“The Harmonies of Time”

  by Alrik Venshaar, Keeper of the Meridian Archive, Empire of Velkaris -156 o.D.

  Archived in the Most Holy's Palace of Light, Vel Rathhart

  “Thirteen days to shape a week,

  each bound to craft, prayer, or creed.

  Eight months form the sacred ring—

  two to open, two to close each season’s need.

  Thus flows the year:

  from sowing to silence,

  from frost to flame,

  beneath the eye of Aethor,

  and Oblivion, which takes us all.”

  Hearthcall 15, 572 o.L.

  Leoric Ashferm

  The ride to Crosshaven had taken thirteen days—longer than they had planned. The rough terrain of the Sardian Mountains had slowed them considerably, but once they emerged from their shadows on the tenth day, their pace had improved.

  The return to the Sardian Pass was swifter than the journey the other way to Kael Kelhit had been, half a season ago. Without having to match the speed of the slow moving levies, Leoric, Edric, and Garrin could make full use of the swiftness of the horses. It took them only six days.

  They made their only stop when they had reached the site of the ambush—where Ronan Blackarken had fallen. Dismounting in silence, the trio fanned out, searching once more, as if hoping that time might have overlooked something. Fifty-eight days had passed since the battle. Leoric knew it was unlikely they’d find anything new—nature was a swift caretaker. The earth had covered its wounds. Grass had grown back. The air smelled only of wildflowers and wind.

  All that remained were the pyres—blackened rings of scorched earth, half-hidden among the otherwise green valley. The charred remnants of the fallen, both theirs and the enemy’s, stood as a solemn monument to the chaos that had passed.

  Aside from that one stop, the journey through the mountains and countryside of Sardia had been uneventful. As they stopped each night for rest, Leoric made sure that they kept their sword skills maintained, leading them through the forms and a few sparring matches. It also helped pass the time.

  Slowly he had succeeded in bringing back some of their morale, after the disastrous confrontation with Balinor back at the camp outside Kael Kelhit. The Knight Paramount had put them in an unusual situation, which is also why they were all still members of the order, and why their punishment was nothing more than a reassignment.

  Now, at last, Crosshaven came into view. Chimney smoke drifted in a faint haze beneath the harvest sun. They rode along the Varn Road, farmland stretching to their left and the River Halden to their right, the river little more than a broad, shallow stream this far inland, winding lazily toward the city's walls.

  The city rose atop Halden Rise, the tallest hill for miles. At its summit stood the temple of Aethor, its pale spire catching the morning light. Nearby loomed the ducal estate, its grey stone rising from the cliffs above Halden Lake, the high walls draped with banners that stirred in the breeze. The wealthiest families of Crosshaven lived here, their homes nestled like crown jewels in the shadow of power and piety.

  They passed into the outskirts, where Crosshaven had long outgrown its ancient walls. The noise of it all—vendors hawking, children laughing, carts creaking over cobbles—pressed in around them. After so many weeks of silence, it made Leoric feel as though the world had suddenly grown too loud. It had been the same every time Leoric had returned from the sparsely western borders in the past, and he knew it would take a few days to get used to the ordered chaos that was city life.

  This time, though, something felt different. The city’s energy was there—but muted. Perhaps it was simply that Crosshaven was unfamiliar to him, but he sensed something else beneath the surface. Even here, far from the Sardian Pass and well within the Kingdom’s borders, the war had left its mark. Women outnumbered men in the streets. Too many young faces wore the rough cloaks of mourning. And Leoric had seen a few fields left untended on the ride north—rare, but enough to suggest that the war’s reach had been longer than expected.

  Their arrival at the gates of the walled city center pulled Leoric from his reverie. The gate stood open, with only two guards posted on either side of the road, their expressions bored. To their right, the stream ran alongside the road, widening into Halden Lake beyond the walls. On the left stood a large inn, well-positioned to catch travelers headed for the old city beyond.

  They had discussed their approach the night before and agreed it was best to go directly to the Duke. It was expected of them—as Aetherian Knights, and as guests in Duke Garen's city. More than that, the Duke would know where to send them next. He had an associate waiting, and they didn’t have time to waste searching Crosshaven’s streets for leads.

  Leoric assumed the Knight Paramount had already sent a Scrollhawk ahead. If all had gone to plan, the Duke would be expecting them. Leoric trusted the Knight Paramount’s judgment in placing faith in Garen of Ironferm—but even so, he couldn't shake the feeling that too many things still didn’t add up. He hoped the Duke’s contact could begin to change that.

  The guards did not challenge them as they passed through the gates. Inside the walls, the city felt more composed—its rhythm steadier, its streets cleaner. There were still more women than men, but the imbalance wasn’t as stark as it had been outside. Leoric supposed the young men here had felt less compelled to leave. Life in the inner city was comfortable, well-ordered—perhaps too much so to abandon family and duty.

  As they moved deeper into the city, the houses grew larger and more prosperous. At the crossroads—from which the city, and Duke Garen of Ironferm’s house, took their name—lay a wide plaza. In its center, children played around a marble fountain, their laughter rising above the sound of water and hooves. From here, the road north-west led toward Lorlyth and Kemphan; the eastern turn curved toward the port city of Easthan.

  Set between the two roads, across the plaza from where they rode, stood the Knot—the largest inn in Crosshaven. Its balconies were shaded by sun-bleached awnings, and laughter carried easily across the square. Three stories tall, its crisp white plaster and well-kept facade gave it the dignified look of a place built for travelers with coin. Even the outdoor seating—clean-lined and finely made—spoke of comfort, if not luxury.

  “I recommend we come back here to rent rooms once we’ve met with the Duke,” Garrin said, guiding his horse alongside Leoric. He was the only one among them who had visited the city before—his family was from the Duchy of Ironferm. “Beds soft enough to make you forget you’ve been riding for a week, good wine, and food that’s actually worth the coin.”

  “Alright,” Leoric said. “Let’s stable the horses. We’ll walk the rest of the way up the hill.” A week in the saddle had taken its toll. He was fairly sure the horse felt the same. They crossed the open square, drawing a few curious stares from the children playing near the fountain. The stable sat behind the inn. While Leoric and Edric handed off their horses with help from a stable hand, Garrin slipped inside to arrange their rooms.

  It was all done quickly, and they arranged for the stable hand to carry their gear to the assigned rooms. They met Garrin in front of the inn again, and started the walk up the hill.

  The road led gently upward, and with each step the buildings seemed to rise in stature alongside them. The plaster-fronted homes of the artisan class gave way to stone facades with wrought-iron balconies and shuttered windows trimmed in color. Doors grew taller, doorsteps wider. Small gardens appeared behind low walls, some with lanterns set into polished bronze fixtures. The air grew quieter, too—less street noise, fewer carts. Here, the wealth was older, and it showed not in opulence but in the confidence of design: space used without hesitation, decoration applied without need to flaunt.

  Leoric noted that several of the houses were enclosed by low walls or hedges, quiet markers of property. Iron gates opened onto tiled walks or gravel paths, many bearing the crests of noble houses. He recognized few—but now and then, he spotted the sigil of a fellow Aetherian Knight.

  As they reached the end of the main road from the central square to the ducal estate, Leoric felt invigorated. It was nice using his legs again, after so many days on horseback. Looking back, the road stretched down toward the city center and beyond, opening a clear view to the northeast. Most of the fields had already been harvested—rows of stubbled earth waiting for winter—but here and there, Leoric could still spot patches left untended, their long grasses waving dry and pale in the breeze.

  He turned back to face the estate gates. These were guarded—not by the bored city watch, but by four men standing at attention, their armor gleaming. Each wore a tabard bearing the crest of Ironferm: a golden bridge over blue water, with an open ledger resting above it. And in the upper left corner, as with all the Seven Great Houses, glinted the eight-pointed purple star of Aethor. Banners bearing the same emblem lined the towers of the estate’s wall, fluttering high above in the light breeze.

  "Halt! State your business," one of the guards called out, his voice calm and authoritative. Clearly, the Duke knew how to choose his men.

  "We are Aetherian Knights, on business from the Knight Paramount. The Duke, Garen of Ironferm, should be expecting us." Leoric was quietly impressed. Even after he identified the three of them as knights, the guards didn’t lower their stance or shift from readiness. Professional. Alert. Just as they should be.

  "And your names, sir?"

  "Knight-Sergeant Leoric Ashferm. My companions are Sir Edric Vance and Sir Garrin Veylan." He gave their full titles, keeping it formal—hoping that would smooth the way.

  The guard turned to the one standing beside him. “Erwan—escort the Knights to the audience chamber. And on the way, find a runner to inform the Duke that his guests have arrived.”

  Erwan gave a small motion for them to follow. Leoric offered the first guard a respectful nod as they passed.

  They passed through the open gardens of the estate at a steady pace. The leaves were just beginning to turn yellow, but not a single one marred the gravel paths or neatly trimmed lawns. To their right rose the grandest part of the estate, its windows no doubt commanding a view over Halden Lake. Erwan led them toward it.

  As they entered the foyer, Erwan quickly got the attention of one of the household servants. The man was impeccably dressed, his bearing unmistakably that of someone high in the household’s hierarchy. He offered a formal bow to Leoric, Edric, and Garrin.

  “My lord Leoric, we have been expecting you. If you’ll follow me, the Duke will join you shortly.” As the House Steward turned to lead them inside, Leoric noticed Erwan already returning to his post at the gate—quiet, efficient, and without need for instruction.

  They were led to a well-appointed room, the back wall lined with bookshelves and a large sitting area arranged to face the south-facing windows, three couches arranged around a central table. Below, Halden Lake shimmered in the light, and beyond it, the foothills of the Sardian Mountains rose gently on the horizon.

  As he sat in one of the couches, he was surprised by how comfortable it was. Too many weeks spent in the saddle he guessed. Edric sat besides him, and Garrin took the couch facing the window directly.

  They hadn’t waited long when a servant entered with a silver tray bearing wine and a plate of fruit. She set down the fine glasses and porcelain dish with practiced care, offered a quick curtsy, and departed without a word.

  “Oh, how I’ve missed the comforts of a proper household,” Garrin said, lifting his glass. “Good wine. Fresh fruit.” He took a long sip and reached for a slice of apple, sinking back into the couch with a satisfied sigh.

  Edric swirled the deep red in his glass before tasting it. He gave a small nod. “Norththar red. From the coast, I’d guess. Sharp, but smooth.” He picked up a few grapes, glancing toward the window. “Better than anything we’ve had in weeks.”

  Leoric took a slice of bread from the plate—crusted, still warm—and sipped the wine with quiet approval. “A quiet room and food that wasn’t boiled until it lost its shape,” he said. “We’ve earned that much.”

  For a while, they sat in silence, letting the warmth of the room and the sunlight beyond the windows ease the edge from their thoughts. The campaign in Varn and the rushed ride back north had taken more from them than any of them said aloud—but for now, there was comfort.

  Edric broke the silence first, his voice quiet. “So, how do you plan to do this, Leoric?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know,” Leoric said. “The Duke’s known for getting straight to the point. At this stage, I’m hoping he makes the decision for me.” He took another sip of wine.

  “We could just ask him,” Garrin said, licking juice from his thumb. “Seems simpler.”

  Before Leoric could reply, the door opened, and a tall, well-dressed man stepped inside. The first thing Leoric noticed was the crest of Ironferm embroidered on the left breast of his deep blue coat. But if the crest hadn’t made it clear, the man’s amber eyes left no doubt: this was Duke Garen V of Ironferm.

  All three of them rose as one. As Aetherian Knights, they bowed to no one but the Knight Paramount and the King—but standing in the presence of a Duke was still appropriate.

  “Apologies for keeping you waiting,” Duke Garen said as he stepped into the room. “It took longer than anticipated to escape my meeting.” He gestured toward the couches with a fluid wave of his hand. “Please, be seated.”

  “No apology necessary, my lord,” Leoric said. “My men and I appreciated the brief rest.” He took his seat once more, and the Duke settled into the couch opposite him. “I am Knight-Sergeant Leoric Ashferm, and these are Sir Edric Vance and Sir Garrin Veylan.”

  “Yes,” the Duke said. “Thorne’s letter mentioned you had business here in Crosshaven.” He settled back into the couch, though his eyes never left Leoric.

  “The letter also said you needed the help of my contacts. While I can’t imagine what for,” he added, voice even, “if Thorne deems it important enough to send three knights and a Scrollhawk from the front, then I’ll help.”

  Leoric felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. “Thank you, my lord. We’ll need all the help you’re willing to give.”

  “I’m sure you do.” The Duke gave a wry smile and leaned slightly forward.

  “But there are two conditions. First—I don’t want, or need, to be directly involved. The less I know, the better."

  "Second—your Order isn’t known for its subtlety, and word of your altercation near Kael Kelhit has reached even here. I expect no disturbance of the peace in my city. Is that clear?”

  “Of course, my lord,” Leoric said. “We’ve no intention of causing trouble.” But at the Duke’s words, the shame of their failed confrontation near Kael Kelhit stirred in him again—quiet, sharp, and still unresolved.

  “See that you don’t,” was the Duke’s only reply.

  “My man will be waiting for you at Tanner’s Inn after sun down. Sir Garrin, I trust you can find it again. If I remember correctly, you and your companions used to frequent the place when you visited the city in your youth.”

  “The one on Tanner’s Rise, in the new city. Yes, I remember it.” Garrin looked briefly embarrassed—something Leoric had rarely seen.

  “Excellent. Then it seems our business has concluded. Sirs, I bid you good luck—I have a feeling you’ll need it.” The Duke rose from the couch and moved toward the door. “Someone will come and escort you back to the gate shortly.”

  “Wait—pardon me, my lord.” Leoric stood. “But who exactly are we meant to meet?” It felt almost improper to stop the Duke mid-exit—but without a name, they’d be searching blind.

  “No need to worry. He’ll know to look for you,” was all the Duke offered before turning and leaving the room.

  Leoric remained standing for a moment, watching the door close. He had the distinct sense they were being drawn into something deeper—and further from the world he knew. “Then it’s Tanner’s Inn tonight,” he said. “Garrin, you’ll have to lead the way.”

  “Right, but let’s eat at The Knot first,” Garrin said. “The slop they serve at Tanner’s barely qualifies as food.”

  They had time for one last sip of wine before the same House Steward returned to escort them to the gate. From there, the walk downhill back to The Knot was quick. They unpacked and prepared their gear in the quiet of each of their rented rooms, the tension of the day easing with the rhythm of routine.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  Garrin had been right to suggest dinner at The Knot. The food was excellent—tender pieces of venison served with golden, buttered potatoes that all but melted on the tongue. After weeks of camp food, it tasted like a slice of heaven.

  The wine, though not as fine as what had been poured in the Duke’s estate, was still an excellent vintage—warm, dark, and smooth. Laughter and the low clink of cutlery filled the air, the comfort of shared walls and soft lamplight settling around them. All too soon, it was time to leave for their meeting.

  Tanner’s Inn sat in the middle of Tanner’s Rise, one of the newer districts that had grown beyond the old city gates. Built atop a low hill, it overlooked the fields to the south and west—open land touched by the last light of day as they arrived.

  It was much smaller than The Knot, and looked to be an inn in name only—a squat, two-story building made from rough wood, with raucous laughter spilling from its open doorway.

  The smell hit Leoric as they stepped inside—woodsmoke, spilled beer, and sweat. The room was dimly lit, crowded with men in stained cloaks and thick beards. A few heads turned as they entered—the fine cut of their clothes marking them as outsiders.

  Garrin took the lead, confidently weaving through the crowd toward one of the few free tables. They sat down, and before Leoric had a chance to take in the room, Garrin had already waved over a serving girl and ordered three tankards of beer.

  “Remind me again how you know this place, Garrin.” Leoric rarely frequented taverns back in Kael Kestrel. Not that they were discouraged from drinking—it was more that he’d never seen the need. And when he did, it was always somewhere similar to The Knot: clean, quiet, and refined. Not... this.

  “The guards are more forgiving with drunks out here than they are inside the walls,” Garrin said with a shrug. “And it was always easy to find a lass willing to spend time with a noble in a place like this. As an added bonus? It drove our parents and tutors mad.” He smirked as he said it.

  Edric merely grunted, then took a long pull from the tankard the serving girl had just placed in front of them.

  “Please, remember we’re here on business, not to relax,” Leoric said. “Neither of you is getting drunk tonight.” He knew that if he let Garrin have his way, the man wouldn’t stop drinking until he passed out—or found someone willing to brawl. He took a drink of the beer himself. It was thin, and barely had any taste.

  “As you can taste, no immediate risk of us getting drunk on this,” Garrin said, a smug smile slowly spreading across his face.

  They continued this way for a while, talking about the last few weeks and doing their best to keep Garrin from ordering anything stronger than the beer. With each passing minute, Leoric grew more impatient. It was already past sundown—so where was their contact? Garrin had confirmed, more than once, that this was the right place.

  Leoric scanned the room again, looking for anyone who didn’t belong. But the only ones who stood out were themselves. Everyone else was unwinding after a day’s hard work—shoulders relaxed, mugs in hand, unaware of anything beyond the hearth. He turned back to his beer, took another drink. Edric and Garrin were talking about something, though he wasn’t listening. His thoughts were fixed on the contact—or more accurately, on his absence.

  He heard the door open behind them and turned quickly, hoping it might be their contact. The man who stepped inside looked like any other patron—but then, maybe that was exactly the kind of man they were meant to meet. Leoric kept his eyes on the newcomer. The man crossed the room and sat at a half-filled table, where the others welcomed him easily. A tankard of ale was already waiting.

  He took another look around the room. Laughter echoed in pockets of noise. Most of the men were in their thirties or older—the younger ones had likely joined the levy almost a season ago. Around the tables, people drank, shared stories, and played dice.

  There were women, too—some sitting beside husbands or partners, others gathered at their own tables. They ranged in age from their early twenties to near fifty. Despite its rough look, Tanner’s Inn was clearly popular. It all looked so normal. Which only made the waiting feel more out of place.

  Near the back wall, in a corner almost fully swallowed by the tavern’s dim light, Leoric noticed a young woman sitting alone. She was watching their table—quietly, intently. When their eyes met, she rose from her seat and began walking toward them.

  “Apologies, miss. We’re not here for company,” Leoric said, waving her off before she could speak. They needed to stay focused. Their contact could arrive at any moment.

  “Is that how you talk to ladies, Knight-Sergeant?” she said, not missing a beat. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll want my company after all.” She slid into the seat next to Garrin, her eyes flicking past Leoric with the ease of someone used to being underestimated.

  He took a longer look at the woman who had seated herself across from them. Young—mid-twenties, perhaps. She was pretty, he supposed—in that understated, rustic way some commoners carried without meaning to.

  Her hair was a dark brown, not as carefully kept as his mother’s or sister’s, but the style suited her—long and loose, framing her face. Her eyes, a matching brown, were wide but sharp. Shrewd.

  Her skin bore a few blemishes and lacked the polished glow women in refined society always seemed to have. Her dress was poorly cut, hanging off her frame rather than fitting it, the color long since faded. Still, she carried herself with a trace of the grace his mother would have called proper. He imagined the other patrons of the inn likely found her striking. Beautiful, even.

  “You’re mistaken, miss. I’m no Knight-Sergeant—we’re just here to enjoy the end of a long day and meet an old friend. If you would, we’re not looking for company tonight.”

  “Well, Leoric... looks like I’m the old friend you’ve been waiting for.” A smirk touched her lips, but her eyes held a challenge. “Sorry I’m not what you expected.”

  Edric and Garrin had taken notice now. Leoric didn’t have to look to know Garrin was grinning—and that it would come up again later.

  “Apologies,” Leoric said, clearing his throat. “I’m not sure what I expected, but… it clearly wasn’t you.” He searched her expression for a reaction, but found only calm.

  “You clearly know who we are—and we’ve been sitting here a while. Why wait to approach us?” He paused, then added with a touch more formality, “And may I ask your name?”

  “You can call me Eira.”

  “I waited to make sure no one followed you—and to see how competent you three really were.” She gave a small shake of her head, and a lock of hair slipped across one eye.

  “And I must say... I’m a bit disappointed in the famous Aetherian Knights. You barge in wearing fine clothes, plant yourselves in the middle of the room with your backs to the door—and it took you far too long to notice the lone figure in the darkest corner, watching you.”

  “Come now, lass,” Garrin said, his tone edging into defensiveness. “Wealthy folk pass through Tanner’s all the time. It’s not like we’re wearing crowns.”

  “You might as well have been. Look around—see anyone else dressed like a ducal envoy?” She rolled her eyes, not just at Garrin, but likely at all of them. “I didn’t come here to argue with clueless nobles. I came because I was asked to help—and it’s clear now you need it more than you realize.”

  “You are right. We need your help.” Edric’s tone was calm, steady. Leoric was slightly surprised to hear him speak—and at that moment, no less. Edric rarely took the lead in conversation.

  “Finally, some common sense. Good to know it hasn’t been completely trained out of all of you.” She leaned back a little, the edge of her smirk returning.

  “Did you come to help us—or just to mock us?” Leoric asked, his voice tight. The woman wasn’t just mocking them—she was mocking the Aetherian Knights. And that, more than anything, was starting to wear thin.

  “To help, sure. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself a little while I do.” Eira was clearly amused by his reaction. “You’re here for answers, right? About what happened the night after the battle at the Sardian Pass?”

  “Yes—but how could you know that? Even Duke Garen wasn’t told.”

  “My job is knowing these things,” Eira said, still calm. “I wouldn’t be much use if I didn’t know why you were here, would I?”

  “And it’s not like you’ve been subtle about it. Stalking and assaulting a Kingsguard captain? You really thought that wouldn’t make the rounds?”

  “The bastard insulted us,” Garrin said, his voice tight. “And he knew something—he all but admitted to it.”

  "I'm sure he did." She leaned over the table, voice lowered. "I suspect you are right. There have been mumblings, and increased activity at the docks in Easthan."

  Eira took a slow breath, her gaze sweeping the tavern with quiet precision. The air felt different now—thicker, somehow. The laughter that had filled the room earlier had dulled to a low murmur, broken by the occasional scrape of a chair or clink of glass. The crowd was thinning, though a few stragglers still came and went. After a moment, she seemed satisfied, and went on.

  “You saw the untended fields on your way in. The levies were pulled during the growing season—entire villages left short-handed. Now the harvest is coming in light, or not at all. People are disappointed, and soon enough hungry.”

  She met Leoric’s eyes. “The people have a hard time understanding what the point of the war was. Yes, we won—but what for?”

  “The Varnmen were the aggressors,” Leoric snapped. “They seized our ships. Our people fought for Sardia—for honor, for sovereignty.”

  A calming hand settled on his arm. It was Edric. “Calm,” he said quietly. “We came here for help. Getting righteous will get us nowhere.”

  “I don’t disagree, Knight-Sergeant.” Eira’s tone shifted—less amused, more measured. “The war was justified. But what does a farmer care about trade disputes and lost tariffs when his son is dead in a mountain pass far from home? What does the seamstress care when she can’t afford to feed her children?”

  She took a breath, and her gaze sharpened. “But we didn’t come here to debate politics. There’s unrest. And someone is fueling the fire.”

  “What are you saying?” Leoric asked. “That unrest and our ambush are connected?”

  Eira nodded slightly. “Your report mentioned an unfamiliar dialect.” She took a quiet breath. “We suspect the same people who ambushed you are now stirring discontent throughout the kingdom.”

  “Why?” Edric asked, matching her low tone.

  “The increased activity in Easthan,” she said. “Too much of it coming from known Velkari sympathizers. It began in the weeks leading up to the battle at the Sardian Pass.”

  She looked at them evenly. “The few groups we’ve been able to watch—dangerous, scattered, but coordinated—are angry. Not just at the war. At the current hierarchy. At those with the Blessed Blood.”

  Leoric stared at her, struggling to take it in. “So you’re saying this isn’t just coincidence.” He drew a breath. “Not just connected—but orchestrated. By the Empire of Velkaris?” He looked between them. “Why? What do they have to gain from this?"

  They were all fully focused on the conversation now, speaking low to not be overheard. The sounds of the inn fully forgotten and ignored.

  Eira gave a slow shake of her head. “What they’ve wanted for six centuries. Their old provinces. The lands they lost.” Her voice dropped even lower. “And what better way to reclaim them than by tearing them apart from within?”

  She leaned back, her case clearly made. All Leoric could do was sit and try to digest the enormity of what they had landed in the middle of. When he glanced at Edric and Garrin, he saw the same dawning weight behind their silence. The tavern seemed quieter now, as if it too needed time to absorb what had been said.

  Something felt wrong. Leoric couldn’t place it. But the weight in his gut wasn’t just fear. It was warning. He looked at Eira—she was tense now, her gaze flicking past him, jaw tight. He opened his mouth to speak, but she gave a sharp shake of her head.

  Around them, the room had emptied. Laughter was gone. The easy sprawl of working men had given way to something quieter. Tighter. Some of the tables were still occupied—but the patrons no longer looked like workers. He turned toward the bar. Empty.

  Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. The kind that settled in your chest before a blade was drawn. Their swords were back at The Knot. If it came to a fight, all they had were knives. And fists.

  Garrin and Edric had felt it too. Their bodies had stilled. Their eyes swept the room. Leoric gave a small signal across the table—six men at the back of the inn.

  Garrin’s reply came after only a second. Five fingers near the front. Eleven in total. He didn’t look afraid. But his mouth was tight. His eyes met Leoric’s. They both knew— Not good odds, but they’d survived worse.

  Leoric would try the peaceful route first. If there was a way out without blood, he’d take it. He raised his voice to a casual level. “Well, gentlemen, it’s getting late—and we’ve an early start tomorrow. My lady, thank you for your company. Allow us to escort you home.”

  All three of them stood. But Eira didn’t, her gaze was fixed somewhere behind Leoric—watching something he hadn’t yet seen.

  Then came the sound of chairs scraping across the floor behind him. The six men he’d counted were rising as well, knives in their hands. Peace wasn’t going to cut it.

  Garrin moved first—rushing the men near the front of the inn, behind Leoric. Edric and Leoric rushed toward the six at the back, drawing their knives as they went. He didn’t glance at Eira—just hoped she was wise enough to keep her head down.

  He saw Edric punch the closest attacker in the gut, doubling the man over with a single, blessed blow—then twist away from a slashing knife aimed at his side. Leoric had no time to see more. One of the others was already on him.

  The man struck first. Leoric caught the strike, forcing it wide. He countered with a quick stab to the man’s forearm—just below the elbow. The blade hit flesh. The man cried out and recoiled, his grip faltering. As he reeled, Leoric stepped in and drove the butt of his knife into his temple. The attacker dropped in a heap.

  There was no time to rest as a bottle came flying at his head. He ducked just in time—glass shattering behind him. Two attackers followed close behind, closing in with knives raised, moving in warily.

  He stepped into the closest attacker, stealing the momentum. A quick feint at the man’s left leg forced a shift in stance—just enough to open his guard. Leoric’s knife flashed, slicing across his hand. Not deep, but enough. Blood welled instantly, slicking the mans grip.

  The second man lunged, seeing an opening. Leoric stepped back to evade—and nearly tripped on a fallen chair. He caught his balance a heartbeat too late. The attacker’s knife sliced into his left side—a flash of sharp pain, followed by the warm, wet bloom of blood beneath his tunic.

  They weren’t amateurs—but they weren’t trained like Aetherian Knights. Leoric ignored the pain and stepped in close, driving his knife into the man’s gut and ripping sideways. The attacker cried out, staggering. Leoric shoved him back, then drove his boot into the side of the man’s head. The body went still.

  Leoric steadied himself and scanned for the man he’d slashed earlier. He spotted him lying in a heap, a broken table collapsed over his legs. Edric stood nearby, chest heaving—two more attackers lay still around him. That left five men unaccounted for.

  They both turned. Three of the five were still standing—closing in on Garrin. Leoric sprinted to help. Halfway across the tavern, something shifted in the shadows.

  Eira emerged behind one of the attackers— Her blade flashed, fast and clean, across his throat. The man gurgled once, then collapsed. Garrin startled at the sudden appearance of Eira, and reacted a second too late. A blade caught him low in the side, just below the ribs. He gasped and staggered, blood already soaking through his tunic. All Leoric could do was watch.

  He heard a roar to his right—Edric. The man charged the last two attackers. The first was thrown clear, crashing into the back wall with a sickening crunch. The second turned to flee.

  Edric caught him—and drove him down, hammering his fists into the man’s face. Again. And again.

  “Edric!” Leoric shouted, voice sharp. He wanted the man dead too—but answers meant more than revenge.

  It took another shout—and a firm grip on his arm from Leoric—before Edric finally stopped. The attacker’s face was a pulped ruin, but he was still breathing—ragged, wet, alive.

  Leoric turned away and moved to Garrin. He was lying on the ground, blood slowly pooling beneath him. Leoric cut away his shirt. The wound was deep—and bleeding heavily. But his breathing was steady, if shallow. The blade had missed his lungs. And it was too high for the stomach. He could survive this. But not without help.

  “Edric—rags. Now. We need pressure on the wound.” He didn’t look up, hands still pressed to the wound, blood soaking into his palms. Eira dropped to her knees across from him. “He needs a doctor. Where’s the closest one?”

  “I… Ther—” Her eyes were wide. But she took a breath, and steadied herself. “There’s a doctor in Guilder’s Row—just inside the new gate.”

  “Good. Once his wound’s covered, we move.” Edric was already laying down rags—most torn from the clothes of the dead.

  “Eira, check the man Edric left breathing.” She nodded and slipped away.

  Leoric and Edric worked quickly, binding Garrin’s wound. The bleeding slowed—but so did his breath. Leoric pressed fingers to Garrin’s neck. Too slow. Too shallow.

  “Edric, can you carry him—fast?”

  “Yes.” Edric was already kneeling. He gathered Garrin up with ease, the weight nothing against his blessed strength.

  Eira spoke, kneeling over the last attacker. “He’s dead.” Her tone flat. Factual.

  “Okay. No time to linger.” Leoric stood. “Eira, lead us to the doctor. Edric, run. Keep him steady.”

  “You two, go. The first guard we pass, I’ll pull in to secure the scene.” He looked to Eira. “Now move.”

  She didn’t hesitate. Moving fast, she passed both men and led them down through the narrow lanes, past shuttered shops and silent alleys. Edric followed close behind, Garrin’s weight in his arms, moving with blessed strength.

  They were stopped at the gates—swords drawn, voices sharp with suspicion. But Eira stepped in, voice calm and commanding. Whatever name she dropped—or authority she carried—worked. Within moments, the guards let them pass.

  Leoric paused just long enough to order two of the guards to secure Tanner’s Inn and preserve the scene. Then he ran.

  They caught up outside a quiet house on the edge of Guilder’s Row, not far from the main road they’d ridden in on that morning. The house, like its neighbors, was neat and well-tended—white plaster, shuttered windows, and the small flourishes of someone who made a good living.

  They knocked. Once. Twice. What felt like a hundred times. Finally, the door creaked open. An older man stood in the entry, hastily dressed, eyes heavy with sleep—until they landed first on Eira, and then Garrin. Whatever questions he had vanished. He stepped aside without a word and led them inside.

  The doctor led them into a ground-floor room—dimly lit, lined with cabinets and glinting brass instruments. A narrow bed sat near the wall. He was quick to light more candles, the light providing a clear sight of Garrin's bandaged chest.

  “On the bed,” he said—his voice hoarse, but steady.

  Edric laid Garrin down gently. The doctor was already pulling at the bandages.

  “What happened?”

  “Knife to the side,” Edric said. “We slowed the bleeding. Got him here fast.”

  Leoric could see the wound clearly in the bright light, now that the bandage had been stripped away. The flesh was torn and swollen, the blood dark and sluggish as it welled up again. He clenched his fists. He’d seen wounds like this before—seen men survive them. And others who didn’t.

  “Was the knife tainted?” the doctor asked, still working, ear pressed near Garrin’s chest.

  “Tainted?” Leoric echoed, uncertain. “I saw no signs of it,” Eira said. “But we can’t be sure.”

  “Very well. I need a closer look.” He pointed at Edric. “Big one—hand me that bottle of whiskey.” As Edric moved, he turned to Leoric. “You. Candle. Closer.”

  They obeyed without hesitation. The doctor poured the whiskey over the wound, scrubbing fast and rough. Garrin barely flinched. The doctor muttered as he worked. “Bones intact. Lung looks clean. Too high for the gut.”

  Blood still leaked, slow but steady. The doctor narrowed his eyes. “Darker than it should be. Likely from the slow bleed—deep vein, maybe."

  Edric paced the room, barely looking at them. Eira sat in one of the chairs, cleaning a small cut on her arm. Leoric couldn't take his eyes of Garrin. His skin had gone bloodless, breath barely stirring his chest. Shallow. Weak. Each rise looked like it might be the last.

  The doctor leaned back with a slow exhale. His hands, stained and steady, lowered to his knees. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “It’s too late.”

  Edric stopped dead mid step, his skin almost as pale as Garrin's. Leoric felt a lead weight settle in his gut. His eyes burned, vision blurring. "No. No, there’s got to be something—he can’t die."

  The doctor didn’t answer right away. His hands were still stained with blood, trembling faintly now. He glanced down at them as if the sight surprised him. “He lost too much,” he said at last. Quiet. Final. “Even a blessed healer couldn’t bring him back.”

  Edric crossed the room and knelt beside the bed. He didn’t speak. Just stared—like if he looked long enough, Garrin might take another breath.

  Leoric couldn’t move. His chest felt caved in, lungs useless. His vision blurred. He barely noticed the tears until they landed on his hands. This couldn’t be real.

  Just hours ago, they’d been laughing over dinner—Garrin grinning, telling that same story for the third time. The one about outrunning the city watch, drunk and half-naked, boots thudding against stone, curses chasing them through the alleys. He’d almost been caught. Almost.

  Now he lay before them. Skin already growing cold, pale as snow. They’d been so close to walking out of that tavern with nothing but bruises and stories. If Leoric had moved faster—if he’d trusted the knot in his gut, read the stillness in the room for what it was—maybe Garrin wouldn’t be lying here now. Maybe he’d still be laughing. He should have known, should have noticed.

  Eira stepped up beside them, silent. Her gaze fell to Garrin, unreadable—but not cold. Then, gently, she rested a hand on Edric’s shoulder. A quiet, steady weight. Not a gesture of comfort—just presence. None of them spoke. There was nothing to say.

  None of them spoke. There was nothing left to say. They had failed. Again. And now, Garrin was gone.