The ramparts of Old Milltown came into view just as the last remnants of daylight stretched thin across the horizon. The walls stood weathered, uneven, patched in places where time had chipped away at the stone. A town that had endured much, but still stood.

  We had seen nothing but open land for miles, and now, at the end of the road, there it was—a promise of rest, of coin, of something beyond endless walking.

  The journey from the valley to here had been long. Longer than it should have felt.

  The group had grown quieter as the hours passed. Not in a way that spoke of camaraderie or ease, but in that unspoken way of people who had too much to say and no reason to say it.

  Rest stops had been short, dictated by the endurance of our bodies and, more importantly, the half-lame horses we had been forced to drag along.

  Abandoning them in the valley would have meant leaving them to starve, but bringing them with us was another burden altogether. They slowed our pace, requiring careful handling, their exhaustion evident with every step.

  Alric had taken responsibility for them, as was expected.

  I had watched him as we walked.

  He had not complained, nor did he expect help. Priest or not, he was no stranger to hardship.

  From time to time, he would murmur something under his breath—a low, steady hum that carried through the air, laced with power.

  Not a full healing. That would have been wasteful. Just enough. A whisper of vitality, a slow restoration. The horses would straighten a little, their steps less sluggish, the weight of exhaustion momentarily eased. But it never lasted long.

  A balancing act. Give them too much, and they might collapse when the magic faded. Give them too little, and they would remain a burden.

  And so, step by step, he kept them moving, just as he kept us moving.

  No one acknowledged it.

  But when the reins grew too heavy in our hands, we would find the horses standing a little steadier. And we would keep walking.

  No one had spoken of the argument at the valley’s edge, but its presence lingered.

  There was no laughter, no idle conversation. Just the rhythm of boots on dirt, the occasional snort from the horses, the whisper of Alric’s incantations.

  The sun had risen, burned bright overhead, and now it was dying—dragging long shadows across the road as we neared the town.

  And now, at last, the walls rose before us, etched with time, worn by wind and rain, standing not as a true barrier but as a marker of passage. The gates remained open, their iron-bound frame illuminated by the soft glow of lanterns, their flickering light casting restless shadows against the stone. The air carried the scent of burning wood and river water, thick with the quiet hum of a town settling into the night.

  The gates of Old Milltown stood tall—not imposing, but enduring, built not for defense, but for tradition. The guards stationed at either side barely lifted their heads as we approached, their eyes heavy with fatigue, movements sluggish with the familiarity of routine. One offered a half-hearted nod before returning to his conversation, the other barely acknowledged our passing at all.

  Another group of travelers. Another night. No reason for concern.

  As I stepped past the threshold, the familiar pulse of mana brushed against my mind like a whisper on the wind—a silent thread tightening into words.

  "My lord, they are waiting at the Royal Stag."

  The voice carried no urgency, only quiet deference.

  I kept walking, neither hesitating nor altering my expression. No shift in my stride. No flicker of acknowledgment. The others had already begun peeling away toward the stables, stretching out sore muscles and shaking the fatigue from their limbs.

  "Give me another name. A different inn." My thoughts carried the silent command forward, the thread of magic snapping closed as soon as the words left my mind.

  No need to rush. Let them wait.

  Then, the familiar thread of magic wound back into my thoughts.

  "The Miller’s Rest, my lord. Near the riverfront. Discreet, but comfortable."

  A slow, satisfied breath.

  Perfect.

  I looked around and the streets were alive, despite the late hour. Not in the way of a grand city, where wealth bled into every corner, but in the quiet, enduring way of a town that refused to still. Merchants shuttered their stalls with the efficiency of long practice, laughter drifted from open tavern doors, and the rhythmic clatter of hooves on stone echoed from unseen alleyways.

  The air was thick with the scent of warm bread, roasting meat, and the sharper tang of river water. Lanterns swung from iron hooks, their flames flickering gold, casting shifting shadows that danced along the cobbled streets.

  Ahead, silhouetted against the deepening night, the windmills stood like sentinels, their skeletal frames groaning faintly as the breeze caught their sails. The blades moved slowly, cutting through the indigo sky in rhythmic arcs.

  Four of them.

  Once, there had been more.

  Ewin was the first to break the silence.

  "So, uh… why’s it called Milltown?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

  Lyrik snorted. "Take a wild guess."

  "No, I mean—" Ewin gestured vaguely toward the windmills. "There’s four of them. That’s not enough to name a whole damn town after."

  Selene arched a brow. "Four now. How many do you think there were before?"

  "More, obviously, but—"

  "Dozens," Mira cut in, glancing toward the hills beyond the town’s edge. "Centuries ago, this land was nothing but golden fields. The mills ran endlessly, feeding half the kingdom."

  Ewin scoffed. "And now?"

  Lyrik smirked. "Now it’s a place to get drunk and pretend you're wealthier than you are."

  The quip drew a chuckle—even from Rylas, who rarely entertained such things.

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  The weight pressing down on them had eased, if only a little. The exhaustion of the journey still clung to their bones, but under the glow of lantern light, with the distant hum of city life around them, the quiet tension from before had begun to loosen its grip.

  At the edge of the street, the stables stretched out beneath a wooden overhang, where a few stable-hands were already moving to take the reins of newly arrived mounts.

  Our horses were barely standing. Exhausted, trembling, their legs weak from the miles they had walked. The stable-hands hesitated at the sight of them, exchanging uncertain glances, likely wondering if they would survive the night.

  Alric, who kept them moving all day, and even now, did not rest.

  I reached into my pouch and flicked a gold coin toward the man who had taken my horse. The coin spun once in the air before he caught it with a surprised blink.

  “Give them fresh water. And a good amount of quality hay.” My voice was quiet but firm.

  The man nodded quickly, as if afraid to do otherwise. His movements were swift now, spurred by both the coin and the weight of my presence. I turned to Alric, who was already crouching near the weakest of the horses, his fingers barely grazing its sweat-matted coat.

  “Can you fully heal them now?”

  Alric’s brow furrowed as he ran his palm down the animal’s quivering flank, his touch careful, assessing.

  “Yes,” he murmured, voice edged with focus, “but they need something to restore their strength. A full belly of grain would be too heavy for them right now.”

  He lifted his gaze toward the stable-hand still lingering nearby. “A warm mash. That will do the trick. Can you prepare it?”

  The man swallowed, still watching Alric’s glowing fingertips as if unsure of what he was witnessing, before nodding swiftly and sprinting off. The other stable-hands moved with new urgency, rushing to bring water and hay, while Mira stepped closer, plucking something from a small pouch at her waist.

  “Lessen the fatigue,” she said simply, pressing small bundles of herbs into the horses’ mouths, her hands steady, practiced. The animals, too weak to resist, chewed sluggishly before their breathing eased just slightly.

  By the time the stable-hand returned, he was not alone. Three others trailed behind him, their arms heavy with large baskets containing steaming mixtures of ground grains, warm water, and a drizzle of honey. The scent of it—a rich, earthy sweetness—curled through the air as they lowered the baskets before the horses, the warm feed giving off gentle wisps of steam in the cool night air.

  “Eat,” Alric whispered, his voice barely more than breath. And they did. Slowly, sluggishly, their muzzles dipping into the warm mash, tongues lapping up the mixture with the tired desperation of creatures that had endured more than they should have.

  Then, as the last of them swallowed the final mouthful, Alric exhaled and closed his eyes.

  A golden light bloomed at his fingertips, not harsh, not blinding, but soft—like the last rays of the sun slipping through a canopy of leaves. The stable-hands stilled as the glow spread, shimmering like threads of woven sunlight, wrapping itself around the closest horse in ribbons of warmth.

  The horse shuddered, then stilled entirely as the golden energy seeped into its weary muscles, knitting together unseen wounds, easing the ache of every overworked joint. Its shallow, labored breathing deepened into something steady, peaceful. The light pulsed once, twice—then faded, sinking into the animal’s body like it had never been there at all.

  Then, without hesitation, Alric moved to the next.

  The stable-hands, who had been so busy tending to their tasks moments ago, now stood motionless. Watching. Their expressions flickered between awe and disbelief, their hands half-raised as if caught between duty and reverence. The soft golden glow reflected in their wide eyes as they bore witness to something beyond their understanding.

  One by one, each horse bathed in that quiet light. Mira stood beside them, still as stone, but even she watched with careful intent, her elven senses attuned to the magic’s subtle touch.

  When Alric finished, the last remnants of golden shimmer faded into the air, dissolving into nothing. All eight horses let out soft, drowsy huffs before their legs folded beneath them, their bodies sinking into the straw with a deep, dreamless slumber.

  Alric sat back, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. Healing took effort. Strength. A cost not paid in blood, but in spirit. But his expression remained composed, unshaken.

  The stable-hands remained frozen, their wide-eyed stares shifting between us and the now peacefully resting animals. A mixture of veneration and unease hung in the air, thick as the scent of warm hay and damp leather.

  “They’ll wake well-rested by morning,” Alric said, as if he hadn’t just unraveled exhaustion with his bare hands.

  The stable-hand who had first taken my coin swallowed hard, then nodded so quickly it was almost frantic. “O-of course, my lord. We’ll see to them.”

  Then, from behind me, Ewin’s voice, ever dry, cut through the silence.

  “Propaganda.”

  Alric, still crouched beside one of the horses, let out a slow breath, brushing stray strands of hair from his face. “And yet, it works.”

  Ewin smirked, tossing an apple he’d pilfered from somewhere into the air before catching it. “That’s the thing about propaganda—it’s always more convincing when there’s a little showmanship involved.”

  “Showmanship?” Lyrik scoffed; arms crossed as he leaned against the stable post. “That was more than showmanship. That was theatre. The kind that makes peasants weep and nobles empty their purses.” He gestured toward the stable-hands, who still hadn’t quite decided whether to bow or flee. “And judging by the looks on their faces, I’d say you’ve just converted a few more followers.”

  Alric sighed, rising to his feet, dusting stray bits of straw from his robes. “If that were true, I’d be having a much easier time collecting tithes.”

  Lyrik grinned. “Ah, see, that’s where you priests go wrong. It’s not just about faith, my dear Alric. It’s about exclusivity.” He gestured toward the sleeping horses. “If you only healed the ones who prayed first, you’d have half the kingdom on its knees.”

  Alric gave him a flat look. “Yes, because withholding aid in exchange for devotion is exactly what our doctrine teaches.”

  Ewin shrugged. “You say that like it doesn’t already happen.” He took a lazy bite from his apple. “Not you, of course. You’re too self-righteous for that. But the higher-ups?” He clicked his tongue. “Let’s just say, miracles have a way of appearing where coin flows the easiest.”

  Alric’s jaw tightened for just a second—small, barely noticeable, but there. Then, with practiced ease, he let out a slow breath and adjusted the cuff of his sleeve. “The difference between faith and corruption is the hand wielding it.”

  “Spoken like a true believer.” Lyrik smirked, pushing off the stable post.

  Alric merely shook his head, already turning away. The debate was pointless. He had heard it all before.

  I watched, silent, as the stable-hands finally stirred, hesitantly returning to their duties. Whatever they had expected from a priest, it hadn’t been this.

  This wasn’t the gentle touch of a temple healer.

  This was something more.

  I turned away. By morning, the horses would be gone. Sold. This was the last debt they would pay.

  The Miller’s Rest stood by the riverbank, a quiet refuge from the rougher parts of Old Milltown. It lacked the grandeur of the capital’s finest establishments—there were no gilded chandeliers, no silk-lined walls or gold-trimmed tables—but that wasn’t its purpose. This was a place for those who held quiet wealth. The kind that didn’t flaunt riches, but neither did it settle for mediocrity.

  Inside, the atmosphere was steady, refined in a way that felt lived-in rather than forced. The wooden beams overhead were dark with age, polished from years of careful maintenance, the air carrying the scent of spiced meats, fresh bread, and a faint trace of old oak. The fire in the grand hearth burned with a slow, steady warmth, offering comfort without excess. It was not a place for revelry, but for respite.

  The patrons reflected that. Merchants, town officials, and wealthier tradesmen occupied the other tables, their conversations hushed, their movements deliberate. There was no drunken laughter, no loud boasts or brawls. The only sounds were the low murmur of voices, the occasional clink of silverware against plates, and the rhythmic hush of the river just beyond the windows.

  Our table sat near one of those windows, overlooking the dark water. The waxing crescent moon cast silver ribbons across the rippling surface, the lanterns from the docks stretching their reflections into golden veins. The windmills in the distance stood unmoving now, their great wooden arms still under the weight of night.

  It was the first proper seat we had taken in since White Creak. Even without words, I could feel it in the way the others settled in—the slow exhales, the tension easing from tired shoulders, the unspoken relief of sitting down to a real meal after so many days on the road.

  Even Vyk, who would usually keep to himself, remained at the table. He hadn’t slipped away to scout the town or loiter in the shadows. Instead, he sat at the far end, posture straight, eyes calm but never idle.

  The food arrived swiftly—platters of roasted duck glazed in honey and spices, thick slices of warm, buttered bread, bowls of herb-seasoned potatoes, and a dark, fragrant stew rich with meat and root vegetables. A jug of mead was set at the center, the golden liquid swirling as Lyrik poured the first round of drinks.

  For the first few minutes, there was only silence.

  Not a tense silence, but the kind that came when hunger took priority over conversation. The kind that settled in after too many days of dried rations and hurried bites between travel. No one wanted to waste this moment.

  Then, naturally, the conversation stirred.

  Ewin leaned back in his chair, tearing off a piece of bread as he shot a glance at Selene. “So, back at the valley, were you planning to defend Kaelan no matter what, or was that just instinct kicking in?”

  Selene didn’t look up. “I defended the decision that made the most sense.”

  Ewin let out a dry laugh. “Oh? And here I thought it was just reflex at this point.” He gestured vaguely with his cup. “Tell me, did you even stop to consider what we were walking into, or did you just assume Kaelan had it all figured out?”

  Selene cut into her duck with slow precision. “It saved us time, effort, and quite possibly our lives. If that’s a problem for you, then perhaps you should rethink your priorities.”

  Ewin shook his head, grinning, but there was no humor in it. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? There’s no rethinking anything, because by the time we’re even aware of a choice, it’s already been made for us.”

  A flicker of amusement touched Lyrik’s lips as he swirled his drink. “I think what Ewin is trying to say is that it would be nice if, for once, we weren’t the last to know what game we’re playing.”

  Rylas, who had been quiet up until now, spoke without looking up. “You assume knowing would change anything.”

  Ewin clicked his tongue. “I assume knowing would mean we aren’t just walking blindly.”

  Alric, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke. “Yet, every time we’ve followed Kaelan’s lead, we’ve come out ahead. Well, most of the time.”

  Ewin exhaled sharply, tossing his bread onto his plate. “That’s not the point.”

  Mira, who had been watching with detached amusement, arched a brow. “Then what is?”

  Ewin spread his hands. “The point is that trust without understanding isn’t trust at all—it’s just blind obedience.”

  Selene finally looked at him. “Or efficiency.”

  Vyk, who had remained still and silent throughout, finally spoke. His voice was quiet, measured. “If you knew more, what would you do differently?”

  Ewin opened his mouth, then hesitated.

  I set down my cup, watching him carefully. "Exactly."

  Ewin scoffed, shaking his head. “One of these days, Kaelan, you won’t be the only one with a plan.”

  I just smiled.

  The meal continued, the conversation shifting.

  Lyrik, as expected, took it upon himself to entertain, launching into one of his many embellished stories—this time about a noblewoman in the capital whose favor he had supposedly won over a single night. He wove the tale with theatrical flourish, leaning into the details just enough to keep it amusing.

  Selene, unimpressed, finally spared him a glance. "Fascinating. A tale of seduction so legendary that I only now hear of it?"

  Lyrik placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. "I don’t tell all my stories, my dear Selene. Some are reserved for special occasions."

  "Or because they never happened," Ewin muttered, earning a chuckle from Rylas, who had remained largely silent until now.

  Alric, seated toward the end of the table, shook his head, his usual patience tinged with faint amusement. "At least let him finish before tearing him apart."

  "Thank you, Alric." Lyrik exhaled dramatically, though he abandoned his story when it was clear the audience was unsympathetic.

  The conversation drifted, settling into the easy banter of people who had traveled too long together to bother with formalities. Mira and Ewin debated the advantages of elven archery styles over human ones, Selene and Rylas exchanged dry comments about the capital’s politics, and Alric answered one of Lyrik’s more ridiculous philosophical questions with the patience of a man used to dealing with nonsense.

  Vyk remained a quiet observer, eating methodically, listening to every word.

  I spoke when it suited me, adding the occasional remark where necessary, sometimes engaging, other times watching. There was no need to control the flow—it moved well enough on its own.

  By the time the plates were mostly empty, the fire in the hearth burned lower, the flickering light casting deeper shadows across the inn’s wooden beams.

  Lyrik stretched, rolling his shoulders. "You know," he mused, "there’s a rather famous inn here. The Royal Stag."

  The others glanced up at that.

  I exhaled a quiet chuckle, taking another slow sip of my drink. "Oh, we’ll be visiting."

  Ewin, ever sharp, narrowed his eyes. "What does that mean?"

  I set my cup down, offering nothing but a slow, knowing smile. "Here’s the thing..."