The winds blew through the battlements. He stood near the parapet. The courtyard sprawled beneath him, the Western Keep was littered with the dead—Ewen Manruck, his liege lord, among them. His lifeless form was crumpled alongside six knights, their bodies twisted and broken. Blood seeped across the stone, pooling in the fading light as the sun slipped behind the horizon.

  The arrow protruded from Lord Manruck’s chest, the fletching still quivering. His lifeless eyes stared skyward, and his hand lay limp where it had once wielded a sword with steadfast grace. He froze, the sight driving the breath from his lungs.

  His sword arm faltered, lowering as a sharp ache filled his chest. Grief clawed at his throat, raw and choking, but the battlefield allowed no room for mourning. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away from the son of the man who had been his guide, his shelter in the storm, now reduced to a silent, broken figure among the fallen.

  He tightened his grip on the parapet’s edge, his thoughts racing as the chaos unfolded below. The treaty with Sal, once hailed as the fragile thread holding peace together, had lulled Reynard into a false sense of security. They had relied on it, trusted in its promises of diplomacy and trade, only to realize too late that it had been a ploy—a dagger hidden behind a handshake. Now, the price of that trust was being paid in blood.

  The Western Keep groaned with the sounds of battle—steel meeting steel, the guttural cries of dying men, and the panicked shrieks of horses. Beyond the walls, Reynard was ablaze, its streets a labyrinth of fire and shadow, echoing with the desperate wails of women and children.

  The tattered remains of his surcoat clung to him like a shroud, sticky with blood and torn beyond repair. It snagged at his knees as he shifted, forcing him to rip it free. Without a second thought, he hurled it over the edge, watching as it tumbled silently into the abyss. There was no time to dwell, for the sounds of pursuit were closing in. The metallic clamor of boots on stone sent a spike of urgency through him.

  Then they appeared, stepping into view like shades from a nightmare. Eight soldiers, their armor gleaming with the cold efficiency of the Sal Empire, fanned out across the parapet. The sun’s dying light glinted off their drawn swords, each blade an extension of their deadly purpose. They moved as one, disciplined and relentless, their intent clear in the way their boots echoed across the stone.

  His fingers tightened on the hilt of his blade, his breath steadying despite the pounding in his chest. There was no way out but through them.

  The eight armored attackers closed in, swords gleaming in the fading sun. Below, the city screamed—cries of fire, steel, and death carried on the howling wind.

  The attackers, fully armored, advanced from all sides, their swords drawn and their eyes fixed on him. The wind through the battlements carried with it the distant cries of a city in turmoil, but his expression remained calm, his posture relaxed. He knew there was no room for error, no retreat—only the fight.

  “Look at what we have here, boys,” said one of the soldiers, his gap-toothed smile creasing his face. “Don’t kill this one. Just hamstring him. He’s just a whelp anyway.”

  They closed in but he was ready for them. The first charged, sword slicing the air, but he sidestepped and countered. Steel caught steel and his blade cut a clean arc. A scream—then silence as the gap-toothed soldier tumbled over the edge. The remaining men hesitated, but only for a moment. They circled, trying to corner him but his eyes never left their movements, each step calculated, each breath measured.

  Another Sallian soldier lunged from his left, trying to grab him, but he stepped inside the attack, driving his blade through the gap in the attacker’s defense. The man crumpled to the stone. Three more came at him at once, hoping to overwhelm him with sheer numbers. But he didn’t flinch. He pivoted, parrying the first strike and ducking beneath the second, his sword already snapping toward the third.

  He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, ready for the fight that awaited. From the edge, the view of the courtyard was a blur of motion, a wave of enemies closing in on all sides. There was no retreat now, no way back.

  He heard the clanging of armor and the distant battle cries of his comrades, but his focus was solely on the stairs ahead. His blade danced with fluidity and purpose, parrying strikes and countering with brutal precision.

  As the attackers closed in and with no other choice, he leapt from the battlements to the stone stairs below, landing hard but regaining his balance just as the fight surged around him. Ducking arrows and rubble he reached the middle of the stairs, the fight intensified. Enemies descending from above, their weapons flashing in the dim torchlight. With a sharp breath, he ran down the stone steps, the heavy boots of his foes thundering behind him.

  “There he is!”

  “After him!”

  With every step, the odds felt more insurmountable, the prospect of countless enemies bearing down on him like a storm. There was no question of making a stand. The truth was brutal. No matter how skilled the blade, no matter how strong the arm, there was always a limit.

  He paused for a fleeting moment at the base of the stairs, surveying the courtyard below—a sprawling sea of enemies, and even more beyond the gates. His chest heaved, the sting of fatigue gnawing at him. But his resolve remained unbroken.

  The defenders of Reynard—knights, squires, and desperate villagers—crumbled under Sal’s relentless assault. Siege ladders slammed against the walls. The Eastern Gate trembled beneath the battering ram

  He descended the last of the stone step, slipping into the storm of battle. A pike came for him—he ducked, slashed, and kept moving. He severed the weapon’s shaft with a clean strike, then slammed the pommel of his sword into the man’s jaw. The soldier dropped, and the swordsman moved on, his blade finding the next target.

  “Hold the line!” someone shouted.

  But he could see the truth. There was no line to hold. Other knights abandoned their posts, throwing down their swords. Footmen crumbled beneath the relentless pounding of Sal’s crimson wave.

  He grabbed a fellow knight by the shoulder, spinning him around. He knew this face, a man named Colt.

  “Stand and fight!” he yelled.

  But Colt’s eyes were wild, his face streaked with sweat and ash. “We are finished, William. There are too many!”

  William let him go, watching with cold disgust as the man fled. Around him, Sallian soldiers poured through the Eastern Gate, their banners bearing the golden sun—emblem of a kingdom that knew no mercy. Colt had been right, there were too many. Reynard was overrun. The attack was sudden, and the city had fallen quickly to the Sal Empire’s superior numbers.

  His heart sank yet, he fought on, pushing forward. Desperate to survive. His sword carved through the chaos, each swing precise, each strike a death blow. But for every enemy he cut down, two more took their place. A crossbow bolt missed him, barely. His muscles burned, his breath came ragged, and still, he fought. The city was overrun. He would die here.

  Your father would have defended this city. His captain’s words had gnawed at him like a splinter in his chest. A half-blood has no honor.

  But his legs kept moving because somewhere deep inside, he heard another voice, like a breath on the wind.

  “… live… so you can fight again… run…”

  If I can escape, he thought, I can rally survivors. There’s still time.

  The thought drove him forward. He turned toward the stables, his boots slipping on blood-slick stone. A Sal soldier tried to grab him, and William’s sword met him with a brutal strike. He shoved the man aside and sprinted for the stable.

  Why did he try to grab me? But he shook the thought as quickly as it came.

  He weaved through the chaos, boots pounding against the cobbles. Blades clashed around him, sparks flying as steel met steel. A soldier lunged—he twisted, barely avoiding the sweeping sword. Another stumbled into his path, clutching a wound, eyes wide with panic. He shoved past, his breath ragged.

  Civilians screamed, darting between burning carts and fallen bodies. A woman clutched a child to her chest, her sobs drowned out by the roar of the battle. Soldiers fought in frantic skirmishes, some holding their ground, others breaking in fear. The courtyard was a storm of movement—fire, blood, and desperation.

  A spear whistled past his shoulder. He didn’t stop. The stables lay ahead, shadowed in smoke.

  The stable was just ahead. He stumbled inside, finding a black stallion, wide-eyed and stamping. No time for calm. He grabbed the reins, swung into the saddle, and kicked the horse hard. Hooves thundered as they burst into the city.

  The stallion thundered through the streets of Reynard, its hooves pounding against the cobblestones as Sal soldiers scattered like leaves in its path. Bodies hit the ground with heavy thuds, and he leaned low over the horse’s mane, his grip firm on the reins. He knew these streets better than most—a labyrinth of backways and alleys that could guide him out of the city if he moved quickly enough.

  Shouts rang out behind him as Sal’s soldiers regrouped and gave chase. Flames licked at the edges of the narrow streets, casting eerie shadows across the stone walls. The stallion darted through the chaos, narrowly avoiding falling beams and collapsing buildings. Arrows hissed through the air, but the rider’s sharp eyes—keener than those of an ordinary man’s—caught every movement. He steered the stallion with precision, weaving through obstacles and evading the Sal soldiers closing in.

  The Southern Gate had fallen—that much he knew. Sal’s forces poured into the city like a flood, their banners fluttering in the smoke-filled air. The Northern Gate, if still open, was his only hope. But why had Sal attacked? The treaty had been held for years. What could they possibly want with Reynard? They were at peace with the empire.

  Ahead, the Northern Gate came into view, its iron-bound doors ajar, but a squad of Sallian soldiers blocked the path. William’s grip tightened on his blade as he urged the stallion to a faster pace. There was no time for hesitation.

  The stallion responded to his urgency, muscles bunching and releasing as it surged forward. The soldiers turned, alarm spreading across their faces at the thunder of hooves. The first fell with a clean slash, his cry lost in the chaos. Another lunged for his leg trying to pull him down, but a brutal kick sent him sprawling. The stallion reared, its hooves lashing out, William’s blade struck again, carving a path through the resistance.

  With the gate just ahead, he urged the stallion into a final burst of speed. The air rushed past as they broke through the last line of soldiers, bursting into the open countryside beyond. Smoke and chaos faded behind them as they raced north, the wind pulling at his cloak and stinging his eyes. For now, they were free.

  As the hooves pounded beneath him, carrying him into the night, he wondered if survival was a victory or just another curse. The city behind him was consumed by flames, its glow staining the horizon like a cruel beacon of defeat. His thoughts were clouded with the bitter gall loss—his home, his people, under siege by an unstoppable army.

  The echoes of his captain’s last words plagued his memory. His countrymen had stood their ground and paid the price, while he lived to carry the shame. Lord Manruck was dead. Struck down by an arrow. It couldn’t be. As a knight he grieved for his lord’s soul.

  He rode through the darkened night, his weary horse carrying him over uneven terrain. His armor, dented and scratched from the battle, clinked softly with every motion. Blood, both his own and that of his fallen enemies, stained his once-pristine garb. The pain in his side burned with every breath, but it was the ache in his chest that made the ride unbearable—the raw grief of watching his city fall, of seeing his comrades scattered and his home reduced to rubble. He bowed his head, his voice breaking the quiet.

  “Mother, Father, I’m sorry.”

  As he rode, the weight of betrayal gnawed at him, heavier than the blood-soaked armor clinging to his frame. The treaty with Sal had been a lie—a clever ruse to lull Rynnal into complacency. He had trusted it, as they all had, believing that diplomacy and trade might hold back Sal’s hunger for conquest. Now, the truth burned as brightly as the flames consuming Reynard. Sal had never intended peace. The treaty was nothing more than a dagger, slipped between Rynnal’s ribs when its guard was down. How could they have been so blind?

  But it was another question clawed at his thoughts, refusing to be silenced.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Why hadn’t the Sal soldiers killed him? Their strikes were deliberate, their movements precise, yet none aimed for a killing blow. Instead, they sought to grab him, to corner him, their intentions veiled in a maddening enigma.

  He replayed the clash in his mind—the calculated feints, the quick grabs for his arms, the strange restraint in their attacks. On a night where death seemed inevitable, why was he spared the fate that had claimed so many others? What could they possibly want with him? The uncertainty gnawed at his mind, heavier than the blade in his hand, more chilling than the blood-soaked air. What had awaited him if they’d succeeded? The thought curdled in his chest.

  He leaned forward, urging the exhausted beast onward despite the sheen of sweat darkening its flanks. Each labored breath of the stallion misted in the cool air, but William dared not slow. The stars above blurred into streaks of light as they pressed into the darkness, the moon casting faint, fleeting shadows on the endless stretch of wilderness ahead. Every muscle in the horse’s body strained, and the rider felt its strength waning, yet further, desperate to leave the chaos behind.

  The stallion’s gallop faltered, its powerful strides giving way to a weary trot. He slumped in the saddle and tightened his grip on the reins, though his exhaustion mirrored the horses. Each labored breath from his mount came with a shudder, its glossy coat now matted with sweat. Reluctantly, he eased it into a slow walk, feeling the tremble in its legs with every step. Despite the fatigue weighing them both down, they pressed onward, step by step, the silence of the night broken only by the soft crunch of hooves against the dirt.

  The moon cast a pale glow over the land, and the weary hoof falls were joined with the distant cries of night creatures. He had no destination in mind, only the desperate hope that some village, some hidden refuge, would offer sanctuary from both his physical wounds and the crushing sorrow in his heart. The loss of his city haunted him like a shadow, a memory that refused to fade. He had fought to the last, defending walls that no longer stood, watching as the flames swallowed everything he had fought to protect.

  Then, in the distance, he saw the faintest glimmer of light—a flicker from behind the trees, a fire perhaps. His heart leaped with cautious hope. Maybe, just maybe, he would find what he needed here. A moment’s rest. A place to heal, and perhaps a fleeting respite from the darkness that threatened to consume him. William stumbled toward the distant light. Each step felt heavier, the weight of failure settling into his bones.

  He hesitated. What if it was another trap or Sallian Soldiers lying in wait? But the hollow ache in his chest drove him forward. He had nothing left to lose but his life—and even that felt heavy. Staggering with exhaustion, he stumbled upon the flickering light of a campfire. His body ached from the brutal fight he’d just survived, his breath ragged and shallow.

  As he approached, he saw a lone figure sitting by the fire as if he were waiting for someone. His robes dark but trimmed with subtle arcane symbols that glowed faintly in the twilight. A mage then.

  “Come closer, friend,” the man said, his voice calm and welcoming. “You’re in no shape to be out here alone.”

  William hesitated then, seeing no other option, carefully made his way toward the fire. The mage stood, his movements deliberate and graceful.

  He dismounted and lowered himself onto the log, feeling the sting his injuries. The strange man set aside his staff and began pulling out materials from a small bag—herbs, bandages, and a small vial of clear liquid.

  “The way you hold that sword, it’s as though you were born to carry it. The Great Spirit favors you. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  William barked a bitter laugh. “Lucky? A word my captain would’ve scoffed at. A knight who flees his city isn’t lucky, but craven.”

  The man shook his head.

  “Don’t worry, these will help with the pain,” he said and reached out to clean the deep gash in William’s arm.

  The mage’s fingers moved with the precision of someone accustomed to healing, but there was an ease to his touch, as if he saw no distinction between magic and simple care.

  “You should not be out here, alone, wounded as you are,” said the mage. “The forests are dangerous this time of year. I am Matrum, and I can help with these wounds. It seems you’ve had a hard journey.”

  The fire crackled between them, casting shadows on their faces.

  “William,” he said and nodded, grateful for Matrum’s care.

  —

  The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows across William’s face as he sat, the weight of his armor now resting beside him. With a quiet sigh, he reached up and unlatched his helmet, pulling it free and setting it on the ground beside him. His dark hair, tangled from hours of travel, fell into his eyes, but it was not his appearance that drew Matrum’s attention—it was what lay beneath.

  Matrum’s brow furrowed in surprise. His eyes, keen with the knowledge of magic, traced the man’s features with renewed interest. There were the subtle signs—his pointed ears, a slight elongation of his features, perhaps—but it wasn’t until now that the truth had become clear.

  “Half-elven?” Matrum’s voice carried both disbelief and curiosity, his sharp eyes appraising the man before him.

  This was no servant or common vassal. That much was clear even at a glance.

  The knight’s gaze darkened, his jaw tightening, though a faint trace of resignation flickered in his expression.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “On my mother’s side. She served in Lord Gareth Manruck’s household. My father was one of his knights, sworn to his service. As was I… until tonight.”

  “Until tonight?” Matrum pressed, leaning forward slightly.

  “Reynard has fallen. Young Lord Ewan Manruck is dead, and the city burned. I barely escaped with my life.”

  Matrum leaned back in his seat, processing the words. “A half-elven knight. You are a rare man, indeed.”

  The knight’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze dropping to his hands. They were rough and scarred, worn from years of wielding a blade.

  “No,” he said. “I’m a knight of a dead realm. Reynard is ash, Lord Manruck’s son is dead, and his household lies in ruin.”

  Matrum nodded. “And the free elves of Reynard?”

  “Chained, slaughtered, or marched off to some darker fate.” His tone was flat but heavy with bitterness. “I doubt they’re being carried back to Sal as anything other than plunder.”

  “So… an invasion?”

  William nodded. “That’s what it looked like to me.”

  A somber silence settled between them, the grim import of the news palpable.

  William looked up at the mage, suspicion in his eyes.

  “Do you dislike elves?”

  Matrum leaned back, trying to process what he’d heard.

  “No. I don’t hold the same view as most people do about elves.” He shook his head. “A knight… I don’t often see men like you.”

  William winced as the mage wrapped a bandage around his arm. He glanced at the symbols on Matrum’s robes, their faint glow making him uneasy.

  “What are you? A healer? A sorcerer? Or something worse?”

  Matrum raised an eyebrow. “Does it matter? If I meant you harm, you’d already know it.”

  William’s hand twitched toward his sword, but exhaustion stopped him.

  “That’s comforting,” he muttered, his voice thick with suspicion. “Forgive me if I don’t trust strangers in the woods, especially ones who speak of winds and fate.”

  Matrum chuckled, the sound low and unhurried. “Caution isn’t a fault. But trust isn’t a gift you give freely, is it? That, I understand.”

  “You don’t understand anything about me.”

  “Don’t I?” Matrum kept his movements steady. “You’re a man who’s lost everything—your city, your comrades, your sense of purpose. You carry the weight of failure, though it isn’t yours to bear alone. And now, you’re wondering if it’s even worth fighting anymore.”

  The young knight stiffened. “You’re awfully sure of yourself, mage.”

  “Not of myself,” Matrum said, meeting his eyes. “But of you.”

  Suspicion sharpening William’s gaze. “You said you don’t hate elves. Is that true, or do you simply hide it better than others?”

  “Truth? I’ve seen more cruelty from men toward their own than elves could ever claim. You’re the first half-elven knight I’ve met. I’d be a fool to judge you.”

  “We agree there.”

  Matrum’s gaze flickered to the fire.

  “It’s been a burden, I assume. Your mixed heritage I mean.”

  “Most of my life.” He trailed off, unsure if he could explain the burden of his lineage. “Now, I fear it may no longer matter.”

  The mage’s expression softened. “I can understand why you’d keep it hidden. In—”

  “It wasn’t hidden.” William sneered at that. “How could it have been? They all knew who my mother was. I was taken on as a squire then a knight despite my blood, out of Manruck’s love for my father.”

  “That is something. I’d heard Lord Manruck was… well, it’s quite something. Still, in some circles, knowledge of your true heritage would be dangerous. Tell me, did your mother know of her lineage.”

  “No,” he said. “She was a servant and before that a slave since childhood. Slaves don’t have lineages only bills of sale.” His tone was blunt.

  Matrum remained silent for a moment. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  “Yes, it is,” William said, his voice softer now, “whether you suppose it or not.”

  “What is your name?” Matrum asked. “The name that so moved Lord Manruck in your favor…”

  “Carelock,” he said. “William Carelock.”

  Matrum’s eyes widened, just for a moment. The name struck him like a distant echo, familiar yet heavy with meaning. He had heard it before.

  The winds were right.

  The thought settled in his mind, undeniable. William Carelock. A name that carried weight, tied to something far greater than chance. The Four Winds had guided him here—to this moment, to this man. And now, face to face with destiny, he knew.

  He had found him.

  —

  The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows that danced across the faces of the two men. Matrum leaned back against a rock, his robes fluttering slightly in the cool night breeze. His fingers tapped idly on the hilt of his staff as his mind raced, piecing together the puzzle that was William Carelock. Matrum’s gaze lingered on the man across from him, his eyes sharp and unyielding, as though they could peel back the layers of armor and shadow that cloaked the half-elven knight. There was no doubt, William was the man he was sent to find. But he needed to know—truly—what kind of man he was.

  He leaned forward slightly, his staff shifting in his hand.

  “I know how you escaped the siege,” he said, his tone probing, each word a challenge. “But what I don’t understand is why you carry this burden of knighthood. Your lord is dead, your city lost. What keeps you bound to this path?”

  When he got no response, the mage’s eyes narrowed, his gaze cutting through the flickering shadows.

  “There’s more to you than you’re willing to reveal. Isn’t there? Tell me about your mother, William, did she have other family? Father and brother or did—”

  “You ask a lot of questions, mage.”

  William’s eyes, steady and unyielding, flicked up to meet Matrum’s. The firelight caught the edges of his gaze, but his expression betrayed nothing. The silence stretched, heavy with things unsaid, until he finally spoke, his voice calm but firm.

  “Knighthood was my choice,” he said, his voice steady but his eyes sharp with annoyance. “It was my father’s mantle before it was mine. I didn’t leave my city just to survive—I left because I swore to protect. That doesn’t change just because my lord…” His voice faltered for a moment, and he swallowed hard before continuing. “Because my city is gone. An oath like that doesn’t crumble with stone walls or fall with torn banners.”

  He paused, his gaze dropping to the fire, the flickering light reflecting in eyes that had seen too much.

  “And no,” he added quietly, his tone heavier now, “I have no family left. They died long ago.”

  Matrum tilted his head slightly, studying him like a puzzle just beginning to take shape. Despite the blood, the exhaustion, and the sting of all he had lost, William still carried the heart of a knight. It was in his stance, his eyes—unyielding, even in defeat.

  The Four Winds chose wisely.

  Slowly, Matrum nodded, his expression thoughtful. The whispers of the deep magic stirred in his memory, weaving a pattern that neither man fully understood.

  “William Carelock,” Matrum said quietly, almost to himself. “The voice the Four Winds was clear, though the path is not. There is a fate we must face, one that is tied to the fall of your city, to the knights who once stood strong, and to forces even I don’t fully comprehend. The winds brought you here, William. A knight without a kingdom.”

  William shook his head, his laugh sharp and bitter.

  “Four Winds? Is that supposed to make me feel better? That some force I can neither see nor touch decided my city should burn while I escaped?”

  “The winds don’t choose lightly,” Matrum replied, his tone measured. “Nor do they offer clarity. They simply guide.”

  “Guide? To what?” William’s voice rose, his frustration boiling over. “To more death? More failure? My lord is dead. My people are dead. And you expect me to believe I’m meant for something greater?”

  Matrum tilted his head, studying William with a calm that only fanned the knight’s anger.

  “What I expect is for you to decide for yourself. You can let the ashes of Reynard define you, or you can rise from them. That choice is yours, William.”

  William’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists. He looked away, staring into the fire. He sighed, his body too tired to fight.

  “It doesn’t feel like it.”

  Matrum’s eyes flickered toward the fire, watching as the flames shifted and curled, their colors deepening in a way that seemed almost unnatural.

  “I know that the knight’s duty is far more than what you’ve been taught, William. It is not just to protect the realm but to wield power—ancient power—when the time comes. And that time… is now. Sal shall burn more cities and claim many more lives.”

  William clenched his fists, a new understanding settling in his eyes. The thought of Sal razing more cities, leaving nothing but ash and despair, twisted his gut. His voice was tight with conviction.

  “You’re talking about something bigger than just battles—bigger than my city. But how am I supposed to fight an empire?”

  “Not alone, William,” Matrum said, a glimmer of something ancient flashing in his eyes. “The deep magic didn’t bring us together by chance. A knight can’t stand alone. You’re going to need allies—the right ones—and you’ll find them where you least expect. Come with me. I could use someone with your skills. Sal isn’t done, William. But neither are you. Let’s hit them back.”

  William stared into the fire. “You talk a lot about choice, mage. But what if I choose wrong? What if I fail again?”

  Matrum leaned forward on his staff, his voice soft but steady. “Failure is not the end, William. It’s what you do after that defines you. Trust is the same—it’s earned, not given. Rest tonight. In the morning, perhaps you’ll see that I mean no harm. Until then, hold onto your doubts. I’d expect nothing less.”

  For a long moment, William didn’t respond.

  “You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”

  “Only for the questions you ask,” Matrum said with a faint smile.

  As the knight leaned back, his exhaustion settled across his shoulders. Fighting the urge to sleep, his grip on his sword remained firm, but his mind wavered. Maybe, just maybe, the mage wasn’t an enemy.

  William turned his storm-grey gaze back to Matrum.

  “And what if I refuse?”

  Matrum’s expression remained calm.

  “You won’t,” he said with a knowing smile. “A good man wouldn’t turn down a chance to fight for something bigger. And I believe you’re a good man, William.”

  William stared into the fire as silence settled over them. He had no home. No plan. But maybe…

  He closed his eyes, giving in to his need for rest. The fire’s warmth sinking into his battered frame. Tomorrow, Matrum would ask him to fight for something new. But tonight, the only thing he fought was the silence of his own ghosts. William leaned on the log and did not remember falling asleep.

  Matrum stared into the fire, the flames curling and shifting like whispers of a restless spirit. His gaze animate with unspoken thoughts, his lips barely moving as he murmured to no one but the fire.

  “The last of the Ayanshe…”

  The words hung in the air, swallowed by the crackling wood. He leaned back, his grip tightening on his staff as his eyes drifted to the sleeping figure beside him. The wind stirred, brushing against his hair like a quiet warning.

  “… guide him…”

  Matrum could feel the charge of the deep magic in the wind, calling to him. He looked up to the stars, his gaze softening as his thoughts turned to one he had lost so long ago.

  He’s half-elven, like our child would have been.

  His hand tightened around his staff as the grip of memory clutched his chest. Closing his eyes, he bowed his head and swore quietly to the Four Winds, his voice steady with resolve.

  “I will guide him,” he said, his voice low and steady.

  But let him rest tonight. Tomorrow, the winds will decide.