chapter four - the twin griffins
Ten days had passed since Auron had slain the Shadow Lynx.
The forest still breathed with that memory, the silence after a predator's death, a kind of reverent stillness that weighed upon the trees
Snow melted into dark soil, and the smell of smoke still lingered from his fires.
auron had survived as a phantom, ceaselessly foraging, hunting, and tending wounds that stubbornly resisted healing.
Hunger was constant, sleep shallow. That morning, he lifted the cart's lid to confront the truth: nothing remained but a cracked of bread loaf and dried blood on the wood.
His supplies were depleted. "Seems like I've run out of supplies," he murmured, voice hoarse from disuse.
The words carried no surprise. He had known this moment was coming.
It was time to leave the forest.
Before he did, he walked to the edge of the grove, where a single grave lay beneath the roots of an old oak
. The snow here never fully melted. The air was colder, stiller.
Auron knelt. The earth was damp beneath his fingers.
For a long time, he said nothing. "Grandpa," he whispered at last, "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you." His voice trembled, then steadied. "You carried the weight of the world on your back. I didn't even carry my own."
He drew a slow breath, his fingers tightening around the bracelet on his wrist. The wolf sigil shimmered faintly under the winter light. "I can't undo what happened," he said,
eyes dark as ash. "But I will make them remember. Every one of them, the blade, the hand that held it, and the power that sanctioned it." The silence deepened.
Wind swept through the branches, carrying snowflakes that glowed like sparks. "I'll live, Grandpa," he said softly. "And I'll make sure your name isn't buried here with you."
He rose to his feet, turned his back on the grave, and began to run. For ten days he had trained, pushing the strange energy within him, mana, as Godfrey had called it,
to obey his will. At first it burned like fire, wild and uncontrollable, but now it flowed like a river through veins and muscle. He had learned to condense it in parts of his body, arms, legs, even fingertips, strengthening them beyond natural limits.
Skin that once tore easily now resisted like steel. Each breath drew mana inward, refining it in the vessel of his core.
Godfrey had once described that place, the dantian, as the wellspring of a warrior's spirit. Auron could almost see it now, a small sphere of light deep within his abdomen, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat
****
Two hours had passed since he had left the grave, and exhaustion finally caught him.
He dropped beside a stream, scooped water into his hands, and laughed quietly to himself.
"Mana is amazing," he said between breaths, marveling at how it had changed him But
then he froze.
A faint vibration rippled through the ground, followed by the low hum of power in the air. It was not the wild pulse of beasts, nor the rhythmic mana of nature.
This was refined, disciplined, human. A caravan.
He climbed the nearest ridge and peered through the branches. Below, a line of carriages rolled along a snow-packed road. Soldiers in polished armor flanked them, their tabards marked with twin griffins rearing upon a field of crimson.
House Arvel. He had heard that name before, nobles of the northern provinces, famed for their mines and steelwork. Auron studied them for a while
Caravans like these always carried maps, food, and guides. He needed all three. "If I'm to leave this forest alive," he thought, "I'll need their help."
And so he began his descent.
The first man to spot him was a soldier; his shout drew attention, and soon half a dozen guards surrounded him with spears raised. "Who goes there?" one barked.
Auron raised his hands. "A traveler," he stated calmly. "I became disoriented in the woods; I now seek passage."
The guards exchanged uncertain glances. His clothes were tattered, his eyes hollow but steady. He did not look like a bandit, too young, too self-controlled.
From the main carriage, a tall man dismounted. His armor was silvered steel, worn but immaculate, and a blue cloak hung over his shoulders.
The sigil of the twin griffins gleamed upon his chestplate. "I am Sir Asher Arvel," the knight said, his voice measured. "Captain of this escort. Who are you, boy?"
"Auron," he answered. "I've no house or title."
Asher's eyes studied him, the gaunt face, the faint burn scars, the silent defiance in his stance. "And how did you come to wander these woods?"
"I ran from death after bandits struck." Auron said simply. That made the knight pause. Then, after a long silence, he nodded.
"If you mean us no harm, you may walk beside the wagons until we reach the next outpost. Food will be shared if you work for it."
"I'll work," Auron replied. Asher motioned for the guards to lower their weapons. "See to it," he said, turning back to the carriage.
From its open window, a boy's face peered out, hair like spun gold, eyes bright with curiosity. "Sir Asher, who's that?" "A stray," Asher said.
Lucian Arvel, fourth son of House Arvel, was barely older than Auron. He climbed down , landing in the snow with an undignified thud.
He brushed himself off and smiled. "A stray, huh? You don't look like one."
"never judge a book by it's cover," Auron said. Lucian laughed softly. "Then you must be a good book." Something about him, his openness, his lack of malice, disarmed Auron.
It was the first honest gaze he had met since the night the world ended for him.
"I'm Lucian," he said, extending a gloved hand. "And if you're hungry, I'm sure Asher won't mind sharing."
Auron hesitated, then took the hand. "Auron." Asher watched the exchange with faint amusement.
"My lord, you're far too trusting," he murmured. "Trust is how you make friends," Lucian said brightly.
"Trust is also how you die young," Asher replied, but there was warmth beneath his words.
By nightfall, the caravan had stopped near a clearing beside a frozen river.
Tents were raised, fires lit, and the smell of stew filled the air. Auron sat near the edge of camp, eating in silence.
Lucian joined him, unbothered by the stares of servants and guards. "You've really lived in that forest all this time?" "Ten days," Auron said. "Maybe more."
Lucian's eyes widened. "Alone?" "I had to," Auron said,
staring into the fire. "When you're alone, there's no one left to protect you but yourself." Lucian was quiet for a while. Then he said softly, "You sound older than you look."
"Maybe I do."
They ate in silence again.
Suddenly, Asher stood up abruptly and approached Lucian.
"Lord Lucian, have received a message from the capital that requires immediate attention. A knight has arrived with urgent correspondence."
Lucian brightened. "A message from Rodrik?" Asher gave a brief nod, his expression grave, yet his eyes held a cold stillness. " he will be joining us in the upcoming days my lord."
***
Midnight had fallen, draping the forest in silence so complete that even the campfires seemed to burn quieter.
Yet Auron could not sleep.
Something in the air felt wrong it was an unease that crawled along his spine, whispering of danger.
He rose from his bedroll, slipping past the soft snores of the caravan guards.
The night smelled of river mist and ash. The moon hung pale and distant, its light spilling over the silver-tipped tents of House Arvel.
As he wandered, his eyes caught a flicker of motion near the edge of the encampment. Asher was leaving the perimeter.
His steps were too deliberate, too silent for a man on a routine patrol.
Auron frowned and followed, keeping his distance.
Asher moved toward the riverbank where the fog pooled thick, swallowing sound.
He paused only once to glance behind him and then je disappeared into the shadows of the trees.
Auron's mana stirred, instinctive and alert
Two signatures pressed faintly against the edges of his perception. They weren't human. Their essence felt wild, untamed
Beast born.
He quickened his pace, keeping low. Through the mist, faint murmurs reached his ears.
"Asher," hissed a voice not meant for human throats. "The shipment must be soon. Our lord grows impatient."
A shadow moved. Asher's tone was low, desperate. "It will be done. The rodrik arrives in the 5-6 days. I'll deliver him before then. No witnesses, as promised."
Auron froze. "The boy?" His thoughts snapped instantly to Lucian; the golden-haired noble who had offered him bread, who had smiled at him like a friend.
The taller of the cloaked figures reached out, his hand glinting as something gold flickered between them. "Payment," the beast born rasped.
"When the cub is ours, the rest follows."
The air shimmered as the light hit their faces. Auron saw them clearly then features too twisted to belong to men. Eyes narrow and luminous, fangs catching the moonlight.
Beastborn hunters, deep within human lands.
Auron's heartbeat thundered in his ears. He stepped back slowly, careful not to break a branch or rustle a leaf. Every instinct screamed to act, to strike but reason held him still.
If Asher saw him, Lucian would die tonight.
He melted into the shadows, retreating until the whispers faded behind him. The chill of the river followed him all the way back to camp.
Near the fire, Lucian's tent stood still, the young noble asleep inside, his breathing calm and steady. Auron watched him for a long moment.
That laughter, that warmth, it had all been genuine. And now the boy was a mark, a prize in some foul exchange.
Auron clenched his fists. The wolf sigil on his wrist gleamed faintly under the moonlight, pulsing once like a heartbeat.
"Not yet," he whispered, the words rough in his throat.
"When he moves, I'll be waiting."
As dawn crept over the treeline, Auron still hadn't closed his eyes.
The bracelet burned faintly against his skin, the spectral wolf within stirring restlessly as if it too could sense that blood would soon be spilled.