Why did helping him feel so natural?
Three years of maintaining a careful distance from anyone who might complicate my life, and I'd knelt in ash-covered ruins to stitch wounds for an orc whose name I didn't even know. No hesitation. No calculation of profit or political advantage. Just instinct.
He observes my face while I work, sending an unwelcome flutter in my heart. He'd watched me with the intensity of someone cataloguing weaknesses, but also with something else. Recognition, maybe. Like he'd seen through the mercenary facade to whatever remains of the woman I used to be.
Dangerous thinking.
I snap the medical kit closed and secure it to my saddle. The Vaelmark crest etched into the leather catches morning light,a silver phoenix rising from thorns. Once, that symbol meant something. Protection. Justice. Noble purpose.
Now it's just convenient branding for a sellsword who has good breeding.
"Mount up," I call to my patrol. "We're moving."
Six professional soldiers swing into their saddles without question. They're good people, former Vaelmark house guards who followed me into exile rather than serve under my family's new political arrangements. Loyal to a fault, which makes what I'm about to ask of them even more complicated.
Because despite every reasonable argument for walking away, I can't stop thinking about that torn piece of cloth I'd seen in Kaelgor's belt pouch. Blue silk, ceremonial weave. Ironspine funeral ribbon, unless I miss my guess.
Who did he lose?
The question shouldn't matter. Clan politics, old grievances, cycles of violence that stretch back generations—none of it concerns me anymore. I learned that lesson when my family's noble ideals dissolved under pressure from more pragmatic relatives.
But something about the way he'd touched that pouch, the careful reverence in the gesture, reminds me of another time. When loss meant more than tactical disadvantage. When protecting people was about more than contract obligations.
Before I learned noble intentions get you exiled and everyone you care about gets hurt, anyway.
My horse picks his way through the rubble-strewn streets of Ember Hollow's outskirts, hooves ringing against stone. Behind me, my patrol maintains professional spacing and alertness. They know better than to ask questions when I'm wearing my thinking face.
The mist lifts as we clear the ruins, revealing rolling hills scarred by old battles. Ironspine territory stretches to the north,marked by standing stones and clan banners. Bloodfang lands lie beyond that, across the ridge where smoke still rises from their forges.
Two orc clans had territorial disputes. Human settlements caught in the middle. Same pattern repeats across the frontier.
I should ride south toward more profitable contracts. Away from clan politics and family obligations. Away from rust-red eyes that see too much.
Instead, I observe the northern trails, calculating travel time to Ironspine holdings.
Not my problem. Not my responsibility.
But the mental repetition lacks conviction, and I'm still arguing with myself when riders appear on the eastern horizon.
Three figures in familiar colors. Blue and silver, with the Threnwick griffin emblazoned on their pennons. My stomach clenches as I notice the lead rider's posture before I can make out his face.
Barrick. Of course.
"Hold position," I order my patrol, then ride forward to meet my cousin at the midpoint between our forces.
Sir Barrick Threnwick looks every inch the noble knight he's always believed himself to be. Immaculate armor, perfectly groomed destrier, ceremonial sword that's never seen actual combat. He's three years older than me and has spent every one of them trying to prove he deserves the political advancement that came with my exile.
"Cousin." His greeting holds exactly the right mix of family warmth and formal distance. "You're looking well."
"Barrick." I keep my tone neutral. "Bit far from home, aren't you?"
"Family business." He glances pointedly at my patrol, professional soldiers in functional gear. "Perhaps we could speak privately?"
Nothing good ever starts with 'family business.'
But I signal my people to wait and follow Barrick to a cluster of standing stones that offers some privacy. His companions, both young knights I don't recognize—remain mounted but watchful.
"What do you want?" No point in pleasantries. We both know this isn't a social call.
