Old Copper Hollows, Eastern Velgrath
They emerged from the ridge line like wraiths—four riders cloaked in faded house-colors, armor patched with boiled leather and riveted scraps. Not soldiers, but they moved like men who'd fought for coin or cause before. Their leader was cloaked in grey, his helm a nasal-barred remnant from a northern campaign long buried by time.
He reined his horse at the ledge and looked down at Aeron's campfire.
"You show the coin," the man said. "That earns a parley. Barely."
Aeron stood, brushing frost from his cloak. "You knew my father?"
"I knew his oath. And the price he paid to keep it."
The man dismounted, boots crunching over shale. He came forward slowly—hand not on his hilt, but close. The three others waited, watching.
"You carry a dead name," the rider said, voice coarse but clear. "House Thorne died twenty winters ago, gutted on the Crown's altar. Why raise its shadow now?"
Aeron answered with silence first. Then: "Because the line was buried, not broken."
The man studied him. "And if I said others survived? Ones with cause to stay hidden? What would you offer?"
"Not coin," Aeron said. "Something older."
He drew from his satchel a second item—wrapped in oilcloth, tied with thread. When he unfolded it, the men tensed.
Inside was a fragment of dark iron, shaped like a broken wing. A piece of the sigil crestplate from the last standard of House Thorne.
The rider exhaled. "Where did you get that?"
"My brother's last battlefield. I took it from the muck."
Another pause. Wind whipped through the hollow. The fire guttered.
"I saw him die," the man said. "At the Velgrim Break. Held the line until the King's men broke ranks."
"You were there?" Harwin asked from behind.
The man didn't look away from Aeron. "Aye. And I swore that day never to serve another banner that didn't bleed first."
A long silence stretched between them, weighty and real.
Then the man nodded once and turned to his companions.
"Light no signal. Take no pay. But we ride with him."
"You sure?" one asked. "He's got nothing."
"He's got a name. And if he's lying, the road will kill him anyway."
The others murmured, then spurred their horses down.
By midnight, there were seven at the fire. One named Garrick, one named Thale, one mute. They had all served. And all had been betrayed by crowns and coin alike.
They didn't swear fealty. Not yet.
But they didn't leave either.
And in the morning, the boy found a faded banner half-buried in the snow—a field of gray, with a thorned wing in black.
He held it up to Aeron. "Yours?"
Aeron nodded. "Not yet. But soon."