Much ground lay behind Baronsworth since leaving Torrania. He pressed forward now, doing all he could to keep his mind from the tragedies trailing in his wake — the haunted faces of the fallen, the helpless family torn from their home, the long shadow of his father’s last farewell.

  Instead, he focused on the road ahead.

  A good night's sleep had restored strength to his bones, easier now that the milder climes allowed him to rest more soundly, and the pleasant afternoon sun warmed his face, its light filling him with a renewed vitality. The breeze was gentle, scented with fresh earth and spring leaves, and for the first time in days, the world did not seem so cruel. The day was fair — neither too warm nor too cold — and Baronsworth walked alone, following a quiet dirt path that stretched through the countryside, running parallel to the Great Lorthern Way. This famed trade road stretched like a vein across the realm, linking the sun-baked southern lands of Azaran with the distant halls of Argos, the Holy Capital to the north, and even beyond.

  With the scent of pine and wildflowers in the air, the stench of Torrania’s gutters felt like a distant nightmare.

  Soon, the road led into a forest.

  It was old and thick with towering trees, their canopies filtering the sunlight into shafts of gold. The path narrowed and grew rough, overgrown in places, but Baronsworth didn’t mind. On the contrary — he welcomed the silence. He had no desire for company.

  For hours he walked beneath the boughs of stout trees, letting the rhythm of his steps and the rustle of leaves soothe his heart. He breathed deeply, trying to push away the images that haunted him — the tears in his father’s eyes, the cruel laughter of soldiers, the trembling cries of hungry children.

  This forest, at least, asked nothing of him. It gave no judgment, no pity — only quiet.

  Eventually, the path brought him to a shallow river. The water was crystal-clear, its stony bed visible beneath the surface. Tiny fish darted through the flow, flashing silver in the daylight. He stepped into the cool current. It reached only to his ankles, though the stream was wide, and the trail continued on the far bank.

  He moved forward, lost in thought.

  And then — a shadow.

  From the trees ahead, a figure emerged.

  A tall man. Broad-shouldered. Armed.

  He stepped into the river from the opposite shore, walking directly toward Baronsworth. When they were only a few paces apart, the man raised a hand to halt him.

  “Stop,” he said. “You’ll go no further.”

  Baronsworth narrowed his eyes.

  “You must pay the tax,” the man continued, “or turn back from whence you came.”

  “Tax?” Baronsworth repeated, incredulous. “What tax?”

  The stranger gave no answer beyond what had already been said. He was well-equipped — clad in a fine gambeson, a shield strapped to one arm, his other hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His face was rough, his beard unkempt, his eyes calm and cold.

  “This is my river,” the man said. “And all who cross it must pay a toll. Or fight me for the right.”

  Baronsworth studied him — the stance, the readiness, the quiet arrogance of a man who had killed before and would kill again. A seasoned veteran, no doubt. But more than that — a predator. Another vulture feeding off the broken remains of a crumbling world.

  “A bandit,” Baronsworth muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Disgust bloomed in his chest. Another leech. Another petty tyrant, drunk on power and greed.

  Something within him snapped.

  He thought of Kessler, standing smug above the weeping mother and her starving children. He saw visions of his father’s lifeblood spilled upon the cold stone floor, of Astarte’s cries, of the last flickering light of the Sunkeep swallowed by darkness.

  He clenched his fists.

  “I am tired,” he growled, voice low and tight, “of honorless curs preying on those they deem weak.”

  The bandit's expression darkened—but Baronsworth no longer saw him. The man's face had blurred into memory and fury. He was seeing fire and steel, the downfall of his house, the cruelty of men without conscience, the incessant predation of the strong upon the helpless.

  He took a step forward, the water swirling around his boots.

  “No more!” he said — and his voice rang like drawn steel.

  He swung his pack from his back and, with a motion like a discus throw, hurled it back toward the shore. It landed with a wet thump on the grass. Then, in one smooth motion, he drew the Lightbringer.

  The blade came free with a whisper of steel, catching the sunlight that spilled through the arching canopy above. For a heartbeat, it seemed to glow with a light of its own — a shard of starlight woken from slumber.

  With a fierce cry, Baronsworth charged, his hood slipping back to reveal his face.

  The man’s eyes widened. He hadn’t expected a boy beneath the cowl — let alone one who moved with such speed, such ferocity. He barely got his blade half-drawn when Baronsworth leapt, bringing his sword down in a mighty arc that smashed against the stranger’s shield.

  The blow drove him back several paces, boots skidding in the gravel riverbed.

  Baronsworth pressed the assault.

  Blow after blow fell upon the man’s defenses — vicious, relentless, each strike a falling star, burning with fury. The stranger reeled beneath the onslaught, astonished by the raw strength and savage precision of the youth before him. This was no peasant boy. This was no easy mark.

  But he was no novice, either.

  The man’s stance was firm, his footwork practiced. With experience born of many battles, he endured the barrage, parrying, sidestepping, waiting. Watching.

  He saw the flaw soon enough.

  Too aggressive. Too much weight behind every swing. The boy overcommits. He overextends.

  And so, when Baronsworth lunged forward with a wild thrust, the man slipped to the side and swept a leg into his path.

  Baronsworth stumbled — and fell face-first into the water.

  The onlookers on the far bank burst into laughter.

  The man lifted his arms, grinning. “You fight well, boy. But you burn too hot. Victory won’t come from fury alone.”

  The words stung.

  Baronsworth’s mind flashed back — not to the river, but to a stone courtyard, to the training yard at Sunkeep. He heard Alexander’s voice, cool and commanding: “Too wild, too much weight in every swing. You strike like a wildfire — but wildfires burn out. Learn restraint. Master self-control. Channel your strength, or it will be used against you.”

  Was he really so foolish that he was still making the same mistake?

  The cold water stung his skin. His rage cooled.

  He rose. Swiftly.

  The stranger blinked, startled at how fast the boy was back on his feet. He hadn’t expected the fight to continue — certainly not with this much energy. He’d laughed too soon.

  Baronsworth said nothing. No taunt. No cry. Only calm now — the fire had not left him, but it had been harnessed, tempered into steel.

  He began to circle.

  The blade of the Lightbringer gleamed at his side, balanced and ready, as if it too had sensed the shift within him. The stranger took a breath, steadied his shield, and advanced, launching the first blow.

  He struck cleanly, shield forward, sword flashing — a practiced rhythm of offense and defense in perfect sync. It was a disciplined pattern, one that had likely broken dozens before him.

  Baronsworth matched it.

  He parried, shifted, pivoted, letting the shield glances slide past, turning each blade strike away. He moved with precision now, letting instinct and memory guide him — every motion echoing the teachings of Alexander, his father, and all the mentors who had shaped him since childhood.

  And he waited.

  He waited for the opening he knew would come.

  The stranger was far stronger than Baronsworth — taller, broader, with the hardened physique of a seasoned fighter. But Baronsworth, though still a boy, had trained all his life among masters. This man reminded him of Alexander: powerful, skilled, and precise.

  Baronsworth watched his opponent closely. The man leaned into his strength with every strike, pressing the advantage of brute force. But that, too, could be used against him. Use your enemy’s strength as his undoing, Godfrey had taught him. Bend, but never break.

  The next time the man lunged forward, Baronsworth ducked beneath the blow and surged in close. Their bodies collided in a clash of strength and leverage, locked in a brutal grapple in the shallows of the stream.

  He gave the appearance of matching the man, muscle for muscle — a direct contest of will. The stranger bit the bait.

  Baronsworth strained, feet sliding against the riverbed, struggling to withstand the man’s power with all his might. But strength was not his true weapon. Cunning was.

  Just as the man leaned in to break the lock, Baronsworth shifted. He stepped aside, letting the man's momentum carry him off balance — and in a swift, violent sweep, struck his legs from beneath him.

  The stranger went down hard, crashing into the water with a shout of surprise and a splash that scattered droplets like silver sparks.

  Baronsworth was on him in an instant — boot to chest, Lightbringer at his throat. The man froze as water lapped at his cheeks, a shaft of sun breaking through the canopy to blind his eyes, pinning him as surely as the blade.

  Baronsworth had emerged victorious from his first true fight.

  From the opposite shore came sounds of disturbance. Baronsworth glanced up to see a figure emerging from the treeline, striding toward the water's edge. The man was tall and striking, with a noble countenance and long golden hair that caught the light, forming a luminous halo. His finely wrought armor gleamed like polished glass in the sun, and his bearing spoke of nobility — a knight stepped from legend itself.

  “Hold there!” the golden-haired man called, his voice ringing with command. “Why do you assault one of my men?”

  “He attacked me first,” Baronsworth replied, his blade still drawn but held steady. “I merely defended myself.”

  The warrior blinked, incredulous. His gaze moved from the fallen man—still floundering in the shallows—back to Baronsworth. “You bested Karl in single combat?” he murmured, surprise quickly hardening into anger.

  “How many times must I warn you, Karl?” His voice turned cold as he addressed the fallen man. “We are sellswords, not common brigands. You do not waylay innocent travelers for sport. Am I not generous enough with your coin? Do you truly hunger for more?” His tone grew disgusted. “This is nothing but base greed.”

  The elegant warrior was clearly their leader. He paused, then continued, weariness creeping into his voice.

  “I had hoped you might learn wisdom. Clearly, I was mistaken.” He turned back to Baronsworth with formal gravity. “I apologize for this unprovoked attack, stranger. It was not sanctioned by my command. I will no longer shield him from consequence—it is time he faced the price of his choices. His fate rests in your hands. Do with him as you see fit. Should you deem his actions worthy of death, I will understand and bear you no ill will.”

  Baronsworth stared down at Karl. It was a pitiful sight—the man struggled against the current, gasping and sputtering for breath. For a heartbeat, Baronsworth weighed the scales: the righteousness of justice, the satisfaction of retribution. The heavy images of cruelty—of innocent souls crushed beneath the boots of those who took what they pleased—lingered in his mind. And yet...When he looked into the fallen man's eyes, he found no hatred glaring back. Instead, he saw only profound sorrow, grief, and shame. Despite the fury that had burned in him moments before, Baronsworth found he could not bring himself to end this wretched man's life.

  The young warrior sheathed Lightbringer and lifted his boot from the defeated stranger's chest.

  The golden-haired man gave a subtle nod. Respect. Perhaps even relief.

  Karl could scarcely comprehend his fortune. Moments before, he had been certain of his death—yet now, granted mercy by the boy he had scorned, he found himself consumed by something foreign and luminous: joy. But it ran deeper than that. No words could capture what flooded his heart now. Rapture.

  He sat upright in the shallow river, blinking at the morning sun streaming through the canopy above. The light seemed to pierce him—not with heat, but with perfect clarity. Something welled up from his depths, something pure and radiant, and before he could contain it, laughter burst from his lips. Rich, childlike laughter—not of mockery, but of liberation. He splashed the water like a boy discovering rain, raising his arms toward the heavens.

  “Praise the gods!” he cried, his voice echoing through the trees. “You have shown me the way!”

  He laughed again, drenched and beaming, then waded to shore. Before Baronsworth could speak, Karl dropped to one knee and bowed his head in reverence.

  “My lord,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion, “I know not who you are... but you have granted me the greatest revelation. By sparing my worthless life, you have shown me true mercy—and through it, the depths of my own corruption. I see now how far I had fallen from grace. No more will I prey upon the innocent. No more drink shall pass my lips—not until I stand worthy once more in the sight of the gods.”

  He looked up, his eyes blazing with newfound purpose.

  “I pledge myself to your service. My sword is yours to command. I will follow wherever your path may lead—even to the ends of the earth.”

  He did not yet understand it, but something greater had passed over him in that moment. A vision of light, a warmth kindled deep within his soul—not mere gratitude, but the touch of fate. It had been the hand of Sophia. The boy before him, unknown yet radiant as dawn, had become his guiding star.

  He bowed again, humbled and transformed—reborn.

  From the far bank, Siegfried chuckled, folding his arms.

  “Inspiring speech, Karl,” he called. “I always knew you had it in you to be more than a miserable drunk. Shame it took staring death in the face to bring it out.”

  Baronsworth looked down at the kneeling man. He laid a hand gently on his shoulder.

  “Easy there, big guy,” he said with a faint grin. “Best stand up, then — we’ve got a long road ahead of us. But first things first… go fetch my bag, will you?”

  Karl lit up, eyes gleaming like a child entrusted with a sacred task. “Yes, my lord!”

  He jogged off to retrieve the pack — and on the way, picked up his own sword and shield. There was a lightness in his step, as though the years of bitterness had fallen from his back.

  Returning, he handed over the bag. “Anything else I can do for you, my lord?”

  Baronsworth slung it over his shoulder. “No. And just Baronsworth will do.”

  The boy turned and strode through the last of the water, stepping up onto the far shore. The golden-haired leader fell into step beside him.

  “Impressive display, Baronsworth. You single-handedly defeated one of my best fighters, if not the best. And at such an age… I cannot believe such a thing possible, yet I have seen it happen with my own eyes.” The knight paused, his gaze thoughtful. “If I may be so bold, may I ask where you learned to fight in such a manner?”

  “From my father,” Baronsworth answered, his voice quiet but steady. He kept his eyes ahead, boots treading on the earthen path.

  The golden-haired man gave a subtle nod. “I see. You have displayed both great courage and skill today, and you have shown mercy. A very rare combination of traits in any man, rarer still in one so young. Ones that I admire greatly.” He paused again, then continued, “If I may ask, where are you headed?”

  Baronsworth paused, his gaze distant as thoughts turned inward. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm.

  “For now I head as far away from here as I can possibly go. There are men, too close for comfort, who took my home… and slaughtered my family. They believe me dead. If they learn otherwise, I fear they will hunt me without rest. I would prefer to avoid such a fate.”

  “I see. You are alone, then?”

  Baronsworth nodded solemnly. “Everyone I have ever held close to heart… is gone.”

  Siegfried inclined his head, his expression mirroring Baronsworth's gravity. “An exile, like us.” Their eyes met, holding a shared understanding. “In that case, allow me to extend a formal invitation.”

  He gestured toward the men scattered along the riverbank.

  “We are the Golden Gryphons,” he said. “And I am their leader. Our company is small, but each man is hand-picked — seasoned in battle and bound by the ideals of honor and chivalry. Even Karl, for all his… outbursts, has a good heart beneath the scars. For I accept no cutthroats under my command.”

  He gave a rueful smile. “Yes, I know — ironic, considering how you met us. But I assure you, it is the truth.”

  He stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly.

  “We earn well. Lords across the realm are always in need of steel, and we provide it with honor. There is danger, yes — constant, daily. But there is also purpose, and camaraderie. I am generous with my men, and they in turn offer loyalty. It is not a life of ease or glory, but it is an honest one.”

  He studied Baronsworth for a moment before continuing.

  “You’ve proven yourself today. You didn’t just defeat Karl — you spared him. That speaks of strength, yes, but also of mercy. Both are rare. And if you join us, you’ll find safety in our ranks. No one will question the presence of a skilled young swordsman among the Gryphons. You’d be protected from your enemies, well-fed, and granted fair compensation for your skills.”

  A short pause.

  “Our path, too, leads us far from these lands. You’d blend in with us — and, I suspect, grow sharper with every step. I don’t make offers lightly, but my heart tells me you belong with us. So, what say you, Baronsworth? Will you join our brotherhood?”

  Baronsworth turned the words over in his mind. Siegfried’s offer was tempting. Safety. Food. Shelter. Camaraderie. A place to lay low, far from the reach of those who would see him dead. And he had indeed given away most of his coin in Torrania.

  He had trained all his life, but this was the first day he’d tasted true combat — the thrill, the risk, the reality of death. Joining the Gryphons would be the surest path to gain the experience he needed, perhaps even earn renown… and doing so would grant him coin enough to survive.

  His thoughts drifted to the path he had set for himself — the road toward the fabled homeland of the High Elves. A myth told to him by his mother in the quiet nights of childhood. A dream.

  Now, before him lay something real. A tangible offer. A brotherhood of steel and honor.

  Rosie’s words echoed softly in his mind.

  “There ain’t no such thing as Elves…”

  Countless travelers had passed through Rosie’s inn, yet none had ever seen, spoken to, or even credibly heard of Elves. Torrania, for all its decay, was no backwater hamlet — it lay astride the great Lorthern road that connected north to south, a steady artery of culture, rumor, and goods. If the High Elves still walked the earth, surely someone would have whispered of it. But the silence on that front was absolute.

  There were many myths Baronsworth had treasured in childhood—stories he clung to like a warm cloak on winter nights. But as the years crept forward, one by one, they faded. Now, even the tales of Elves seemed little more than lullabies for frightened children: radiant beings of light, standing beside the gods to hold back the darkness. It sounded too good to be real. And perhaps it was.

  Baronsworth had never feared the dark—and yet, the dark had hunted him down all the same. When it came, it devoured everything. Perhaps, it was time to grow up.

  His parents were gone. Their stories—tales whispered beside glowing hearths and beneath star-touched ceilings—had been meant to comfort him, to keep his heart warm and whole. But if he was to survive what lay ahead, he had to let those stories go. The world had no place for such dreams. It was merciless, savage, and deaf to hope.

  He stood at a crossroads: cling to fading myths, or step forward into the uncharted path of truth. To believe, still, in Elves and benevolent gods—or to accept that only steel, skill, and resolve could carve a path through this ruined world.

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  Baronsworth closed his eyes for a moment. The warmth of Rosie’s smile. The gleam of the coin in her hand. His father’s blood upon the stone. He opened his eyes, and the choice was made.

  “I accept your offer, Siegfried,” he said. “I would be honored to fight alongside the Golden Gryphons.”

  A knot rose in his throat — grief rising like a tide — but he said no more.

  Siegfried’s face brightened with joy. He stepped forward, clasping Baronsworth's forearm in a warrior's grip. “It is we who are honored. Welcome to our brotherhood!”

  Cheers erupted around them. A dark-haired warrior clapped Baronsworth's shoulder. “Welcome to the Gryphons, big guy!”

  “Drinking and celebration tonight!” another bellowed. Laughter rolled through the gathering, a joyous wave.

  Baronsworth tried to silence the sorrow in his chest. The commotion helped—the voices, the warmth, the fellowship—all blessed distractions from the pain that would not release him.

  The men led him back to their camp — a substantial, well-ordered encampment nestled deep in the forest. It was far from the rabble he had expected; wooden palisades ringed the perimeter, and the tents stood in precise formation. Cookfires burned at measured intervals, men gathered in disciplined groups, and the air hummed with quiet efficiency. This was no band of wandering brigands. These were professionals—trained, seasoned, bound by shared purpose.

  Siegfried stepped onto a wooden crate and raised his hand. The moment he did, the entire camp fell silent. The respect he commanded was absolute.

  This is a day of celebration,” Siegfried declared, his voice carrying across the camp. “A new Gryphon joins our brotherhood—the valiant Baronsworth! A warrior of proven strength and noble heart. Honor him, and show him the fellowship that defines us!”

  The crowd erupted. Shouts rang through the trees, hands clapped his back, arms wrapped around his shoulders. Baronsworth stood at the center of the maelstrom of voices, overwhelmed by their enthusiasm. Fresh blood was clearly rare among their ranks.

  For a moment, Baronsworth remained in a strange, dazed state — the cheer and laughter of the men around him clashing starkly with the sorrow that still pulsed within his chest. Yet slowly, warmth began to well up in his heart. These men, strangers only hours before, had welcomed him with open arms, treating him like one of their own. Their joy was unfeigned, their brotherhood sincere.

  He wondered, fleetingly, whether it was luck that had brought him to them — or something more. Perhaps it was the hand of the gods, those same gods he had spurned in despair, still quietly shaping his path. He pushed the thought aside and let the revelry carry him.

  The Gryphons drank deeply and sang louder still. They made Baronsworth drink too, cheering him on with every swig. He had tasted wine before, fine vintages sipped in moderation under his father’s watchful gaze — but this crude ale was another beast entirely. It hit him harder than expected, and before long he was on his feet, trying clumsily to learn the verses of their songs, drawn into their dance. They partied well into the night.

  When Baronsworth awoke, the stars still clung faintly to the sky, but the first hints of daybreak were beginning to creep in. He found himself lying behind a row of tents, head pounding, the world around him muffled and unsteady. He groaned, pulled himself upright, and staggered to a nearby water barrel. He splashed his face, then scooped a handful to drink. The cool liquid sent a jolt through him, helping to clear the fog in his mind, and his steps began to steady.

  He wandered toward the heart of the camp, where a tall figure stood silhouetted beneath the stars, motionless as a statue before the largest of the tents. It was Siegfried.

  “Baronsworth,” the man said, without turning. “I trust the celebrations weren’t too rough.”

  “No, sir. Just a little dizzy, that’s all,” Baronsworth replied, rubbing his temple.

  “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ I’m not one. Not anymore.”

  “You used to be a knight?” Baronsworth asked, curious.

  Siegfried nodded, his gaze still fixed on the sky. He remained silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quieter—not bitter, but heavy with memory. “Yes. Of one of the noblest orders that ever was.”

  Baronsworth waited. He sensed the man was weighing whether or not to continue — and that his question had struck something deeper than expected.

  “It’s a long story,” Siegfried said at last. “But you deserve to hear it.”

  He turned now, facing Baronsworth, though the stars still danced faintly in his eyes.

  We served a good and noble man—King Alfred of Aeneria. My father, Sir Alaric Solis, was Grandmaster of the Order. The finest knight I've ever known.” Siegfried's voice grew heavy. “Then one day, it all ended. The king was murdered. His heirs with him. No warning. No justice. Our kingdom collapsed into chaos.”

  Baronsworth said nothing, but listened with grave attention.

  “My father died with them,” Siegfried continued, strain creeping into his words. “He and many of our sworn brothers were cut down protecting the royal family—butchered in a coward's ambush. We never learned who was truly responsible, but in the aftermath, the nobles turned on each other like rabid hounds. Each proclaimed their rightful claim. Each demanded we spill blood for their supposed legitimacy.”

  “But you refused,” Baronsworth said.

  “Indeed. I trusted none. Any one of them could have held the knife that ended my King. My brothers named me Grandmaster after my father’s death — though I was scarcely older than you are now. I took those still loyal, those who would not sell their swords to a pretender, and we left Aeneria. We cast off our titles, our old vows rendered meaningless with the King's death, and carried on the name of the Golden Gryphons.”

  He looked away for a moment, his jaw set.

  “We became soldiers of fortune — mercenaries. Yet we carry something of the old ways with us. Many of the original brothers still serve under my command. We fight for coin, yes, but we sell our blades, not our souls. Honor remains paramount.”

  Baronsworth let the silence linger. Then he spoke, his voice low. “These are dark times. Chaos and cruelty seem to rise on every front.”

  Siegfried nodded. “True enough. But while good men still draw breath, evil will never have dominion.”

  His words stirred something deep within Baronsworth—an echo of the inspiring stories told by his father. The fire had not gone out in the world entirely; it flickered still.

  They stood there a moment longer beneath the stars, two warriors scarred by loss, now joined in common cause.

  Then Siegfried broke the silence. “Come inside. Share a drink with me. It’s cold out here, and we’ve both seen enough darkness for one night.”

  Baronsworth followed him into the tent.

  The command pavilion was far larger inside than it appeared from without. Rich furs lined the ground beneath finely woven carpets, and heavy tapestries hung along the sloped canvas walls, depicting ancient battles and the heraldry of long-fallen lords. Ornate chests, polished helms, ceremonial spears, and battered shields adorned the interior like trophies from a forgotten age. A wide, sturdy table stood at the center, covered in maps, scrolls, and goblets. And in the corner, beneath a canopy of thick cloth, stood a large, well-made bed — not luxurious, but fit for a commander of men.

  “This is impressive.” Baronsworth remarked, unable to mask his admiration.

  “We’re always on the move,” Siegfried replied, lighting a small lantern. “But I try to recreate a little of what we lost — our chapter house in Aeneria, the seat of our Order. This is the closest thing I have to home now.”

  He moved to the desk, opened a drawer, and retrieved a bottle of deep crimson wine. He uncorked it with care and poured two goblets.

  “I was saving this for something special. It’s been some time since we had such a promising addition to our ranks. This occasion merits a proper toast. To brotherhood — and to the path ahead.”

  “To brotherhood,” Baronsworth echoed, lifting his cup.

  Siegfried leaned against the table, cradling his chalice. “I must admit — I’m still impressed with the way you handled Karl. He’s one of my best. Strong as an ox, quick on his feet.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Baronsworth replied. “But he left himself open. Too eager to gloat.”

  “Or too deep in his cups.”

  They shared a laugh — easy, genuine — and for a moment, the weight of past days lifted.

  “Still,” Siegfried said, after the laughter faded, “it might strike you as odd — that I speak so much of honor and discipline, and yet I keep a man like Karl in my company.”

  Baronsworth gave a subtle nod. “The thought did cross my mind.”

  Siegfried took a slow sip of wine, then set the glass down. “He has a story, like you and me. Like many in this camp, truth be told. His father served as a man-at-arms under a good and just lord. But good men often die young. One day, that lord was called to war, to face a would-be usurper with a far larger force. Karl, though barely fifteen, begged to go. His father forbade it, told him to stay behind and protect the women of the house.”

  He stooped, his tone deepening.

  “The battle ended in betrayal. The lord fell. Karl’s father too. And the enemy — not content with mere victory — sent raiders to the homes of those who had stood against him. They came for Karl’s family. Eight men.” Siegfried gazed into the fire, raising the goblet to his lips. “Karl killed them all.”

  Baronsworth looked up sharply.

  “Alone?”

  Siegfried nodded. “With whatever he could find. Farming tools, furniture, his bare fists. But it was too late to save the house. He took his mother and sister to the temple of Sophia, where they found sanctuary. They became priestesses. He took to the road.”

  There was a quiet moment. Then Siegfried continued.

  “I found him years later, half-starved and caged like a dog in some backwater dungeon. He’d broken the arms and ribs of four patrons in a tavern brawl—and the jaws of two more who tried to subdue him. They claimed he had cheated in a game of chance, but Karl said otherwise. I saw fire in him, yes, but pain too. A man without a cause. So I gave him one.”

  He looked Baronsworth in the eyes.

  “He’s difficult. Wild even, at times. But he fights with everything he’s got. And when he gives his loyalty, it’s for life. I’d rather have a dozen Karls than a hundred hollow men.”

  Baronsworth nodded slowly, beginning to understand the kind of brotherhood that thrived here. They were not merely blades for hire — they were soldiers tempered by sorrow, bound by exile, held together not by coin but by the scars they bore in common.

  “Most of the time he’s disciplined,” Siegfried continued. “It’s only now and then, when we’re too long without a cause — long days wandering the countryside with no battles to fight — that the boredom gets to him. That’s when he starts making foolish choices… like picking a fight with a stranger more skilled than himself.”

  Both men shared a laugh, their mirth briefly cutting through the weight of their burdens. As their laughter faded, a quiet settled over the tent—a silence born of mutual understanding: of the world, and the weary toll it took on the soul.

  Siegfried leaned forward, setting his glass gently upon the table. His expression turned solemn.

  “Baronsworth,” he said, voice low but firm, “your sword. May I see it?”

  Baronsworth hesitated. The Lightbringer had never left his side — it was the last echo of his father, of his home. But there was something in Siegfried’s gaze: not demand, but reverence. Baronsworth unsheathed it, laying the gleaming blade across the table.

  “Siegfried's eyes widened with recognition. He ran his fingers along the blade's edge with veneration. “This is no common weapon,” he murmured. “The craftsmanship is exquisite... Asturian steel, is it not?”

  “Yes,” Baronsworth replied. “Though the true name is Divinium.”

  “Ah.” Siegfried's smile held quiet satisfaction. “Then my suspicions were correct. You've confirmed both myth and legend tonight—not every day I receive such an education.” He angled the blade toward the firelight, watching flames dance along its surface. “Your sword, your bearing... you are of noble Asturian blood. One of the few that survived the Cataclysm, when your homeland vanished beneath the waves.”

  Baronsworth held his gaze and nodded once, solemnly.

  “I have seen only one other blade like this,” Siegfried continued. “It belonged to King Alfred of Aeneria—a man of true honor. He carried himself with the same quiet strength I see in you.”

  “You honor me,” Baronsworth said, his eyes downcast. “But I am no king. Merely a survivor.”

  “Yet you fight like a seasoned warrior, speak like a learned man, and bear the fire of heroes within your heart.” Siegfried raised his cup once more. “True nobility flows in your veins, Baronsworth—born not only of lineage, but of character. I see it burning in your eyes. Your brightest days lie ahead of you, not buried in the past. Take heart in that.”

  There was a brief silence, warm and companionable, the fire gently crackling in the background. Baronsworth cut through it with his next question: “What became of your king’s blade?”

  Siegfried sighed. “I know not. There was such confusion after his death. All I know is that it was not buried with him.”

  “A shame,” Baronsworth stated with quiet regret. “Every lost Divinium blade is a tragedy.”

  “Indeed,” Siegfried replied, “especially if there’s truth to the old legends — that the metal from which they were forged was a gift from the gods themselves, fallen from the heavens in ages long past, bestowed upon the Asturians in their time of glory.”

  He paused, his gaze fixed on the sword.

  “In the great tales, a hero’s worth is often measured by the weapon he bears. And yours…”

  He placed the blade back into Baronsworth’s grasp with slow, deliberate reverence.

  “Yours is no common steel.”

  Then he looked up, meeting Baronsworth’s eyes — his own wide with wonder, laced with curiosity.

  “Tell me, Baronsworth… who are you, truly? For you are no ordinary man. That much is certain.”

  Baronsworth drew a heavy breath. Then, quietly, he began to speak.

  He told Siegfried of his childhood — of his noble lineage, of his parents, of the halls of the Sunkeep. He spoke of the slaughter, of his escape, and of the life that had begun in the ashes of all he once knew. Siegfried listened in silence, nodding only now and then, letting the boy’s truth unfold without interruption. They spoke for hours, sharing stories, scars, and memories beneath the canvas roof of that weathered tent.

  Eventually, Siegfried asked with a wry smile, “Tell me, Baronsworth—was it truly your intention to simply drift across the world, fleeing from danger with no destination in mind?”

  Baronsworth hesitated. “Well… not exactly. I did have a destination. I was heading west.”

  Siegfried raised a curious brow. “West? Toward what?”

  Baronsworth looked down at his hands. “The Forlorn Kingdoms.”

  Siegfried blinked. “What in Mytharia’s name were you hoping to find in that cursed land? The rotting corpse of the Western Holy Empire has long since been devoured by scavengers; nothing but war and ruin will greet you there.”

  Baronsworth shifted uncomfortably. “I had my reasons. Though… in truth, I’m embarrassed to say them.”

  “There’s no shame in honesty,” Siegfried replied, his tone gentle. “Say what you mean. No man is judged here.”

  Baronsworth exhaled a long breath. “I was seeking… the land of the High Elves.”

  Siegfried chuckled—not in mockery, but with the warmth of a man recalling the faded dreams of his own youth. “To the fabled Ellaria? Now there’s a lofty goal.”

  “Yes. My mother used to tell me stories—of their enchanted forest, their beauty, their harmony with the heavens. I believed them, as all children do. And when I left home, lost and uncertain, those tales were all I had. I thought perhaps they could help me find answers. Read my stars. Tell me who I am. Who I’m meant to become.”

  Siegfried smiled faintly. “Questions every man asks, in his time. And yet, how few ever truly find the answers.” A slow, reflective sigh escaped him.

  “Have you?” Baronsworth asked.

  Siegfried stood and refilled his goblet. “These days, I concern myself with surviving to the next sunrise—and making sure my men do the same.”

  Baronsworth lowered his gaze. “To merely endure... it sounds like a shadow of a life,” he said softly, a distant ache in his voice. “When once I knew the true warmth of living and thriving in the Sunlands.”

  Siegfried placed a hand on his shoulder. “The past is a shadow, Baronsworth. What was, or what should have been—neither will serve you. Take hold of what is. Do what you can today.”

  Baronsworth nodded. “I suppose I hoped the Elves might help me do just that. But now I wonder if they were ever real at all.”

  Siegfried leaned back, stroking his chin in thought. “This is a curious coincidence, indeed. For we, too, are headed west — not to Ellaria, mind you, but deep into the Forlorn Kingdoms.”

  Baronsworth raised a brow and gave a dry laugh. “Yes. I hear there’s coin enough there to be made for any swordsman worth his salt — enough to make him rich.”

  “Perhaps,” Siegfried said with a sardonic smile. “If he lives long enough to spend it.”

  He sighed, setting his cup aside. “Truth be told, I’d rather we made our fortune in the Eastern Holy Empire. Those lands are more… civilized. But the lords there are proud and cautious. They won’t pay us what we’re worth—at least, not yet. Not until our name carries more weight.”

  Baronsworth frowned slightly. “But aren’t we nearer to the Holy Empire than the Forlorn Kingdoms?”

  Siegfried gave a short chuckle. “So little escapes your sharp and discerning mind. You’re right, of course. We marched east recently — a promising opportunity had arisen. A young lord, eager to make a name for himself, hired us to help defend his lands.”

  “And what happened?” Baronsworth asked.

  “Disaster,” Siegfried replied. “The boy’s father summoned him to join a campaign — a foolish war between cousins, or so I’m told. When the old man found out what his son was paying us, he flew into a rage and offered us half. We laughed in his face and walked away.”

  “And the young lord?” Baronsworth pressed.

  Siegfried’s expression darkened. “Slain,” he said quietly. “Along with his father and their entire host. Perhaps we might’ve turned the tide, had we remained.”

  “Or perhaps you’d lie among the dead,” Baronsworth replied, voice steady.

  Siegfried chuckled—low, thoughtful—the sound of one who had long wrestled with the riddles of fate.

  “I do not fear death, Baronsworth. For I shall not fall until the gods themselves decree that my hour has come. I have walked fields where crimson rivers ran thick between the fallen, watched proud armies shatter like clay against the anvil of war. I’ve seen cities brought low, their spires swallowed by flame and ruin.”

  He paused, his gaze drifting—distant, haunted.

  “Time and again, I’ve stood amid that wreckage, watching as death claimed those beside me—brothers-in-arms swept away like leaves before the winds of autumn—while I remained. Arrows sang past my ears. Blades kissed the air before my throat. The man beside me would fall, but I… I would walk on, unscathed. In time, I came to understand: death has its own design. It chooses its hour, its soul, and if it has not yet marked your name, then no sword on earth can strike you down.”

  He swirled the wine in his goblet, the firelight glinting red through the dark glass.

  “There’s something strange in that, wouldn’t you say? A hidden current, flowing beneath the surface of the world—pulling some toward their end while sparing others for reasons we may never comprehend. I certainly do not claim to understand it. But I’ve learned to accept it. My time will come when it must… just as it came for my father. And for my king.”

  Baronsworth looked up. “So you feel no fear at all, when battle comes?”

  Siegfried studied him. “Did you feel fear when you faced Karl?”

  “Yes,” Baronsworth said. “But… my wrath burned hotter than my fear.”

  Siegfried nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

  “Ah. Passion and fury—the sacred flame of youth. Yet the elder warriors… they burn with a different light altogether. Their blades do not leap forth from rage's wild hunger, but fall with the terrible certainty of winter's hand—each stroke tempered in the stark, chilling crucible of loss, honed by perseverance, forged by a thousand dawns risen over countless broken battlefields.”

  He held Baronsworth’s gaze, voice steady with the weight of all he had seen and survived. “Wrath is not courage. Rage clouds the eye, and a blinded man stumbles even as he strikes. But courage — true courage — clears the haze. It steadies the hand, sharpens the mind. A man who fights with courage does not lash out blindly, but chooses his moment, his strike, with clarity.”

  Baronsworth tilted his head. “But how do you do it? Keep calm when death stands before you?”

  Siegfried chuckled again, gently, and set his goblet aside. The fire danced in his eyes.

  “Death is an uncertainty, Baronsworth. And I’ve learned not to concern myself with things beyond my control.”

  He leaned back, voice settling into that quiet, knowing cadence again.

  “Until the hour death calls my name, I walk the road set before me. And sometimes…the road bends in ways no man can explain. You see it now and then—moments of such uncanny symmetry that even a skeptic must pause. As though a hand, unseen and ancient, had arranged the pieces long before we moved to play them.”

  His eyes settled on Baronsworth, steady and discerning.

  “Moments like this one.”

  Baronsworth’s brow furrowed slightly.

  Siegfried went on. “You, traveling west to find the Elves. We, bound for the same road—toward the Forlorn Kingdoms. Of all the paths you might’ve walked, of all the souls you might’ve passed by… yours crossed ours.”

  He paused. “And that… I find most curious.”

  Baronsworth stared into the fire. Again, that sense — the pull of an invisible hand, quiet yet inevitable, dragging him down a path he could not fathom. The thought unsettled him, as if he were a leaf drifting downstream, powerless against the course of the river.

  “This is madness,” he said, rising abruptly to his feet. “I chose none of this. I want no gods pulling my strings, no 'destiny' charting my course. Where were these benevolent celestials when my family was butchered? When my people screamed for deliverance?”

  His hands curled into fists. “They allowed it all to happen! They did nothing to prevent the wrath and ruin that descended upon my house. My life was stripped from me, my birthright stolen, all under their watchful gaze! And now I'm meant to trust in their divine wisdom?”

  He shook his head, defiant.

  “No.”

  His grip tightened around the hilt of his blade until his knuckles became bone-white.

  “Steel is the only truth I can trust in this world,” he said, voice low and seething. “Words scatter on the wind. Promises fade like smoke. Flesh withers. But steel endures—imperishable, incorruptible.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper, sharp as a drawn edge.

  “Steel never lies. It never forgets. It does not abandon you in your hour of need.”

  Then his tone swelled, fierce and unshaken, a surge rising from deep within.

  “With a strong will and a sharp blade, I will carve my own path—through men, through fortune itself, through the very heart of existence if I must!”

  He drew a breath, and the firelight caught in his eyes like the glint of tempered iron.

  “Destiny. Gods. Bloodright—curse it all!” he roared. “I forge my own fate.”

  Siegfried rose with measured calm, raising a placating hand. “Peace, Baronsworth! I understand your fury—truly, I do. If it were up to me, my father would yet draw breath, my king would still rule, and Aeneria would stand unconquered. Instead...” His voice grew heavy. “I wander in exile, a knight without a kingdom. I know the ache of longing for a home that exists only in memory.”

  Baronsworth’s shoulders sank with his breath. He lowered himself back into his seat, the blaze of his passion cooling into embers.

  Siegfried refilled his cup in silence, a gesture of quiet solidarity.

  “These trials we endure,” Siegfried continued, “they forge us. You, especially — you remain unbroken. Unconquerable. Even if you curse the gods, you defy them still with your every breath. That, too, is strength.”

  Baronsworth’s heart steadied. Siegfried raised his goblet with a wry grin.

  “The passion of youth… ah, how I miss that fire.”

  “But you’re hardly old,” Baronsworth said.

  Siegfried's laugh held rueful edges. “No, but the long road and heavy tribulations can wear upon a man's soul faster than years ever could. All these warriors you saw today? They look to me for hope, for purpose, for guidance. If I fail them—if we cannot earn our bread—we starve. That weight...” He touched his chest. “It settles here, pressing down with each dawn.” He paused. Then, with a smile full of quiet warmth, he lifted his glass again.

  “But seeing someone like you — full of fire, yet tempered with thought — rekindles something in me.” Siegfried’s smile carried both pride and sorrow. He lifted his cup high. “So then. A toast.”

  His voice rang firm, steady as steel.

  “To youth — and to defying the fate the world would press upon us!”

  Baronsworth raised his goblet in turn, his eyes alight. “To defying fate.”

  They drank. A quiet moment passed between them, and then Baronsworth spoke again, his voice more subdued.

  “Tell me truly, Siegfried… do the Elves exist? Or have I been chasing stories meant for children?”

  Siegfried tilted his head slightly, considering.

  “I cannot say,” he admitted. “There are many tales — of their beauty, their wisdom, their enchanted cities hidden in forest and mist. Much has been written, even sung. It is easy to dismiss such stories as fantasy…”

  “But have you ever seen one?” Baronsworth interrupted. “Met anyone who has?”

  “No,” Siegfried admitted. “In all my travels, I have not. And I’ve wandered far, even into the place they call the Elderwood.”

  Baronsworth perked up. “What did you find there?”

  “Only trees,” Siegfried said, with a trace of disappointment. “But not ordinary ones. Vast and ancient, gnarled with time, as if they had stood since the world’s beginning. A sacred silence hung in those woods — something old, something watchful. Still… no cities. No towers. No Elves.”

  Baronsworth pulled out the map from his satchel and unfurled it on the table between them.

  “This map shows Ellaria as an island — just off the western coast,” he said, his finger tracing a point on the parchment.

  Siegfried leaned in, his gaze sweeping it with a curious intensity. “An isle shaped like a crescent moon… fascinating. And what are these markings around it?”

  Baronsworth shook his head. “I know not. If only mother were here… she understands runes and arcane symbols better than any.”

  Siegfried gave a slow nod, his expression thoughtful. “I’m sorry, Baronsworth. I’ve traveled far and spoken with many — sailors, traders, even old salt-bearded fishermen. Not one has ever mentioned an isle like this. If it exists, it hides well.”

  Baronsworth said nothing at first. Then, with a bitter edge, he rolled the map back up and returned it to his pack. “So it is as I feared. The Elves are nothing but myths.”

  “Perhaps,” Siegfried replied gently, “they existed once… but faded, as all things do, under the long hand of time.”

  “Or maybe they never existed at all. Just stories,” Baronsworth muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

  He took a long sip of wine, and silence fell between them. The fire crackled softly in the hearth. Then, after a moment, Baronsworth’s voice returned, quieter this time.

  “Siegfried, there’s something else. I ask this in earnest — you must never share my tale with anyone. I don’t yet know who my enemy is, or how far their reach extends.”

  “You have my word,” Siegfried said at once. “Your secret is safe with me. I suspect your foes believe you dead — and may the gods let them continue in that belief. But if by some dark chance they do learn the truth and come for you… they’ll find the Golden Gryphons standing in their way. We protect our own.”

  Baronsworth gave a nod of thanks. “Then I am fortunate to have crossed your path.”

  Siegfried smiled. “We are the fortunate ones. Good men are hard to come by in these days — men with skill, yes, but also honor. I believe your place among us will be long and glorious. Still, if I may offer a word of counsel...”

  He gestured to the Lightbringer, resting beside Baronsworth.

  “That blade of yours — if a man like me can recognize it, then surely others will too. And if they recognize the sword, they’ll start asking questions about the wielder.”

  Baronsworth looked down at the weapon. Its ornate hilt and brilliant gleam made it a beacon, one sure to draw eager eyes and with them, danger.

  “That sword marks you,” Siegfried continued. “If your enemies have spies abroad — and I suspect they do — it won’t take long before someone pieces the truth together. You’ll need to take precautions.”

  He crossed the tent and rummaged through a wooden chest before tossing a small, metal canteen toward Baronsworth, who caught it with ease.

  “I see the wine hasn’t dulled your reflexes. Good. That’s a blade oil I use on Mercy — my own sword — to preserve from the ravages of the world and the toll of battle. Your weapon, being Asturian steel, has no need of such things, of course… but this oil does something else. It alters the color.”

  Baronsworth opened the canteen. A thick, resinous scent drifted upward — pungent and earthy, with a faint metallic trace, like pine tar mingled with smoke. He dipped a cloth into the oil and began to spread it over the gleaming blade.

  At once, the silvery-white luster began to fade, and the brightness dulled to a deep, muted gray — the color of weather-beaten iron or common forge-steel. The radiance was gone.

  “It works,” he said, surprised.

  “Good. It won’t last forever — you’ll need to reapply it, especially after battle. But I’ll teach you the recipe. It’s not difficult.”

  Siegfried gestured towards the ornate hilt. “Of course, there’s still the matter of the guard and pommel. Even darkened, that golden finish and the gemstone will still draw too many eyes. You’ll likely need a new scabbard, also. Our tanner is skilled with leatherwork and ornamentation. We’ll have words about it tomorrow.”

  He yawned and stretched. “But now — it’s late. At first light we ride west, and the road will be long.”

  He moved to the pavilion’s entrance, pulling back the canvas to reveal the rows of pitched camps outside.

  “You’ll be sleeping in Karl’s tent — that one, near the eastern edge. He’s been with us a long time. One of our finest, despite his faults, and he’s earned his comforts. I believe you’ll find it accommodating.”

  Baronsworth stood, giving a last glance toward his darkened blade before sliding it into its sheath.

  “Thank you, Siegfried,” he said.

  “Get some rest, Baronsworth,” Siegfried replied with a warm smile. “You’ll need it.”

  Baronsworth bade Siegfried farewell and made his way to the tent he had been directed to. Inside, he found Karl already asleep, sprawled comfortably atop a mound of furs. Nearby, the more luxurious bed remained vacant — a quiet gesture of respect, no doubt.

  Exhausted to his core, Baronsworth let himself collapse onto it. The mattress was soft, inviting, almost regal in its comfort.

  “For a band of traveling mercenaries,” he mused, “they certainly don’t live poorly.”

  A strange calm settled over him. Though the shadow of recent tragedy still clung to his thoughts, he felt — for the first time since his exile — as though a path was opening before him. He was not alone. He had found refuge among seasoned warriors, men of grit and loyalty, who had taken him in not as a stranger, but as a brother. Men who would fight at his side, and for his safety.

  Just hours earlier, he had wandered alone through the wilderness, chilled by wind and silence, accompanied only by the weight of his memories.

  Things could certainly be worse, he thought.

  And with that final murmur, his mind drifted into the deep currents of sleep, and he surrendered to the waiting arms of dreams.