The roar faded, but its echo lingered in the bones of the land.
Aurelian felt it long after the sound itself vanished—like heat trapped beneath ash, waiting for breath.
They reached a river town by dusk, its wooden palisades leaning with age and neglect. Smoke curled from chimneys, but there was no warmth in it—only habit. Guards watched the road with tired eyes and tighter grips on their spears.
Elayne slowed her pace. "This is Blackwater's Reach," she said quietly. "Not the city—just one of the many places that survives in its shadow."
Aurelian nodded. He could feel the press of people here, the hum of fear layered with ambition. Mortal emotions were loud, raw, and unshielded.
Inside the town, whispers followed them like insects. Aurelian kept his magic folded tight, but even restrained, something about him unsettled the air. Children stared. Dogs whimpered and pulled away.
They found shelter in a low-roofed inn that smelled of ale and damp wood. Elayne spoke briefly with the innkeep, silver changing hands, and secured a corner table near the hearth.
As night deepened, the tavern filled with rumor.
"—say the dragons burned a holdfast clean—"
"—queen across the sea, they say—"
"—king's men are searching for something, not someone—"
Aurelian's attention sharpened at that.
Elayne leaned closer. "You feel that too, don't you?"
"Yes," he said softly. "They are not hunting a man. They are hunting a power."
A cloaked figure entered the tavern then, and the room quieted almost imperceptibly. He moved like a man accustomed to being obeyed—shoulders straight, gaze assessing.
Gold flashed briefly at his collar.
Aurelian stiffened. The Veil Anchor pulsed once, cold and sharp.
"That's a Crown agent," Elayne murmured. "Spymaster's hound, most likely."
The man's eyes swept the room—and paused on Aurelian.
Only for a heartbeat.
But that was enough.
Aurelian felt the probe, subtle and skilled. Not magic—intuition sharpened by experience. Dangerous in its own way.
He met the man's gaze calmly, letting nothing surface.
After a tense moment, the agent turned away and took a seat near the door.
Elayne exhaled slowly. "We should leave before dawn."
"No," Aurelian replied. "He has already marked this place. Leaving now would confirm suspicion."
Elayne frowned. "You speak like someone used to courts."
"I was raised by one," Aurelian said, thinking of ironwood thrones and shadowed halls.
Later, when the tavern emptied and the hearth dimmed, Aurelian slipped outside. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of river mud and smoke.
He followed the pull.
Behind the inn, beneath a rotting dock, the Veil Anchor grew restless. Aurelian knelt, brushing aside planks and debris, revealing stone etched with half-erased sigils.
Old. Older than the town.
A fragment of a forgotten ward.
Westeros had once known magic more deeply than it remembered.
"You shouldn't be there," a voice said behind him.
Aurelian rose slowly, turning to face the Crown agent. The man stood with hands visible, posture cautious rather than aggressive.
"You feel it too," the agent said. "Whatever you are carrying."
Aurelian studied him. "If you know that much, then you know better than to reach for it."
The man gave a thin smile. "My name is Ser Alric Vayne. I serve the Iron Throne."
Aurelian inclined his head slightly. "Then you serve a seat of blades built on borrowed power."
Vayne's eyes narrowed, but he did not deny it.
"I don't know what game you're playing," Vayne said, "but the Crown is searching for artifacts that predate Valyria. If you have one—"
"It is not yours," Aurelian interrupted. Shadows deepened around his feet, not threatening, merely present.
Vayne felt it. He took an involuntary step back.
After a long silence, Vayne spoke again, more carefully. "There are forces moving in King's Landing that would tear this realm apart for what you carry."
Aurelian met his gaze. "Then they should pray I reach them first."
From the inn doorway, Elayne watched, hand on her sword.
Far away, beneath dragon-shadowed skies, ancient powers stirred in answer.
And in Nightbloom, Queen Maleficent opened her eyes from a dream of iron thrones cracking beneath creeping thorns.
The crown of men had felt the echo.
And it would not be the last.