The embers still smoldered when Rowen stirred. The pyres had burned low through the night, casting long shadows and acrid smoke into the trees. The glade, once still and sacred, now stank of death and old blood. A quiet wind picked through the remnants of camp—half-packed gear, drying cloaks, bedrolls still damp with mist.
The Wardens rose in silence.
No one spoke much. They moved like soldiers, every action purposeful. Boots laced, packs secured, weapons cleaned and sheathed. Only the crackle of dying flames and the creak of leather broke the dawn's hush. Gerran sat at the edge of the clearing, his wounded arm wrapped in layers of linen and runeworked cloth. The magical wards Elys had placed still glimmered faintly, a silver lattice pulsing against the black veins beneath.
Rowen stood apart, as he always did. The forest seemed to lean in around him, branches creaking above like old bones shifting. He cleaned his blade slowly, watching the others from the corner of his eye. The rhythm of the group was shifting. Something about last night had unsettled the foundation. Five were dead. Gerran's fate was uncertain. They had survived—but at cost.
Elys approached with her usual silence. Her presence felt like a shadow cast from steel.
"We move at first light," she said.
Rowen didn't answer.
She studied him a moment. Her eyes, sharp as any drawn bow, didn't blink.
"We'll reach Ivendel by dusk," she said. "There's a Warden's Post there. We can rest. Send word to the capital."
Rowen gave a faint nod, returning his sword to its sheath.
Elys tilted her head slightly. "You never answered me, you know. About joining."
"I thought I had," he said. "By fighting."
"You fought beside us. That's not the same as fighting with us."
Rowen looked toward the burned remains. "What difference does it make?"
She didn't smile, but something in her face softened. "It makes all the difference."
He exhaled, almost a sigh. "I don't want to wear a sigil. I don't want loyalty demands. Oaths."
"You wouldn't be the only one without a House name."
He looked at her. "That's not what I said."
Elys let the silence stretch.
"We walk a dangerous line," she said. "You already know that. And we don't just need blades. We need intent."
Rowen glanced at the others—Brell tightening his bracers, two others double-checking rations, another helping Gerran secure his splinted arm.
"You're not what I expected," Elys added.
Rowen looked away.
"I'll come with you," he said. "To Ivendel."
"For the walk, or for the road after?"
He hesitated.
"…Let's see what the road has to say."
The journey began under pale light, the sky still painted in the ash-gray of pre-dawn. They moved in loose formation—quiet, efficient, but no longer strangers to Rowen. The forest changed as they traveled: the trees thinned, the mist lightened, the air began to carry the scent of river and stone. Civilization, crawling back into reach.
Rowen walked near the middle of the group, close enough to hear the chatter, far enough to stay silent. But he was listening—how they spoke to one another, how they watched the woods, how they deferred to Elys without hesitation. They weren't just soldiers. They were something else.
Brell sidled up beside him after a time, offering a strip of dried meat.
"You're not like the others," he said around a mouthful.
"I've heard that before."
"You fight like you've been doing it longer than you've been breathing."
Rowen didn't answer.
Brell took the silence in stride. "The way you moved last night... reminded me of the stories. Old ones. About the Bone-War Princes. The Wrathbound."
Rowen's jaw tightened. "Don't compare me to them."
"Didn't mean to offend," Brell said quickly. "It's just—you fight like you were carved for it."
"…I was forged for it."
Brell blinked. "You mean trained?"
Rowen shook his head. "I mean forged."
He left the younger Warden behind and picked up his pace, drawing even with Elys at the front.
"You know of House Gravenmar?" he asked.
She nodded. "Most do."
"Then you know what they do to their heirs."
Elys was quiet.
"I was taught to kill before I was taught to speak," Rowen said. "They believe emotion is a weakness. That mercy is a crack in steel. If you can bleed, you're not finished being made."
She glanced at him. "And yet you left."
He nodded. "I broke the mold."
"Or it cracked first."
They walked in silence again for a while, the forest slowly giving way to signs of civilization. Fences. Stone paths. The scent of hearth smoke on the wind.
"You said I fought like a demon," Rowen murmured.
"I did."
"That's because I am one. A Gravenmar demon, forged in fire and iron."
She turned toward him. "No. You're something else now. If you weren't, you wouldn't be here."
Ivendel rose from the treeline like a gray tooth. The city sprawled along the edge of the river Yren, its walls lined with watchtowers and signal horns. Flags hung limp in the still air—red and white, marked with the sigil of the crown. Beyond the gates, life bustled: carts rolling through muddy streets, fishmongers calling their wares, children weaving through the crowd.
The Warden's Post stood on the western rise, its stone facade austere and black. No sigils, no banners. Just a circular tower and a fortified courtyard, half-hidden behind high walls. Military by design. Unwelcoming by purpose.
They were expected. The gate opened without challenge, and a man in a deep green cloak stepped forward to meet them. His face was lined, his beard flecked with silver.
"Elys," he said. "I heard you lost five."
"We did. Gerran's wounded. Bitten."
The man's eyes darkened. "Moon-touched?"
"Yes. But not broken."
Rowen saw Gerran flinch as he dismounted. The others flanked him, keeping him from view of the main courtyard. Eyes followed, but no questions came.
Inside, the Wardens disbanded with quiet efficiency. Some went to stables, others to the inner barracks. A few lingered near Gerran, offering quiet words.
Rowen remained near the entrance until Elys returned.
"There's space inside if you want to rest," she said.
"I'm not sure I belong here yet."
She looked him over. "You bled with us. That counts."
He didn't respond.
"You still want to walk your own path?"
Rowen looked toward the gates. The city beyond. The road he'd taken to get here, and the one waiting beyond it.
"No," he said finally. "I think I want to see where yours leads."
Elys smiled. Just barely.
"Then welcome to the Wardens."