Chapter 8: The Weight of Names

It was still dark when it started.

Not the kind of dark that promises dawn, but the deep, silver-heavy dark of pre-dawn chill.

The fire was ash. The woods were quiet.

Sanna was on watch. She’d been still for nearly an hour—her cloak wrapped tight, boots

braced against stone, eyes locked on the winding ridge below.

Then her voice, clear and low:

“Wake up. One rider. Moving fast.”

Kaelen woke instantly.

Her body tensed before her thoughts caught up. She sat up fast, grabbing her belt and

cloak, heart pounding out of instinct more than fear.

Around her, the others moved the same way—professionals returning to position.

Thane rose without a word, buckling his belt mid-step, his eyes already scanning for the

unseen.

Coric tightened the strap on his shield and moved toward the edge of the trail.

Jorun stood with bow in hand—not drawn, but ready.

Iven was already kneeling beside his satchel, inventorying tools with the same calm he

used for broken bones.

Brenya, sitting up slow and deliberate, murmured something under her breath that made

the air shiver faintly.

“Rider’s alone,” Sanna added. “No torch. Hard pace. They’re not scouting—they’re

running.”

Jorun stepped to the edge, eyes locked on the motion below.

“Too fast to be recon,” she said. “That’s a message runner. They’re going to the town.”

“Same one we kept quiet for,” Coric muttered.

“They’ll report something,” Thane said flatly.

Brenya’s voice was calm but final. “Then we don’t vanish. We shape what gets told.”

Jorun gave a quick nod. “Agreed. But not my job to speak.”

She glanced toward Brenya. “You’re better with words. I’ll handle formation.”

Brenya stood and brushed down her cloak. “Then let them see truth and strength—not

fear.”

Iven stepped forward before orders fell. His voice was low but sure.

“Then no drawn steel. No sudden moves. We let them see control. Intent. Not threat.”

He looked toward Kaelen, the firelight barely catching his eyes.

“And they need to see her. As she is. Not hidden. Not myth. Just… standing.”

A quiet moment passed.

Thane nodded once. “Set formation. Half-line. Brenya front.”

Jorun moved immediately, guiding Coric and Kaelen toward open positions in the clearing,

each one deliberate, clear—a message written in posture.

Sanna faded back—not hidden, but unarmed and watching. Always watching.

Kaelen took her place. Not at the center. Not at the edge.

Visible. Grounded.

Her mother’s ring flashed once as she adjusted her glove.

She exhaled, spine straight.

“I’m ready.”

Brenya stepped to her side, every inch the merchant emissary, magic still humming faintly

around her as she adjusted her collar and lifted her chin.

“Good,” she said softly.

They held formation in silence.

Mist clung low across the clearing, wrapping around boots and brush like breath from

stone. The fire had faded to embers. Cold crept in from the trees.

Below them, a lone rider slowed.

Not in fear—because he recognized readiness.

He adjusted his reins, raised one gloved hand, and approached without hesitation.

He knew what he was riding into.

He crested the rise at a careful walk, posture upright.

His voice carried, clean and practiced:

“Messenger of the Broken Path. Sigil-name: Maren Slate.”

Thane stepped forward, tone even:

“Commander’s Response: Blackhorn Fold.”

Maren dismounted in one fluid motion, removed a hardened scroll case from his satchel,

and approached Brenya.

His gaze swept the group—noting their condition, cataloging faces. His eyes stopped

briefly on Kaelen, then returned to the task.

“I was dispatched from the eastern ban detachment in High Dross,” he said. “Five days

ago, word of the raid on Varethia reached us. You hadn’t made contact. Status unknown.

My orders were to locate your team, verify survival, and remain with you until arrival.”

He handed the sealed scroll to Brenya.

Brenya broke the seal, scanning the short message under the conjured light hovering at her

fingertips.

“No change in orders,” she said. “They’re holding in High Dross. Still expecting us. Nothing

more.”

Thane nodded. “Then we stay on track. No deviation.”

But Iven spoke then, his tone quiet but definitive.

“Sanna’s still short four hours of sleep,” he said, nodding toward the bedroll where the

scout was already half-curled under her cloak. “She’s been running thin since the last

engagement. We don’t move until she’s whole again.”

No argument followed.

When Iven said someone wasn’t ready, then they weren’t ready.

Brenya folded the message and tucked it away. “We rest. We regroup. We move when

sharp, not just vertical.”

Maren gave a respectful nod. “Understood. I was instructed to remain. No return trip. If I

don’t report within five days, the eastern group will assume I’m dead or detained and send

a forward scout.”

“We’ll make sure they don’t have to,” Thane said.

Jorun stepped to the horse, taking the reins and stroking along its neck.

“He’s worked hard. He’ll need care if he’s going to carry anything over the pass.”

Maren handed off the bridle without hesitation. “He’s smarter than he looks. Fusses more

about his footing than I do.”

The camp eased.

Sanna slipped fully into sleep, breath slowing, dagger still sheathed under her elbow.

The rest of the group began to settle back into the rhythm of waiting.

This wasn’t lost time.

It was a controlled delay.

Kaelen sat near the fire, adjusting her gloves, fingers aching from yesterday’s tension. The

air was cool enough that her breath lingered, ghostlike, between sentences.

Across from her, Maren chewed through a soldier’s ration—dense and joyless.

“Did you see Varethia?” she asked, voice low.

He shook his head. “No. Just the message. No survivors reported. Half a dozen conflicting

stories. Warband, spellfire, betrayal. Take your pick.”

She didn’t respond right away.

“I don’t think they care what story’s true,” he added. “Only that something big went silent.”

Brenya sat nearby, stretching one leg out slowly, cloak drawn over her lap.

“Then we’ll give them a different story,” she said. “One they’ll remember.”

Maren nodded, then glanced toward Kaelen again. “They’re waiting on you. Not as a

symbol. As a command.”

Kaelen exhaled, then stood slowly, shoulder still stiff from her shield.

Jorun watched her. Measured. Quiet.

“You ever hit a moving target from fifty paces?”

Kaelen blinked. “I’ve hit rabbits.”

“Rabbits are a start,” Jorun said, standing and stretching her bow shoulder.

“Four hours. Let’s make the first one count.”

The clearing was quiet but alive.

Jorun stood with her bow half-drawn, posture relaxed but alert. She moved like someone

who’d repeated every motion ten thousand times—but still respected each shot like it was

the first.

Kaelen stood across from her, holding the bow she’d claimed days ago. Her stance wasn’t

perfect—too tight in the shoulders—but she was focused.

“You don’t pull with your arms,” Jorun said, stepping closer. “You pull with your back, your

breath, and the moment just before the moment. Let the bow feel you breathe.”

Kaelen adjusted her grip. The string creaked faintly under tension.

Jorun nodded. “Good. Now release on—”

Kaelen winced. Just for a second.

But it was enough.

A voice cut in from the side.

“Stop.”

Iven, standing a short distance off, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Jorun turned. “She’s got it.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Iven said, walking over. “Because she’s compensating.”

He pointed to Kaelen’s left shoulder.

“You’ve been favoring that side since yesterday. It’s your shield arm. You rotated it forward

when you pulled. You’re guarding it without realizing.”

Kaelen’s jaw tightened. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Iven said. “You’re inflaming it more with every draw.”

Jorun sighed and lowered her bow.

“She’s got discipline,” she said quietly.

“She doesn’t have healing magic,” Iven replied.

Kaelen let out a slow breath, lowering the bow.

“I’m not fragile.”

Iven gave her a look. “Good. Then you’ll be smart instead.”

He stepped closer and held out a small leather pouch. “There’s salve in here. Use it. Twice

before noon. I’ll wrap the joint later—if you want full mobility by tomorrow.”

Kaelen hesitated. Then took it, the leather warm from his pocket.

“Can I finish one more round?”

Iven shook his head. “You already made your statement. Let your body make the next one

when it’s ready.”

He turned and walked away without another word.

Jorun looked at her for a long moment.

“Next time,” she said, “we practice first—then fight. Not the other way around.”

Kaelen gave a faint smile. “I’ll remember.”

Jorun nodded once. “You’d better. I’ve got a lot more arrows than you’ve got joints.”

The sun was just beginning to rise, soft and pale across the ridge.

Sanna still slept.

The others ate or sharpened or cleaned.

And Kaelen sat, quietly rubbing salve into her shoulder, the smell of mint and pine strong in

the cold morning air.

She wasn’t done.

But she was learning.

Kaelen sat near the fire, salve drying along her shoulder, the cold morning air threading

between her fingers.

The bow rested beside her. Unused. Still waiting.

She didn’t like sitting still. She didn’t like being told to wait. She understood it—but it didn’t

make it easier.

Brenya approached quietly. Her boots didn’t crunch. Her cloak moved like part of the wind.

She didn’t sit. Just stood at Kaelen’s side, looking down.

“You’re the kind that doesn’t sit still well,” she said.

Kaelen didn’t look up. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. And that’s fine too.”

She reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled something wrapped in dark cloth—small

and square, but worn at the edges.

She handed it to Kaelen.

“Then train something you can sharpen.”

Kaelen blinked and took the bundle. When she unwrapped it, she found a grimoire—

leather-bound, etched with a faint silver thread across the cover. It wasn’t decorative. It

was functional. A study tool.

“Foundations of Arcane Precision.” The script was old. Not fancy. Just real.

She opened the first page. Notes lined the margins—some penned by different hands.

Diagrams. Energy flow sketches. Spell lattices written in both runes and common tongue.

Kaelen looked up. “Yours?”

“Half of it,” Brenya said. “The other half belonged to your mother.”

That froze her.

“She never stopped learning,” Brenya added. “Even when she led. Even when she was

already stronger than most.”

Kaelen’s hands tightened around the spine of the book.

Brenya leaned forward, just enough to meet her eyes.

“You want to fight? Then study. Learn to control your breath. Your will. Your voice.”

She stood again, voice calm.

“That’s how we burn cities without raising a sword.”

Kaelen sat by the fire, the grimoire resting in her lap. Runes and breath diagrams filled the

page—lessons in rhythm, will, and restraint.

But the fire’s quiet crackle wasn’t the only sound in the camp.

Steel rang in measured bursts just beyond the clearing.

Coric and Thane moved in a slow, deliberate circle.

Neither spoke. Neither needed to.

Their blades clashed—not with rage, not with ceremony—but with intent.

Thane’s shield rose like a gate, bracing against a downward sweep. His footing didn’t shift

an inch. Everything about him was measured, grounded, deliberate.

Coric’s style was the mirror’s edge of that.

He moved fast, light on his feet, slipping in and out of reach with calculated steps. His

blade was shorter, meant for speed—not reach. His shield angled differently, more agile

than firm.

Coric feinted left, then struck low—fluid, not forceful.

Thane blocked and turned the momentum, stepping back just far enough to make Coric

chase his balance.

“Your pressure’s soft,” Thane said flatly.

Coric grinned. “Your stance is a barn. I’m not kicking in the door—I’m working the hinges.”

He lunged again, shield tilted to deflect the blow before it landed.

Thane parried, then drove forward—short, hard jabs that tested Coric’s reaction time more

than his endurance.

“You always play the edge of the fight,” Thane said.

“You always plant your feet like you’re daring the mountain to move.”

Neither was mocking. Just observation. The kind that only came from two fighters who

knew their strengths—and still chose to clash.

From her spot by the fire, Kaelen looked up once—just long enough to see the blur of

motion, the clatter of steel.

Then she returned to her reading.

The book said:

Opposition sharpens clarity. Control isn’t dominance—it’s understanding.

She underlined that one too.

The camp was quiet, but alive with movement.

Sanna still slept beneath her cloak, lost in the kind of deep, practiced rest only a scout

could summon at will.

Near the fire, Kaelen flipped pages, lips moving in silent repetition as she traced old runes

and newer notes. The grimoire rested on her knees, the scent of pine-laced salve still

clinging to her shoulder.

The rest of the party? They trained.

Coric and Thane had moved farther from the fire, giving their sparring more space.

Thane’s shield caught Coric’s slash, then rolled into a forward step, pressing the scout

backward. Coric pivoted low, swept wide, and regained ground with practiced speed.

It wasn’t a duel. It was a dialogue—steel speaking to steel.

Their styles were as different as earth and air, but neither gave ground easily.

Then Maren stepped forward, unstrapping the massive claymore from his back.

“I’ve watched enough,” he said.

Thane paused. “You sure?”

Maren smiled faintly. “You’re not the only one who stays sharp on the road.”

He moved like someone who had carried the blade long enough to forget its weight. His

stance was wide, grounded, with the blade angled high behind his shoulder—ready to cut

down, not parry.

Coric glanced at Thane. “Three’s a crowd?”

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Thane stepped back. “Three’s a test.”

The sparring shifted.

Coric and Maren circled each other first.

Maren struck first—not fast, but devastatingly committed. The blade sang through the air,

and Coric barely slipped aside, rolling over his shoulder to recover.

“Too close,” Maren warned.

“I’m not wearing a second shirt,” Coric muttered.

Thane rejoined a moment later, and the dynamic shifted again.

Steel rang like low thunder as the three exchanged movement, not blows—each testing the

others’ timing, reach, rhythm.

Thane held the line.

Coric attacked from angles.

Maren forced spacing, his blade clearing a half-circle every time it moved.

It wasn’t showy. It wasn’t loud.

It was professional men sharpening each other.

Meanwhile, at the edge of camp, Jorun slung her bow and pack over her shoulder.

“I’ll be back before the sun breaks clean,” she said to no one in particular. “We’ll need

something to smoke—Maren eats like a damn ox.”

She vanished into the treeline, quiet as shadow.

Back at the fire, Kaelen paused her reading just long enough to glance up at the distant

clang of sparring.

Then she returned to the grimoire.

The next page began with:

Magic is discipline made visible. But so is motion. Learn both.

She smiled faintly and underlined it.

The forest beyond camp was cool and quiet, touched faintly by the first blush of morning

light.

Jorun moved like someone who didn’t need to think about moving.

Her steps were soft, boots rolling heel-to-toe across the uneven ground. She kept her bow

slung across her back until she was well out of sight from the firelight. Then, silently, she

unslung it and notched an arrow—not to shoot, just ready.

The air smelled of moss and cold earth.

Birdsong hadn’t started yet. The world was still in that breath between dark and waking.

She didn’t track for long.

Signs were fresh—prints in the soft dirt, a few snapped ferns, droppings no older than an

hour. The brush was still damp, undisturbed past a narrow animal trail.

She crouched low, brushing a few leaves aside. Deer, maybe. Or a fat hare. Possibly both.

She didn’t rush.

Jorun hunted like she fought—quiet, prepared, patient.

Ten minutes passed before she heard it: a soft scrape, a quick shuffle through fallen

leaves.

She stilled, breathing low and slow, eyes focused through the trees.

A hare. Fat. Clean. Alert. Sitting up on its haunches not twenty yards ahead, twitching its

nose toward the rising light.

She didn’t reach for the arrow.

She was already holding it.

A slow breath.

Anchor point set.

No tension in her shoulders, just control.

She released.

The arrow flew.

A soft thud.

Then silence.

She moved fast but calm, retrieving the body with a practiced grip.

Clean kill. Arrow through the neck, just below the skull. No meat wasted.

She knelt beside it for a moment, brushing a thumb across the soft fur.

“Sorry, friend. You’re feeding the Skyfire now.”

She wrapped the carcass in a cloth and rose to her feet. She could carry one more—maybe

a squirrel, maybe not. But this would smoke well. Meat was meat. Rationed right, this

could stretch.

On the walk back, she paused once more.

There, just off the trail, half-buried in roots, was a patch of wildroot—rare, bitter, long

storing. Good for inflammation. Better in broth.

She knelt, cut a few bulbs loose, and tied them off in a pouch at her hip.

By the time she returned to the ridge, the light had broken through the clouds in thin shafts

of gold and gray.

Steel still clanged somewhere off to the side.

Kaelen still sat reading.

Sanna still slept.

And Jorun walked into camp with breakfast, medicine, and silence.

Exactly what she was built for.

Kaelen had just started parsing a section on gesture control—a diagram showing how the

angle of the hand could redirect force when casting defensive wards—when a shadow

crossed the page.

She looked up.

Iven stood over her, holding a knotted cloth pouch in one hand.

“Pause that,” he said. “You’re about to learn something useful.”

Kaelen frowned, one finger still on the line she’d been reading. “I am learning something

useful.”

“This doesn’t cancel that. It expands it.”

He crouched beside her, untied the pouch, and laid out three knobby root bulbs, a few

slender green stems, and something that looked like a dried pod.

“Wildroot,” he said, tapping one bulb. “Good find. Jorun brought them in. Rare this far

west.”

Kaelen leaned in. “Medicinal?”

“Yes. Bitter as hell raw. Boil it in broth, and it cuts swelling by half. Crush it and mix with

pine ash, it works on burns. Steep it in spiritroot tea, and it’ll lower a fever without putting

someone to sleep.”

He glanced at her. “You won’t find this in most grimoires.”

Kaelen studied the rough bulb. “It looks like a rock.”

“That’s because it’s trying not to be eaten.” Iven picked one up, split it with a fingernail. The

flesh inside was pale and fibrous. “That smell?”

Kaelen wrinkled her nose. “Like wet iron and bark.”

“Exactly. That means it’s good.” He handed her half. “Touch the cut edge.”

She did. It tingled faintly, almost cool—like mint, but rougher.

“It reacts to body heat,” Iven said. “Slightly conductive. That’s part of why it helps with

burn salves—carries magic or medicine deeper into the skin.”

Kaelen looked back at her open grimoire.

“Why isn’t this stuff in more magic texts?”

Iven smirked. “Because most mages don’t want to touch dirt.”

He stood, tying the pouch closed again. “But your mother did. And now you do.”

He tossed the last bulb to her. She caught it with one hand.

“Mark it down,” he said. “And when we’ve got time, I’ll show you how to turn that into a

poultice that’ll save someone’s life.”

He walked off toward his supplies, leaving her holding a lump of ugly root and wondering

how many spells she might have overlooked just because she didn’t know what plants

could do.

She picked up her quill, and in the margin beside the rune diagram, she wrote:

Wildroot—cool, bitter, reacts to heat. Conductive. Carries magic like blood.

Ask Iven about pine ash ratios.

She heard footsteps behind her—again. And before she could look up—

“You’re close,” Iven said, his voice carrying that dry calm of someone who knew when to

interrupt and when to let something land first.

Kaelen glanced over her shoulder.

Iven held out a leather-bound notebook, smaller than hers, worn at the corners, pages held

shut with a wrap of twine and a strip of stained cloth.

She blinked. “What’s this?”

He shrugged, handing it over. “A copy of my field notes. I've been transcribing it since we

met.”

She opened the first page. Neat, compressed handwriting. Ingredient lists. Ratios. Spell

adjustments for weather or elevation. Diagrams of rune sequences with tweaks for terrain

or fatigue.

Her brows lifted. “This is... detailed.”

“I’m not much for speeches,” Iven said, a faint chuckle in his throat. “But I can write a

decent margin note.”

Kaelen turned the page—more notes, more annotations. Some were marked: ‘Mareth’s

variation—fail. Disregard.’ Others had arrows pointing to tiny ‘try this under pressure’

reminders.

“Why?” she asked softly.

He shrugged again, but didn’t look away. “Because you’re going to need more than muscle

and fire to lead. And I figured if I died before we made it to High Dross, it’d be a waste if no

one read this.”

Kaelen didn’t know what to say.

So she didn’t say anything.

She just turned another page.

And added a new note in her grimoire:

Iven's field copy – cross-reference with volume pages. Ask about pressure-spell combos.

The sky was climbing from gray into soft gold.

The camp moved slow but steady—Kaelen flipping through her borrowed field notes, Iven

boiling a faintly bitter-smelling tea over the low fire, and Jorun rotating the half-smoked

rabbit on the rack she’d rigged from green branches.

Sanna had been still for hours, curled tight in her bedroll near the edge of the camp, cloak

over her head like a shroud.

Then, without a word, she sat up.

Her hair was a mess—streaked with leaves, mostly pulled into a crooked braid she’d

probably slept on.

She blinked once at the trees. Then looked directly at the fire and said, completely

deadpan:

“Good morning to whoever’s soul that is I smell cooking. Hope they deserved it.”

Iven raised an eyebrow from the other side of the pot. “Rabbit.”

Sanna nodded. “So... probably deserved it.”

She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, eyes half-lidded and voice dry as stone.

“Dreamed a crow tried to recruit me for a war against the stars,” she added casually. “I

turned it down. Told him I was unionized.”

Kaelen looked up, half confused, half smiling.

Sanna met her eyes. “You’re laughing. That’s good. Means you’re not dead. Yet.”

She stood slowly, cracking her neck with a grimace that was half pleasure, half annoyance.

Her bootlaces were already tied. Somehow.

“You all let me sleep too long,” she muttered, stretching one shoulder. “I missed the best

sparring noise. That was the good metal-on-metal rhythm. Had bass.”

“You needed four more hours,” Iven said without looking up. “Now you have them. No limp

in your step, no fog in your head.”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “You and your obsession with me not dying. You know how boring I’d

be if I was healthy all the time?”

“I’d take it,” Coric said nearby, unwrapping bandages from his wrist.

“You would,” she muttered.

Jorun stood from the smoke rack, checking the meat with a practiced touch.

“Rabbit’s nearly done,” she said. “Should last us two more days if we ration tight.”

Sanna moved to crouch beside her.

“Do I get a piece?”

“You get the back leg.”

“Deal.”

She looked back toward Kaelen again. “You’re still here. Good. Wasn’t sure if you’d bolt

after surviving your first full day of our madness.”

Kaelen shrugged. “Still deciding.”

Sanna grinned, sharp and dry. “Stick around. We’re worse up close.”

As the rabbit smoked and Sanna stretched the last of her sleep from her joints, Kaelen

stayed near the fire, flipping a page in the grimoire with one hand and nursing a tin of weak

tea with the other.

Nearby, Brenya spread a thick parchment map across a flat rock—its corners held down

with a small dagger, a flask, and a bone-handled spoon.

Thane crouched beside her.

Jorun stood behind them both, arms folded, chewing on a stem of something bitter.

Brenya traced the edge of the map with her finger. “Greybrook Vale is two days out, if the

trails hold. If we avoid the ridge crossing.”

Thane nodded. “And if we don’t avoid it?”

“We gain half a day,” Brenya said, “but risk more exposure. Narrow path, bad footing,

easier to track us from above.”

Jorun snorted. “It’s also a killing field. If we take it, we stay visible—by design. Let

whoever’s watching think we want to be seen.”

Thane looked up at her. “Think someone’s watching?”

“Always,” she said simply. “Doesn’t mean they’re close. But word spreads. Varethia

burned too loud.”

Brenya tapped the parchment again. “High Dross expects us in four. Three now, with

Maren’s message accounted for. If we don’t arrive by then, they send scouts.”

“We have the time,” Thane said. “But we need to move with purpose.”

Jorun reached over and pointed to a spot just southeast of their current position. “There’s a

ruined watchtower here—could make camp there tomorrow night. Good elevation. One

way in, three ways out.”

Thane considered. “Sanna will hate it. Not enough trees.”

“She’ll live,” Brenya said. “And we’ll see anyone trying to flank us.”

Kaelen looked up briefly, watching them from a short distance.

No raised voices. No arguing.

Just calm professionals solving a puzzle they’d solved a dozen times before—and were still

humble enough to solve again.

She sipped her tea.

She was learning.

Even when she wasn’t part of the conversation.

The map was folded.

The spoons were packed.

The fire was nearly ash.

Thane stood and addressed the party.

“We move in fifteen. Trail’s damp. We hold west toward Greybrook Vale, then push the

ridge before nightfall. Watchtower’s our camp.”

No one questioned him.

Jorun nodded, wrapping the smoked rabbit into tight oilcloth.

Sanna groaned.

“A tower? Really? No trees. No shadows. Nothing to leap out of dramatically while

whispering grim promises to the wind.”

She crossed her arms with a theatrical sigh.

“You’re all determined to take the joy out of being unseen.”

No one responded.

She sniffed. “It’s all right, Gary. You can ride in my satchel today. We’ll make do.”

Kaelen blinked. “Who’s Gary?”

Coric, adjusting the straps on his gear, replied without looking up.

“Imaginary friend. Tells her where to stab people.”

Kaelen frowned slightly. “And that’s… normal?”

Coric shrugged. “Helps her focus. Just don’t talk to him. Encourages him.”

Iven, passing with a waterskin, added dryly:

“Tell Gary to keep his commentary to himself during watch shifts.”

“He’s very professional,” Sanna said sweetly. “Unlike some of us.”

Nearby, Maren finished tightening his saddle straps.

Kaelen, still not quite sure how to process the last minute of conversation, glanced over.

“Why don’t we load your horse with more gear?”

Maren looked up, calm as ever.

“Because, young lass, I am what you call cavalry. And he—” he patted the horse’s flank,

“—is not a mule, but your brother-at-arms. Just as I am.”

The horse flicked an ear and gave a low breath, as if to agree.

Kaelen nodded. “Right.”

Brenya passed behind her, smiling faintly.

“You’re not the first to ask. Might be the first to get poetry for an answer.”

“Wasn’t poetry,” Maren muttered. “Just truth.”

Kaelen closed the grimoire, tucking Iven’s notebook into her pack.

The morning air was cold, but the sun had climbed.

Her shoulder ached, but she could walk.

The road wasn’t waiting.

It was calling.