Trillstone Way, Mid-Velgrath Hills
The next morning brought snow. Not a storm, just the kind that dusts the world with silence. The kind that makes hoofbeats vanish and men second-guess their trail. Aeron stirred beneath a threadbare cloak while Harwin stood watch, sword sheathed but eyes sharp.
No fire. No smoke. No sound but the creak of frost-hard leather and the boy's quiet breathing.
They had left Dunmar's ruins behind, traveling westward toward the riverlands. Harwin said the old ford near Caerlin had weakened during the spring melt—now it was a bottleneck. Every man fleeing levy, debt, or oath would be forced to pass through there.
And if House Caerwyn still manned the crossing?
They'd find out.
By midday, a raven passed overhead—low, wheeling, and tethered.
Harwin watched it spiral. "That's no wild one."
"No," Aeron said. "A Temple raven. From Vellspire."
"Sending word east?"
"Or trying to." Aeron turned in his saddle. "It won't reach anyone. No temples out there, not anymore."
Harwin looked at him. "You certain?"
"I burned them myself."
The boy stared. "You burned churches?"
"No," Aeron replied. "Temples. There's a difference."
That evening, they reached the inn at Crayburn Cross—a squat, timbered thing nestled under a bent pine. Inside, the smell of meat and mildew mingled in equal measure. Ten patrons. Three tables. No windows.
Aeron nodded to the innkeep. "No coin. No names."
The man blinked. "No questions either, I take it?"
"Only one," Harwin said, showing the coin—split and scorched. "Anyone leave one of these behind?"
The innkeep paled. "One. Two nights past. Left with a northbound caravan."
"Destination?"
"Didn't say. But he spoke to a man in blue."
"Temple blue?" Aeron asked.
The man shook his head. "No. Riverwatch blue."
Harwin cursed. "That's two banners sniffing the same trail."
Aeron said nothing. He looked to the hearth.
Then to the boy.
And then to the shadowed corner where someone had left a message, etched into the wood with a knife. Five words.
"THE THISTLE STILL BLEEDS GOLD."