They had been riding for two weeks when the land began to change. At first, it was only the road—dirt packed hard from cart wheels, giving way to gravel, then cobble. Grass grew thicker at the edges, and the trees, once gnarled from wind and marsh, rose straighter, their bark pale and clean. The air itself seemed to lighten. The further north they rode, the more the mud of the south fell away from their boots.

  It was strange traveling without a knight. No Maxwell to bark corrections, no Sire Kay to set the pace. Just the three of them—Toby, Zak, and Reece—each carrying their own bundle of food and responsibility. The letter from Sire Kay rested in Toby’s satchel, sealed with blue wax. He’d checked for it a dozen times that first day, half afraid the weight might vanish if he looked away.

  The first nights were spent in the open, where the fields broke into uneven hills. They pitched tents on whatever dry ground they could find, the canvas flapping like restless sails in the wind. Their cooking was little more than soldier’s fare—hardtack softened in broth, a few strips of dried meat, a splash of ale to dull the taste. Zak, of course, complained every step of the way.

  “Do you think when knights camp, they get real food?” he muttered, poking at the pot.

  “Probably eat from golden bowls,” Reece said with a grin.

  Toby smirked. “You’d still spill half of it.”

  Zak tossed a pebble at him. “Aye, but I’d look good doing it.”

  The banter helped. It filled the empty stretches between hoofbeats and kept the silence from feeling like a weight. By the fourth day, they reached the edge of yet another lord’s domain. The guards at the border wore polished steel, and their boots actually matched—a small but jarring detail. A wooden board over the gate read Toll: Two Coppers Per Horse.

  Zak groaned. “We’re being taxed for riding?”

  Toby sighed and dug into his pouch. “Lawrence accounted for it.” He passed the coins to the guard.

  The man eyed the Highmarsh brooch stitched on Toby’s cloak, then nodded them through without a word. As the day wore on, they saw more guards and patrolling knights. Not the lean, mud-spattered folk of the marches, but proper troops—well-fed, disciplined, spears bright as mirrors. Each new fief seemed to polish the world a little more. Inns appeared every few miles, painted and plastered, their windows glowing with amber light. The smell of roasted meat drifted from the chimneys, mocking their travel rations.

  When they could, they stopped at taverns instead of camping. Stable boys ran out to grab the reins, bowing more for their falcon sigils than for the squires themselves. The inns were loud, crowded with traders, pilgrims, and farmers, and the squires sat quietly among them, trying to look like they belonged.

  One evening, Reece leaned back against the wall, eyes half-closed. “Feels strange,” he said.

  “What does?” Toby asked.

  “Everyone here… they don’t look afraid.”

  Zak nodded. “You get used to it. Then you go home and it feels wrong.”

  Toby didn’t answer. Because he remembered another road—the one leading away from Brindle Hollow. That road had been nothing but mud and smoke—the kind that clung to his boots and skin long after he’d washed it away. The fields he passed were scorched and empty, the soil still warm from what it had lost.

  He’d walked that road barefoot, hungry, and too numb to cry. Now, here he was—the same boy, older, scarred, and riding the King’s Road under blue skies. Cobblestone instead of ash. The hum of merchants instead of screams. And yet, some small part of him couldn’t help but see the same road underneath—one built over ruin.

  They camped again that night when the next town was too far to reach. The fields were fenced, the land worked and ordered. Even the trees grew where someone had told them to. Toby found it hard to sleep. The silence lacked the rough, restless edge of Highmarsh’s marshlands, as though the place listened to him under rules whispered out of sight.

  The following morning, they rode through a valley lined with wheat fields, the grain already high for the season. Peasants waved as they passed; a few children pointed at the falcon stitched on Toby’s cloak.

  Zak chuckled. “First time I’ve been mistaken for someone important.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” Toby said. “If Master finds out, he’ll—”

  “Too late,” Zak grinned. “I’m already planning how I’ll spend my imaginary taxes.”

  Reece shook his head. “If you’re collecting taxes, I’m moving to another realm.”

  By the ninth day, the road widened enough for two carts to pass abreast. Proper milestones appeared—neat stone pillars counting the leagues to the capital. Caravans rumbled by with merchants, loud and boastful. Once, they stopped beside a stream to water the horses, and Toby caught his reflection in the current.

  He barely recognized himself. The boy from Brindle Hollow had vanished, replaced by someone harder, sharper—someone who looked at the world with a soldier’s caution. The elven sword on his back gleamed faintly in the sunlight, out of place in such peace.

  He thought of Sire Kay, of the way he’d stood at his father’s ceremony. Of Maxwell, silent as stone, watching them go. And he realized this was the first time in his life that no one was watching over them.

  Reece noticed his stare and asked softly, “What are you thinking?”

  “That roads remember,” Toby said after a pause.

  Zak frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Toby looked down the cobblestones stretching to the horizon. “Every stone we ride over was laid by someone. Some bled for it. Some died. Roads don’t forget that. We just walk them and pretend they’re clean.”

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  Zak blinked. “You’ve gotten far too poetic since you cut that stone.”

  Reece laughed. “He’s right though.”

  They rode on, the laughter fading into hoofbeats. By dusk, the outline of the royal city rose against the sky—towers like pale spears catching the dying light. The road ahead was busy, alive, too bright for the memory of ash that lingered behind Toby’s eyes.

  He reached back, touching the hilt of the elven sword, and thought—the last road led to ruin. Maybe this one would lead to something worth keeping. By the time they reached the outskirts of Eaglelight, the sun had begun to set behind the hills, gilding the city in molten light.

  It was unlike anything Toby had ever seen. The road narrowed between two stone watchtowers and then opened wide to a sprawl of streets and rooftops that rolled all the way up the slope to the castle itself—a mountain of pale stone and banners.

  The King’s Eagle flew high above it all—white wings spread across a field of deep purple, trimmed in gold thread that caught the light like fire. Even from the city’s edge, the banners looked enormous, each one three times the size of Highmarsh’s falcon. They rippled in the wind like living things, a hundred eyes watching over the realm.

  “By the saints,” Zak muttered. “That’s… excessive.”

  Reece grinned faintly. “It’s the capital. They’re supposed to be excessive.”

  Toby smiled softy. He felt pressure from the sheer view of it all, the walls, banners, and stone carrying a power older than him, older than anyone in the kingdom.

  The outer gates stood open, guarded by soldiers in gleaming half-plate. Their armor was clean, their plumes bright, their expressions bored in the way only men paid well to be unbothered could manage. They took one look at the squires’ cloaks, with their falcon brooches, and nodded them through without question.

  Inside, the noise hit them like a tide—carts clattering over stone, hawkers shouting wares, laughter spilling from taverns, children darting between stalls. The air smelled of spice, iron, and freshly baked bread. The city was alive in a way Highmarsh never could be; it even put Swansong to shame.

  They led their horses carefully through the crowd, heads turning as people noticed the falcon brooch on Toby’s collar. Their eyes followed with quiet curiosity, the kind reserved for strangers marked by distant lords.

  As they passed into the shadow of the upper walls, Toby looked up once more at the castle that crowned the city. Its towers reached toward the sky, and the golden light of the setting sun caught the wings of the great eagle so that, for a moment, it seemed to soar.

  Reece whispered, “Do you think the King ever looks down from there?”

  Zak laughed. “Of course, he does. Wouldn’t mind seeing it myself.”

  Toby didn’t answer. His throat was dry.

  If he did, Toby thought, it would be like being seen by a god.

  The castle of Eaglelight loomed like a second city within the first. Its outer walls towered high above the rooftops, smooth and white as bone, the stonework so perfect it seemed carved by the wind itself.

  The squires led their horses through the gatehouse, passing under a portcullis thicker than any Toby had seen. Guards in polished mail stood every dozen paces, halberds gleaming, their expressions carved from discipline. Beyond the archway stretched the outer ward—a vast square of cobbled ground filled with movement and noise.

  Couriers hurried to and from the keep, pages carried scrolls stacked like firewood, and servants in the royal colors darted between wagons heavy with supplies. The air smelled of parchment, horses, and hot oil from the smithy where sparks danced like fireflies.

  Zak gave a low whistle. “This place could fit Highmarsh twice over.”

  Reece added quietly, “And still have room for the markets.”

  They found the nearest officer at the entrance hall—a man dressed in royal blue and gold-trimmed sleeves, his belt heavy with keys. He looked them over with the flat expression of someone too busy for explanations.

  “I’m Ser Calvin—what business have you in the King’s castle?” he asked. His voice was polite, but his tone held the weight of authority.

  Toby stepped forward, trying not to fumble his words. “I’m Toby. We come from Highmarsh, under Sire Kay, bearing correspondence for His Majesty. It concerns the southern borders.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “You are squires?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Toby replied, forcing confidence. “Our knights are stationed at Highmarsh. We were sent in their stead.”

  Calvin, clearly a castellan by the ring of keys and the tired patience in his eyes, sighed softly. “Normally, a lord would send proper envoys. But—” He held out his hand. “The letter, then.”

  Toby produced the sealed parchment from his satchel. The castellan examined the wax, the falcon pressed into the blue seal, and nodded in approval before tucking it under his arm.

  “You’ll wait,” he said simply. “The King’s scribes will read it first, then decide whether His Majesty will see you. It may take a day, perhaps two. Find an inn inside the city walls and keep yourselves clean. If you’re called, you’ll be expected to look the part.”

  Zak groaned quietly. “Two days? In a city this size?”

  Calvin’s gaze cut to him like a blade. “Would you rather I send you home without a reply, boy?”

  Zak straightened fast. “No, my lord. Two days is perfect.”

  Calvin almost smiled. “Good. Then wait. And next time your lord sends a letter to His Majesty, he’d do well to send a knight to carry it.”

  Toby hesitated. “Ser Calvin, Sire Kay would have, but there’s… trouble on the southern border. He sent us because—” He stopped, searching for the right words. “Because the elves are back.”

  That made Calvin pause. The movement in the courtyard seemed to dull for a heartbeat.

  “Elves?” he repeated. “The elves? From the old wars?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Toby said. “My village was burned by them almost a year ago. Brindle Hollow. They raided other settlements near Highmarsh too.”

  The man’s expression softened from irritation to disbelief. “That’s impossible. There have been no elven raids in a generation. Not since—” He stopped himself, seeing the color drain from Toby’s face.

  Toby’s jaw tightened. “I saw them. I saw what they did.”

  Calvin studied him for a long moment—weighing truth against fear, experience against youth. Finally, he nodded once, slow and uncertain. “Then your message will be read sooner than I thought.” He turned toward one of the nearby scribes. “Take this to the inner offices. Immediately.”

  When he faced the boys again, his tone was less formal. “There’s an inn near the East Gate—The Silver Stag. Clean beds, fair prices. Stay there. I’ll send word if the court requires you.”

  Toby bowed slightly. “Thank you, my lord.”

  As they left the courtyard, the castle’s bustle returned to its usual rhythm. The castellan’s eyes lingered on Toby’s back, filled with an unease that hadn’t been there before.

  No one here, in this shining city of banners and marble, believed the elves had returned.

  Not yet.

  But they would.

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