The muted thump of boots striking the dirt path echoed softly through the shaded forest trail.
The midday sun filtered through the dense canopy in slivers, catching on drifting pollen and casting dappled shadows that danced across the earth. A tall figure moved among the trees, ducking under low branches with a grumble, brushing foliage out of his path like it had personally offended him.
"Lucan, was it?" came a light, lilting voice beside him, curious, bright, and unmistakably elven. "You came from the southern valleys, right? I mean, this road only leads from there. Oh! And... forgive me for saying, but aren't you unusually tall for one of our kind?"
Lucan Thalor gave her a sideways glance, violet eyes pale as frost beneath a low, furrowed brow. He stood at an imposing six feet seven, broad of shoulder and long of limb, every inch of him built from scar and sinew. His hair, a dusky black threaded with faint crimson strands, was swept roughly back from his brow in uneven layers, more hacked than styled, as though cut with a dull blade in the dark. In the shifting shafts of sunlight, those crimson threads shimmered faintly, like dying embers caught in obsidian stone.
"I'm not your kind," he muttered. "I'm frost touched. Riverborn."
His armor, a battered half plate set dulled from long marches and older fights, creaked with his steps. Dents, scrapes, and scorched steel bore witness to too many battles. His helmet was missing, lost, perhaps, in the skirmish that had left the dried blood along his pauldrons. Slung across his back, a rough worn greatsword hung heavy, its iron blade still sharp despite the chips in its edge. A smaller arming sword rode on his belt behind his waist, a backup, practical. Nothing ceremonial about the man.
Sera blinked at him, her golden braid bouncing lightly with each step. "Oh. I mean, sorry, I didn't mean offense. I just haven't seen a half elf before. Especially not one so… um… tall."
Lucan sighed and ducked another branch. "Small ass trees."
Sera smiled nervously, pressing on. "I'm Sera, by the way. Sera Dalen. My mother's from the Aelwen Wood, and my father was a merchant in Dunmire. I grew up near the southern watchtower, so I've walked this road a hundred times. You said you were from the Riverlands?"
Lucan grunted. "Blackwater. Born there. Left long ago."
He didn't elaborate. He never did.
But the truth lay in every inch of him, the hardened expression carved by years of blood and betrayal. He had been raised by Hilde the Strong, a towering northern mercenary known in the Riverlands for her brutality. She had trained him in steel before he could read, carved discipline into his bones in place of tenderness. By thirteen, she was dead, wasting sickness. By fourteen, he was alone. The only warmth he had ever known left behind in a purple stone tied to a leather cord that still hung beneath his collar, worn next to the skin.
At sixteen, he'd earned favor from a provincial lord after a battlefield skirmish turned desperate. He'd become that lord's personal guard, loyal, silent, dangerous. Until the coup. Until the blood. Until he'd cut down a squad of assassins and vanished west, a trail of corpses.
Now, only the road remained.
"Still," Sera said softly, after a silence, "six seven… you must hit your head on every low beam in Dunmire."
Lucan cracked a faint, humorless smirk. "More than I'd like to admit."
Behind them, Braine chuckled, a stern older woman, all sharp lines and dry voice. "Ease up, Sera. The man looks half dead already from your questioning."
"Sorry," Sera said sheepishly. "Just… curious."
Mark, the group's broad shouldered companion, carried the shrouded corpse of their fallen on his back. He said nothing, but his silence added a weight that stifled the rest of the conversation.
The trees thinned, and through the gaps in the trunks ahead, the wooden walls of Dunmire rose from the earth like a splintered crown. Guard towers loomed. Crows circled.
Lucan slowed, breath misting faintly despite the spring air. He stared at the palisade, and a rare, crooked smile crept onto his face.
"By the gods," he said. "That it? After trees, blood, and half a week of walking hungry… I might actually survive this."
"You sound surprised," Braine said.
"I am," Lucan replied. "This road kills most who take it. But I've always been stubborn."
Sera brightened. "Oh! You'll want to eat at the Hollow Tankard. Best stew in town. And they make cider with honey and rosemary-"
A sharp voice cut across the road ahead. "Sera?"
Five guards stood near the open gate. One stepped forward, tall and lean, wearing a battered helm with a crooked blue plume. His eyes flicked toward Lucan, immediately noting the dried blood, the steel, the grim look. Hands drifted toward weapons.
"It's me, Captain Dorrell!" Sera called out, waving. "We're back! This is Lucan, he saved us!"
Dorrell's gaze hardened, then flicked to the wrapped corpse on Mark's shoulders. "Saved you? From what?"
"Bandits. Dozens. They ambushed us in the ravine," Braine said. "Without him, none of us would've made it."
Lucan stepped forward, hands open. "I'm not here for trouble. I helped your people. That's it."
Dorrell studied him for a long moment.
"…You've got the look of a killer."
Lucan didn't flinch. His eyes, faintly violet and cold as river ice, fixed on the man.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I'm a sellsword."
Dorrell didn't press further. He only cast a glance back at the boy beside him.
"Heavens… is that the butcher's boy?"
Mark didn't answer. His gaze stayed rooted to the dirt, shoulders trembling like a branch in wind. He looked ready to crumble, barely holding the tears in.
Lucan rolled his eyes and sighed through his nose.
"Mark, right?" he asked, voice flat. "Hand him over. I'll take him to his father."
Wordless, Mark obeyed, lifting Brent's bloodied body in shaking arms and passing it to Lucan. The tall half elf took the corpse with a kind of grim ease, cradling it in his massive arms as if the boy weighed nothing. He held the body like a groom might carry a bride, only there was no joy here, just silence and the stink of death. Without another word, Lucan turned and walked through the gate, his boots crunching over gravel.
Dorrell watched him go, folding his arms.
"Sad day," he murmured. "That boy loved Brent like a brother. Good on you, sellsword, takin' that weight from the family."
Lucan gave a wordless nod, never breaking stride.
Sera called out after him.
"Lucan, why don't you take care of your business and get cleaned up? Me and Breane will be at the tavern. Come by. We'll fill you in on the town."
Lucan turned, offered a small nod of acknowledgement, and watched as the two women walked off toward the heart of town, leaving him alone at the gate.
The captain, grizzled, sunburned, and half annoyed, grunted.
"Pretty sure directions are wasted on your type, but since you're new, I'll give 'em anyway. Everything worth findin' is along the main road. Town's small. Compact. You walk straight from this gate, you'll find what you need. Now, get movin', sellsword."
Lucan adjusted the weight of the corpse in his arms.
"Understood. Thanks."
And with that, he strode into town, dust trailing behind his long steps, the crimson veined black of his hair catching the sun like dying embers.
As Lucan walked through the town, the mood shifted like a cold wind. Whispers rippled through the street. Eyes followed him. The sight of Brent's limp, bloodied body in his arms struck the townsfolk like a bell tolling death.
"Is that… the butcher's boy?"
"Gods… what happened to him?"
"Who's carrying him? Some kind of knight?"
He heard a sharp cry to his left, young, broken. A girl collapsed into the arms of her friends, sobbing uncontrollably. Lucan kept walking, jaw tight.
He muttered to himself, voice low and bitter.
"Man… why did I do this? This sucks."
It took less than a minute to reach the butcher's shop, but it felt like a slow, public funeral march. The building stood at the corner of the main road, sturdy stone and timber with thick wooden beams supporting a wide overhang. Hooks and tools hung from the beams, cleavers, skinning knives, ropes, and slabs of salted meat drying in the sun. The smell of blood, iron, and smoke lingered in the air.
A broad shouldered man stood just outside, his arms bare and scarred. He was sharpening a cleaver on a whetstone with mechanical repetition, blood already staining the apron tied around his waist. His eyes were focused on the blade—until he heard footsteps.
"Morning," the man said without looking up. "I'll be right with ya."
He grabbed a cloth to wipe his hands, then finally looked up—and froze.
His eyes locked on Brent's lifeless form. The cloth fell from his hands
"…Huh? B…Brent?" His voice cracked. "No… no, no—"
Lucan stepped forward quickly.
"Hello, butcher. I was told this is your son. I've brought his body home."
The butcher stared at him—confused, trembling—then rushed forward with sudden desperation, snatching Brent from Lucan's arms and laying him gently on the empty table beside the chopping board. His hands hovered over his son's face, not daring to touch at first, then brushing the boy's hair back with the tenderness of a man who'd once rocked him to sleep.
"What happened?" the butcher choked out, voice rising. "What happened to my son?!"
Lucan remained still, his voice low and calm.
"He and three others were attacked in the forest, just outside the southern wall. I was passing through the hills when I heard screams. By the time I reached them… Brent was already gone. I'm sorry. If I'd been quicker, maybe—"
"Enough." The butcher raised a hand, not unkindly. "I understand. It's not your fault."
There was silence, heavy and thick with grief. The man's breathing hitched.
"…The brigands?" he finally asked, glancing at the blood crusted along Lucan's armor, now dark and dry. "What became of them?"
Lucan's expression didn't change."I slaughtered them."
The butcher stared at him a moment longer, then nodded slowly. His hand reached out, gripping Lucan's shoulder with rough, calloused strength.
"Then… thank you. For bringing him back. And for avenging him."
Lucan raised an eyebrow at the gesture, unused to gratitude from strangers.
"I need to tell his mother," the man said hoarsely. "And… prepare him for burial. Thank you again, ser."
"I'm no knight," Lucan replied. "Name's Lucan. Mercenary. From the Riverlands."
He turned to leave, the forming crowd parting to let him through. Townsfolk murmured condolences, a few crossed their hearts or removed their hats. But Lucan kept his gaze forward. He'd had enough of sorrow for one morning.
"Time for a bath," he muttered. "And maybe see the smith after. This armor's wrecked."