Narrator: Faurgar

  Sun Valley met us with the scent of wet hay, horse manure, and iron heated by the sun—a thick, heavy still-life of the hinterlands. After the night on the road, where every shadow-shrouded bush seemed a snarling maw and the icy ring of a mental strike still echoed in my head, this place looked almost peaceful. Almost. To an artist, "almost" is always a sign of falsehood, a stroke too bright, intended to hide a crack in the canvas.

  A lad stood by the stables—broad-shouldered, with a mop of reddish hair tangled with dry straw. At our appearance, he nearly dropped his bucket, staring at the wagon and our dust-covered forms with half-asleep, bleary eyes.

  "H-horses?" he managed as I jumped to the ground. "Plenty of room, milord. Put them here, under the lean-to. Our oats are fresh, not moldy."

  I scanned the yard with a professional eye, calculating fire sectors. A bell tower, a massive barn, a church with heavy oak doors—all tied into a single knot. Convenient. For living, it might be cramped, but for a circular defense, it was just right. I stepped close to the boy, forcing him to straighten under the weight of my gaze.

  "We’ll hitch them here," I said. My voice sounded dry, like cracking wood. "Tell me, lad, are you in charge of the night bell?"

  "Well... I can be," he stammered. "Usually the elder, if he hasn't fallen asleep after his ale, but he’s 'unwell' today... his back seized up."

  "Then today, it’s you," I didn't ask; I drove the fact into his mind like a nail. "Listen to me very carefully. Forget the elder’s back. Repeat this name: Vicandrius."

  "Vi... Vicandrius?" he swallowed, tasting the foreign, predatory word.

  "Remember it, and do not speak it without need. He is a lieutenant of the Black Wolf. He considers this road his hunting grounds. Today he retreated, but such hounds always return when they think the prey has relaxed. So, we do this: if you see strangers by the road or the far pastures this evening—do not run to them. Do not try to be a hero. You go to the tower. Understood?"

  The stable boy nodded. His face, once ruddy, turned the color of spoiled curd.

  "You strike the bell three times," I continued, loading each word into his head like a bolt into a crossbow. "Not in a row. With pauses. One—breath—two—breath—three. Did you get that?"

  "Three times... with pauses," he repeated obediently, looking at me with mounting horror.

  "Immediately after that, drive everyone into the barn or the church. No exceptions. No shepherds, no local heroes, no onlookers. Doors—bolted tight. That is your job for today. Do it well, and you’ll live to see tomorrow."

  I lifted the edge of my cloak, briefly revealing the dull bronze badge of the Intelligence Service. The boy froze.

  "If anyone comes and says I sent them—do not believe them. Ask him: 'How many strikes on the bell?'. If he answers 'three with pauses'—he’s one of us. If he says anything else... feel free to send him to me at the tavern. Or straight to the bell. Clear?"

  "Clear," his voice grew firmer. The fear remained, but in his eyes appeared what I needed—the discipline of terror.

  "And one more thing," I lowered my voice, leaning in close. "Do not speak to voices in the darkness. If someone starts whispering to you from the shadows that the road is his meat and you are just food... do not answer. Just take a step toward the bell. You don't argue with shadows, lad. You drown them out with the ring of brass."

  The Winter Sheaf stood at the very corner of the square, looming over it like a weary sentry. Inside, it smelled of warm bread, buckwheat honey, and a thick, layered exhaustion.

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  "Now this is service," Flint announced, shaking wet snow from his bright ginger cloak with theatrical flair. "If fate is destined to finish me off, let me meet it well-fed and under the influence of good cider."

  The Hadozi was the first to slip to the bar. Within five minutes, he was in a corner with the locals, slapping cards against a scarred table. He took the first two rounds, grinning as if Lady Luck were his favorite aunt. But then the cards "changed their minds." Three times in a row, Flint’s pockets were emptied.

  "Your cards have a temper, men. Jealous ones," Flint grunted, noncommittally pushing away his last stake. "Fine. Let's give fate a chance to win back tomorrow."

  I sat in the deep shadow by the wall. I was simply listening.

  "...wolf marks seen right by the ravine," an old man whispered.

  "...shepherd returned without his sheep. Shaking, eyes like glass, as if his soul was drained..."

  Gellia sat beside me, her pen moving across the pages of a small notebook.

  "If the valley loses its grain," she said softly, "real hunger will come. Marauders will follow. And then—panic. The perfect time for someone like the Black Wolf to establish a base."

  "Agreed," I replied. "Autumn is bitter this year, Gellia. It smells of ozone and steel."

  I drew a sketch of the tavern keeper with his twitching eyes; two "non-peasants" by the far wall—I noted their too-straight posture and the way they kept their hands ready. I sketched Gellia, a coiled spring locked in armor; Flint with his lazy smirk; and Priorin at another table, devouring stew with a seriousness as if the fate of Vellaris depended on the quality of his lunch.

  "What is that?" Gellia asked, looking over my shoulder.

  "So I don't forget who here is just a person and who is a potential problem," I replied, hiding the charcoal. "An artist must know the structure of his material before he begins to work with it."

  Anakiss sat on a branch of an old pear tree in the very yard where it all began.

  “If anything happens, I’ll call you first,” he had once promised. Yesterday, he had looked at her as a nuisance. Not invited to the squad. Just a short, knife-like: "Leave."

  Something snapped inside Anakiss. If the roads diverged, so be it. She didn't waste time on tears. She headed for The Crooked Dagger.

  Behind the bar, Belbin was wiping a mug. Seeing Anakiss, he barely moved an eyebrow.

  "Visiting the tree again?"

  "It’s the only thing that doesn't lie," she smirked.

  The door swung open too sharply, letting in the Dragonborn in blindingly clean plate armor. Khet-Vun.

  "Host," he barked. "I need an operative for a delicate matter. I was told the Guild takes such jobs if it concerns 'their own'."

  Belbin didn't even stop his task. "What matter?"

  "Testing a squad heading into the Forbidden Lands," Khet-Vun replied dryly. "I need a thief. One night. Strip their gear, take one stone—a purple Key. No blood, no unnecessary noise. Return all items. The name of the client is Colonel Aderius."

  Belbin narrowed his eyes. "Priorin’s squad? All Caesarca is whispering about them."

  "Yes," Khet-Vun nodded. "I was meant to go with them, but I was... not deemed a fit. Now I have another task. A trial for entry into the Broken Wing. I was told the best thief in this city could be found here."

  He looked at Anakiss. "Anakiss. That’s right?"

  The air in the hall tightened. Belbin's jaw clenched.

  "Amusing," the host drawled. "It seems the Temple knows our rosters better than I do."

  Anakiss set down her mug. "Easy, men. He came to you officially, old man. That’s a good sign." She turned to Belbin. "If the matter is delicate—who will you give it to? A boy who cut his first purse yesterday? Or me?"

  Belbin sighed. "Fine. The contract is accepted by the Guild. Operative—Anakiss. I answer that she returns the items safely. Key to the client."

  Anakiss hopped off her stool and approached the Dragonborn.

  "I can do it. But on my terms. Half the sum upfront—through Belbin. The other half when the Key is mine and Priorin’s camp hasn't realized a thing. You don't clank your armor anywhere near the tavern until I give the sign. And lastly: no name or alias in your reports to Aderius. To the Temple, I am just a 'tool from Caesarca.' Understood?"

  Khet-Vun clenched his teeth but nodded. "Accepted. Advance now."

  As the Dragonborn left, Belbin looked at Anakiss grimly. "You've stepped in it, cat. Messing with paladin games is a debt you can't pay back."

  "Paladin games pay well, Belbin. As long as you're alive."

  She smiled. Fine, Faurgar, she thought. Since you didn't take me into your story, I’ll write myself into it. Through the entrance you forgot to bolt.

  The Convergence. I love the irony of this chapter. Faurgar is so focused on the spectral threat of Vicandrius (the "Ghost of the Road") that he completely misses the very real, very physical threat coming from his own past.

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