The road out of Astavo was paved with good intentions and, in Sheng's case, an agonizing amount of regret. The "Trio" moved in a tight diamond formation, a habit from their days in the trenches of the War of Oblivion. Arthor took the lead, his broad back a wall of steady, reliable muscle. Elvric rode to the right, his eyes scanning the treeline for magical disturbances (or perhaps just more things to tease Sheng about). Orthox brought up the rear, looking so small and slumped over his pony that he resembled a very sad sack of grain.
Sheng rode in the center. Usually, this was the position of the strategist, the man who saw everything. Today, it was the position of a man trying to hide from the very air itself.
"It's the efficiency that bothers me," Sheng muttered, his voice barely a ghost of a sound. He hadn't looked up from his horse's ears for three miles.
"Efficiency of what, Sheng?" Arthor asked, casting a warm, sympathetic glance back at his friend.
"The information," Sheng hissed. "I spent ten years becoming a myth. I killed the King of the North without leaving a single fingerprint. I once sat in a room with five generals for three hours and none of them knew I was behind the curtain. My life is built on the absence of information." He gestured vaguely toward the horizon. "And yet, in less than twenty-four hours, a dwarf on a table has undone a decade of silence."
Elvric chuckled, a sound that made Sheng's eye twitch. "That's the thing about secrets, Sheng. They're like pressurized steam. The smaller the hole they escape from, the louder the whistle. And Orthox? He wasn't just a hole. He was a volcanic eruption."
"I said I was sorry!" Orthox yelled from the back, his voice echoing through the quiet olive groves. "I offered to go back and challenge the whole tavern to a duel to reclaim your honor!"
"That would only make it worse!" Sheng shouted back, finally snapping. He pulled his hood lower, even though the sun was sweltering. "I can see the headlines in the Belvart Gazette now: 'Assassin's Honor Defended by Drunk Dwarf in Chair-Throwing Contest.' My career is over. I'll have to move to the Southern Isles and sell seashells."
As the day progressed, the group settled into a heavy, rhythmic pace. They were heading toward the mountain passes, but the mood was far from the "holiday" they had started.
Sheng's mind was a whirlpool. He kept replaying the scenario Orthox had described. He had wanted that Communication Gem number for a reason—a professional reason, or so he told himself. Sylvia wasn't just an elf; she was a node in a network of information that spanned the continent. But he had chosen the wrong tool for the job. He had sent a hammer to do the work of a needle.
"You're overthinking it," Arthor said, slowing his horse to ride alongside Sheng. The Knight's voice was like a heavy blanket—warm and grounding. "People forget, Sheng. Even legends. In a month, they'll be talking about a new scandal. Maybe Elvric will accidentally turn a duke into a goat."
"I heard that!" Elvric called out. "And for the record, it was a sheep, and he deserved it."
Sheng didn't smile. "It's not just the gossip, Arthor. It's the taboo. You know how the Elven Houses are. They value 'purity' and 'composure.' By having a human—and a human killer, no less—publicly pursue one of their own, I haven't just embarrassed myself. I've insulted their social order. They won't see it as a mistake. They'll see it as a provocation."
"Then we treat it like one," Arthor said, his gaze hardening. The humble knight was gone for a second, replaced by the commander who had faced 15,000 men with only 5,000. "If the Elves want to turn a personal blunder into a diplomatic incident, they'll find that the 'Shadow of the War' still has friends who carry very heavy shields."
Sheng looked at Arthor, then at Elvric, who gave him a sharp, supportive nod. Even Orthox had managed to sit a little straighter in his saddle.
Despite the looming disaster, a small spark of warmth flickered in Sheng's chest. He valued trust and friendship above all else, and here they were—the men who had bled with him—ready to ride into a den of elven high-society just to help him manage a "backfired task."
"The rumor will be at the gates of Belvart before we are," Sheng warned. "Every merchant we passed in Astavo is a carrier. By tomorrow, they'll say I proposed marriage. By the day after, they'll say I'm building a monument in her honor."
"Well," Elvric said, eyes twinkling with mischief, "if we're going to be famous for a scandal, we might as well do it in style. Orthox, did you at least tell them Sheng has a Medal of Glory? If you're going to ruin his reputation, you should at least mention he's a war hero."
"I was busy dodging the chair, Elvric!" Orthox barked back.
Sheng groaned, burying his face in his gloved hands. The road to Belvart was long, and he had a feeling that every mile would bring a new, even more ridiculous version of his own story.