.

Never arriving. The chicken screamed again. Kaelen stood. Sometimes the world provided mercy in unusual forms. He washed, shaved, dressed, then strapped on his sword. He hesitated over the shield. Ravenkeep wasn’t a battlefield. Probably. He left it.

Downstairs, the Broken Crown smelled of bread, bacon and coffee strong enough to remove rust from armor. Several guests were already eating. A pair of merchants sat near the window discussing road conditions, while the two dwarves from the previous day appeared to have resumed their game before breakfast. Kaelen wondered whether they’d slept. Mara stood behind the bar. She looked at him. He looked at her.

“Chicken?” he asked.

“Tomas.”

“That explains less than you think.”

“Chicken got into the feed room.”

“And he decided to kill it?”

“He decided to catch it.”

“Sounded fatal.”

“For Tomas or the chicken?”

“Unclear.”

Mara placed a plate on the bar. Eggs. Bacon. Bread. Kaelen sat.

“How much?”

“Six coppers.”

“Yesterday breakfast wasn’t included.”

“Yesterday you weren’t stupid enough to volunteer for a five-hundred-crown death march.”

“I haven’t volunteered.”

“You’re wearing your sword.”

“I usually do.”

“You shaved.”

Kaelen looked at her. Mara folded her arms.

“What does shaving have to do with anything?”

“Means you’re going somewhere you expect people to judge you.”

“I shave most mornings.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’ve been here one morning.”

“And you didn’t shave yesterday.”

“I was traveling.”

“Excuses.”

Kaelen stared at her. She stared back. He took a piece of bacon.

“I’m going to Ravenkeep.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to hear what Aldric has to say.”

“I know.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m taking the job.”

Mara poured coffee.

“I know.”

Kaelen narrowed his eyes.

“Stop saying that.”

“I know.”

He gave up. Tomas entered through the kitchen door carrying a chicken under one arm. The chicken looked furious. Tomas looked worse. His hair was full of straw. A scratch ran across his cheek, and one sleeve had been torn nearly to the shoulder. Mara looked at him. Tomas raised the chicken slightly.

“Got it.”

“I can see that.”

“It fought.”

“It’s a chicken.”

“You weren’t there.”

Kaelen drank his coffee. Tomas noticed him.

“You’re going to Ravenkeep.”

Kaelen lowered the mug.

“Apparently everyone in this building has become involved in my schedule.”

“Five hundred crowns.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“You going after the missing people?”

“I’m going to listen.”

Tomas shifted the chicken.

“If I had a sword, I’d go.”

“You have a sword.”

Tomas brightened.

Kaelen continued, “A terrible one.”

The brightness disappeared.

Mara pointed toward the rear door. “Chicken.”

Tomas muttered something and left. Kaelen finished breakfast.

Mara leaned against the bar. “You know Aldric?”

“No.”

“He’s not an idiot.”

“That’s encouraging.”

“He’s also not offering five hundred crowns because he’s generous.”

“I assumed.”

“He sent twelve guards north eight days ago.”

Kaelen paused.

“The missing patrol.”

Mara nodded.

“Captain Ellisar picked them herself. Good people.”

“Three bodies recovered.”

“Yes.”

“What killed them?”

“Ask Aldric.”

“You know.”

“I know rumors.”

“Rumors are information people haven’t verified yet.”

Mara smiled slightly. “That sounded suspiciously like something an officer would say.”

Kaelen stood.

“Breakfast was excellent.”

“Running away?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You’re improving.”

He placed six coppers on the bar and walked toward the door. Mara called after him.

“Kaelen.”

He turned. For once, there was no humor in her expression.

“Bring people back if you can.”

Kaelen looked at her. Not *find out what happened.* Not *kill whatever did it.* Not *earn the reward.* Bring people back. He nodded once.

“If I can.”

Then he left.

* * *

Morning had transformed Ravenford. The market was already alive. Merchants shouted prices beneath striped awnings while farmers maneuvered carts through streets that seemed designed specifically to prevent carts from passing one another. Somewhere a smith hammered steel. Bells rang from Temple Square. The smell of fresh bread drifted from a bakery beside the road and mixed with less pleasant odors from the river district. Kaelen moved through it all toward Ravenkeep. The town felt different now that he knew people were disappearing beyond its walls. He noticed more guards.

Two at intersections that should have required one. Mounted patrol near Northgate. Archers visible on the northern wall. Ellisar was worried. That meant Kaelen should be worried. He disliked that. The climb to Ravenkeep was easier in daylight. He reached the gate shortly before the ninth bell and discovered that half of Ravenford apparently intended to become adventurers. At least thirty people stood in the outer courtyard.

Kaelen stopped.

“No.”

A guard beside the gate looked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Kaelen entered. Most of the volunteers were exactly what he’d expected. Young men with swords they’d probably never used outside a training yard. Mercenaries attracted by the reward. Hunters. Caravan guards. Two men wearing mismatched armor who appeared to have spent more money on feathers for their helmets than on the helmets themselves. Then Kaelen noticed the dwarf. He was impossible not to notice.

The dwarf stood near the courtyard well, arguing with a clerk who appeared increasingly convinced that administrative work had been a poor career choice.

“I wrote Brom Ironheart.”

The clerk looked at the parchment.

“This says Brom Ironhand.”

“Do I look like an Ironhand?”

The clerk looked at him. Brom spread his arms. He stood perhaps four and a half feet tall but seemed nearly as wide as he was tall, with thick arms, heavy shoulders and a dark red beard braided into three sections bound by bronze rings. Chainmail showed beneath a travel-stained tabard bearing the hammer-and-anvil symbol of Tharos. A broad shield rested against his pack, while a runic warhammer hung from his belt. The clerk swallowed.

“I don’t know what an Ironhand looks like.”

“Not like me.”

“How would I know?”

“Exactly! Which is why you should write what people tell you.”

The clerk sighed and scratched out the name.

“Brom Ironheart.”

“Correct.”

“Occupation?”

“Priest.”

The clerk looked at the hammer.

“Priest?”

Brom followed his gaze.

“Tharos isn’t the god of embroidery.”

Kaelen continued walking. He liked the dwarf already. That was unfortunate. A woman stood several yards beyond Brom reading a book. Not glancing through it. Reading. In the middle of a crowded fortress courtyard. Kaelen might not have noticed her otherwise, which he suspected was exactly what she preferred.

She appeared human at first glance. Late twenties, perhaps. Tall, slender, with dark traveling clothes beneath a deep blue cloak. Her hair was silver-blond and tied loosely behind her neck, though several strands had escaped around pointed ears that revealed her half-elven heritage. The book in her hands looked older than Ravenkeep. A sword hung at her hip. Not a wizard’s staff. Interesting. The clerk reached her.

“Name?”

She didn’t look up.

“Lyriana Vale.”

“Occupation?”

“Archaeologist.”

The clerk paused.

“What’s that?”

Now she looked up.

“A person who studies ancient civilizations.”

“Scholar?”

“If that makes the form easier.”

The clerk wrote.

“Reason for joining expedition?”

“Academic interest.”

The clerk looked toward the announcement posted on the wall.

“People are missing.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you’re interested academically?”

Lyriana closed the book.

“Three villages have disappeared along a corridor containing at least four documented pre-Valerian settlements, two suspected dwarven trade routes and a series of unexplained ruins that the Royal Geographic Society has inexplicably classified as ‘unimportant masonry.’ I find the coincidence interesting.”

The clerk stared at her.

“So… academic interest.”

“Yes.”

He wrote it. Kaelen walked past. Lyriana’s eyes flicked toward him. They stopped on his sword. Then his boots. Then his face. Kaelen recognized the look. Assessment. Not attraction.

Not curiosity. Calculation. She was trying to decide what he was. Kaelen kept walking. Another man stood apart from the crowd near the wall. At first Kaelen assumed he was an orc. Then the man turned. Half-orc.

Tall enough to stand nearly a head above Kaelen, with broad shoulders beneath a weathered leather coat reinforced by pieces of hide and metal. His skin was gray-green, his black hair tied at the nape of his neck. A longbow rested against his shoulder, and two knives hung from his belt. He wasn’t watching the people. He was watching the sky. Kaelen followed his gaze. Clouds. Nothing unusual. Then something brushed Kaelen’s hand.

He looked down. A wolf stood beside him. No. Not a wolf. Too large. Its shoulder nearly reached Kaelen’s hip. Thick gray fur covered a body built like something designed to kill elk and consider bears a reasonable inconvenience. Pale yellow eyes regarded Kaelen calmly. Kaelen didn’t move.

The half-orc looked over.

“Ghost.”

The animal continued staring at Kaelen.

“Ghost.”

One ear twitched. The half-orc sighed.

“He likes you.”

Kaelen looked at the wolf.

“How can you tell?”

“He hasn’t bitten you.”

“Comforting.”

The half-orc almost smiled. Kaelen slowly offered the back of his hand. Ghost sniffed it. Then walked away. Kaelen looked at the half-orc.

“That’s liking me?”

“For him.”

“I’d hate to see dislike.”

“You would.”

Fair enough. The clerk approached.

“Name?”

“Torren Ashwalker.”

The clerk wrote.

“Occupation?”

“Ranger.”

“From?”

“North.”

The clerk waited. Torren waited longer. The clerk sighed and wrote *North.* Kaelen almost sympathized. Then someone bumped into him. A hand brushed his belt. Kaelen caught the wrist. The woman attached to it looked down at his hand, then up at him.

She was young, perhaps twenty-four, with dark brown hair cut just below her shoulders and green eyes that seemed permanently amused by something no one else had noticed. Her leather armor was supple and well-maintained, designed for movement rather than protection. Several knives were visible. Which meant there were probably twice as many that weren’t. She looked at Kaelen’s hand around her wrist.

“Most men buy me a drink first.”

Kaelen released her.

“Most women don’t reach for my purse.”

She looked offended.

“I wasn’t reaching for your purse.”

“What were you reaching for?”

“Your dagger.”

Kaelen stared. She smiled.

“Better?”

“No.”

“You’re difficult.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Her eyes brightened.

“That sounds rehearsed.”

“It gets frequent use.”

She stepped around him.

“Seraphine Blackwood.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You were going to.”

“No.”

“Eventually.”

She walked toward the registration table. Kaelen checked his purse. Still there. Dagger too. He checked the smaller knife inside his coat. Still there. Then the spare coin he’d hidden in his belt. Gone. Kaelen looked up.

Seraphine stood at the registration table. Without turning, she raised one hand. A silver coin appeared between two fingers. Then she flicked it over her shoulder. Kaelen caught it. Brom laughed from across the courtyard. Kaelen slipped the coin back into his belt. He definitely did not like her. That probably meant she’d be joining the expedition.

His luck had been remarkably consistent lately. The ninth bell rang. The courtyard quieted. A man emerged from the keep accompanied by Captain Ellisar and four guards. He was in his mid-fifties, broad-shouldered despite a slight stiffness in one leg. His dark blue coat was well made without being ostentatious, and a silver chain bearing Ravenford’s raven-and-bridge sigil hung around his neck. Baron Aldric Vayne. Kaelen had seen enough nobles to recognize several types. Those who wanted everyone to know they were important.

Those who were terrified someone might discover they weren’t. Those who treated authority as a privilege. Those who treated it as a burden. Aldric looked tired. Kaelen placed him tentatively in the last category. The Baron surveyed the courtyard.

“Thank you for coming.”

Seraphine murmured somewhere nearby, “Five hundred gold. You’re welcome.”

Kaelen glanced at her. She smiled innocently.

Aldric continued. “I’ll begin by disappointing most of you. I am not hiring thirty adventurers.”

Several people muttered.

“The reward is five hundred crowns,” Aldric said, “not five hundred per person. Ravenford will pay one company to investigate the northern settlements, determine what happened to our missing citizens and, if possible, bring them home.”

A mercenary raised his hand. Aldric looked at him. The man lowered it.

“Speak.”

“How many are missing?”

“At least sixty-three confirmed. Likely more.”

“And the guards?”

Aldric’s jaw tightened.

“Twelve men and women left Ravenford eight days ago. They were ordered to inspect Millbrook, Dunvale and Westmere and report back. They did not.”

Ellisar’s expression remained neutral. Too neutral.

Aldric continued. “A second patrol of eight followed three days later. They found three bodies approximately nine miles south of Millbrook.”

“Bandits?” someone asked.

“No.”

“Goblins?”

“We don’t know.”

“What killed them?”

Aldric hesitated. Kaelen noticed. So did Lyriana. The half-elf closed her book.

Aldric said, “The bodies were burned.”

Murmurs moved through the courtyard.

“Fire?”

“No.”

Lyriana spoke.

“What do you mean, no?”

Aldric looked toward her. She stepped forward.

“If the bodies were burned, something caused the burning.”

“That’s one of the reasons we’re asking for help.”

“What condition were they in?”

Ellisar answered this time.

“Blackened.”

Lyriana’s eyes narrowed.

“Clothing?”

“Mostly intact.”

That silenced several people. Kaelen looked toward Ellisar. She met his gaze. He understood why she’d refused to discuss it yesterday. Brom muttered something in Dwarvish. Seraphine stopped smiling.

Lyriana asked, “Skin?”

“Blackened.”

“Heat damage to surrounding vegetation?”

“None.”

“Hair?”

“Intact.”

“Armor?”

“Intact.”

Lyriana’s interest sharpened in a way Kaelen found vaguely disturbing.

“They weren’t burned.”

Aldric frowned.

“They looked burned.”

“That’s different.”

One of the feather-helmeted mercenaries scoffed.

“Dead’s dead.”

Lyriana turned toward him.

“That’s an impressively stupid observation.”

The courtyard became quiet. The mercenary’s face reddened. Brom covered a laugh with a cough.

Lyriana continued before the man could respond. “If three armed guards were killed by something capable of blackening flesh without burning cloth, hair, armor or surrounding vegetation, identifying what happened is considerably more important than deciding that dead is, in fact, dead.”

Seraphine raised a finger.

“For the record, I agree with the scholar.”

“Archaeologist.”

“Of course.”

Aldric raised his voice before the discussion could deteriorate. “There is more.”

He motioned to an aide. The man unrolled a map across a table. People gathered around. Kaelen remained near the rear at first. Then he saw the map. His feet carried him forward before he’d consciously decided to move. Three villages marked north of Ravenford. Millbrook nearest. Dunvale northwest.

Westmere farther north near Bloodwood Forest. Roads. Streams. Elevation markings. Old ruins. Kaelen stopped at the table. Lyriana appeared beside him. Brom on the other side. Torren stood opposite.

Seraphine somehow ended up immediately to Kaelen’s left. He moved his purse to the other side. She noticed.

“That hurts.”

“You’ll recover.”

Aldric pointed at Millbrook. “This was the first settlement to miss a scheduled delivery. Nine days ago.”

“Dunvale?” Kaelen asked.

Aldric looked at him.

“Eleven days.”

Kaelen frowned.

“Then Dunvale disappeared first.”

Aldric paused.

“Possibly.”

“Westmere?”

“Last confirmed contact thirteen days ago.”

Kaelen looked at the map.

“Then you’re investigating backward.”

Ellisar’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Aldric said, “Explain.”

“You’re assuming the disappearances moved north because Millbrook was the first missed delivery. But Westmere had the earliest confirmed loss of contact.”

Lyriana leaned closer to the map.

“He’s right.”

Seraphine looked between them.

“That sounded painful.”

Lyriana ignored her.

Kaelen pointed. “Westmere is farther from Ravenford. Less frequent contact?”

Aldric nodded. “Supply wagon every ten days. Millbrook sends grain twice a week.”

“So Westmere could have disappeared days earlier without anyone noticing.”

Torren spoke for the first time since the briefing began.

“Yes.”

His voice was low. Everyone looked at him. Torren stepped closer and pointed at Bloodwood Forest.

“Road here floods after heavy rain. Wagon traffic shifts east.”

Aldric nodded.

“It flooded two weeks ago.”

Torren traced another route.

“Then anyone traveling from Westmere would use this trail.”

Ellisar leaned forward.

“That isn’t on our maps.”

“Your maps are wrong.”

The statement was so matter-of-fact that Ellisar didn’t appear offended.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve walked it.”

Kaelen looked at Torren. The ranger looked back. There was competence there. Real competence. Useful. Kaelen disliked how quickly his mind had begun categorizing them. Lyriana: knowledge. Torren: terrain. Brom: armor, healing, probably divine magic.

Seraphine— Kaelen glanced at her. She smiled. Trouble.

Aldric continued. “There have also been reports of goblin movement through Bloodwood.”

Torren’s expression didn’t change.

“How many?”

“We don’t know.”

“Raids?”

“Livestock missing. Two farms attacked.”

“Killed?”

“No.”

That caught Kaelen’s attention. Torren nodded slightly.

“Goblins steal livestock. They don’t usually empty villages.”

One of the mercenaries said, “Goblins kill plenty of people.”

Torren looked at him.

“So do humans.”

Brom grunted approval.

Aldric tapped the map. “This is what we know. Three settlements have stopped communicating. Travelers have vanished along the northern road. Goblin activity has increased. Something killed three of my guards in a manner our healers cannot explain.”

Kaelen looked at the villages.

“Any signs of fighting?”

“At the bodies?”

“The villages.”

Aldric’s face tightened.

“We haven’t reached them.”

Kaelen looked up.

“Your second patrol turned back after finding the bodies?”

Ellisar answered.

“I ordered them to.”

“Why?”

“Because I had already lost twelve people.”

Kaelen heard the defensiveness beneath her voice. He understood it. He also understood the decision.

“You were right.”

Ellisar’s expression shifted slightly. Perhaps she’d expected criticism. Kaelen continued studying the map.

Aldric looked around the courtyard. “I need people capable of investigating without requiring me to send another platoon after them.”

The feather-helmeted mercenary stepped forward.

“My company can do it.”

Kaelen glanced behind him.

“Company?”

The man gestured toward three companions. Kaelen looked at Seraphine.

She whispered, “Perhaps the feathers count.”

He looked away before she saw the smile trying to appear.

Aldric said, “Experience?”

“Bandits. Goblins. Wolves. Escort work.”

“Magic?”

The man hesitated.

“No.”

“Tracking?”

“My man Harrel hunts.”

Torren looked at Harrel. Harrel suddenly seemed less confident. Aldric asked several other groups similar questions. The answers were not encouraging. One group consisted of two brothers who had fought in a militia battle seven years earlier and apparently considered that sufficient preparation for anything. Another had a hedge wizard who admitted under questioning that his most advanced spell involved making objects glow. Kaelen began to understand why Aldric looked tired. Then the Baron looked toward him.

“You.”

Kaelen glanced behind himself. Nobody there. Damn.

“Name?”

“Kaelen Thorn.”

Ellisar’s expression suggested she’d already told Aldric something about him. Kaelen disliked that too.

“Experience?”

“Caravan work.”

Ellisar coughed. Kaelen looked at her. She looked innocent.

Aldric said, “Captain Ellisar tells me you fought off a bandit attack yesterday.”

“The caravan fought them off.”

“She also tells me you organized the defense.”

“Someone had to.”

Aldric studied him.

“Military?”

Kaelen sighed.

Seraphine whispered, “You do have the face.”

He ignored her.

“Former.”

“Rank?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

Kaelen looked at the map.

“Captain.”

Silence. Not dramatic silence. Just enough for several people nearby to reassess him. Kaelen hated it.

Aldric asked, “Royal Army?”

“Yes.”

“Which regiment?”

“Not relevant.”

Ellisar watched him. Aldric could have pressed. He didn’t. Kaelen appreciated that.

“Why did you leave?”

That was closer. Kaelen met his eyes.

“That’s definitely not relevant.”

Aldric considered him for several seconds. Then nodded.

“Fair.”

Brom’s gaze lingered on Kaelen. Lyriana looked curious. Seraphine looked delighted by the existence of a secret. Torren merely watched. Kaelen wished he’d stayed at the inn. Aldric turned toward Lyriana.

“You?”

“Lyriana Vale. Archaeologist and practitioner of arcane magic.”

“Combat experience?”

“Some.”

Seraphine murmured, “Meaning no.”

Lyriana didn’t look at her.

“Meaning enough.”

“What brings an archaeologist to missing villages?”

Lyriana placed her book on the map and opened it to a marked page.

“These symbols.”

The page contained sketches of angular markings. Aldric frowned.

“What are they?”

“I don’t know.”

Seraphine leaned closer.

“Excellent scholarship.”

Lyriana looked at her.

“I know what they aren’t.”

“Ah. Much better.”

“They aren’t Valerian. They aren’t modern dwarven runes, High Elven, Old Elven, Giant Script, Ashwalker glyphs, or any known form of goblin writing.”

Torren leaned over. His expression changed. Lyriana noticed.

“You recognize them?”

“No.”

“That was not