Clip. Clop. Clip. Clop.

  The horse’s hooves struck against the stones embedded in the dirt road as Silas traveled across the plains of Kaldris. Cool air swept through his short-cropped blond hair. His fist clenched around unfamiliar reins, and his knee pressed tightly against the saddle beneath him. Above, the sun shone bright with only a few lazy clouds drifting along.

  Behind and to his right, the mountains stretched into the sky, too tall for the eye to follow. Before him, the plains rolled on—endless waves of green, yellow, and brown grass shifting in the wind. Ridges and eddies of it. Alive, yet unchanging.

  Silas was bored.

  Millford was only a few hours ahead now, and already it was the furthest he had ever been from Jinaral. He’d been to Valenmoor before, exploring the bogs and swamps while delivering a letter for Master Sablethorn. He’d even gone to the infamous city of Shae’Rum once, delivering swords and spears.

  His master was a truly important man—asked to personally sing for Duke Orso. If only he, Silas, could become as famous as Sablethorn the Keeper of Harmonies.

  I can sing easy enough, Silas thought, but I can’t practice without my hands.

  Cautiously, he reached behind and unclipped the fiddle from the strap across his chest. Disentangling the bow, he held both out like a tightrope walker balancing for dear life. Slowly, he brought the instrument under his chin and gently placed the bow.

  Minutes passed as he tested the rhythm of the horse, drawing slow, tentative scales. With each note, his confidence grew. And maybe it was his imagination—but even the horse’s gait seemed to bob in time with his playing.

  He grinned and launched into a jig. The horse picked up its pace.

  This wasn’t too bad.

  He’d heard stories—of bards who adventured beside legends. Drayth Mournspeaker, who could stop man or beast with a single verse, wandering the mountains in search of the hidden Wellspring of the savage Northmen. Or Serna Lysfall, who only sang the songs of her companions after they died, ensuring her story was the last.

  Maybe one day, Silas thought, my name will be remembered like theirs.

  But not yet.

  He’d seen no great deeds—not firsthand. This was his first adventure. His first real step toward legend. He was bound for Millford, to harvest his own soul stones, to craft a magically enhanced fiddle, and to prove himself.

  He would show that arrogant bastard what he was made of. Faith meant something. Even if Auren laughed in his face for it.

  The man had openly mocked the Church, dismissed Silas’s prayers to Tharuum like they were children’s songs. He’d said Silas could do whatever he liked, but he had no intention of respecting the gods. No reverence, no humility. The idiot was lucky the guards let him into the city at all with that attitude.

  People like that should be banished—left to rot with the Mekhosh in the wilds, or tossed across the mountains to live with the savage Northmen.

  Silas spent the day practicing, doing his best not to fall behind. A few times, his horse—on loan from Master Had—decided the moment was ripe to stop and chew the grass growing abundantly along the roadside.

  “Come on, horsey,” Silas muttered, tugging the reins.

  He hated horses almost as much as they seemed to hate him. And it didn’t help that he had to lug all the waterskins to keep the dumb brute hydrated.

  Over time, the worn road began to fade into a dirt path, then ended entirely, abandoning him in a sea of grass. Silas kept his hands nervously on the reins, glancing often at the mountains—his only guide. The sun now hung directly overhead.

  Were the mountains getting bigger?

  No, it had to be his imagination.

  He continued on through the rest of the day and into the next, increasingly anxious as the sun began to rise and set slightly off from where he expected.

  The worst that could happen, he reasoned, was that he’d veer north into Duskwatch.

  Unless…

  Unless he went right between both cities entirely, wandering the endless plains until luck or death found him.

  Just as the panic began to bite, he saw something.

  A shape in the distance—small, running perpendicular to his path from the mountains.

  It quickly resolved into a girl, no more than fifteen, pulling her horse up short as soon as she saw him.

  The way her mount reared and pranced in place left no doubt in Silas’s mind: she was Mekhosh.

  The girl stared for a heartbeat, then frantically turned her horse and bolted—straight in the direction Silas had been heading, as if ghosts chased her.

  Well now, Silas thought, wasn’t that supposed to be his reaction?

  Curiosity replaced fear. Everyone knew the Mekhosh were thieves and liars, rumored to raid caravans and block access to the stranger Wellsprings. But still, they were said to be decent enough to traders and wanderers—so long as you kept a tight grip on your coin and slept with one eye open.

  Maybe they could point him toward Millford. Or at least tell him if he was walking himself into a grave.

  He pressed onward, though the girl had vanished beyond the tall grass.

  The sun began to dip, painting the plains gold. Silas squinted, shielding his eyes from the glare. The grass shifted strangely, like breath held in a thousand green throats. The wind died, and the silence came with it—too sharp to be natural.

  Then he heard it.

  The pounding of hooves.

  Not one. Many.

  A low thunder rolled across the grass, and then he saw them—a cloud of dust and no less than six Mekhosh riders, surging toward him with wild speed and purpose.

  Their cloaks snapped behind them like banners. Their mounts thundered with an unearthly rhythm.

  They looked like they meant

  “Bahahaha!”

  Tahlven hadn’t stopped laughing the entire ride back to the caravan.

  “You scream like a woman!”

  Silas glared daggers at the back of his horse’s head. These brutes were unbearable.

  Their horses were as wild and unwashed as the riders themselves—and somehow, even worse company.

  Behind them, Dressa and Alune rode in silence, though Silas swore he could feel their amusement radiating like heat. The other three scouts had already galloped ahead, no doubt eager to share the story with the rest of their filthy camp.

  Apparently, the girl Silas had spotted was a big deal—some daughter of the tribe’s head, or however these rag-wrapped savages structured their little sand-dusted hierarchy. As if it could compare to the courts of Jinaral or the royal decrees of the southern kingdoms.

  He huffed. Royalty, indeed. She hadn’t seemed all that special running around alone on the plains.

  It was the smell Silas noticed first—rich, aromatic, drifting on the breeze like a forgotten feast. Then came the smoke—thin columns rising in the distance.

  As they drew closer, sounds followed. Voices. Dogs barking. Laughter. Hammers tapping. And finally, he saw them.

  The wagons.

  Fifteen of them, forming a wide, uneven circle. Like teeth in a broken jaw, half-sunk into the tall grass. Each wagon was different, yet together they looked like they had grown from the land itself—draped in faded silks, patched hides, bone charms, and wind-worn talismans that clinked like chimes made from old sins.

  Some had curved canopies, covered in shimmering thread that caught the dying light and bent it like water. Others were flat-backed, rigged with fold-out platforms where men and women crouched over steaming pots and stone plates.

  At the center of the camp, a low fire burned smoky and blue. It didn’t look warm—it looked sacred. Not for heat, Silas thought, but for ritual.

  Around it all moved the Lumisilk tribe of the Mekhosh.

  Children darted barefoot through the grass and beneath the wagons, faces painted with crescent-moon swirls and dotted lines. Beast handlers brushed down shaggy horses and scarred pack-beasts, their hands wrapped in gloveless bandages stained with dye. Scouts leaned against wagon wheels and axle spokes, eyes sharp as they watched the newcomers ride up.

  One of them—one of the original scouts—nodded to Tahlven as they passed.

  “Winds guide your feet.”

  “And may the Wellsprings find you still moving,” Tahlven replied smoothly, without slowing.

  “Ho! Ceyra! Gem of my heart!” the scout shouted suddenly, swinging down from his massive horse with the grace of someone far too familiar with jumping from high things.

  Silas barely ducked in time to avoid a boot to the face.

  The other two riders dismounted, so Silas followed their lead, keeping his fiddle strapped to his back and slinging his pack down beside him.

  He tried to be discreet about how tightly his hands clutched the pack straps.

  Tahlven and the others wore garments stitched together from countless colors and cloths—a patchwork of silks, hides, and linen, every piece telling its own story. But it was the armor that caught Silas’s attention.

  It was well-worn—scratched, scuffed, clearly used in more than a few fights. But it was also well-maintained, polished to a soft gleam despite the damage. And more than that, it was etched—runes curling along the surfaces like vines grown into steel, some faint, others glowing dimly with light that pulsed like breath.

  There was nothing ceremonial about it. These were not costumes. They were weapons made of men.

  “Come!” waved the giant of a man.

  Silas had to admit—the man had a very, very beautiful wife.

  Like dawn’s light over mist-covered water in the Wellsprings, her dark green eyes met his with a dazzling smile.

  “Welcome, traveler,” she said.

  “Not just a traveler, my love. A bard! Look!”

  Before Silas could protest, the big man practically reached over him, grabbing the handle of his fiddle with one massive hand and yanking him forward like a sack of grain.

  “Gah! Release me!” Silas shouted, arms flailing.

  He struggled in vain, eventually managing to awkwardly peel the strap off his shoulder—at which point he promptly fell flat on his ass in the grass.

  The two of them—towering nomad and mist-eyed beauty—marveled at the fiddle like it was some kind of sacred relic.

  Angrily, Silas yanked it back from them.

  He glowered at the pair, clutching the instrument close, inspecting it for damage. He’d check the tuning later.

  Tahlven just laughed and led his wife toward a cook pot bubbling in front of a nearby wagon. A little girl sat atop it, her legs swinging freely, petting a hawk that sat motionless beside her. Both of them—girl and bird—watched Silas with quiet intensity. Their heads tilted in sync, like predators studying their next kill.

  “Lots of pretty colors on you, stranger.”

  The girl’s voice was cool, curious.

  “You a jongleur?” she asked, staring down at him.

  “ obviously not,” scoffed Silas,” I am a bard of the Jinaral College on my way towards Milford on important business.”

  “ Ay important business.”

  Said her father’s voice from the fire,’.

  “So leave the traveler alone, Zireh.”

  Though he seemed to agree, Silas could hear the derision underneath, the "woman's scream" comment still fresh in everyone's minds. He’d told them he was carrying a message to the nobility in Millford. Everyone knew of Lady Lyssandra and her violently jealous husband, Sir Gerald. They were expecting him, of course. It wasn’t Silas’s fault he’d found himself wandering too far north, beholden now to a night spent playing friends with savages.

  He tried to regain some dignity. “I really must leave early,” he declared loudly. “As soon as my horse has rested. The beast can barely go a mile without needing to drink or nibble grass.”

  Silas chuckled awkwardly at his joke, then quickly stuttered to silence as he caught the dark glares aimed his way.

  Now it wasn’t just the girl sizing him up—Tahlven and Ceyra stared as well, their eyes sharp, uncertain, and cold. Tahlven nodded back the way they'd come, his expression hardening with distaste.

  Silas gripped his fiddle tighter, feeling the strings bite into his fingers.

  Tahlven spoke softly, his voice edged with sudden danger. “That horse you rode in on—what’s its name?”

  Silas blinked. “Huh?”

  Why would he name a horse?

  “Your horse,” Tahlven repeated darkly, taking a slow step closer. “The creature carried you all the way from Jinaral, you said. You’ve ridden it long enough to feed it, water it, care for it. Surely you honored it with a name?”

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

  Silas stared back, mouth half-open. He felt the big man's gaze darken further, noticed again the savage’s twin curved blades at his waist, each within easy reach..

  “Uh… Marisa,” Silas blurted without thinking.

  Tharuum forgive him—why had that been the only name to come to mind?

  The big man glanced briefly at his wife, sharing a look Silas couldn’t interpret. Then he turned back with a twisted grin spreading slowly across his face.

  “A fine name… a fine name indeed,” he murmured softly.

  An awkward silence followed before Tahlven waved Silas forward.

  “Come. We're about to prepare our evening meal. Join us, bard—sing us a song, perhaps.”

  “...Of….of course,” Silas stammered, but he didn’t move.

  Zireh hopped down suddenly from her perch above the wagon wheel. Silas’s stomach lurched at the casual drop, but the girl landed gracefully—cat-like, predatory. She stalked past him, muttering softly as she went:

  “It’s male.”

  Silas blinked. “Huh?”

  She paused briefly, her gaze cool and scornful. “Your horse. It’s male.” With that, she walked calmly toward the cook pot and squatted down beside her parents.

  The food was incredible—Silas couldn’t deny it. Giant chunks of tender meat simmered in a rich stew, mixed with potatoes and root vegetables, soaking in a broth that left a heavenly flavor lingering on his tongue after every bite. Meat was a rare luxury in Jinaral—two silver coins for even a modest portion of deer—and yet here, they offered it freely, as if it were nothing.

  All around the caravan, families and larger groups huddled close together around cook fires beside their wagons. Voices murmured softly, punctuated by quiet laughter and the occasional ring of metal or clink of dishes. Yet Silas still noticed a few scouts moving silently around the outskirts of the camp, their eyes sharp and watchful, scanning the shadowed grasses that surrounded them.

  “What is it you watch for?” Silas asked, glancing toward the figures patrolling the grass. “There’s nothing out on the plains.”

  Tahlven laughed, and the sound was quickly joined by the others. Ceyra, Drassa, Alune, and over a dozen others had gathered through the evening, drawn to the warmth of the fire and the scent of stew. Silas felt the sting of the laughter. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t understand.

  “Oh, little one,” said one of the men, scooping a second helping of the stew into his bowl, “why would you ever stop watching? Do you suppose the Wellsprings will stop coming? That the monsters will grow tired of the taste of your bones?”

  He laughed, deep and booming, and wandered off to join another cluster of diners by the wagons.

  Silas scowled. Surely the monsters didn’t always linger. Didn’t they vanish with the Wellsprings?

  But the longer he sat among them—the fire’s glow casting strange shadows, the scouts still circling beyond the ring of wagons—the more he realized:

  This world was not as safe as he’d supposed.

  “A song! A song!” shouted Tahlven, clapping his hands above the rising noise of drink and eating.

  Silas froze.

  All eyes had turned to him.

  His chest tightened, the blood rushing loud in his ears. He could feel the sweat already beading at his brow, slick against the cool night air. Around the fire, the Mekhosh families watched him expectantly—some grinning, some stone-faced, some already leaning closer.

  You are a bard, he told himself. You are trained. You were born for this.

  He rose stiffly to his feet, unstrapping the fiddle from his back and setting bow to string. The notes quivered at first, like his fingers, but soon he found a steady rhythm—a slow, solemn melody, meant to sound ancient and reverent.

  Silas closed his eyes and began to sing.

  First drink the kings, in their shining halls,

  Then drink the priests, when the high bell calls,

  Then drink the lords, their banners bright,

  And last come the nameless, at fall of night.

  Wellsprings bloom for crown and creed,

  Their blessings sown for those in need.

  A crumb, a sip, a whispered thing—

  The scavenger’s only offering to the spring.

  The last notes hung trembling in the smoky air.

  When Silas opened his eyes, the firelight seemed colder somehow.

  No one clapped.

  No one cheered.

  Faces stared back at him—still, sharp, unreadable. Somewhere near the back of the circle, a child muttered something to his mother, and she hushed him sharply.

  Tahlven rose slowly from his seat by the fire, dusting his palms off against his patched cloak.

  "A fine song, bard," he said, voice low and measured.

  "Truly. It is good to hear how the noble cities think of us."

  Silas swallowed hard.

  Wait—what had he—?

  It crashed over him then, all at once—the words he’d sung, the casual scorn baked into every line. He hadn't even thought. In Jinaral, it was common to joke about "wild folk" and "scroungers" when singing about Wellsprings. It was tradition. It was meant to honor the Wellsprings—not insult the people who lived near them.

  But here, in the heart of the Mekhosh camp, surrounded by a people who lived by the Wellspring’s mercies, who bled for every scrap they carried... it wasn’t a joke.

  It was a wound.

  Silas stood there, his fiddle heavy in his sweating hands, as the fires cracked and the wind turned cold across the plains.

  “Apologies. That came out wrong. Let me try another.”

  He fumbled with his fiddle before sliding the bow across the strings. Once more he sang, accompanying the music.

  He wore no crown but dust and thorn,

  His cloak was stitched from nights forlorn.

  His steed was hunger, his sword was rain,

  His banner torn by wind and pain.

  Through broken hills and dying streams,

  Marrek the Bold still chased his dreams.

  He sought no throne, he held no keep,

  Just endless roads and dreamless sleep.

  He conquered no cities, he claimed no land,

  Yet all the Wellsprings knew his hand.

  They pitied the king who wore no ring,

  And whispered low of the wandering thing.

  O Marrek, Marrek, lost to sky—

  A crown of dust, a nameless cry.

  First to thirst, and last to sing,

  A scavenger’s prayer to a silent spring.

  Deathly silence this time, with the exception of one high pitching cackling laugh. Zireh was laughing like a wild thing, falling onto her back and flinging her legs into the air. Tears poured down her eyes but Silas was no longer looking at her. He was staring at all the men surrounding him, men with fists slowly clenching and unclenching.

  “I think were done with songs for now .. Bard. Theres only so much us scavengers can take. Im sure you understand.” Said Tahlven

  The Mekhosh stared at him across the fire, their faces still and hard. The firelight carved deep shadows into their cheeks, made their eyes gleam like stones. Even the children were silent now, wide-eyed and unmoving.

  For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

  Then, from somewhere near the back of the circle, a low voice muttered — just loud enough to carry:

  "Marrek wasn’t a thing."

  Another voice, sharper, followed:

  "And he never begged from any spring."

  Silas felt the words like a blow. His chest tightened; his mouth tasted of ash.

  He gripped his fiddle so hard his knuckles turned white, but it gave him no comfort.

  The fire cracked once, loud in the brittle silence.

  Tahlven rose slowly, dusting off his hands, his patched cloak catching the wind.

  "Rest well, bard," he said evenly.

  "Perhaps tomorrow, you’ll learn the weight of your songs."

  Silas bowed stiffly, almost dropping his fiddle, and turned away before he could see their faces anymore.

  The night air hit him like a slap—sharp, cold, almost welcome. He stumbled away from the fire, out into the open dark.

  He needed space. Needed to breathe.

  The horses stood tethered a little ways off, their silhouettes dark and steaming in the chill. Silas made for them blindly, boots scuffing in the dust. The familiar smells of leather and sweat and horsehide closed around him like a rough blanket, thick and grounding.

  He leaned against the nearest mare's flank, feeling the steady warmth of her side, and let the silence swallow him whole.

  At least the horses didn't care what songs he sang.

  At least they didn’t look at him like he was something lower than dust.

  Even in the moonlight Silas could see the silvery sheen of the mares white coat. His own horse, a dark brown mare stood hidden in the nearby shadows. Maybe he should give the beast a name. It would be with him some time still.

  Silas went over to his pack and pulled out an apple. Silently he cut it into pieces and offered one to his horse. The horse snorted once, warm wind blowing on his hand, before snatching it up, teeth showing behind stretched back lips. Silas smiled even as he wiped the animals spit off his hand.

  Silas felt a nudge on his shoulder and looked over. The white colored horse was trying to get over his shoulder to get at some of the apple slices. Smiling Silas let the animal steal some of the slices. Maybe these beasts weren't so bad after all. Silas chuckled softly as the white mare snatched another slice, her teeth flashing, warm breath puffing over his arm.

  “Greedy girl, aren’t you?” he murmured.

  The white mare snorted again, nosing at his pack, clearly searching for more.

  Without thinking, Silas reached in and pulled out another treat — a lump of sweetened oat bread wrapped in cloth, meant for his own breakfast. He broke a piece off and offered it to her. The mare wolfed it down, tossing her head happily.

  "You’re welcome," Silas said, wiping his hand on his trousers.

  A soft voice sliced through the night behind him.

  “What are you feeding her?”

  Silas whirled, heart hammering. A shadow detached itself from the deeper dark beyond the wagons—a Mekhosh warrior, tall and narrow as a spear, wrapped in a patchwork cloak that shifted and shimmered under the moonlight. His face was hard, unreadable, the pale glint of tattoos curling up the side of his neck like smoke.

  Silas opened his mouth, then closed it. He held up the bread, offering it weakly like a peace token.

  "Just... just a little snack," he said. "She liked it."

  The warrior stepped closer, boots whispering against the dry grass.

  "You fool," he hissed, his voice low and furious. "That horse is no common stock. She runs the long roads. She needs the breath of dry grain, not your sugared poison."

  Silas’s stomach twisted. He stumbled a step back, bumping into the mare, who whickered and stamped her hoof.

  The warrior kept coming, his hands curling into fists.

  "You would cripple her for a sweet?" he snarled. "You would rot her from the inside like a spoiled calf?"

  Panic rose in Silas's throat. He backed further away, fumbling for the reins of his own horse, the dark mare shifting nervously in the shadows.

  "It—it was just a bite," Silas stammered. "She’s fine!"

  The white mare tossed her head again, snorting sharply as if to betray him.

  The warrior was almost on him now, and there was murder in his eyes—cold, deliberate.

  Silas didn’t think.

  He bolted.

  One hand caught the reins of his mare, the other yanked himself into the saddle with all the grace of a sack of flour being hurled onto a cart. His foot slipped once, but he didn’t stop. He dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and shouted hoarsely.

  The mare, sensing the panic, lunged forward in a jerky burst of speed.

  Behind him, the Mekhosh warrior cursed and gave chase, his boots pounding the earth.

  For a few horrible seconds, Silas thought the man might actually catch him—he could hear the rasp of his breath, the slap of his feet—but then the mare found her stride, and the distance between them stretched.

  Grass tore past in a blur, the campfires shrinking behind him into tiny orange dots in the dark.

  Silas didn't look back.

  He didn't slow.

  The plains of Kaldris opened before him—an endless ocean of black and silver—and he rode into it like a man fleeing a nightmare he didn't yet understand.

  The wind clawed at his face, ripping the breath from his lungs, but still he rode, the beat of the hooves thundering through his bones.

  He rode until the fires were gone.

  Until even the stars seemed like strangers in the endless dark.