Chapter 5: The Weight of Trust
The first light of dawn stretched through the trees, turning the mist above the camp into threads of gold.
Auron sat by the dying fire, the blade of his grandfather's sword resting across his knees. He ran a cloth slowly along its length, watching his reflection distort across the metal. The forest was silent except for the faint crackle of the embers and the distant hum of morning insects.
He had not slept. Every time he closed his eyes, the memory of Asher by the river returned: the low voices, the word "shipment," the glint of beast-born eyes. It turned his stomach.
Auron's fingers tightened around the hilt. The boy who had fought the Shadow Lynx in wild desperation was gone.
The man who remained now moved with cold precision
He thought of Godfrey's voice, the way the old man had spoken on long nights. "The beast that survives the winter is not the strongest. It is the one that knows when to strike."
Auron looked toward Lucian's tent. He could hear the boy's quiet snoring and the soft murmur of the guards outside. "I will not let another innocent die," he whispered. The words carried no pride, only a tired resolve.
The fire sputtered out. He sheathed the blade and stood.
*****
A few minutes later,
Lucian stepped from his tent, his hair a mess of gold that caught the rising sun. He wore a traveler's cloak too big for him and carried a half-eaten loaf of bread.
Lucian's voice broke the silence, bright and boyish. "You're up early, Auron."
Auron turned. The young noble was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, hair tousled from sleep, his hands clutching a steaming cup. His breath made small clouds as he grinned. "You look like a statue. Don't tell me you sat there all night?"
"I couldn't sleep," Auron replied evenly.
Lucian tilted his head. "Bad dreams?"
"Something like that."
The boy crouched beside the dying fire and poked it with a stick. Sparks flared briefly. "I get them too. My brothers used to say it's the forest whispering. That it plays tricks on your thoughts."
Auron gave a small hum of acknowledgment. The lie formed before he could stop it. "The noises kept me awake. Probably just the wind."
Lucian's smile faded a little. "It doesn't sound like the wind to me. It sounds like you're carrying a lot of noise inside."
Auron froze. For a heartbeat, he said nothing. There was no judgment in the boy's tone, just observation the kind only someone unscarred could make. He almost wanted to laugh at the irony.
"You're too perceptive for your own good," Auron said at last.
Lucian shrugged. "Comes from being ignored. People talk around you when they think you don't matter."
That struck something inside Auron; a quiet echo of loneliness he recognized all too well.
To shift the topic, he asked, "You said your family controls trade in the north, right?"
Lucian perked up, grateful for the change. "Yes. House Arvel. Or… what's left of it."
"What do you mean?"
Lucian picked up a small twig and rolled it between his fingers. "Our house used to be one of the pillars of Ironheart's northern border. Mines, trade routes, iron caravans: all of it. But our silver veins are nearly dry, and the southern houses keep taking our contracts. Father's been trying to secure new routes through the capital. This trip is supposed to be a diplomatic mission too."
Auron listened, silent.
Lucian's voice softened. "But the truth is, no one trusts us anymore. The knights say our banners still shine, but they're frayed at the edges."
"Is that why your father sent you along?"
Lucian laughed faintly. "He didn't send me. I begged to come. Said it'd be my 'chance to learn to ways of to the word.'" He looked down, smiling awkwardly.
"Mostly, I think he just wanted to be rid of me for a while that's why he allowed me too go."
Auron frowned. "You're his son… why could he want to get rid of you."
"His fourth son," Lucian corrected. "First sons became lord. Second sons become knights. Third sons get married off. Fourth sons… exist."
There was no bitterness in his voice, just matter-of-fact resignation. "So I decided I'd be useful in my own way. I help the guards, keep records, study magic. I may not inherit anything, but at least I can learn."
Auron studied him quietly. The boy was fragile in every sense; body, spirit, even belief yet there was something admirable in his lack of arrogance.
Lucian looked up suddenly. "What about you? You've never said where you're from."
Auron paused. He could still smell the blood-soaked snow of that night. He could still see the crater, the lifeless hand of the man who had raised him.
"Nowhere important," he said finally.
Lucian didn't push. "Then maybe that's why you're strong. People from nowhere don't have anything to lose, right?"
Auron forced a small smile. "Something like that."
The conversation faded into a soft silence. Birds began to stir overhead, their wings cutting through the mist. Lucian looked up at the sky. "We should be in Ashford soon. The capital's supposed to be beautiful this time of year. My brother says the streets are made of white marble."
Auron nodded but said nothing. The thought of marble streets meant nothing to him. His world was still blood and frost.
Lucian leaned back, smiling faintly. "I think I'll like having you around there. You don't talk much, but you listen. That's rare."
That simple statement hit harder than any praise. Auron looked away, hiding the flicker of emotion in his eyes.
****
By noon the camp had settled into its own rhythm.
The air shimmered with heat. Wagons stood in rows, covered with canvas to protect the goods within. Guards leaned on their spears, chatting idly. Servants moved between the fires with trays of food and water.
It was a noble caravan in every sense, yet under its order was an unease that only a hawk's eyes could see. The guards' patrol movements were full of opening.
Auron moved quietly through the camp, helping where he could, blending in. Every step was measured.
He noticed that Asher's tent stood near the edge of the river, slightly apart from the others. The fabric was thicker, reinforced with leather seams. Two guards stood nearby, both too well-armed for simple watch duty. One of them wore no house colors.
Auron stored that detail away.
When the sun began to lower, he slipped to the rear of the encampment under the guise of gathering wood. The guards barely looked his way. They were lazy now, used to the stillness of waiting.
The camp smelled of dust, sweat, and horse leather. But near Asher's tent, another scent lingered faintly - iron, smoke, and something feral. It reminded him of the Lynx's blood.
He crouched beside a wagon wheel and pressed his palm to the ground. A soft pulse ran through the soil, faint vibrations of mana signatures that only a trained sense could feel. Most belonged to humans, weak and scattered. But there was another, faint and rhythmic, like the slow breathing of something pretending to sleep. Beast-born mana, faint but distinct.
His suspicion deepened.
****
That evening,
he positioned himself near the servants' quarter, pretending to rest by the fire. He watched as two servants in brown tunics left together, carrying a small crate. They moved toward the riverbank, glancing around too often.
Auron waited a count of fifty before following, moving through the tall grass with silent steps. He kept his presence low, his mana condensed in his feet and legs to muffle sound. The wolf bracelet around his wrist grew warm.
At the river's edge, the two servants stopped beneath a gnarled oak. One of them knelt and began to dig. The other stood watch. They spoke softly. Auron caught fragments. "For him," "by dawn," "payment."
After a few minutes they covered the hole, placed a flat stone over it, and walked away.
Auron waited until the sounds of their footsteps faded. Then he approached the tree. The soil was still loose. He brushed it aside and uncovered a small, oil-wrapped parcel. Inside, he found a coin the size of his thumb, forged in dark metal. Its surface bore a carved sigil of a wolf's head with slit eyes.
He had seen one once before. Beast-born currency of Stonefang Horde . No human mint shaped metal in that pattern.
Beneath it lay a strip of parchment. The script was in trade code, short strokes and numbers meant to disguise the contents. But Auron recognized enough of the markings to understand. Quantity: one. Delivery: midnight, type: Payment secured.
Auron exhaled slowly. The "shipment" was Lucian.
He closed the parcel and buried it again, careful to leave no trace. As he rose, he looked toward the campfires in the distance. The orange glow flickered like faint stars through the trees. Somewhere in that light, Asher was planning the sale of a child.
The bracelet pulsed again, faintly alive.
By nightfall, the camp was quiet. The guards had grown tired, their rounds lazy and predictable. Auron remained awake, lying beside a cold firepit, his mind working in silence.
He began to draw in the dirt. A rough map of the camp took shape under his finger. He marked the tents, the guard posts, the river path. Then he added Asher's position, the servant quarters, and the spot by the oak. Each mark tightened the noose in his mind.
If Asher planned to act. He needed to be prepared for him
Auron needed proof, needed to know who else was bound to him. The servants were complicit. But what of the knights? Were they silent witnesses or paid accomplices?
He remembered Godfrey's teaching again. "A hunter who kills without knowing his prey invites death."
The forest wind carried the sound of distant laughter from the guards' fire. It mixed with the croak of night insects and the gentle rush of the river. The smell of smoke lingered in the air.
Auron stood. He moved through the camp once more, slower this time, observing faces. Some of the men had eyes too sharp, too alert for mere boredom. He saw one of Asher's guards quietly exchanging a pouch with a servant near the supply wagon. Another guard near Lucian's tent looked outward too often, as if expecting someone beyond the trees.
Pieces began to align.
He knew now that Asher had corrupted at least three knights under the Arvel banner. Perhaps more.
He walked past Lucian's tent and stopped. The boy was asleep, curled beneath his blanket, his breathing soft and unguarded.
Auron's jaw tightened. He felt the wolf's bracelet pulse again, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.
"I will end this," he whispered.
The moon climbed higher, silvering the treetops. Auron returned to his place by the cold fire and sat cross-legged. His eyes stayed open, unblinking, watching the distant shadows where Asher's tent stood.
He was no longer a runaway. No longer a frightened survivor.
He was the hunter now, patient and sure.
when the truth stood bare and every accomplice was known, he would strike.
The forest wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of rain and steel. The night whispered around him, and somewhere far away, a wolf howled.
Auron's hand closed around the hilt of his grandfather's sword