“I’ve had my fill with court nonsense,” I said, turning to face him, my hand still gently resting on the neck of the mare. Daen was leaningagainst the stable door, arms crossed, a casualness that didn’t match the tightness around his eyes. “I’ll take the eastern route. You and Astrid manage the supply lines and follow.”
He nodded, though his expression remained closed. “And where will we find you?”
I pulled Benni’s note from my pocket, the paper worn thin from where I’d read it over and over to make sure I hadn’t missed a single beat. “Here,” I said, handing it to Daen. “It’s a camp report, though you wouldn’t know it from the way he writes.”
Daen’s eyes flickered over the note, something resembling a smile tugging at his mouth. “Harbour’s Bane. Clever.” He pocketed the note carefully, and our eyes met again. “We’ll catch up soon.”
I turned back to the horses, the urgency of departure chafing against the pull of unfinished conversations. I adjusted the saddle strap, though I wasn’t sure if I was truly focused on the task at hand or just stalling. Daen didn’t say anything, but I could feel his presence and the gravity of his gaze – both always steady, both always constant. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy in a way that spoke volumes without a word. I glanced over my shoulder and caught the faint shift in his stance, small enough to miss if I hadn’t spent half my life reading him.
“Are you sure about this?” His voice was low but not uncertain. It was the kind of question that only Daen could ask – without pressure, without judgement and rooted in a lifetime of friendship and earned trust. “You sure about going on your own?”
I met his gaze briefly, then went on to secure the buckles of the saddlebags. In all honesty, I wasn’t sure about anything – but the road ahead had never seemed more certain.
“I’m sure,” I said anyway, though the word tasted different than I expected.
Daen nodded slowly and then stepped forward, his hand brushingthe neck of my mare. There was a finality in his movements that left no room for further questions. He was used to this – these small endings that never felt like endings at all, just the slow turning of pages.
When he spoke again, his voice was even and certain. “Look after yourself. You’ll be within friendly territories, but it’s a long ride alone.”
I felt something shift in my chest, but I held it close and only nodded, my hand tightening around the reins. Daen stepped forward and offered his hand without a word; I took it, and he steadied me as I swung into the saddle. For a moment, we stayed like that – his grip firm, his gaze level – before he let go and flashed me one of his muted smiles. I returned him one and nudged the mare forward. Gravel crunched beneath her hooves, mingling with the distant calls of herons and the faint toll of morning bells from the keep.
I rode through Irongate in the early light, the world still cloaked in grey, the city barely awake. The stables faded into the mist as I passed the courtyard’s edge, and only the soft murmur of a waking household and the distant groan of a cart stirred the air. Soon even those sounds faded, leaving only the steady rhythm of hooves against stone, my mare’s gait a calm echo in the morning air as she carried me out of the city and beyond the suffocating weight of the Sorcerer Queen’s shadow. The road ahead was familiar – I had ridden it countless times – but today it felt different. The pull of Irongate, of my Mother’s presence looming from afar, still pressed at my back. It wasn’t quite fear, but something unsettled, a knot I couldn’t untie no matter how many miles I put between us.
The road unspooled before me, the steady beat of hooves carrying me past the hills and the slow curve of the river. The wind moved through the trees in long, low currents, and the emptiness it left behind was almost welcome. For a time, I let it fill the space where voices might have been, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword, fingers tracing the familiar ridges worn deep over the years.
The hours, and then days, passed like that, the world stretching on without hurry. Without the prisoner’s cage or the bustle of soldiers at my back, the miles fell away more easily, the ride lighter, faster – just me, my mare, and the long sweep of land ahead.
It wasn’t only the solitude that made the road feel different. The few trees on the hills bent to the wind, and the river kept its course, but there were no voices, no orders. Only my thoughts, drifting and circling, finding nowhere to land but forward.
I didn’t rush, but I didn’t linger either. My gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead, the city falling away behind me with every step. With it went more than Irongate itself – my mother’s influence, her expectations, her disappointment – slipping from me until they felt distant, no more than ghosts trailing in my wake.
By the time nightfall came, the air had shifted. The first stars were visible, but a storm was gathering in the distance, the clouds heavy and dark, swirling in a slow, ominous dance. I made camp by the side of the road, near a stream that ran quietly through some trees, the water’s soft gurgle blending with the rising wind.
I unpacked only what I needed, the familiar rhythm of setting camp coming easily. The fire took quickly, dry wood catching and crackling as the flames rose, casting light that pushed back the growing darkness of the night around me.
The daggers were still with me, nestled in the pocket of my cloak. I took them out now, placing them carefully beside the fire. The heat from the flames flickered against the pearl hilt of the first dagger, casting soft light over its surface. I had spared them little thought on the ride, but now, with only the fire for company, I found my hand reaching for them, almost as if by its own volition.
I picked up my own dagger first, the weight of it familiar in my hand. My fingers traced the smooth pearl of the hilt before moving slowly down to the base, where the carving caught my attention.III. Themark was as clear as the day it had been made. I had been carrying it for so long, from my days at the barracks to every journey since, that it felt like an extension of myself. But tonight there was something about the way the light caught the grooves that made it feel somehow incomplete.
I set it down carefully and picked up the second dagger, the one from the pyre. It felt colder, the pearl hilt cool against my skin, and I turned it over slowly, inspecting it as the firelight danced across its surface. The carving at the bottom was different.II.
The “II” was clean, precise. I turned the dagger over in my hand, tracing the carving slowly, as though the mark itself might reveal something more. The light from the fire caught the surface of the hilt, the pearl gleaming in a way that made the difference between the two daggers feel sharper. The “III” on my own was worn smooth from years of use, but the “II” felt untouched, as if it had been waiting for a hand that wasn’t mine.
I set the second dagger hilt down beside my own, the two of them resting there on the ground, close but not quite fitting together. The firelight flickered over them, casting shadows that stretched longer than they should, the space between them feeling more pronounced with each passing moment.
I couldn’t explain why the difference between them felt so important, but it did. The “II” was too clean, too new. Too much a part of some pattern I didn’t recognise. It shouldn’t have mattered. Yet, the more I thought about it, the more the weight of the question hung in the air.
If I had a third and now a second, was there a first? And if there was, where was it?
I turned my gaze away from the daggers, the thought lingering in the quiet of the camp. The wind picked up, tugging at the trees and sending a chill through the air, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing—something that had been left behind, waiting for me tofind it.
I leaned back against the saddle, my muscles aching from the ride, and for the first time that day, I let myself close my eyes. The exhaustion hit harder now, and the world around me seemed to grow quieter, more distant, as though everything – even the storm – had paused to watch.
When I woke, the fire had burned low and the embers were cold. The storm had passed, leaving the morning light sharp and the air wet with the aftertaste of rain. I packed quickly, the daggers tucked in my cloak, and set out.
The road opened before me in muted greens and greys, the mare’s pace unhurried. My hand stayed on the reins, but my thoughts drifted, circling the weight in my cloak – the two hilts, so alike and yet marked apart. It was a small thing, but small things had a way of growing if you let them. I was annoyed at how much it had settled in my mind, becoming an itch I couldn’t quite reach.
The days blurred into one another, the journey a repetition of hooves against earth and the quiet solitude of a road not often travelled. The loneliness pressed in, more insistent than before; the absence of my friends and closest confidants and the distraction of others leaving too much room for my own thoughts. I found myself glancing back at the road now and then, half-expecting to see the dust from the supply lines rising in the distance.
