CHAPTER 92: SENTINEL

The Sentinel’s Watch rose from the frontier like a scar left by war, all stone and iron, functional and grim, built not for comfort but for survival.

Guard towers stood at each corner, their watchers scanning the darkening horizon with eyes trained to see death before it arrived.

The walls were thick, weathered by decades of wind and flame, scarred by claws that had tested their strength and found them, for now, unyielding.

It was more fortress than inn, more battlefield than sanctuary.

And yet, it was the last true shelter before the wild claimed everything.

The courtyard buzzed with restrained tension. Soldiers moved with purpose, their armor dull and practical, weapons never far from hand. Merchants huddled near their wagons, eyes darting toward the tree line as though expecting something to emerge from the shadows.

Adventurers—scarred, grim-faced men and women who’d made their living hunting the beasts of the Fourth Ring that many rarely acknowledged, sat in tight clusters, speaking in low voices that carried the weight of experience.

Everyone noticed when the Winter Knights arrived.

Silver armor gleaming even in the fading light, disciplined formations, the kind of precision that came from serving an emperor who tolerated nothing less.

They moved like winter itself, silent, inevitable, beautiful in their cold efficiency.

And at the center of it all, stepping down from the imperial carriage with a grace that seemed almost mocking in such a crude place, was Eris Igniva.

The Fire Queen.

The air shifted the moment her feet touched the ground. Conversations faltered. Hands moved instinctively toward weapons. Eyes widened, then quickly looked away, as though meeting her gaze might invite immolation.

She was dressed simply, traveling cloak, hair braided back, but simplicity on Eris was like frost on flame: it only made the heat beneath more obvious.

Behind her, Soren descended with that same effortless poise, his pale hair catching the last rays of sunlight, his eyes sweeping the courtyard with the calculating calm of a man who’d walked into worse places and emerged victorious.

The innkeeper appeared at once.

Garrick.

A man carved from stone and regret. One eye gone, the socket covered by a leather patch worn smooth with age. His face was a battlefield, scars crossing scars, the kind earned not in duels but in desperate, bloody survival. His remaining eye was sharp as broken glass, taking in everything, forgetting nothing.

He recognized Eris immediately.

His jaw tightened. His hand, resting on the pommel of a dagger at his belt, flexed once before stilling.

"Your Majesty." The words were clipped, delivered with the bare minimum of respect. No warmth. No reverence. Just acknowledgment.

Eris met his gaze without flinching. She’d seen that look before, soldiers who’d fought under her banner but would never forgive what she’d made them do. Men who obeyed because duty demanded it, not because love inspired it.

She inclined her head slightly. "Innkeeper."

Garrick’s attention shifted to Soren, and something in his posture eased. Not much, but enough to notice. He straightened, offering a nod that bordered on genuine respect.

"Emperor Nivarre. It’s an honor."

Soren’s smile was faint, diplomatic.

"Commander Garrick, isn’t it? I’ve heard of your service."

"Former commander," Garrick corrected, though there was a flicker of pride in his tone. "Retired after the Northern Rebellion."

"A battle well fought," Soren said smoothly. "Your reputation precedes you."

They spoke briefly, soldier to soldier, commander to commander, about patrol routes, supply lines, the increased activity along the frontier. Garrick’s voice carried the kind of authority that came from decades of watching men die and learning how to prevent it.

"The beasts are getting bolder," he said quietly. "Closer to settlements. Protection spells aren’t holding like they used to."

Soren’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. "How close?"

"Close enough that we’ve doubled the watch." Garrick gestured toward the walls. "And tripled the patrols. Every night now, we hear them. Sometimes we see them. Rakhai at the tree line. Dravik circling overhead. Last week, a Raugar came within bowshot of the eastern gate."

Eris’s attention snapped to him. "A Raugar? This far north?"

"Aye." Garrick’s jaw worked. "Shouldn’t be possible. Those beasts don’t leave the Infernal Plains unless something drives them out."

"Or calls them..." Eris said quietly.

Garrick didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. The silence said enough.

....

The common room was long and low-ceilinged, lit by oil lamps that cast flickering shadows across rough-hewn tables and benches worn smooth by years of use. The air smelled of roasted meat, stale ale, and smoke, woodsmoke, not magic, though the distinction felt fragile here.

There was no private dining. No gilded chambers or velvet cushions. Just long tables where travelers sat shoulder to shoulder, eating whatever the kitchen could scrape together and swapping stories to ward off the darkness pressing against the walls.

When Eris and Soren entered, the room went silent.

Every head turned. Every conversation stopped mid-sentence, words dying on tongues as though someone had sealed them there with ice.

Then, slowly, cautiously, the noise resumed. Quieter now. More careful.

They found seats at a table near the hearth, Soren pulling out a bench for Eris before settling beside her. The Winter Knights took positions around the room, not close enough to intrude, but near enough to respond if needed.

Mira hovered nervously nearby, wringing her hands until Jorel, seated at an adjacent table with the other guards, caught her eye and offered a reassuring nod. She exhaled shakily and sat.

The meal was simple, roasted venison, hard bread, root vegetables boiled in broth.

Nothing like the feasts of Pyrhold or Crimson Port. But it was warm, and after a long day on the road, that was enough.

Eris ate in silence, listening.

At a nearby table, a mercenary was holding court.

He was a broad-shouldered man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw, his voice rough as gravel but carrying the practiced cadence of a storyteller who’d learned how to keep an audience hooked.

"—and I’m telling you, the beasts aren’t what they used to be. I’ve been hunting them for twenty years, and I’ve never seen anything like what’s out there now."

A younger man, maybe a merchant’s guard, leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

The mercenary took a long drink from his tankard, then set it down with a deliberate thud. "I mean they’re different. Smarter. Bolder. Last month, I tracked a pack of Rakhai—fire foxes, you know—into the foothills near Ashridge. Beautiful little bastards, all seven tails glowing like lanterns."

"Seven tails?" someone whispered, awed.

"Aye. Old ones. Wise ones. They’re supposed to be spirit guides, yeah? Harmless unless you threaten their dens."

He shook his head. "But these? They circled us. Herded us like prey. Separated the weakest member of our group and drove him into a ravine. By the time we got to him, all that was left was ash and the smell of burnt cedar."

The table went quiet.

"They shouldn’t hunt like that," the mercenary continued. "Rakhai don’t hunt humans. They guide them. But something’s changed."

Another voice chimed in from across the room, a hunter, lean and weathered, his hands calloused from years of working traps and bows.

"It’s not just the Rakhai. I saw a Dravik last week. Little dragon, wings like molten bronze, fire burning blue-white." He paused, jaw tight. "It was scouting. Circling the barrier stones, testing them. Like it knew the spells were weak."

"Dravik are messengers," someone muttered. "They don’t attack settlements."

"They didn’t used to," the hunter agreed grimly. "But now? They’re watching us. Waiting."

An older woman, her face lined with age and hardship, leaned forward. "It’s the spells. The old protections. They’re failing."

"Failing?" A merchant scoffed nervously.

"They’ve held for centuries."

"Aye, and centuries ago, the dragons were still here." The woman’s voice was sharp, cutting through the noise like a blade.

"Pyronox and Aenithra blessed this land and the others. Their magic kept the beasts at bay. But the dragons are gone. Have been for generations. And now their magic is fading with them."

Silence settled over the room like frost.

Then someone whispered, "What happens when the spells are gone completely?"

No one answered.

Because they all knew.