CHAPTER 59: THE ROAD

The boundary marker between Velrane lands and the wilderness beyond wasn’t much to look at, just a weathered stone post carved with the family crest, half-hidden by encroaching weeds. Yet as their party rode past it, Soren felt a shift in the air as tangible as stepping from sunlight into shadow.

He adjusted his seat in the saddle, wincing as his mount tossed its head in response. The horse, a dappled gray the stablemaster had called "manageable", had proven to be anything but during their first day’s journey.

Now, as they left the relative safety of Velrane territory, the animal seemed to sense the change as well, its ears flicking nervously at every rustle from the surrounding woods.

Ahead of him, the four knights who had joined their party at dawn rode in perfect formation, two before Veyr and two behind.

Their blue-and-silver surcoats bore House Velrane’s crest, but unlike the ceremonial guards at the estate, these men wore their armor with the ease of those accustomed to using it. Chainmail clinked softly beneath sturdy breastplates, and their helmets remained strapped to saddlebags, ready to be donned at a moment’s notice.

Soren studied their movements, noting how their gazes constantly swept the tree line, how their hands never strayed far from sword hilts. These weren’t mere escorts, they were predators, alert to the faintest scent of threat.

"Keep your mount in line, boy," the knight to his left said, voice clipped with barely concealed disdain. "We ride in formation for a reason."

Soren swallowed the immediate retort that rose to his lips. The knight, Ser Dallen, he recalled from the terse introductions that morning, had been watching him since they’d departed. Testing him.

"Yes, ser," he replied instead, nudging his horse back into position. The blade at his hip felt heavier suddenly, a reminder of how little he belonged among these men.

’Watch them,’ Valenna’s voice whispered through his mind, cool as mountain water. ’Note how Dallen’s shield arm hangs lower than his sword arm, old injury, poorly healed. The one with the beard keeps turning his head fully right, blind spot on his left side. Weaknesses, even here.’

Soren kept his expression neutral as he absorbed her observations. The shard against his chest remained cool, but her presence felt sharper somehow, more focused now that they’d left Velrane lands behind.

The road narrowed as they continued, tall pines pressing close on either side. Shadows dappled the packed earth, and the air carried the sharp scent of resin and something less pleasant, decay, perhaps, or stagnant water from unseen bogs.

Soren found himself matching the knights’ vigilance, scanning the dense undergrowth for movement.

"First time beyond the border, boy?" The question came from the bearded knight, Ser Torven, if he remembered correctly. The man’s tone wasn’t friendly, but it lacked Dallen’s open hostility.

"Yes," Soren answered simply, seeing no advantage in elaboration.

Torven exchanged glances with the knight beside him, something unspoken passing between them. "Strange company Lord Veyr keeps these days," he muttered, just loud enough for Soren to hear. "Time was, a noble traveled with proper guards, not half-trained gutter trash."

The words were meant to sting, to provoke a reaction. Soren kept his eyes forward, his hands steady on the reins. He’d endured worse in Nordhav’s streets. Much worse under Kaelor’s tutelage.

’He tests your control,’ Valenna murmured. ’Curious, that. They fear what they don’t understand, little knife. And you are very much a mystery to them.’

Ahead, Veyr rode in silence, seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents flowing through their small company. His attention remained fixed on the road ahead, occasionally consulting a small map he kept tucked in his sleeve. Whatever business called him to the capital, it occupied his thoughts completely.

They rode until dusk painted the western sky in shades of flame. The knights selected their campsite with the same precision they’d shown all day, a small clearing with good visibility, a stream nearby, and only one obvious approach. They dismounted in unison, each moving to assigned tasks with practiced efficiency.

Soren slid from his saddle, legs stiff from the long day’s ride. Before he could reach for his horse’s bridle, Dallen stepped into his path.

"See to Lord Veyr’s mount first," he ordered, eyes cold beneath his helm. "Then gather firewood. The horses can wait."

Another test. Soren inclined his head slightly, moving to where Veyr was already dismounting. The young lord handed over his reins without comment, though something in his eyes suggested he’d noted the exchange.

By the time Soren returned from gathering firewood, the camp had taken shape. The knights had established a perimeter, their bedrolls arranged to provide coverage from all angles. Veyr’s tent, small but clearly of finer make than anything the others carried, stood at the center of the clearing.

Soren dropped his armload of branches near the fire pit one of the knights had dug. His own bedroll remained strapped to his saddle, his place in this arrangement unclear. As if sensing his uncertainty, Dallen pointed to a spot near the edge of the clearing.

"You’ll take first watch," he said, the order carrying an edge that dared Soren to object.

The fire crackled to life as darkness settled fully around them. The knights ate quickly, passing a skin of wine between them, their earlier vigilance easing somewhat within the circle of firelight. Veyr sat apart, a small oil lamp illuminating the book he’d produced from his saddlebag. He hadn’t spoken more than a few words since they’d made camp, his focus elsewhere.

Soren chewed the hard bread and dried meat he’d been given, listening to the knights’ low conversation. They spoke of familiar things, past campaigns, women in villages they’d passed through, the merits of various sword techniques. Ordinary talk that nonetheless excluded him by its very nature.

"So, boy," Torven said suddenly, his voice carrying across the fire. "What exactly does Lord Veyr see in you that warrants this special treatment? You’re no squire, that’s plain enough. No noble blood, either, from the look of you."

The other knights fell silent, watching with undisguised interest. Even Veyr glanced up from his book, though his expression revealed nothing.

Soren took another bite of bread, buying time to consider his response. The shard pulsed once against his chest, neither warm nor cold, simply present.

"I’m useful," he said finally, the words deliberate and unadorned. "Lord Veyr doesn’t waste resources."

Dallen snorted. "Useful? With a blade? I’ve seen the way you sit a horse. Whatever use you serve, it isn’t as a fighter."

The implication hung in the air, crude and meant to provoke. Soren felt heat rise in his throat, anger flaring bright and hot. The shard cooled sharply against his skin, Valenna’s presence a sudden warning in his mind.

’Careful,’ she cautioned. ’Anger reveals. Remember Ayren’s lessons.’

The memory of Ayren’s cold chamber surfaced, the slate board with its web of connections, the lessons in leverage and control. Information was power. Reaction was weakness.

Soren met Dallen’s gaze across the fire, his own expression carefully blank. "Perhaps you should ask Lord Veyr about my usefulness," he suggested mildly. "I’m sure he values your concern for his choices."

Dallen’s face darkened, but before he could respond, Veyr closed his book with a sharp snap.

"Enough," he said, his voice carrying that peculiar tone of bored command that only nobility seemed able to perfect. "Dallen, check the horses again. Torven, I want a wider perimeter before full dark."

The knights moved to obey without hesitation, though Dallen cast one final glare in Soren’s direction. Veyr returned to his reading without acknowledging either of them further.

The night passed slowly for Soren, his watch stretching into what felt like endless hours of darkness and unfamiliar forest sounds.

The shard remained cool against his chest, Valenna’s presence withdrawn to that distant place she sometimes retreated to when observing rather than guiding.

When he finally woke Torven for the second watch, the bearded knight merely grunted in acknowledgment, his earlier antagonism subsumed beneath the practical necessities of the road. Soren rolled into his blankets, sleep claiming him almost immediately despite the hard ground and lingering tension.

Dawn came too soon, gray light filtering through the trees as the camp stirred to life. The knights resumed their disciplined routine, breaking camp with the same efficiency they’d shown in establishing it. Veyr emerged from his tent looking as if he’d slept in a proper bed rather than on forest floor, his clothes somehow unmarked by travel dust.

They rode out as the sun cleared the eastern horizon, falling into the same formation as the previous day. The road narrowed further as it wound deeper into the wilderness, tall trees giving way to gnarled, twisted shapes that seemed to lean inward, reaching with branch-fingers toward unwary travelers.

By midday, the landscape had changed completely. Gone were the managed forests and occasional meadows of Velrane territory. This was older land, untamed and seemingly untouched by human hands for generations. The path they followed showed signs of disuse, weeds sprouting between wheel ruts, branches hanging low enough to catch at cloaks and hair.

They passed an abandoned village shortly after noon, its handful of cottages slowly being reclaimed by the surrounding forest. Roofs had collapsed, walls leaned at dangerous angles, and weeds grew waist-high in what might once have been gardens or animal pens.

"What happened here?" Soren asked before he could stop himself, the desolation striking a chord that resonated with something deep within him.

Veyr glanced back, his expression unreadable. "The war," he said simply, as if that explained everything. Perhaps it did.

The knights exchanged looks but said nothing. Their earlier banter had faded entirely, replaced by a tense alertness that set Soren’s own nerves on edge. Hands rested more openly on sword hilts now, and their eyes never stopped moving, scanning the encroaching wilderness for threats unseen.

A mile beyond the abandoned village, they passed a shrine so ancient that Soren couldn’t identify which god it had once honored. Stone pillars leaned drunkenly around a central altar, which had been split down the middle as if struck by lightning. Dark stains marred the weathered surface, old blood, perhaps, or simply the marks of time and neglect.

Carrion birds circled overhead, their lazy spirals tracing patterns against the pale sky. Their cries echoed strangely in the still air, too loud in the surrounding silence.

The shard against Soren’s chest warmed suddenly, pulsing with an urgency he hadn’t felt since those first days after finding it. Something about this place called to it, to her. Valenna’s presence sharpened in his mind, no longer the cool observer but something more alert, more wary.

’Old power here,’ she whispered, her voice carrying an edge he rarely heard.