Jason Grekor

  THE DYING SUN bled across the horizon, painting the distant riverbed in hues of orange and crimson. From my vantage point high in the castle’s tower, the world below seemed diminished, its worries reduced to whispers beneath the grandeur of twilight.

  Hours had slipped by since I arrived, bearing urgent tidings from Slacia, yet the Duke remained elusive. His chamber was a frigid void, offering little comfort. The faint crackle of embers in the hearth and the murmurs of servants beyond the heavy oak door were the only sounds, muted and distant, like memories fading in the gloom.

  The guards had scrutinized me sharply before granting entrance, their suspicion as tangible as the weight of their polished armor.

  Within the Duke’s chamber, unease prickled at my skin. I paced the vast space, my boots silent on the thick, intricately woven rug. Tapestries lined the walls, their vivid patterns stark against the cold austerity of the room. Dust motes danced in a solitary beam of light slicing through the gloom, illuminating the Duke’s massive oak desk. Hunting trophies loomed from the walls—a stag with antlers like a king’s crown, a wolf forever frozen in a feral snarl. Their lifeless eyes seemed to follow me, silent witnesses to my growing impatience.

  The Duke, it was clear, was a man who revered power: the hunt, the kill, the mastery over life and death. His desk reflected the same commanding presence—strewn with maps, quills, and scrolls. Among them, a half-finished letter rested, its elegant script a surprising contrast to the room's harsh atmosphere.

  A faint creak from the hallway shattered the silence. My hand instinctively fell to the hilt of my sword as the heavy door swung inward. The Duke entered with a measured stride, his presence filling the room as effortlessly as the tide claims the shore.

  He was a man of contradictions—platinum hair framing a stern, unyielding face, his eyes cold and glacial. He wore a simple tunic of deep blue, unadorned save for a silver signet ring glinting on his finger. The faint scent of pine and iron clung to him, evoking memories of armories and forges.

  I knelt as he approached, my head bowed low. The silence stretched taut between us until his voice, low and commanding, cut through it.

  "Rise," he commanded, his voice low and edged with steel.

  I obeyed, keeping my eyes averted. His presence filled the room, the air around him humming faintly with suppressed power.

  "You bear news from Slacia," he said, his tone flat, more a statement than a question.

  "Yes, your grace," I replied, standing rigid. "Lady Rayeesi has given birth to a healthy son." I reached into my satchel, producing a letter sealed with Lord Merwin’s crest. "And this, from Lord Merwin."

  I extended the letter, but before I could step forward, a pulse of mana rolled off the Duke. The weight of it pressed down on me like an iron shackle, cold and suffocating. My breath hitched, and my knees threatened to buckle under the sheer force of his displeasure.

  The Duke’s expression remained unreadable as he accepted the letter, breaking the seal with a deliberate motion. His eyes flicked over the parchment, yet he said nothing, his silence oppressive.

  "A son," he finally murmured, his voice more breath than sound. For a fleeting moment, a flicker of something—disdain? Disappointment?—crossed his features, but it vanished as quickly as it had come.

  I stood motionless, acutely aware of the charged air in the room. Whatever emotions churned beneath his icy exterior, they were locked away behind his glacial eyes.

  "You may go," he said at last, his tone curt.

  I bowed deeply and left the chamber, the oppressive weight of his presence lifting as I stepped into the corridor. The guards saluted briskly as I passed, their gazes tracking my departure.

  Beyond the castle walls, the city pulsed with life. The air buzzed with the sounds of merchants hawking wares and smiths hammering steel. The scent of roasted meat and woodsmoke drifted from the kitchens, a sharp contrast to the Duke's cold chamber.

  I nearly collided with a cook balancing a teetering stack of pies. “Watch yourself, lad!” he barked, his face ruddy with exertion. “The Lady’s birth-nurses won’t take kindly to floor-flavored fillings!”

  Offering an apologetic nod, I quickened my pace toward the gate. The city sprawled below, its streets alive with the clamor of evening. Descending the stone steps, I was swallowed by the vibrant throng, leaving the castle—and its secrets—behind me.

  Icia was a city of dualities. Its two concentric walls divided the city into layers like the rings of a tree, each telling a story of growth, struggle, and survival. The inner district, nestled within the towering inner wall, was the heart of the city’s wealth and power. Yet as I passed through the sturdy gate separating it from the outer district, I marveled at how seamlessly nobility and commoners seemed to coexist.

  The contrast struck me as unusual. In most cities, the nobility cloistered themselves in gilded halls, far removed from the rabble. Here, wealth—rather than bloodlines—dictated where one could reside, an arrangement that would surely scandalize the southern lords.

  The outer district welcomed me with an explosion of life and sound. Cobblestones shimmered faintly in the waning light of evening, and every street corner seemed alive with activity. Merchants hawked their wares in voices loud and jubilant, their stalls overflowing with everything from silk scarves to freshly baked pastries. The scents were intoxicating: cinnamon and cloves mingling with the comforting aroma of woodsmoke and roasted meat.

  A blacksmith’s hammer struck with a steady rhythm, each metallic clang sending a cascade of sparks into the darkening sky. A donkey brayed indignantly as its master adjusted a precariously balanced load of fruit baskets. Children darted between carts and market stalls, their laughter ringing through the streets. Despite my weariness, I couldn’t help but feel a small spark of vitality in this chaotic tapestry of humanity.

  At last, after navigating the labyrinth of streets, I arrived at the tavern where I’d taken lodging upon my arrival. Situated in the mercenary district—an area as rough as it was vibrant—the inn bore the marks of its clientele. The sign above the door, faded and weather-beaten, displayed the image of a crossed sword and tankard.

  Lord Merwin had vouched for this place, recounting tales of his youthful exploits here, disguised as a sellsword. I stepped inside, greeted by the warm glow of firelight and the low hum of conversation.

  The burly innkeeper, mid-conversation with a maid, glanced up. Recognition sparked in his eyes, and he waved me over.

  “Brida, take this young man to his room,” he said gruffly. The maid, a slight girl with round green eyes, nodded and motioned for me to follow.

  We ascended a narrow staircase, the wooden boards creaking beneath our steps. She led me to a modest room on the third floor, her demeanor curt.

  “This will be your room, sir,” she said, her voice cool. The space was humble but sufficient: a single bed, a small table, and a window overlooking the bustling streets below. “The bathroom is at the end of the hall, and dinner will be served in the main hall. Is there anything else?”

  “This will do,” I replied, though her tone left little room for further requests. She departed with a brusque nod, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Fatigue pulled at my limbs, but I forced myself to wash the grime of the road away before descending to the main hall. The space was crowded and alive with noise, a cacophony of clinking tankards, hearty laughter, and drunken arguments. I found a secluded corner and summoned a serving boy, ordering a meal to fill my empty stomach.

  As I waited, the conversation at a nearby table caught my ear.

  “Another one?” a gruff voice muttered from a nearby table.

  “Aye,” came the reply, barely audible over the clatter of mugs. “Gone without a trace. Same as the others.”

  “Whitewoods?”

  A pause. Then, a hushed confirmation. “Where else?”

  I turned slightly, pretending to adjust my cloak, and caught a glimpse of the men speaking. Both were older, their faces etched with lines of worry. One had his hand around his tankard, gripping it as if it were the only solid thing in the room.

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  “Not natural, I’m telling you,” the first man continued, his voice dropping even lower. “No tracks, no signs. Just... gone.”

  “Keep it down,” the other warned, glancing around nervously. His eyes flickered to me for a moment before he leaned in closer, his next words lost to the noise.

  The serving boy returned, placing my meal before me, and I forced my attention to the steaming stew and the surprisingly smooth ale. But the words from the two men lingered in my mind. Young girls, vanishing near the Whitewoods. That area was under the Garrison's jurisdiction, a place I would soon pass on my journey.

  Around me, the hall buzzed with the usual chatter-border tensions with Rhoadnia, whispers of war flickering like embers in dry grass. Yet the missing girls haunted me, casting a shadow over my meal as I chewed slowly, then set my utensils aside, deciding to retire early.

  As I made my way back to my room, my stomach comfortably full, a muffled voice snagged my attention. It wasn't the usual tavern banter-this was something different. Something that didn't sit right.

  I turned toward the narrow hallway that led to the bathroom. There, just beyond the door, a middle-aged man, clearly well into his cups, was getting far too friendly with one of the maids. She was trying to back away, her eyes wide with discomfort, but the bastard wasn't taking the hint.

  My hand instinctively went for my sword, though I knew I wouldn't need it.

  "Oi, get off her, you old toad! She’s not on the menu, and even if she were, you couldn’t afford her." I called out, striding over toward them, my boots scraping against the wooden floor.

  The man turned, his bloodshot eyes barely registering me at first. He blinked, trying to focus on me as if I were the one causing trouble. "Wha- who the hell are you?" he slurred, sounding more confused than threatening.

  I wasn't in the mood for a drunk's games. "I'm the one who's going to teach you some manners, you bastard," I growled, stepping right between him and the maid.

  His expression shifted, the fog of booze clouding his mind as he waved a hand in front of his face. "Eh? What's the matter, knight? Can't a man enjoy himself in peace?"

  I didn't waste a second. Grabbing the man by his collar, I lifted him off the ground like he was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. With a quick twist, I slammed him back into the wall hard enough to knock the air out of him. His eyes went wide, and I could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he realized maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as invincible as he thought.

  "What the hell...?" he gasped.

  "That's 'enjoying yourself,' is it?" I sneered, before pulling my fist back and giving him a good punch to the gut.

  The bastard let out an ugly wheeze, his stomach making a pathetic noise as I hit him. "Ahh, you're gonna pay for that, boy!" he managed to wheeze, but his words were nothing more than a pathetic echo now.

  "Pay for it?" I raised an eyebrow.

  "You're gonna pay for a mouthful of my boot if you don't take the hint, old man." I shoved him into the corner of the hallway for good measure, just to make sure he got the point.

  The maid looked up at me, her face flushed with a mixture of shock and relief. "T-thank you, sir," she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

  I gave her a quick nod, a half-smile tugging at my lips. "Don't mention it. Just keep an eye on the drunken idiots around here."

  I turned back to the man, who was now slumped, groaning as he struggled to find his feet. "You won't get away with this!" he whined, but it was more of a threat to himself than me.

  I smirked, feeling a surge of satisfaction. "I already have, mate." Then I kicked him lightly in the leg, just to make sure he stayed down.

  Turning to the maid, I gave her a warm smile. "Go on, get back to work. Before this guy gets back up and decides to try his luck again."

  She nodded, clearly still rattled, but grateful. "Y-yes, thank you again. You're... you're something else."

  I winked at her as she hurried off, my attention already back on the now whimpering drunk. "Yeah, well... I've had my fair share of idiots. And you're right at the top of the list."

  With a final glance, I left him to wallow in his own misery and walked back to my room.

  The weight of the sword in my hand felt oddly comforting as I undid my belt, setting it beside the bed. The mattress creaked under my weight as I flopped onto it, its lumpiness a reminder of how little I cared for comforts like these. I stared at the low, warped beams of the wooden ceiling, my mind still wrapped around the events of the evening.

  My mind wandered through the events that had led me here. A mere Sa'liq, tasked with delivering such a delicate message—a message about a bastard son, born to Lady Rayeesi, bound for the Duke. If Ser Jashua hadn't lied, this might just secure my promotion.

  But there's another task I have to complete to truly guarantee it, and it's taking me north to the garrison.

  I turned onto my side, my gaze fixed on the small window. It framed only a sliver of a starless sky. Somewhere up north was the man who had abandoned my mother and me. What could he possibly say now to make things right? And what would I say to him?

  "Hello, Father," I muttered, the words foreign on my tongue. Would he even recognize me? Would he care?

  I sighed, letting my eyes fall shut. Tomorrow, the road would stretch out before me once more, as it always did, burdened with duty. But even as I tried to prepare myself, the rumors of the Whitewoods gnawed at the edges of my mind, unsettling, like the flickering shadows above.

  ___________

  The morning sun cast a golden hue over the stableyard, briefly fooling the senses into forgetting winter’s unyielding chill. The air bit at my skin, sharp but not unbearable—more a reminder of the long road ahead than any real discomfort. It was nothing new, just another part of the journey.

  The stablehand, an old man whose face had been etched by years of harsh winds and long hours, greeted me with a nod. “Good morning, young lord,” he rasped, his voice rough with age but still carrying a warmth that put me at ease. “Your mare’s ready. Anything else you need?”

  I shook my head, my hands moving methodically to tighten the straps on my gloves. The sound of leather creaking in the cold was familiar, grounding, and for a moment, I let the mundane task steady my thoughts. Moments later, the stablehand returned with my mare, the same one who had faithfully carried me from Merwin’s Fort to Icia. Her dark bay coat shimmered in the morning light, rich and deep like polished wood.

  “A loyal beast,” the stablehand muttered, running a hand over her neck. The mare snorted softly in response, her ears flicking back at his touch before turning to me. “She’s seen you through much, hasn’t she?”

  “She has,” I replied, my voice low but firm with truth. I ran my own hand along her withers, feeling the steady pulse of life beneath her smooth coat. “She’s earned her place on this road.”

  The stablehand grunted in approval, stepping back as I swung into the saddle. The mare shifted beneath me, her movements steady and familiar, as though she, too, knew the journey ahead.

  “Stay sharp out there,” he warned, leaning against the wooden post by the stable door. “The roads aren’t what they used to be. Bandits aren’t the only threat—there are whispers of worse things in the wild.”

  I nodded curtly, more out of habit than agreement. Advice was like a well-worn saddle—useful, but not always comfortable. With a gentle nudge of my heels, the mare stepped forward, her hooves tapping against the solid ground.

  The northern gates of Icia were alive with activity, a tapestry of chaos woven with the threads of daily life. Merchants barked their prices, travelers haggled for entry, and children darted through the crowd with the reckless abandon only youth afforded.

  As I approached, a knight intercepted me, his armor gleaming so brightly I wondered if he polished it daily or just couldn’t resist showing off. Before he could ask, I flipped my badge toward him, the fox-head insignia of House Dreynoir catching the light. He saluted so fast I thought he might sprain his wrist, then stepped aside. Say what you want about nobility, but a fancy badge works wonders.

  The open road greeted me with a wind so cold it felt personal. Tugging my cloak tighter, I nudged my mare forward, her snorts of displeasure visible in the chilly air. “Not a fan of winter either, huh, girl?” I murmured. She flicked an ear in what I chose to interpret as agreement.

  I had barely settled into the rhythm of the journey when a commotion erupted behind me. A round, barrel-shaped man stumbled from the crowd, his stubby legs working furiously beneath his bulk as he waved his arms like a man desperate to stop a runaway cart.

  “For the gods’ sake,” I muttered, pulling the reins to halt my mare. “Don’t collapse before you tell me what you want.”

  The man finally reached me, doubled over and gasping for air. “Wait! Young... knight!” he wheezed, holding up a finger as though to pause the entire world. His face was flushed and dripping with sweat, but after a moment’s struggle, he straightened and composed himself with an air of misplaced dignity.

  “I... am Gilbert!” he declared, his chest puffed out as though the name alone should command respect. “Merchant of fine wares and occasional—” he gestured dramatically, “—borrower of knightly services.”

  “Good for you,” I said flatly, already nudging my mare forward.

  “Wait!” he yelped, darting in front of the horse. She snorted, ears flicking back in irritation. “Please, sir, hear me out! You’re heading north, yes? Toward the garrison?”

  I frowned. “And if I am?”

  “Ah, wonderful!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Surely, a knight such as yourself would have no objection to a humble merchant tagging along. Safety in numbers, you see.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Tagging along? You’d only slow me down. And why should I protect your wares for free?”

  Gilbert’s expression faltered for a moment before sliding back into an oily smile. “Oh, but I wouldn’t dream of asking for charity! Compensation, of course! Gold, provisions—whatever you desire!”

  I crossed my arms, eyeing him skeptically. “Couldn’t hire a proper guard?”

  “Well...” He coughed, glancing away sheepishly. “I did hire a mercenary. Big fellow, lots of scars. Very impressive. But, uh... he fell ill.”

  “Ill?”

  “Yes, quite suddenly,” Gilbert said, his tone suspiciously casual. “Something about bad stew and... stomach troubles.” He winced faintly. “Poor man couldn’t even stand upright!”

  “And now you’re hoping I’ll clean up the mess?”

  Gilbert stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, you are a knight, aren’t you? Protecting people is in the job description, no?”

  Before I could respond, he gestured toward his caravan. Through a small window, I caught sight of a woman holding a little girl on her lap. The girl’s wide, curious eyes met mine, and she waved shyly.

  “That’s my daughter,” Gilbert said softly. “And my wife. Please, young knight. The roads aren’t safe—bandits, wolves, even rumors of... things in the woods.” His gaze lingered, his earlier bluster fading into something almost earnest. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”

  I exhaled sharply, glancing again at the girl. She smiled, oblivious to her father’s desperation, and for a moment, the stories I’d overheard in the tavern resurfaced in my mind. Damn it.

  “I’ll escort you,” I interrupted, holding up a hand. “But it won’t be cheap. You’ll pay, Gilbert. In gold.”

  “Of course, of course!” he stammered, bowing so low I thought he might tip over. “You have my word, my lord! Whatever you ask!”

  As I rode ahead, his caravan rumbling to follow, I allowed myself a small, rueful smile. Maybe it wasn’t just the promise of coin that had swayed me. Maybe—just maybe—I didn’t want another girl to vanish on my watch.

  But Gilbert didn’t need to know that.