Torvil, Lysa and Riven sat in uneasy silence as the sun climbed past its zenith yet Brann had not returned. A whole night gone, and now the day half spent, no sign of him. Lysa worried her lower lip raw, while Riven paced like a caged wolf.

  Riven stopped at last, his fists tight at his sides. “If you ever teach me to make a proper summon,” he said, the words sharp with frustration, “I’ll build something that can sense the souls of people and tell if they’re fine or not.”

  Torvil’s eyes softened, lines of weariness easing for a moment as he studied the boy. “In a sense, like an oracle,” he murmured, his voice touched with both compassion and doubt. “Good luck with that, boy. Many wiser than us have chased such a thing and found only riddles.”

  “We should go” Lysa said at last, her voice thin with frustration. “We should look for him.”

  Riven stopped, his fists tightening. “And where? Dad trained us to hide our tracks, remember? He could be in the next street or three valleys over and we wouldn’t know.”

  The words stung, but they were true. Torvil leaned back, arms folded across his broad chest, his eyes shadowed with thought. It was Brann’s own discipline that now bound them, his lessons turned against those who sought him. Still, doing nothing ate at Torvil’s bones like acid.

  With a grim sigh, he rose. “Then we ask…someone in this city will have seen him. If the trail is cold, we’ll warm it.” He began to gather his gear, strapping on leather, sliding a long knife into his belt. “Whatever waits within the walls, we’ll face it.”

  It was at that moment he felt it…a ripple in the air, a subtle stirring in the trees beyond the cabin walls. It brushed across his skin like the whisper of leaves, a presence entering the forest. His breath caught.

  “Someone’s here.” His tone left no room for doubt.

  In an instant, he gave his orders: “Lysa, to the north flank, Riven, take the west. Surround, press, and pin him down leave no chances.”

  The children vanished into the undergrowth with practiced silence, and Torvil melted into the green with the ease of long years, but the capture proved to be no struggle. The man did not resist, did not even flinch. He raised his hands as though he had come expecting chains.

  “I bring a message,” he said simply…his voice was calm, his face straight, untroubled, not the mask of a liar.

  Torvil studied him, gaze narrowed, weighing every flicker of muscle, every breath. But the man’s composure did not waver, something in him rang true. Slowly, Torvil lowered his hand. “Speak.”

  “I was sent by your friend…Brann.”

  That name was enough. The world shifted, without another word, Torvil gestured for the man to lead. They followed him through the winding streets of Avanwall, to a quiet residence tucked away from the bustle.

  Inside, waiting, was a young woman. Her bearing was noble, her presence like a blade wrapped in silk. “My name is Aerin,” she said, eyes sweeping across them. “And I know you have questions…Brann is with us and he lives.”

  Then she told them everything: Of Therun, and the mercenaries in disguise; of tunnels built for more than troop movement; of spies who had warned the brotherhood of trouble. “We were watching for Therun,” she said, “but instead we found Brann. Found him on the edge of death, and in time to save him before Therun circled back through the outer entrance.”

  The words struck Torvil like a hammer, relief and suspicion warred within him. Brann lived, but now lay in the hands of strangers who claimed brotherhood, strangers who spoke of watching, of spies, of secrets long buried. Aerin’s gaze lingered on him too long, as if she saw more in him than he wished revealed.

  “You say Brann is here, that you saved him…” Torvil’s voice was steady, but his eyes burned like coals banked too long. “Saved him from what? I would see him with my own eyes. And if there’s help to be given, it’ll come from me.”

  His tone was not harsh, but it left no room for denial. Aerin started to reply, caught on the edge of words, then stopped, her lips pressed together, and she gave only a nod before gesturing for him to follow.

  The house was quiet, the air thick with the smell of herbs and bandages. They entered a small chamber, and there Brann lay: pale, wrapped in linen, his chest rising and falling in shallow rhythm. A great stab wound marked his left side, the bandages already stained dark. Across his skin mottled patches showed where frostbite had kissed him, his power turned inward, wild and unbound.

  Torvil’s jaw tightened. His power again, he thought bitterly. What in the gods’ names did you do this time, boy? And where is the amulet I gave you?

  None of those words left his lips. Instead, he stepped to the bedside, voice low but strong. “Boy, are you all right? What happened?”

  Brann’s eyelids fluttered, and with effort he lifted his head. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “I bit off more than I could chew… again. Becoming a habit, it seems.”

  Torvil huffed, but said nothing, letting him speak.

  Haltingly, Brann recounted the fight, Therun’s skill, the strange cage, the mercenaries in disguise, the kidnappings, each word scraped out of him, heavy with pain, yet each detail laid bare the truth of what he had faced.

  By the end, silence filled the room.

  Torvil rubbed a hand over his face, eyes narrowing as if trying to pierce through the walls themselves. “By the gods, Brann… what have you walked into this time? I told you we needed answers, but I didn’t expect this. A cage, kidnappings, soldiers in masks…” He shook his head, grim. “There are more questions now than we have answers.”

  “Perhaps Aerin and her father can help us piece something together,” Brann said, his voice raw but steady. “It seems I was working with them before… no, more than work. I loved Aerin.” His gaze lingered on her, searching. “I still do, it’s strange. The feelings are there, burning strong, yet they drift like smoke, with no memory to anchor them.”

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  He paused, letting the words hang. His eyes met hers, filled with a fragile hope.

  Aerin returned the look, and in her face Brann saw both love and concern, tangled like roots beneath the soil. It made sense, he thought dimly, she had loved him once, still did, but she had also buried him, mourned him, let him go. Now he lay before her again, broken, alive, but not the man she had lost.

  He drew a breath, wincing at the pull of bandages. “As I said, I was working with the brotherhood, with you, to uncover the gruesome workings hidden beneath the fa?ade of this kingdom and its ruling class. I don’t remember much, but I would wager I was close to something, close enough that I had to vanish, or be made to vanish.”

  Brann shifted his gaze to Torvil, his eyes sharpening. “I don’t think the incident in the forest was a coincidence…I think I was sent there, to that cursed jungle, to die, or to be killed by him.”

  Torvil’s face hardened, and he gave a slow, grim nod. “That possibility seems far more plausible now.”

  Aerin’s brow furrowed, her confusion plain: “What incident? What jungle? And who is him?”

  Brann managed a faint smile despite the throbbing pain. “Perhaps you should call your father. Best we all speak and lay our pieces on the table.”

  Aerin gave a single nod and slipped from the room. Moments later, Dorian returned with her, and the four of them gathered close, shadows stretching across the walls as the afternoon waned.

  For a time they spoke, voices low, weighing each word. Stories crossed one another like tangled threads until, slowly, a shape began to form.

  “It has to be Edran,” Torvil said at last, his voice carrying the weight of certainty. “He is High General, and he has the reach to pull every string. He was with you, Brann, when you were sent to destroy the druid and the heart of the forest, that incident that flung you into the other world. He came himself to Westmere, after, to sniff at what we had done. He left a man to watch Kett as he journeyed upriver. These are not the acts of a general, unless…” His eyes narrowed. “Unless he is hiding something…Edran sits square in the middle of this tangle.”

  Dorian leaned forward, fingers laced, his expression carved from stone. “In my life I never thought to sit face to face with a true-blood druid, but after what I’ve heard today, I cannot deny the truth of your words. We have long suspected Edran, experiments with the army, weapons tested on civilians, the tunnels being built for the army. Now we have a pattern, if not proof enough to hang him.” He glanced toward Brann, then back to Torvil. “Still, the path grows clear. If we want answers, we must uncover what he hides in Duskmire.”

  Torvil’s face darkened, and he gave a slow nod. “That forest swallows the unprepared whole. We’ve lost friends there. Going back will be no simple venture.”

  “You will not go alone,” Aerin said, her voice cutting through the gloom. “You will have our full support. The Shroud’s network runs far, and we have more than spies. We have weapons…my father is an artisan.”

  Torvil’s brows rose, puzzled. His eyes turned to Dorian, sharp and searching. “You make weapons for the kingdom?”

  Dorian’s mouth curved, though the smile did not reach his eyes. “I did… I still do, at times, to keep appearances. It is the coin that opened doors for me. But once inside, I learned the truth of what my hands were helping to build. Things were not as they seemed and from that day, I chose a different path.”

  Dorian leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. “In fact, I would ask you about some ideas I’ve had. It isn’t every day one speaks with a druid.”

  Brann stirred, his voice cutting in like a blade. “I hate to interrupt, but there’s another loose end: Therun. By now, he’ll have noticed my absence. He’ll know someone pulled me out from under him. What will he do next, report to his superiors, or continue his mission as though nothing happened?” His eyes hardened. “In either case, we cannot let him walk free. He’s too clever. Leave him be, and it will bite us later, better to catch him now, and wring what we can from him and his men.”

  Torvil frowned, his thick brows knitting. “Even if we do catch him, something tells me he won’t talk. How do you mean to force him?”

  Brann’s lips thinned. “By any means necessary.”

  The words came flat, cold, and the chill of them prickled the room. Aerin’s shoulders shifted uneasily, and even Dorian’s steady composure flickered for a heartbeat.

  Torvil’s eyes narrowed on him, heavy with concern. “It isn’t like you to go around torturing men. Or is this revenge speaking? If it is, still your hand, revenge will only cloud the path we’re trying to walk.”

  Brann met his gaze without flinching. “No. It isn’t revenge. I care nothing for him, nor for the blade he put in my side, that was my own folly, in part. This is about practicality…We need answers, and he can give them, nothing more.”

  Again Torvil felt it, that iron edge, that ice in Brann’s voice, detached, colder than the frost on his skin. Something had shifted in that tunnel, something they would need to unearth in time, but not now.

  Torvil exhaled slowly, then gave a single nod. “The boy is right. Therun must be taken, and I think it falls to me to lay the trap.”

  Dorian and Aerin exchanged a glance, then both nodded. The trap would come later, first, Therun had to be found, and few in Avanwall could vanish from the eyes of the Shroud for long. He was tall, broad-shouldered, the scar across his jaw marking him like a banner. If he lingered in the city, their informants would draw him out soon enough.

  Dorian rose, cloak brushing the floor as he left to give the orders and Aerin followed at his side, pausing only once to glance back at Brann. Her look was unreadable, a thread of hope tangled with fear. She slipped out without a word, her steps quickened by the thought of Lysa and Riven waiting in the hall.

  Silence pressed close in their absence. Torvil did not speak at first, but moved nearer, his eyes running over Brann’s wounds. He studied the stab, the frostbite that marred his skin, and the lines of exhaustion etched deep. At length he exhaled through his nose and broke the silence.

  “I can help with some of these,” he said quietly. “Set the healing along quicker. And I can craft you another amulet, one that won’t drain you so deeply.”

  “No.” Brann’s answer came swift, sharper than intended. He softened his tone, though his eyes stayed steady. “Thank you, but no. Each time I use this power, I grow more familiar with it. I need that. I’ll keep using it and obtain some resistance.”

  Torvil’s jaw tightened. “That isn’t wise. Look at you, that thing is carving you hollow, leaving you colder by the day. You’ll do no good to anyone if you end dead or crippled. And the mind,” his gaze sharpened, almost pleading, “the mind is where it digs deepest. You’ve changed, boy, grown more detached…I don’t like the shape it’s making of you.”

  Brann looked away, voice low. “Maybe I am colder…But not because of the power. It’s everything else. I meet people who say they knew me, I glimpse pieces of memory, but none of it belongs to me anymore. I belong nowhere. The only things I have left are survival, and the mystery of who did this to me, I need a win”

  His eyes found Torvil’s again, steady despite the weakness in his body. “So I was thinking, if we are to continue, I want to focus on regeneration…healing. And if you know how to make items that sustain the body, I would have you work with Dorian. Build me something that can keep me alive while I deal with the cold the hard way.”

  Torvil’s brow furrowed, his mouth twisting. “So you mean to bang your head against the wall until either you or it breaks.” He shook his head, half in frustration, half in resignation. “If times were different, I’d call you impatient and turn you back to your lessons. But things are moving too quickly, and the storm won’t wait on us. Very well, I’ll craft what I can, and I’ll teach you what I know of healing. But for now,” he set a hand firm against Brann’s shoulder, “shut up, and let me see to your wounds.”