The Stubborn Stag heaved like a great, wooden beast breathing smoke and noise. Arrion moved through the crowd with the unconscious grace of a deep-current, a barrel hoisted on each shoulder, his size parting the sea of farmers, craftsmen, and adventurers with ease. Yet, for the first time in years, the familiar chaos did not envelop him. A cold, sharp focus cut through the warmth of the fire and the ale-scented air.
He had felt their eyes from the moment he'd stepped behind the bar.
They sat in the shadowed corner where the hearth-light failed, a pocket of unnatural stillness. Two men, clad in travel-stained but well-made black wool and leather, untouched by the cheerful grime of the road. They did not drink with gusto, nor speak with animation. They observed.
The younger one, sharp-featured with the hungry eyes of a kestrel, toyed with a pewter cup. On his finger, a signet ring caught the firelight in a brief, deliberate flash. A serpent, its head cleanly severed. The sight sent a jolt through Arrion, colder than any mountain stream. It was not Ralke's crest, but it was a language of its own—a heraldry of endings.
The older man was a slab of granite given human form. His hair was iron-grey, his face a landscape of old scars. Leaned against the wall beside him was a greatsword, its plain leather scabbard speaking of grim utility, not decoration. His gaze, when it met Arrion's across the room, was not curious, but assessing. Weighing. It was the look a butcher gives the steer.
For an hour, Arrion worked under the weight of that gaze. He hauled kegs, delivered trenchers of stew, and used his silent presence to quell a budding argument between two guild prospectors. All the while, the cold knot in his gut tightened. They were not here for bounty posters or gossip. They were here for him. The ledger, his mother's ghost, had finally cast a long enough shadow.
When the older man finally moved, it was with a terrifying economy. He didn't wave or call. He simply caught Arrion's eye and tilted his head, a minute gesture towards the back door, beyond which lay the chill night and the refuse alley. An order, not an invitation.
Arrion's blood hammered a war-drum in his ears. Refusal bloomed in his chest, fierce and hot. But then his mind flew to the longhouse. To Maren's fragile warmth, to Lyra's wide, story-hungry eyes, to Elara's fiery spirit, to Orryn's steady leadership, to Borryn's gruff protection. He saw not the two men in black, but a dozen more like them, descending on the village with quiet, professional violence. He saw the Stubborn Stag in flames, the protective carvings on the longhouse door splintered.
He set down the tankards he was holding with a careful quiet that felt louder than a shout and followed them out.
The alley air was knife-cold, smelling of damp earth and discarded hops. The two men stood like pillars of shadow.
"Arrion Haelend," the older one said. His voice was gravel grinding on stone. It wasn't a question.
Arrion said nothing, his grey eyes flat as river-slate.
The younger one smiled, a thin, unpleasant stretching of lips. The beheaded serpent on his ring seemed to writhe in the weak moonlight. "You have your mother's look. In the eyes."
Every muscle in Arrion's body coiled. It took every ounce of his will to remain still, a mountain waiting for the avalanche to strike.
"The Marquis," the older man continued, "has a long memory and a longer reach. Your… rural holiday is over. He would have words. Or rather, he would have answers you are presumed to possess."
"I possess nothing," Arrion's voice was low, a distant thunder.
"You possess your life," the younger man countered smoothly. "And the lives of everyone in that charming longhouse. The headsman. The tavern-keeper. The sick woman. The girls." He listed them like items on a bill of lading. "They are all contingent on your cooperation."
The threat, spoken so plainly, was more violent than any drawn blade. It stole the air from the night.
"Two days hence," the older man said. "At moon-high. The standing stones in the Weald, north of the black creek. Come alone. We will discuss the whereabouts of a certain missing item. Fail to come…" He let the sentence hang, his scarred face impassive. "Or bring soldiers, or your strapping cousin… and consequences will bloom here like poisonous flowers. We are not the only blossoms in this particular garden."
They moved then, melting past him back towards the tavern's glow, as if the interview was concluded. The younger one paused, leaning close. Arrion caught the scent of mint and steel on his breath. "A word of advice, from one professional to another. Grief is a luxury. Survival is a trade. Think on what you wish to trade."
Then they were gone, absorbed back into the noise and light.
Arrion stood alone in the dark alley, the cold seeping through his tunic. The Verdant King's moss, a promise of healing, felt like a mockery in his memory. The peace of the hunt was ashes. The past hadn't just found his scent; it had laid a trap around everything he now loved.
He looked back at the warm, glowing windows of The Stubborn Stag, hearing the muffled roar of his uncle's world. Then he looked towards the path that led to the longhouse, where his family slept, trusting in the safety he and the woods provided.
He had two days. Two days before he walked into the standing stones, into the jaws of the serpent whose head was never truly gone. To refuse was to bring the wolf to the fold. To obey was to step into the dark, likely never to return.
The giant hunter, who had faced mythic beasts without a quiver of fear, felt a dread colder than any winter frost settle into his bones. It was not the fear of the fight. It was the fear of the choice, where every path seemed to lead to ruin.