The caravan passed ten steady days without incident—just firelight in the evenings and quiet laughter drifting between the trees.
On the second day, as the cold settled deep in the earth without snow or rain, quiet talk circled within the wagon:
"We'll perform at the former queen's birthday celebration in Skyhaven," Olan announced, fingers tracing the edges of his worn map. "If we can win over the event organizers, we'll get a spot in the secondary show outside her estate. That night, the nobles' purses will be heavy."
Sif, still known among them only as Percy, muttered inwardly: "Simple work… but the danger often waits behind velvet doors."
The days passed without trouble—only the rush of streams nearby and the deep quiet of night. Once or twice, there were rumors of wolves shadowing their camp, but none ever came close.
On the morning of the tenth day, Skyhaven rose over a soft ridge—modest, walled in timber, built on stone and memory. It stood like a sentinel between the frozen north and the milder heartlands of the continent. A town of aging nobility and retired officers, it was more fortress than city—proud, distant, and self-contained.
Sif paused before the city gates, his eyes fixed on the worn wood and gray rooftops. Behind him, the caravan prepared to move on, but he lingered, his thoughts quiet.
He turned to face the group—the strange little band who had, unknowingly, sheltered a ghost of war:
Olan, with his steady eyes, gave a warm nod.Cormac, the coachman, lifted his heavy leather cap.Rilla, the jester, blew a lazy stream of smoke.Merrin the illusionist lifted one hand in a sparkless gesture.Faelin, the flutist, offered her hand gently.And Lyssa, the lute-player, whispered a silent prayer.
Sif felt a tug at his chest—not quite emotion, but something like it.
"You've given me safe days and quiet roads," he said quietly. "For that, I thank you."
Olan stepped forward and patted his shoulder.
"Go, Percy. Wherever the road leads, you've got a place among us."
Cormac grunted with a grin.
"Even the tallest peaks fall to one step at a time."
Rilla laughed his usual wicked laugh.
"I'll miss having someone around who actually blushes at my jokes!"
Merrin offered only a quiet glance and a soft shimmer in the air.
"Wherever there's magic," he said, "we're never far."
Faelin smiled faintly.
"May your path always carry music."
And Lyssa, with warmth in her voice, added:
"Come back to us, silent friend—someday."
He had never liked goodbyes—but this one lingered like warmth clinging to a cold coat
Sif turned, the wind tugging at his coat, and began walking toward Skyhaven
Sif, his worn coat drawn tight against the morning chill, stood quietly in a small cobbled square, asking a passerby for directions to the residence of Master Ronar Ashford. The man, with the composed features of a settled town-dweller, pointed toward a rising hill at the town's northern edge.
"Up there," he said simply. "You'll find the Ashford estate at the top. You can't miss it."
Sif gave a polite nod and began the ascent.
The road was clean—unusually so. There was none of the familiar horse muck or lingering city stench he had grown used to in larger towns like Frostmoor. Everything here seemed orderly, polished. Even the wind, he thought, moved a little slower, as though paying respect to the quiet elegance of Skyhaven.
Still, unease gnawed at him.
He remembered well: Master Ronar, his old mentor, had spoken of his wife with more dread than devotion. It wasn't loyalty that kept his gaze away from other women—it was fear. A fear so deep it remained, even with half a continent between them.
When he reached the crest of the hill, a grand gate came into view—iron wrought with curling gold accents, a brass plaque gleaming in the sun:
Ashford Estate
Sif drew a long breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped through.
A stone path paved in pale blue slabs stretched ahead, flanked by tidy hedges and flowering trees that seemed almost too perfect. He walked for ten long minutes beneath their silent arch before the manor revealed itself: a towering white villa, more palace than home, with marble columns, sweeping windows, and the heavy hush of wealth.
He lifted his hand to knock—but the door opened before he could touch it.
A man stood before him, tall and lean, well past his sixties, perhaps older. He wore a refined servant's suit and carried himself with the poise of someone who had seen generations pass through this hall. His eyes swept over Sif as one might look at something that had stuck to the bottom of a boot.
"Can I help you?" the man asked, voice clipped, gaze sharp.
Only then did Sif remember how he must look: travel-worn, threadbare, and unwashed—he hadn't bathed properly in over six months.
"I'm here…" he said carefully, "to return Master Ronar's sword. He mentioned me, I believe, in one of his letters to Lady Valerian."
The butler stared at him a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, with a reluctant motion, he stepped aside.
"Come in."
Sif entered—and froze.
The inside of the manor was breathtaking. Polished marble floors stretched beneath painted ceilings, silk-lined walls bore portraits of long-dead nobles, and the scent of fresh pine and perfume hung faintly in the air. Servants passed in silence, graceful and swift.
The butler led him down a hall and into a grand sitting room, velvet-cushioned chairs, golden trim, and a roaring hearth. A table of fresh flowers stood nearby, fragrant and perfectly arranged.
Sif remained standing. His boots were caked in old mud, and he didn't trust himself to touch anything.
Moments passed. Then the door opened again.
She entered with quiet steps—Lady Valerian.
She looked to be in her mid-forties, yet carried herself with the beauty and bearing of someone who had commanded respect her entire life. Her eyes were sharp, her features noble. Her dark gown flowed like ink, and her hair was swept back in a precise, elegant coil.
Sif stood straighter.
The great hall of the Ashford estate was quiet but not warm. The cold elegance of polished marble and high ceilings swallowed every step Sif took as he was led through. When the servant stepped aside, he found her already waiting.
Lady Vivian Ashford stood beneath the arched colonnade like a carved statue, wrapped in a gown of deep wine-colored silk that caught the waning daylight like flame. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, traveled over him slowly—too slowly.
"So," she said at last, her tone crisp and unimpressed, "you're the one they called the Fox. I expected... more."
Sif stiffened. He was used to silence, to scrutiny, to the wary glances of those who'd heard stories. But rarely had someone looked at him like this—as if he were something dragged in from the road, barely worth the trouble.
He bowed slightly, hands still clutching the cloth-wrapped sword.
"My lady," he said, quietly but firmly, "I came only to return this."
He unwrapped the blade with care. The steel still bore the stains of war, but it had been cleaned and bound respectfully. Holding it out to her, he added, "Master Ronar fell in battle. I was in the region—close enough. I thought it right that his sword come home."
Lady Vivian took it, though her expression betrayed no emotion—neither grief nor gratitude.
"Chivalrous," she said, as though the word tasted sour. "Unnecessary, but noted."
Sif lowered his gaze. "I also came to offer my condolences."
She turned the blade in her hand, testing its weight with a familiarity that caught him by surprise. Her voice softened just slightly.
"You are not what I imagined. Ronar wrote of you often. Sparingly, but... fondly. I had my doubts."
Sif said nothing. He was already retreating in his mind—ready to leave this hall, this estate, this sharp-tongued noblewoman behind. He turned toward the doors.
But her voice came again, clear and commanding.
"When do you intend to leave Skyhaven?"
He stopped, exhaled. "In a week, my lady."
A pause. Then, with the ease of one issuing commands to a servant, she said,
"Then you will remain here. Until then."
He blinked. "That's not—"
"You brought Ronar's blade back," she cut in, voice cool as snow. "You were spoken of in his letters more than most men he bled beside. If that earns you anything, it's a room and a warm meal."
He studied her face for a moment. Pride clung to her like perfume. There was no kindness in her words—but no cruelty either. Simply duty, worn like a second skin.
"I'm grateful," he said at last.
"Jenna will prepare your chambers. And for heaven's sake," she added, turning away, "see that you wash. You reek of the road."
With that, she disappeared down the corridor, the sword tucked beneath her arm, leaving Sif to stand alone in a hall that echoed with silence and pride—not his own
He stood alone, not in battle—but in silence, surrounded by luxury he didn't belong to. The sword was gone. The weight remained