The square of Rockwyn buzzed with noise. The clan members stood still since the echo of Malcer's scream faded into the rumbling thunder. Blood stained the mud, dark and thin like wine, seeping into the boots of those closest to the fighting ring. Jeras remained at the center, breathing heavily, with his blade nicked and dripping. He had not killed Malcer. Only a few noticed the unusual hesitation, how his sword wavered mid-swing when it should have delivered the final blow. The crowd roared, oblivious to details, craving victory. Amidst that chaos, Jeras dragged Malcer’s limp, bleeding body away just as the storm broke over the roofs. The rain poured down hard and cold, beating against leather tents and thatched roofs. Many saw it as an omen, either the gods mourning or cleansing the ground of shame. But what the gods truly thought remained unknown. The old seer, Mira, whispered that the storm would last a while. She turned her back on the square and walked barefoot through the mud,

The fire flickered low in the center of Rockwyn. Its smoke shot straight up into the morning sky, dark against the grey backdrop. The rain had stopped, leaving the mud thick and chilly beneath their feet. Jeras’s men stood around the fire quietly and watching. In the middle, Jarvis hung by his wrists from a wooden beam, his upper body bare. He had been in that position since dawn after being caught.Varn walked slowly around him, holding a piece of hot iron that glowed red at the tip. “You can make this end, boy. Just tell us where he is hiding.” Jarvis’s head drooped, his face bruised with one eye almost closed. He spat blood into the mud. “Go to the pit where you keep your ghosts.” Varn smirked slightly and pressed the hot iron against Jarvis’s shoulder. The sound of sizzling flesh broke through the morning air as Jarvis screamed, his voice bouncing off the walls. Jeras observed from his chair, holding a cup of ale with an unreadable look on his face. The men next to him shifted

The torches in Rockwyn burned brightly throughout the night. What was once a celebration had turned into a manhunt. Jeras stood in front of the chief's hall, breathing heavily with his jaw locked tight like stone. The firelight highlighted his face, making his features look sharp and almost chiseled from anger. All around him, men rushed about armor half-fastened and swords half-drawn shouting orders into the dark woods beyond. Kol's body lay in the hall, dragged in and presented as a grim reminder of Jeras' failure. His blood seeped into the ground, staining it dark. "He killed him," one scout stuttered. "Kol found the boy in the prison ward. He fought back... gods, the boy really fought." Jeras turned slowly, his face blank. "A boy? You mean the whelp that the old chief brought in from the border?" The scout paused. "Yes… Rolfe." At the mention of that name, Jeras’ eyes changed not with confusion, but with a hint of understanding. He waved off the scout and looked down at Kol’

Rolfe, Elisa, and Jarvis had been on the road for three days without a proper break. They followed the rough path northward, passing by scattered stone piles and fallen watchtowers that once represented Rockwyn’s strength. They were entering the borderlands between Rockwyn and Corville.Jarvis limped along, his arm still wrapped from the injuries he sustained during their escape. Elisa stayed close to him, her face pale but filled with determination. Rolfe led the way, his eyes scanning the horizon each step driven by memories of Mira's words and Jeras’ fury. When they reached the ridge that overlooked the valley at the border, Rolfe halted. Below them lay a wide stretch of gray grass and stone. In the distance, rising through the fog like a sharp tooth, they could see the first watchfire of the Corville clan. Elisa let out a sharp breath. “We made it.” “Not yet,” Rolfe replied. “Borders mean watchers.” He was correct. Suddenly, they heard hooves pounding behind them, cutting thr