Chapter 5

  She let the spark fade between her fingers and offered a calm, knowing smile.

  Tivric approached and took the seat across from her.

  “You’re late,” she said, her tone light but observant. “Though I suppose I should be glad you’re finally looking toward the right light.”

  “My apologies,” Tivric replied. “The other night, we were busy striking a deal with a necromancer.”

  She laughed, clearly taking it for a bit of gallows humor. Tivric let the laughter stand; he had no desire to burden her—or himself—with the long, uncomfortable truth of his encounter with Mordryn.

  “I am Vaeyra Aethelgard,” she said. “I’ve been tasked with escorting you to Solcaris to secure aid for your burrows. And you are?”

  “Tivric,” he said with a respectful nod. “And my traveling companion over there is Skorval.”

  He gestured toward the far side of the room. Skorval was currently in the middle of a boisterous performance—loudly mocking and simultaneously arguing with the very patron he’d rudely awakened earlier. Somehow, in the strange logic of the tavern, the exchange had turned friendly.

  “I’m not one to question orders,” Tivric said, lowering his voice, “but if Solcaris is already aware of our problem, why hasn’t the aid been sent?”

  Vaeyra’s smile didn't just fade; it vanished.

  “A bargain was struck,” she said quietly. “Did you receive the documents from your warren lord?”

  Tivric produced the dossier he had been orderedto deliver—strictly into the Radiant’s hands. Vaeyra’s gaze lingered on the package, her eyes clouded with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.

  “Once your side of the agreement is fulfilled, I’m certain the aid will come” Vaeyra continued. “The Radiant and the Council truly wish to help. They’ve been tracking the Still Shadow’s movements against the Living Face for some time, but this… this subterranean threat took everyone by surprise.”

  “In more ways than one,” Tivric muttered.

  They both glanced toward the center of the room. Skorval was now in rare form—laughing, dancing, and drinking with the very patron he’d nearly come to blows with earlier. They looked less like combatants and more like long-lost brothers reunited in a drunken haze. Vaeyra’s smile returned at the sight, momentarily softening her sharp features.

  “I have horses prepared,” she said, standing. “It should take roughly seven cycles of Selenar to reach Solcaris. Three mounts are saddled and waiting.”

  “Then let’s not waste another moment,” Tivric replied.

  Vaeyra dropped a few gold coins on the table and slung her pack over her shoulder. Tivric signaled to Skorval, who bid the patron farewell with an overly dramatic, lung-squeezing embrace. The man looked genuinely heartbroken to see him go.

  They stepped out into the street. The city was a sprawling hive of activity—crowded, bustling, and even more clamorous than the Split Barrel had been. As they navigated the throng, Vaeyra introduced herself properly to Skorval, who seemed surprisingly invigorated by the open sky.

  But the warmth of the tavern didn't follow them. As they moved through Karn’s Bastion, the atmosphere turned cold. The Grimtails were forced to endure a gauntlet of hostility: angry citizens spat insults, shouted slurs, or deliberately shouldered into them as they passed.

  At the main gate, the same guard from the previous day watched their approach. As they neared, he spat a thick glob of phlegm onto the cobblestones.

  “Good riddance, gutter creatures,” he sneered. “We don’t want your kind here.”

  This time, Tivric and Skorval didn't even look his way. They had far more important things to deal with than the bruised ego of a gatekeeper.

  Vaeyra, however, stopped dead in her tracks.

  A faint glow kindled in her eyes, a soft shimmer that seemed to trail through her hair like starlight. The guard’s bravado crumbled instantly; he suddenly found the cobblestones far more interesting than meeting her gaze.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  They continued to the stables just beyond the gate, where Vaeyra led them to a trio of waiting horses. Packs were secured and cinched tight, and within minutes, all three were mounted.

  “Have you ridden before?” Vaeyra asked, glancing back as she adjusted her reins.

  “A handful of times,” Tivric replied, settling into the saddle. “We won’t slow you down.”

  Tivric spoke with a confidence he hoped was earned. He had ridden before—rarely, given a life spent mostly beneath the earth—but well enough to stay upright. In the burrows, he was far more accustomed to shardrunners, the sturdy, clawed lizards that could navigate Auraleth’s jagged stone and vertical climbs. Horses were a luxury of the open air; they struggled beyond the Twilight Belt, where the treacherous terrain demanded the surer feet.

  The cool damp of morning still clung to the land as they set out, three riders silhouetted against the rising sun on the long road to Solcaris.

  They rode for most of the day, but chose to make camp early rather than push the horses too hard. They were on a mission, yes—but the burrows were not in immediate danger. They could hold out a while longer. Riding a horse to exhaustion, or worse, injuring one, would only delay them further.

  They left the road and entered a stretch of forest, finding a sheltered clearing tucked between thick trees. Camp was set, a small fire lit, and for the first time since leaving town they allowed themselves to rest.

  It was there that Tivric finally got a good look at Vaeyra.

  In the tavern she had worn a cloak and hood that concealed her features well as if she was on the run, but now, in the firelight, he could see glimpses of the armor she carried in her packs—radiant white-silver plate trimmed in gold. Her sword and shield matched the same aesthetic, crafted with sunburst motifs and clean, deliberate lines. Even without the armor adorned, there was a warmth to her presence, a faint glow that felt like sunlight on skin during a clear, gentle day.

  She had golden hair and the youthful features of an elf—save for the ears.

  Tivric stood a little shorter than her, as he did compared to most surface-dwellers.

  As he ate, he caught his reflection in a polished plate. His snout was narrow, whiskers constantly twitching, and his eyes caught even the faintest light, whether fireglow or the dim shimmer of tunnels.

  He glanced over at Skorval, who shared the same grimtail features but with darker gray fur and a much heavier build. Other grimtails joked after Skorval was switched to the ceiling crews that he belonged on the latch-runner ground crews—that if he ever tried to hook onto the ceiling, the harness would snap and take half the team down with him.

  “Grimtails,” Vaeyra said, breaking the silence once camp was settled, “may I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead,” Skorval replied. “But we get to ask you things too.”

  She nodded. “Why do the people around this area treat your kind so poorly? I noticed a few scowls in town, but that guard at the gate truly shocked me. I knew a grimtail in Solcaris once. He was treated with respect—admiration, even. He was the one who trained me with the sword.”

  Tivric opened his mouth to answer, but Skorval spoke first.

  “Hundreds of years ago,” Skorval began, “Black Run Burrow—along with many other Burrows in this region—raided the surface. We weren’t at war. It was just the grimtail way back then. We went topside to kill, steal, and pillage. That was life.”

  He poked at the fire with a stick.

  “After the Fracturing eight hundred years ago, grimtails stopped going to the surface much at all. But two or three centuries back, a particularly brutal warren lord rose to power. He decided the surface owed us. So the raids increased in frequency”

  Skorval’s voice grew quieter.

  “It ended when the old King Karr—the one Karr’s Bastion is named for—led the assault that destroyed a burrow near Back Run. We started it. And even after centuries have passed, some surface folk still see us as a threat.”

  “It’s true,” Tivric said. “Most people on the Living Face hold no real prejudice against grimtails. But Karr’s Bastion, Hearthrun, and many of the villages closest to the burrows have mixed feelings about us.”

  “That’s a shame,” Vaeyra said quietly. “Our weapon master was a grimtail—one of the most noble people I ever knew.”

  “Knew?” Tivric asked.

  Vaeyra heard the question but chose not to answer. Instead, she rose and adjusted her pack. Tivric sensed it wasn’t wise to press further.

  “It’s getting late,” she said. “Selenar’s light is fading. I’m going to forage before last light.”

  “Wait—it’s my turn for a question,” Skorval said.

  He leaned forward eagerly. “Do Dawnborn glow in the dark?”

  Vaeyra smiled. “Sometimes.” Then she turned and slipped into the forest.

  Both grimtails watched her disappear among the trees before turning to one another. The fire was starting to get low before Skorval broke the silence.

  “Tivric,” Skorval said under his breath, “I’ve been thinking about the burrow. We need to be careful,” Skorval continued. “Realistically, how many more attacks do you think it can take?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Tivric said after a pause. “The numbers grow with every assault. We’ve seen an undead force nearly once a week now.”

  He stared into the fire for a moment before speaking again. “Playing it safe, I’d say we have about a month. That should be enough time to reach the Radiant, deliver the documents, and return. Even if the Dawnborn troops take longer to march back, we should still have a small margin of extra time.”

  They nodded to one another, silently agreeing to the plan.

  Above them, Selenar’s light dimmed just as Vaeyra had said it would. The grimtails laid out their bedrolls and let the fire burn low. Not long after, Vaeyra returned from the forest and did the same, and the camp settled into quiet beneath the fading glow.