CHAPTER 114: RETURN TO BLACKTHORN

Dawn crept over the hills like spilled honey.

Swish!

Alaric’s blade cut through the morning mist, each movement precise, economical. No wasted energy, no flourish for style.

Nine hundred ninety-seven. Nine hundred ninety-eight.

Sweat ran down his spine despite the chill, his shirt clung to his back like a second skin. His muscles burned but in the good kind, earned through repetition rather than punishment.

The practice sword had worn grooves into his palms over the months, calluses on top of calluses.

Nine hundred ninety-nine. One thousand.

The final strike sent imaginary enemies scattering like leaves. He held the pose for three heartbeats, then let the blade drop to his side. His breathing was controlled, steady. Not the ragged gasps of someone pushed beyond endurance.

"Haa..."

It had been six months, since his intense training sessions had started.

For the first three months, Selene had overseen everything herself, sometimes even intervening herself.

Then, one afternoon after his swordplay session, she set her cup of tea down and spoke with that calm but unyielding tone of hers.

"You won’t be learning from Master Chen or the other tutors anymore," Selene said, lifting the cup back to her lips.

Alaric blinked, caught off guard. "Huh?"

"Yes," she continued smoothly. "I’ll be sending you to someone who can draw out your true potential. You’re strong, Alaric, but there’s always a bigger fish in the sea. You leave today. Pack your things."

And the next three months were spent under Sir Fredrick, a man as cold and sharp as the steel he carried. Old, relentless, and utterly unforgiving yet surprisingly soft man.

Still not perfect, he thought, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. But getting there.

"Finished brooding over your form?"

The voice carried a familiar amusement.

He turned and saw an old man stood at the edge of the practice yard, arms crossed over his barrel chest. Age had silvered his hair and lined his face, but his shoulders remained broad as an oak’s trunk.

"Yes." Alaric said, meeting the older man’s knowing gaze without flinching.

"Good. Martha’s got breakfast ready, and you know how she gets when food goes cold."

Alaric chuckled a little, picking his practice sword and then followed the man inside.

The cottage sat nestled against a hillside like it had grown there naturally.

Ivy climbed the stone walls, and smoke curled from the chimney in lazy spirals.

They entered through the back gate and headed straight towards the dining table, after washing their hands.

The kitchen enveloped them in warmth and the smell of fresh bread.

Martha hummed over the stove, her gray hair pinned back in a practical bun. At the table, their granddaughter Emma, sat swinging her legs, unable to reach the floor from her chair.

"Uncle Alaric!" she squealed, bouncing in her seat as they both entered and took their seats. "Look what I drew!"

Alaric’s lips twitched a little at the emphasis of ’Uncle.’

I’m not even 20, brat.

She had been calling him that ever since she started to get familiar with him. Though it had been months, he still doesn’t get used to it. At first, he corrected her many times, but after countless attempts of failure, he accepted defeat.

Then Emma thrust a piece of parchment toward him, a stick figure with dark hair wielding what might have been a sword, though it looked more like a very large spoon.

"That’s you fighting the dragon!" she announced proudly.

"I can see that." He studied the drawing with mock seriousness.

"Though I think you made me a bit too handsome."

She giggled, then tried to sneak a piece of bacon from his plate while he was distracted.

But he caught her wrist gently.

"Pirates don’t steal breakfast," he said solemnly. "They negotiate terms."

"What if I’m not a pirate today?" She grinned, gap-toothed and mischievous.

"Then what are you?"

"A dragon! Dragons can eat whatever they want!"

"Ah, but dragons have to earn their treasure through great deeds." He released her hand and pushed his plate slightly toward her. "What great deed have you done this morning?"

Emma tapped her cheek, considering this with the gravity of a child taking negotiations seriously.

"I helped Grandmama feed the chickens!"

"Well, that’s acceptable tribute." He speared a piece of bacon with his fork and offered it to her.

"Dragons must maintain their strength for important dragon business."

She accepted the offering with regal dignity that lasted exactly until she bit into the bacon. Then she was just a seven-year-old girl again, delighted by small kindnesses.

Fredrick watched the exchange with something that might have been approval.

"You’re getting soft, boy."

Alaric shrugged.

"Just maintaining diplomatic relations with the local dragon population."

"Mmm." The old knight’s eyes held warmth despite his gruff tone.

"Finish up. We leave in an hour."

After breakfast, Fredrick emerged from the cottage carrying two travel cloaks, heavy wool dyed deep brown, practical rather than decorative. He tossed one to Alaric, who caught it without thinking.

"Blackthorn’s three days hard riding," Fredrick said, fastening his cloak pin. "We’ll make decent time if the weather holds."

Emma appeared in the doorway, her earlier joy replaced by something that might have been tears.

She watched them prepare with the kind of intense attention children gave to moments they sensed were important.

"You’re really leaving?" Her voice had gone small. "Can’t you stay longer?"

Alaric knelt to her level, meeting her eyes. "No, I have to go. I had already stayed longer."

Her face fell down, lower lip trembled.

Before anyone could react, she’d launched herself at Alaric, small arms wrapping around his neck.

"You’ll come back, won’t you?"

He hesitated at first.

Promises were dangerous things.

"I’ll come back," then he said quietly, hand resting on her curls. "Might take a while, though."

"I’ll save you honey cakes."

"They’ll be stale."

"Then I’ll make new ones!"

Eventually Martha gently pried her away.

"Let him breathe, magpie. Go fetch your grandfather’s travel bag."

Emma scurried off, wiping her eyes when she thought no one was looking.

Fredrick stood, joints popping.

"Time to go."

The travel preparations were minimal. Provisions for the road. Alaric’s few belongings packed carefully. The practice sword he’d been using, a parting gift from Fredrick.

"It’s not fancy," the old knight said, "but it’s good steel. Reliable."

They said their goodbyes at the gate. Martha pressed a bundle of food into Alaric’s hands despite his protests. Emma hugged them both, made them promise to write.

Then they were on the road, Fredrick’s steady mare and Alaric’s borrowed gelding fell into easy rhythm.

The first day passed quietly. Fredrick wasn’t one for idle chatter, but occasionally he’d point out landmarks, share stories of campaigns from forty years past.

At night they camped rough, Fredrick showing him how to bank a fire properly, how to position bedrolls to avoid morning dew.

"You’re holding something back."

Alaric blinked, but stayed silent.

Fredrick continued.

"Whatever it is you’re not showing, whatever strength you’re keeping in reserve, the day will come when someone force it out. Better to control when and how."

"I’ll keep that in mind."

Fredrick grunted, apparently done with wisdom for the night.

Then he turned and entered their makeshift tent.

Next day, they continued their travel and eventually reached Blackthorn.

They entered through the south gate, guards barely glancing at Fredrick’s old travel papers. The streets pressed close, buildings leaning over narrow passages.

Then Fredrick spoke, guiding through the crowd. "We’ll first—"

Then—

A scream cut through the market noise.

Ahead, crowd had gathered in a small square, pressing close but not too close.

Fredrick didn’t hesitate. He dismounted in one smooth motion, pushing through the onlookers.

"What’s happening here?"

Alaric followed, leading both horses.

Four guards in leather armor surrounded two figures, a boy with sandy brown hair, maybe eighteen was on his knees with blood running from his nose, and a girl of similar age pressed against a wall, clutching a bundle of papers.

"Can’t produce proper permits," the guard captain said, driving his boot into the boy’s ribs. "Probably thieves."

"We are telling you from the very start, we just arrived yesterday!" The girl’s voice cracked. "The registry office was closed—"

"Excuses." Another guard grabbed the papers from her hands, tearing them deliberately. "These documents are probably forged."

The boy tried to stand. "Those are our father’s trade certificates—"

But a gauntleted fist sent him sprawling again.

Then—

"That’s enough." Fredrick’s voice could have frozen flame.

The guards turned.

Their captain, scarred face, mean eyes, spat to the side. "Move along, old man. It’s official business."

"Beating children is official business now?"

"Maintaining order. These outsiders think they can just walk into Blackthorn without proper documentation." He kicked the boy again.

"We’re teaching them otherwise."

Fredrick shouted.

"I said, that’s enough."

"Or what?" The captain’s hand found his sword hilt. "You’ll interfere with the patrol?"

"If necessary."

"Back off now, otherwise..." The captain glared at him.

"You and your—" Then his eyes found Alaric. "Your servant will regret this."

Servant?

Alaric’s bow twitched, but he didn’t move or reacted.

"We’ll see who regret what."

The crowd began murmuring.

The captain drew steel. "Arrest this old fool for obstruction."

Two guards moved toward Fredrick.

They didn’t make it far.

The old knight moved with economy of motion, no wasted energy, just devastating efficiency.

First guard down, clutching his wrist where Fredrick’s pommel had shattered it.

Second guard stumbling back, blood streaming from a broken nose.

"Arrest them both!" The captain lunged forward.

Alaric sighed and dismounted.

Should have stayed on the horse.

He intercepted a guard heading for Fredrick’s blind spot, his practice sword ringing against the man’s blade.

A quick feint, a shift of weight, and the guard was on the ground, gasping from a strike to the solar plexus.

The captain backed away, suddenly alone. "You’ve assaulted the order! You’ll hang for this!"

"Will we?" Fredrick’s sword point rested against the captain’s throat. "Or will you explain to your superiors why you were beating children for papers they couldn’t possibly have yet?"

The captain’s eyes darted between them, calculating odds that weren’t in his favor.

"This isn’t over," he snarled, then raised his voice. "Guards! To me! Criminals attacking the Watch!"

Footsteps echoed from nearby streets, reinforcements coming fast.

More guards appeared at the square’s entrances. A dozen, then twenty. Crossbows raised.

"Drop your weapons!

Steel pressed against Alaric’s spine.

"Weapons down. Now."

He let his sword fall, the clatter echoing across suddenly silent street.

Welcome to Blackthorn indeed.