Dawn came slow and gray, the kind of morning that felt like the world itself had swallowed its breath. Arion woke before the household stirred, muscles still humming from the previous day's exertion. For a moment he lay still, eyes fixed on the rough ceiling planks, the memory of the forest fight flashing through his mind: the flash of smoke, the clang of metal, the little girl's wide eyes. He could feel the ache in his forearm where a blade had clipped him. The bruise was small, but it throbbed with meaning.
He dressed quietly and moved through the hallways. The servants were beginning their chores; the clang of pots and low voices formed the household's morning rhythm. At the head table, Caelum Vale had already taken his seat, scanning reports while Serenya arranged bread. Elandra arrived with that quick, bright energy that made Arion's throat tighten — she was ways younger in this life, unaffected by the heavy things his memory carried. She spoke with the easy chatter of a girl who believed the world would stay safe if she smiled at it.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked, sitting beside him. He gave a small smile, then declined breakfast with a curt, "I have errands to run,"—not yet ready to give any more than that.
Outside, a guard rode in at a brisk pace, cloak soaked from damp roads, horse steaming. A moment later another man, out of breath, followed. They crossed the courtyard with grave expressions, boots kicking up mud. Word of trouble moved faster than the seasons in small courts like this.
"Master Caelum," the second guard said, bowing low. "Scout Harlan reports an explosion on the northern ridge. Smoke and residue near the old hunter's hut. He says—" The guard's voice faltered; the words stuck like grit.
Caelum's brow tightened. "An explosion?" he echoed, voice low and dangerous. "Show me."
Within minutes a small party formed: Caelum; Master Loren, the clan's training instructor; two outer guards, including Harlan; and a few of the younger masters from the council. Arion watched the gathering in silence, each face like a carved stone; worry stacked like firewood in the pit of his stomach.
Harlan, older and weathered from patrols, was the first to speak when they reached the ridge. He set down a hand as if to steady himself and pointed to the charred ground below. "Found signs of smoke at first light. Scorched grasses, singed bark. Something burned hot enough to leave these tracks." He kicked at a patch of ground and a faint, glittering powder came up on his boot.
Loren crouched, examining the residue. His eyes narrowed. "Pollen? No… this is not ordinary ash." He scraped the powder carefully into the palm of his hand, breathed, and spat. "This has the scent of Ade residue," he said finally—enough to make even Caelum's jaw tense. "Cooking elixirs. Who would be out here to brew so early? The hunter's hut has been empty for months."
A younger master, Ansel, frowned. "Thornshade? Their poisons and mixtures often involve rare herbs. If they're testing here, they mean to strike at our borders."
Caelum's hand curled into a fist. He turned, eyes hard, to the assembled guards. "Send two riders to the northern watch and another to the western pass. I want patrols doubled. Harlan, take two men and search the woods. If there are tracks — dead or alive — bring them here."
Harlan nodded. "At once, Lord Vale."
As the group dispersed to execute the orders, whispers traveled like sparks. "Assassins." "Thornshade testing the boundary." "Scouts from Drakar." Each possibility carried its poison.
Arion felt the world tighten. He kept his face neutral but forced his feet to follow the masters as they walked the charred perimeter. The cauldron he'd kicked yesterday had left a ring of scorched earth; a scorched metal rim lay half-buried where he had shoved it into the undergrowth. He watched as Harlan pried at the rusted ring, held it up like evidence. The sight of that battered pot caused a small, sharp pain to plant itself behind his ribs. He would have to be careful.
They questioned the nearby villagers and tracks were followed. A barefoot disciple's footprint, faint and hurried, trailed toward the estate: the girl had fled for safety, as had been expected. A smear of blood and a torn piece of green cloth caught Master Loren's eye. He pocketed it with a grimness that made Arion's throat close.
That evening, the council convened in the inner hall. Torches burned steady; scent of pine sap clung to the air. Caelum sat at the head, the assembled masters arranged in slow, formal lines. The atmosphere was not merely of a clan that had found a strange mystery; it carried the cold weight of a problem that could be a spark in tinder.
"We cannot treat this lightly," Caelum said, voice low and even. "If Thornshade is probing our borders, then this was but a test — a trial to discover our readiness. If Drakar sent scouts disguised as such, then a single misstep will open a path for war."
Master Loren spoke next. "The residue indicates Ade, yes. But the use of a smoke burst as a diversion is a tactic used by both parties. Thornshade to disorient and slip in, Drakar to test strength. The difference will be in intent. Thornshade sells death for coin; Drakar asks for land."
Master Ansel added, "There were witnesses who heard voices in the trees last night. Two men, speaking not in trade tongues but in something clipped and cold. Thornshade has that tone."
A murmur ran across the room. Rowan, present as a junior master and obviously loyal to the family, leaned forward. "We should send a patrol to the south as well. If this was only a test, it will not stop at the north."
Caelum's hand tapped the table. "Good. We will do that. Harlan, men under you will scour the ridge. Loren will take two trackers and question the people who live near the woods. Ansel, prepare the outer guards for increased watch. I want a report by dusk tomorrow. If there is any sign of Thornshade in our granges, we strike at once."
Arion listened, each instruction pressing into him like a second heartbeat. He wanted to stand, to confess that he had been at the site — that the cauldron had been his, that he had caused the smoke. But the weight of consequence stopped him. What would come of the investigation? Would the council punish the outer disciples? Would they tighten security, create suspicion? He could not risk Elandra or his mother's peace with truth that could draw the outlaw attention to them.
Instead he kept his mouth shut. He would be patient. He knew what had happened. He also knew how easily truth could unravel. The plan, he reminded himself: protect family first, then strike. This was step-by-step. No grand gestures. No reckless confession.
After the council, Arion walked the perimeter alone. The smoldering ground still released a faint, bitter scent of ashes and herbs. He crouched and examined the spot where his cauldron had once been, the rusted rim half-buried. He dug his fingers into the cool soil and found a shard of oxidized metal—probably part of the pot. He wrapped it in a scrap of cloth from his sash and slipped it into his tunic. A relic of the night, a reminder of what had already begun.
A few yards away, Harlan returned with two of his men, leading the young disciple Aria by the arm. She was dirt-smeared, face pale but intact. She had returned after hours in the woods, trembling but alive. She kept her eyes cast down, and when she saw the council members, her shoulders sagged as if the weight of the world had settled on them.
"Where did they go?" Loren asked quietly, kneeling beside her.
Aria's voice was small. "Into the deeper trees," she whispered, tears clinging to her lashes. "They wanted something from the hut. When I tried to run, they—" Her words broke. Men exchanged glances. Thornshade, then, had been near enough to snatch a child. The thought filled the space with cold.
Caelum rose slowly, moving to stand before the girl as though to shield her by presence alone. "You are safe now," he said, and in the way he spoke there was the authority of a leader who had held fields through winters and kept men fed when others starved. His gaze met Arion's briefly. There was an old warmth there, nearly a father's pride, but below it lay the unspoken responsibility of a lord who had to protect everything under his roof.
Arion stepped forward. He could have offered the truth—could have stepped into the circle and admitted he had been at the hut—but instead he bowed his head and said nothing more than, "I will patrol the north today."
Caelum inclined his head. "Do so, but stay with a squad. No lone sorties."
Arion suppressed his protest. He needed mobility and secrecy—two things not granted to a lone, reckless youth. But he bowed, then turned to prepare. He would follow orders outwardly and press his own path quietly. He would be careful. He would plant no evidence of his presence where it might incriminate the family or drag Thornshade's ire onto Elandra. He would obey today because obedience bought him tomorrow.
As night fell and the first patrols rode out under torchlight, Arion sat by his little window and watched the guards move like shadows on the road. The world felt both smaller and more dangerous now that a stranger's smoke had pierced their morning. He wrapped his hand around the metal shard in his pocket and breathed.
The climb was slower than he'd wanted, the steps measured and sometimes mundane. But tonight he felt each small movement—each patrol, each question, each secret decision—stacking like stones that would one day become a fortress. The smoke on the ridge had not merely hollered a warning. It had lit the first lantern along a long road.
Arion's vow, once whispered in the dark, hardened into action. He would walk the path the right way: patient, precise, unrelenting. He would protect his sister. He would keep his family safe. And when the time came, he would strike — not like a blind beast, but like a blade tempered and true.
Outside the walls, the Drakar banners moved like distant teeth. Inside, the Valeheart prepared, quietly and diligently, for the night to come.