Greywine Crossing Roads, South Velgrath – Two Days Later
The old roads south of Greywine were half-forgotten veins through lowland marsh and brittle forest, carved once by kings who'd long since turned to dust. Mud sucked at the hooves, and fog crept like old regrets between the trees.
Aeron rode at the front, cloak pinned with the thorn-sigil—his thorn-sigil—stitched anew onto ragged cloth. No one saluted it yet. But none mocked it either.
Harwin rode behind, silent save for the slow whet of stone on blade. Tarn rode beside Elric now, learning the reins, posture stiff, eyes eager. He had asked no fewer than nine times what his duties were as a bannerbearer. No one answered.
"Let him carry it," Aeron had said. "It's not just a cloth. It's weight."
A Field Inn, Edge of Croftford Vale – Nightfall
The inn wasn't much more than a stablehouse turned tavern. A crooked sign read The Split Mare, and it leaned like it had been drunk for years. Inside, warmth and smoke mixed in equal parts. A few locals watched the newcomers with wary eyes.
Harwin leaned close. "I count three sellswords in the corner. Blades dull, boots caked, no colors."
"Outlaws?" Aeron asked.
"No. Just hungry."
Aeron nodded, then turned to the barkeep, a stout woman with grey hair and a burn scar at her temple.
"We need food, ale, and news."
"Got two of those," she said, sliding him a chipped mug.
Elric returned from the stables, wiping his hands. "Old peddler outside says the roads to Hallowmere are closed. Temple knights have sealed them. No reason given."
"Because there's a reason they can't name," Aeron muttered. "What else?"
Tarn approached, breathless. "There's a rider outside. Just arrived. Claims he's looking for you."
Harwin stood fast, hand on hilt.
Aeron didn't move. "Send him in."
The rider entered, dressed in road-dusted black, no heraldry. But the way he moved—measured, crisp—spoke of training. Not a bandit. Not a common courier.
He bowed slightly. "Lord Thorne. I bring you a second offer."
Aeron's eyes narrowed. "From Velstrom again?"
"No. From Seyuun."
The inn went quiet. Even the hearth seemed to pause.
Seyuun—southern kingdom, rich in grain and trade, and long silent in the north's wars.
The man continued, producing a thin scroll bound with twine.
"My lady bids you audience in Whitebridge within the week. She names you not traitor, but exile. And she says exiles may yet choose sides."
"Which lady?" Harwin asked.
The man looked only at Aeron. "Lady Mirelle Caerwyn."
Later, Under Cold Stars
They rode from the inn before dawn, leaving behind questions and whispers.
"Do you believe it's really her?" Harwin asked.
Aeron didn't answer immediately. "If it is, she's playing a deeper game than any of us guessed."
Elric snorted. "Or she's laying a trap."
"Then let her. I'm not the same fool she left."
Tarn rode closer. "What if she is on our side?"
Aeron looked at the boy. "Then the world just got stranger."
Ahead, the road split—one path west toward the border-marches and loyal bannermen, the other veering south toward Seyuun.
Aeron did not hesitate.
He turned south.