They had finally made it to the next town—Aramore. The sun was dipping low, its last rays catching on the rooftops and cobblestones, painting the streets in warm gold.

“We should look for an inn, Morgan,” Alaric said, scanning the unfamiliar streets.

Morgan studied him as they walked. He had been tense since yesterday, his shoulders tight, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword. Whatever the Dawnhide carriage meant to him, it still weighed heavily on his mind, and she didn’t know how to ease it.

They followed the scent of roasted meat and bread until they spotted a building glowing warmly in the twilight. Laughter and shouting spilled out into the street. As Morgan reached for the door, it swung open and a man stumbled out, nearly knocking into her.

“Don’t come back here, Thomas!” the woman in the doorway shouted.

Thomas groaned, rolling onto his back with an exaggerated scowl. “Screw you, Miriel.”

Miriel snorted, then spat in his direction. “I’ve warned you. Don’t let me see your face again.” She stomped back inside, muttering under her breath.

Alaric and Morgan exchanged a glance before stepping past Thomas and into the building.

The interior was alive with noise and movement—patrons filled nearly every table, their conversations overlapping in a chaotic harmony. Tankards clinked, chairs scraped against the floor, and the scent of ale and stew hung thick in the air.

For the first time in days, Alaric felt a fraction of his tension ease. The warmth, the noise, the smell of food—it was grounding.

An older woman, clearly the same Miriel from the door, bustled over with a pair of menus.

“My name’s Miriel,” she said briskly. “We’ve got everything except the mutton—haven’t had much luck with the ‘fancy’ meats lately.” She glanced at them fully for the first time, and her tone softened. “Oh, Gods. Sorry you had to see that mess earlier. I don’t usually throw people out, but that boy…” She shook her head. “Trouble’s been brewing with him for a while now.”

She sighed, then straightened. “Anyway—what can I get you two?”

They both scanned the menu quickly, settling on stew. It was cheap, filling, and, hopefully, hot.

“I’ll be right back with those. Anything else?” Miriel asked.

Morgan leaned forward, offering a hopeful smile. “Yes, actually—we were looking for a place to stay for the night. Do you have any rooms?”

Miriel’s brow furrowed as she thought. “Only one left… and it’s a single.” She glanced between them.

Alaric cleared his throat, cheeks warming. “Not to worry. I’ll take the floor. Morgan can have the bed.”

Miriel nodded and headed for the kitchen.

They ate in companionable silence, but the peace was thin. Alaric’s gaze kept flicking toward the door, and more than once his eyes lingered on strangers entering the tavern. Morgan noticed the way his fingers brushed the hilt of his sword whenever someone tall, broad-shouldered, or finely dressed passed through.

When the meal was finished, Miriel showed them upstairs to a small, drafty room. The single bed was neatly made, a wash basin in the corner, and a small window looking out onto the darkening street.

“I’ll fetch you extra blankets,” Miriel said, leaving them alone.

Morgan set her bag down and turned to him. “You’re still worried, aren’t you?”

Alaric hesitated. “The Dawnhides aren’t the kind of people you cross paths with and walk away from. If they were headed here…” He trailed off, glancing toward the window.

Morgan stepped closer. “Then we stay alert. But we also rest. You’ve barely slept in two days.”

He almost smiled at that. “Fine. You take the bed. I’ll take first watch.”

Morgan rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She knew he’d never relax otherwise.

———

The tavern’s noise faded to a low murmur, then to silence. Only the creak of floorboards from distant rooms broke the quiet. Alaric sat by the window, scanning the street below.

Once, he caught the shadow of a figure lingering at the far corner, watching. But when he leaned forward for a better look, they were gone. His grip on the sword tightened.

———

Hours passed. The moon drifted higher. Finally, he nudged Morgan awake. “Your turn.”

Morgan rubbed her eyes, pulling on her cloak. “Get some sleep.”

She settled into the chair, glancing at Alaric as he lay down on the floor, sword still close at hand. For a long while, nothing stirred outside. Then, faintly, she caught movement—a man weaving down the street, clearly drunk.

Her heart eased when she realized it was Thomas, muttering to himself and kicking a loose cobblestone. Eventually, he disappeared into an alley.

The rest of her watch passed quietly, though she swore she heard soft footsteps on the roof above. She kept her hand on her dagger until dawn light began to creep through the window.

———

They were finishing a modest breakfast downstairs when the door creaked open and in walked Thomas—sober this time, but looking worse for wear.

He spotted them instantly and smirked. “You’re the pair from last night, yeah? Can’t say many people come to Aramore without a reason.”

“We’re passing through,” Morgan said cautiously.

Thomas sat uninvited at their table. “Through to where?”

“Somewhere quieter,” Alaric said, not looking up from his bread.

Thomas leaned in. “You might want someone who knows the roads. Bandits’ve been thick along the northern route. I could guide you. For a price.”

Morgan and Alaric exchanged a look. The man was trouble—but trouble with knowledge they might need.

“Half up front,” Thomas added quickly, “half when we get there.”

Morgan arched an eyebrow. “You even know where ‘there’ is?”

Thomas grinned. “Don’t need to. I just know the ways to get anywhere.”

Reluctantly, Alaric nodded. “Fine. But you follow our rules.”

“Done.”

———

By midday, they were leaving Aramore with Thomas leading the way. The road was quiet, flanked by rolling fields and sparse trees.

Too quiet.

Alaric’s unease returned, prickling at the back of his neck. He was just about to speak when a blur of motion erupted from the trees.

Masked figures in dark leathers leapt into the road, blades flashing in the sunlight.

“Ambush!” Thomas shouted, yanking a short sword from his belt.

Alaric’s blade was in his hand before the first attacker reached them, steel clashing with a harsh ring.

Morgan didn’t bother drawing steel—her hand dove into the satchel at her hip, fingers closing around a small vial. She smashed it against the dirt, and a plume of acrid, greenish smoke burst outward, burning the attackers’ eyes and throats.

Two of them coughed and staggered back, giving Alaric space to press forward. But a third masked figure vaulted through the smoke, aiming straight for Morgan. She muttered a sharp incantation under her breath, and the air around her shimmered with heat. In an instant, the man’s leather bracers began to smolder, forcing him to drop his blade with a curse.

“Stay close!” Alaric barked, parrying another strike.

Morgan grabbed another potion from her belt, this one glowing faintly gold. She hurled it into the dirt between two advancing attackers, and the earth itself cracked as roots burst upward, tangling their legs in a twisting, unyielding snare.

Thomas, to his credit, fought back-to-back with Alaric, his strikes quick and vicious.

Still, more masked figures were emerging from the tree line.

There were too many.

And then—

A sharp whistle cut through the chaos. The attackers froze. One, taller than the rest, stepped forward, lowering their blade just enough to pull off their mask.

Alaric’s blood ran cold.

“You,” he said, his voice like stone.

The figure smiled. “It’s been a long time, Alaric.”