Doran took a long swig and set the tankard down with a solid thud.

  “Crossing the Thalen Pass isn’t cheap. And these days, even less.”

  He was short—barely more than a meter and a half—but broad as an ale barrel. Son of a dwarf and a human: miner’s torso, thick arms, a gray beard hanging to his chest. His dark eyes gleamed with the clarity of someone who hadn’t truly been drunk in years.

  Kaelor held his gaze.

  “I’m not looking for something cheap. I’m looking to reach Aeryndor.”

  Doran let out a snort.

  “Aeryndor… On the banks of the Thalor, at the foot of the mountains. There are more graves than homes along that route.”

  “I can pay you,” Kaelor said, tone unchanged.

  He dropped several gold coins onto the table. Their warm gleam against the wood softened the half-dwarf’s expression.

  “…Fine,” Doran said at last. “Tomorrow at dawn we sail downriver. But hear me well—no one crosses Thalen without losing something. Even if it’s only fear.”

  Kaelor didn’t answer. The tavern fire cast both their shadows across the wall, stretching them out like a mountain rising behind them.

  ***

  The murmur of the river blended with the creak of the merchant boat’s hull. For days they drifted between mountains, carried by the slow current of the Thalor.

  On deck, Kaelor was training Alden.

  Alden wielded two blades: his father’s short sword in his left hand, the longer one in his right. He struck, spun, blocked. Kaelor corrected him with his own naked blade.

  “Don’t step forward so far.”

  Alden adjusted. Missed the block. The flat of Kaelor’s sword struck his arm with sharp precision.

  “Truth hurts more than steel,” the older man said.

  Alden clenched his jaw and continued. Metal rang against metal, echoing through the valley walls.

  From the railing, Kael watched in silence.

  Doran approached without a sound.

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  “You stare like you’ve never seen your own brother fight.”

  Kael didn’t take his eyes off them.

  “Because I’ve never seen him fight for real.”

  Doran let out a low chuckle.

  “Soon we’ll all see what we’re made of.”

  Kael narrowed his eyes; the tension didn’t escape the half-dwarf.

  “And speaking of that,” Doran continued, lowering his voice, “I heard in the last port there are more patrols than usual along the river. Too many questions. Too many young faces being looked for.”

  Kael tensed.

  “You think they’re coming for us?”

  Doran leaned his elbows on the railing.

  “I don’t think so. I know it.”

  The wind shifted, bringing a silence no bird dared break.

  ***

  The Thalor churned under the current, reflecting the gray light of dawn. Riven stood at the prow of a military skiff while a dozen soldiers rowed in steady rhythm. The air was thick with humidity and sweat.

  When they reached the opposite bank, an officer greeted them with a rigid bow.

  “Welcome, my lord. We received your messages and followed your orders to the letter.”

  Riven stepped ashore without replying. His cloak trailed behind him, stained by road dust and river spray.

  “Report,” he ordered quietly.

  “We’ve established checkpoints every ten kilometers along the final stretch of the river,” the soldier said. “No boat or traveler can pass unseen. So far, no one matching your descriptions has appeared.”

  Riven nodded slowly. He stared north, toward the mountains veiled in bluish mist.

  For a moment, doubt flickered across his features. Had he been wrong to come to the Thalen route? Should he have gone north, toward the capital?… No. His instinct had never failed him.

  When he spoke again, his voice was firm.

  “Maintain vigilance. If anything unusual occurs, I want to know immediately.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The soldier bowed and hurried off to relay orders. Riven remained still a moment longer, watching the river move on, undisturbed. The wind carried with it a distant murmur, as if the mountains whispered only to him.

  Then he turned and continued onward without looking back.

  ***

  Hours later, Doran stood at the prow, staring downriver. His expression hardened suddenly.

  “We’ve got trouble,” he said, and the tone alone made Kaelor rise instantly.

  In the distance, a patrol approached in small riverboats, moving against the current. Doran ground his teeth.

  “There shouldn’t be a checkpoint in this stretch,” he muttered. “If we try for the shore, they’ll reach us first. Leave it to me—and keep your mouths shut.”

  The crew slowed until one of the patrol boats bumped alongside. Several soldiers boarded, faces set and stern.

  Their leader—armor worn, voice authoritative—looked over the passengers one by one.

  “We’re searching for young men with a mark on their chest. Check everyone.”

  Doran stepped forward, hands raised.

  “We’re merchants, and I already paid that bastard Captain Hareth his damned toll. You’ve no right to—”

  The soldier cut him off, pointing his sword at him.

  “Shut your mouth, filthy half-breed.”

  Rage lit Doran’s eyes, but he didn’t move.

  Two soldiers closed in on Kaelor, whose hand already hovered near his sword hilt.

  “Easy,” Doran whispered without looking at him. “Wait.”

  Another soldier shoved Kael, exposing his chest. Then he turned toward Alden and yanked his shirt collar down.

  The air thickened—the flame-shaped Mark lay bare on his skin.

  The soldier barely had time to open his mouth before Kael drove a dagger into his back.

  Everything exploded.

  Kaelor moved with lethal speed: a clean slash across the first soldier’s throat, a clash of steel, and the second dropped with a blade through his ribs.

  With a roar, Doran hurled two knives that lodged deep into the patrol leader—the same man who had insulted him.

  Alden spun: a cut to the right, another to the left, and two more enemies collapsed almost simultaneously.

  The last soldier tried to run, but Kael reached him before he reached the edge. His body hit the water with a dull splash.

  The silence that followed was heavy as stone.

  Doran exhaled, wiping his blades.

  “We’re going on foot,” he said urgently. “If another patrol sees this, we’ll be dead before dawn.”

  Kaelor nodded. Without looking back, the group gathered their belongings, climbed down to the bank, and slipped into the trees toward the Thalen hills, whose snowy peaks cut sharply against the sky.

  ***

  Hours later, near dusk, cold wind whispered through the branches.

  Riven walked slowly across the deck of the merchant boat. His boots smeared with the dried blood of the fallen soldiers. He examined each body in turn, expressionless, until he reached the patrol leader.

  He knelt and closed the dead man’s eyes with two fingers.

  “A clean strike,” he murmured, more to himself than to the soldier beside him. “Fast. No hesitation.”

  The soldier behind him spoke respectfully.

  “Looks like smugglers’ work.”

  Riven straightened.

  “No,” he said quietly, certain.

  “These weren’t smugglers.”

  His eyes turned toward the horizon, where the mountain line faded into mist. The breeze drifting from the peaks carried a faint scent of iron and pointed the path he needed to follow.

  “They’re close,” he said. “A day. Day and a half at most.”

  The river flowed on, indifferent to the blood spilled, as if destiny itself were carried in its waters.