The waxing moon hung like a silent witness above them, its silver light casting long shadows across the road. Mikhail pulled Bakule to a halt just outside Cedarcrest's walls, the elk's breath clouding in the cool night air. Behind them, the horses they'd taken from their attackers followed in a reluctant procession, their reins tied together and secured to Bakule's saddle.

  Blood had dried on their skin and clothes, turning from sticky wetness to flaking crust that pulled uncomfortably with each movement. The coppery scent clung to them like a second skin, inescapable and damning.

  Mikhail slipped from Bakule's back, his muscles protesting after the tense ride. "Wait here," he murmured to Anora, his voice barely audible above the gentle sigh of wind through nearby trees.

  She watched him lead the confiscated horses to a massive oak some fifty paces from the road, its ancient branches spreading like protective arms above the animals. Mikhail secured their reins with methodical precision, checking each knot twice.

  "The town guards will find them in the morning," he explained upon returning. "It might buy us some time—make them think the killers fled in a different direction."

  Anora nodded mutely, her eyes reflecting the moonlight like twin embers in the darkness. The blood on her skin had darkened to black in the night, making her green complexion appear mottled and strange. Her hands rested limply in her lap, as though they belonged to someone else.

  Mikhail remounted behind her, his arms encircling her small frame as he took the reins. The familiar weight of him against her back should have been comforting, but Anora felt disconnected, as though witnessing everything through a veil of water.

  "We need to find another way in," Mikhail said, his breath warm against her ear. "The guards are bound to stop us if we go through the gate this late at night." He flicked the reins, and Bakule lurched forward, moving parallel to the distant walls of Cedarcrest but remaining hidden in the tree line. "Keep your eyes open for a way in."

  Anora turned to look at him, her orange eyes reflecting the moonlight with an eerie, feline luminescence. "I will," she promised, her voice barely a whisper.

  They followed the curve of the wall, keeping to the shadows. Bakule moved with surprising stealth for such a large creature, his hooves finding patches of soft earth that muffled his steps. The town's wall loomed beside them—fifteen feet of weathered stone and mortar that had stood for centuries, keeping threats outside and secrets within.

  Anora's senses, naturally keener than a human's, stretched into the darkness. When she spotted the first patrol—two guards making a lazy circuit along the wall's top—she placed a warning hand on Mikhail's arm.

  "Guards," she breathed, pointing toward the silhouettes moving against the star-strewn sky.

  Mikhail immediately guided Bakule deeper into the trees, holding his breath until the patrol passed. The pattern repeated itself twice more over the next quarter hour—Anora spotting danger before Mikhail could, her night vision proving as valuable as any treasure.

  "There," Anora suddenly whispered, pointing toward what appeared to be merely another section of wall. "Do you see it?"

  Mikhail squinted, seeing nothing but stone until Anora guided his gaze. There, half-hidden by climbing ivy and years of neglect, stood a small postern gate—a forgotten entrance barely large enough for a cart to pass through.

  "Good job, beautiful," Mikhail murmured, giving her a one-armed hug. Relief softened his voice, though tension still lined every muscle in his body.

  They approached cautiously, Mikhail dismounting to examine the gate while Anora remained on Bakule, her eyes constantly scanning for patrols. The gate looked as though it hadn't been used in years, its iron hinges streaked with rust, the wooden planks warped from countless seasons of rain and sun.

  A heavy iron padlock secured the gate—ancient but substantial. Mikhail examined it in the moonlight, his fingers tracing the mechanism before he stepped back and gripped his spear. With careful precision, he positioned the haft against the lock and applied steady pressure until something inside gave way with a snap that seemed deafening in the quiet night.

  He froze, heart pounding as the sound echoed briefly before dissolving into darkness. After a moment of held breath, he pushed against the gate. It opened with a prolonged, agonized creak that set his teeth on edge.

  Mikhail peered through the narrow opening, scanning the empty alley beyond. Satisfied, he turned and motioned for Anora to follow.

  She flicked Bakule's reins, guiding the elk toward the gateway. The massive creature hesitated, nostrils flaring at the unfamiliar scents of town—smoke and sewage, spices and humanity. Anora leaned forward, her lips nearly touching his twitching ear.

  "It's all right," she soothed, her voice a gentle caress. "Just a little further."

  Bakule's muscles bunched beneath her as he reluctantly stepped forward. The gate was barely wide enough for his impressive rack of antlers—a living crown that scraped against the stone with hair-raising softness. Anora guided him through with whispered encouragement, one hand extended to help him angle his head just so.

  "Good job, Bakule," she whispered when they were finally through, patting his muscular neck. The elk huffed in response, his breath clouding in the cooler air of the shadowed alley.

  Mikhail pulled the gate closed behind them as quietly as he could, wincing at each protesting groan of the hinges. He took the reins from Anora's small hands, leading Bakule deeper into the maze of Cedarcrest's backstreets.

  The town at night was transformed—familiar landmarks rendered alien in moonlight and shadow. Oil lamps glowed in distant windows like watching eyes, while stars wheeled overhead, indifferent to the human drama unfolding beneath them. Occasionally, a burst of laughter would spill from a tavern, or the heavy tread of a night watchman would force them into a darkened doorway, hearts pounding in unison as they waited for danger to pass.

  Mikhail led them through a labyrinthine path of service alleys and neglected courtyards, avoiding the main thoroughfares where guardsmen patrolled. The cobblestones beneath their feet were slick with evening dew, occasionally giving way to packed earth in the poorest sections of town. Bakule's hooves made soft clicking sounds that seemed magnified in the stillness, each step a potential betrayal.

  Anora remained hypervigilant atop Bakule, her orange eyes constantly moving, scanning rooftops and alley mouths for potential threats. The blood drying on her skin pulled uncomfortably, a constant reminder of violence that felt simultaneously recent and distant, as though the killing had happened to someone else, in another lifetime. Her hand occasionally drifted to her knife's hilt, drawing comfort from its solid presence.

  After what felt like hours but was likely only twenty minutes, the familiar bulk of Thorgar's forge emerged from the darkness. Its stone walls rose solid and reassuring, the chimney stretching toward the night sky like a sentinel. A single lamp burned in a ground-floor window, spilling golden light onto the empty street.

  Mikhail approached the heavy wooden door, passing Bakule's reins to Anora before raising his fist. He hesitated, glancing back at her blood-spattered form, at his own crimson-stained hands. There would be no turning back after this—they were about to make Thorgar complicit in their desperate situation. The dwarf had been good to them, better than they had any right to expect.

  "Are you sure?" Anora asked, reading his hesitation.

  Mikhail nodded, squaring his shoulders. "We have nowhere else to go."

  His fist connected with the door in three sharp raps, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet street. They waited, heartbeats pounding in their ears, as silence stretched out like an accusation.

  Then came the sounds of movement from within—heavy footsteps approaching the door, accompanied by muffled grumbling. "Who in the blazes could be at my door at this hour?" The voice was unmistakably Thorgar's.

  Anora remained perched atop Bakule, one hand absently stroking the elk's neck while her eyes continuously scanned the street. Mikhail stood tensely before the door, his spear held at his side, its silver tip gleaming dully in the moonlight.

  The door swung inward with surprising suddenness, spilling warm lamplight into the street. Thorgar stood framed in the doorway. "Now what da ya wan—" The words died in his throat as recognition dawned, followed swiftly by horror.

  "By the Ancient Kings!" he exclaimed, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as he took in their blood-soaked appearance. "What are you two doing out here?" He moved closer, letting more light fall upon them, his dark eyes widening as he registered the extent of the gore that covered them. "And why in the nine hells are you two covered in blood? What trouble have you gotten into, boy?"

  Mikhail met the dwarf's penetrating gaze, his own eyes hollow with exhaustion and the weight of what they'd done. "Erik's dead," he said flatly, the words falling between them like stones into still water.

  Thorgar's breath caught audibly. "No, no, don't tell me ya..." His voice trailed off as Mikhail nodded once, confirming the unspoken question.

  The dwarf sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose between thick fingers. "Ya damn fool." He shook his head slowly, resignation and concern warring in his weathered features. "Quick," he added, sticking his head around the doorframe, looking left and right. "Follow me. Quickly."

  Thorgar led them around the side of the forge, then down a narrow alley that smelled of coal dust and hot metal. Mikhail began to explain what had happened, words tumbling out in a desperate rush, but Thorgar spun around with surprising speed, one finger pressed to his lips.

  "Shut it, boy!" he hissed, eyes flashing with urgency. "There's too many ears on the street. Wait until we get inside."

  Mikhail clamped his mouth shut, properly chastened. He glanced back at Anora, who merely shrugged, her small shoulders rising and falling beneath her blood-stained dress. They continued following Thorgar to what might generously be called the forge's backyard—a cramped space of patchy grass and scattered stone, littered with discarded metal scraps and half-finished projects.

  "Tie your beast here," Thorgar directed, pointing to a sturdy wooden post near a trough of collected rainwater. "He'll be hidden from the street at least."

  Mikhail helped Anora dismount, her small form sliding into his waiting hands. Together they secured Bakule to the post, the elk immediately lowering his head to drink from the trough, apparently unconcerned by the night's dramatic events.

  "Come on in," Thorgar said, holding open a rear door that led directly into his living quarters. "Don't touch anything with ya bloody hands, mind you."

  They followed him inside, entering a kitchen warmed by the steady heat of a wood-burning stove. The space smelled of fresh bread and some hearty stew, the scents incongruously normal against the night's violence. Oil lamps cast a gentle glow over worn wooden furniture and shelves lined with mismatched crockery—a bachelor's home, functional and unadorned.

  Anora stepped through the door behind Mikhail and immediately froze. Standing by a large iron pot on the stove was Elara, Gareth's eldest granddaughter. The girl's eyes widened in shock at the sight of them, her face draining of color as she took in their blood-covered forms. The wooden spoon in her hand clattered against the pot's edge, forgotten.

  "Elara!" Thorgar's booming voice startled the girl from her stunned silence. "Get some hot water and clean towels, will ya?"

  The command seemed to snap her back to herself. She nodded jerkily, moving with practiced efficiency despite her evident shock. She retrieved a large washbowl and several clean rags from a nearby shelf, then carefully poured steaming water from a kettle on the stove. Her movements were precise, but her eyes kept darting to Mikhail and Anora, horror and something harder—anger perhaps—flickering in their depths.

  "Sit," Thorgar ordered, gesturing to a sturdy wooden table surrounded by four mismatched chairs. "And tell me what in the old kings you've done, boy."

  Mikhail sank into a chair, his muscles trembling with fatigue now that the immediate danger had passed. Anora sat beside him, her small form perched on the edge of her seat as though prepared to flee at any moment. The lamplight caught the dried blood on her skin, transforming it into a grotesque mosaic of darkened flakes and smears.

  "You come to my house after dark covered in blood," Thorgar continued, his voice low and intense. His gaze moved from Mikhail to Anora, lingering on her bloodied arms and face. "And what's worse is that ya got her involved."

  Elara set the washbowl on the table between them, placing the clean cloths beside it. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, her movements stiff with barely suppressed emotion. She shot Anora a look of such naked hostility that Mikhail almost flinched, before turning the same angry gaze on him. Without a word, she retreated to the far side of the kitchen, her back rigid as she pretended to busy herself with the stew.

  "What is Elara doing here?" Mikhail asks.

  "She's been helping around me kitchen," Thorgar explained, equally quiet. "Cooking some meals and helping with other tasks." He caught Mikhail's questioning look and added gruffly, "It's not what your thinking. Stones' sake, lad, I'm three hundred years her senior." He shook his head, irritation flaring briefly before being subsumed by more pressing concerns. "Besides, what matters is what you done."

  Mikhail nodded, accepting the rebuke. He reached for a cloth, dipping it into the steaming water before wringing it out. The heat stung his raw knuckles, a minor pain compared to what they'd endured. "It was an ambush," he began, his voice hollow as he recounted the night's events.

  The words emerged mechanically as he described how Erik and his friends had attacked them on the road back to Cedarcrest, the devastating collision that had unseated them from Bakule, the threats against Anora's life. His tone remained flat even as he detailed the killings—six men dead by their hands, including the son of Cedarcrest's most powerful citizen.

  "We had no choice," he concluded, staring at his hands where they rested on the table. The cloth he'd been holding had turned pink with diluted blood. "It was them or us."

  Throughout the telling, Anora had remained silent, methodically cleaning the blood from her arms and hands. The water in the bowl gradually darkened from clear to pink to a murky red-brown. She scrubbed at her skin with mechanical precision, as though trying to erase not just the blood but the memory of how it had gotten there.

  Thorgar listened without interruption, his weathered face growing grimmer with each detail. When Mikhail finished, the dwarf rose from his seat with a heavy sigh.

  "Elara," he called, "I need ya to fetch Eliath."

  The girl looked up, reluctance evident in the set of her shoulders. For a moment, it seemed she might refuse, but then she nodded once, sharply. "Yes, Master Thorgar." She untied her apron, hanging it on a hook by the door before slipping out into the night, her departure marked by a brief rush of cool air.

  "Stay put," Thorgar instructed them. "Clean yerselves up. I need to think." He retreated to another room, leaving Mikhail and Anora alone with the cooling washbowl and their troubled thoughts.

  Half an hour passed in near silence, broken only by the soft splash of water and the occasional creak of the settling house. They helped each other clean away the worst of the blood, their touches gentle despite the gravity of their situation. The familiar intimacy of caring for one another provided a momentary respite from the horrors that haunted them.

  Mikhail noticed how withdrawn Anora had become, her usual animation replaced by something distant and fragile. Her hands moved mechanically as she cleaned his wounds, but her eyes seemed focused on something far away. The vibrant orange that had so captivated him from the beginning now appeared dimmed, like embers banking in a dying fire.

  "Hey," he said softly, taking a fresh cloth and dipping it in the darkened water. He wrung it out carefully before raising it to her face, gently wiping away a streak of blood that had dried along her jaw. "What's wrong?"

  Anora shook her head, keeping her eyes downcast. Her copper curls fell forward, curtaining her expression from his view.

  Mikhail placed his hand beneath her chin, lifting her face until their eyes met. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice gentle but firm.

  Slowly, reluctantly, her orange eyes rose to meet his. What he saw there broke his heart—a maelstrom of emotions swirled in those depths: shock, horror, guilt, and beneath it all, a raw fear that seemed to consume everything else.

  "You did what you had to do," Mikhail told her, his thumb caressing her cheek where he'd just cleaned away the blood. "Don't let it bother you."

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  Anora held his gaze for a long moment, her eyes darting back and forth to each of his, before giving a small nod that seemed more acknowledgment than agreement. Mikhail leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead in a gesture of tenderness that spoke more eloquently than words. He felt her tremble slightly beneath his touch, a fragile vibration that echoed the precariousness of their situation.

  As he continued cleaning her face, removing the last traces of gore, he fought to project a calm he didn't feel. Inside, uncertainty gnawed at him like a winter wolf. They had killed the son of Cedarcrest's most powerful man, along with five companions from families of similar standing. There would be no hiding from this, no easy escape. For the first time since leaving his village, Mikhail felt truly afraid—not for himself, but for what might happen to Anora if they were separated.

  The shadows in the kitchen seemed to deepen as they waited for Thorgar to return, for Elara to bring Eliath, for some path forward to present itself in this darkest of nights. Outside, the moon continued its silent journey across the sky, indifferent to the blood that had been spilled beneath its watchful gaze.

  The distant bells of Cedarcrest's night watch tolled twice, their somber echo barely penetrating the walls of the Whispering Willow Inn. Selene sat cross-legged on her narrow bed, the room illuminated only by a single guttering candle whose flame cast more shadows than light. Her fingers methodically cleaned her blade, though the cloth moved more from habit than necessity.

  Her mind replayed the rooftop confrontation in excruciating detail – the half-elf's impossible speed, his ancient eyes that had seen through her deceptions like tissue paper held to flame. And then... the old woman who wasn't a woman at all.

  "Daughter of the Divine," Selene whispered to the empty room, the eastern title for such beings feeling foreign on her tongue.

  The temperature in the room plummeted without warning. Frost crystallized along the window's edge, and her breath clouded before her face. The ornate mirror in her pocket grew cold – not the ordinary chill of metal against skin, but a penetrating, bone-deep coldness that burned like branded ice.

  With a curse, Selene yanked it free and hurled it across the room. The mirror clattered against the uneven wooden planks, spinning briefly before coming to rest.

  Darkness gathered above it, not the ordinary absence of light but something viscous and intentional that flowed like spilled ink against the laws of nature. It coalesced into a feminine silhouette that grew more defined with each passing heartbeat – the perfect replica of Lady Veldrin, though composed entirely of undulating shadow.

  "You fool of a woman!" The voice that emanated from the shadowy form carried both the refined accents of Greland nobility and the jagged harmonics of something far older and more terrible. "I knew I shouldn't have hired someone from the eastern lands."

  Each syllable dripped with contempt, the temperature dropping further until the water in Selene's washbasin froze solid. The candle's flame turned an unnatural blue, its light somehow making the shadows deeper.

  "Lady Veldrin," Selene began, struggling to maintain her composure as fear crawled along her spine like a winter spider. "I was just about to contact yo—"

  "Quiet!" The shadow-form's hand slashed through the air, and Selene's voice died in her throat as if physically strangled. "Do not lie to me. I know your kind, always clinging to shadows like cowards."

  The magic filling the room pressed against Selene's skin, an oppressive weight that made breathing difficult. The whispering, churning sound of dark energy swirling around Lady Veldrin's manifestation was the only sound for several terrible heartbeats.

  "My lady," Selene blurted when she could speak again, the words tumbling out in desperate haste, "the loss of the shadow demons was not entirely my fault. It was the angel that killed them."

  Lady Veldrin had raised a shadowed hand to silence her again, but paused at Selene's final words. The darkness comprising her form rippled like the surface of a disturbed pond.

  "An angel, you say?" Each word emerged measured and precise, the rage temporarily subsumed by cold calculation. "Are you certain?"

  "Yes." Selene swallowed, her throat dry as desert sand. "A female angel with twin swords."

  The silence that followed pressed against Selene's eardrums like deep water. The shadow-form of Lady Veldrin remained unnaturally still, even the usual undulations of darkness momentarily suspended. The growing sense of unease made it impossible for Selene to remain seated; she rose to her feet, fingers unconsciously seeking the comfort of her blade's hilt.

  When Lady Veldrin finally moved again, the darkness surrounding her rippled and split, birthing six new shadows that gradually shaped themselves into forms that were almost human – featureless silhouettes with too-long limbs and eyes like wells into nothingness.

  "The angel complicates things," Lady Veldrin admitted, her voice carrying a new edge of bitter amusement. "The Creator is keeping an eye on his little subjects, the insufferable meddler." A pause, then with renewed determination: "No matter."

  The shadow demons drifted across the room like oil through water, their presence making the air taste of metal and grave dirt. They arrayed themselves behind Selene, cold breath – or something approximating breath – raising gooseflesh along her neck.

  "Take these six shadow demons and sow discord amongst the townspeople," Lady Veldrin commanded. "Make them angry, resentful. Make them riot."

  Selene glanced at the creatures, their faceless forms somehow communicating malevolent eagerness. Uncertainty gnawed at her resolve – dealing with humans was one thing, manipulating shadow demons quite another – but she nodded firmly. "Yes, my lady."

  "Selene." Lady Veldrin's voice dropped to a whisper that somehow filled the entire room, the sound of ice forming on a still lake. "I want you to use the city to force them out and toward Greland. Use whatever tactics you deem necessary."

  The implication was clear – brutality was not merely permitted but expected. The remains of Selene's professional detachment cracked further, but survival instinct prevailed. "Yes, my lady."

  The darkness surrounding Lady Veldrin's form began to thin, the temperature in the room slowly rising toward merely uncomfortable rather than unbearable. But before the shadow-form dissipated completely, Lady Veldrin raised a hand filled with swirling midnight.

  "And Selene, if you fail..."

  The darkness beside Lady Veldrin shifted and reformed, revealing a vision that tore a gasp from Selene's throat. A man – once human, once ordinary – twisted and warped beyond recognition. His flesh flowed like melted wax, bones protruding at impossible angles. Tusks burst from his cheeks, his eyes multiplied across his forehead, each one blinking independently and weeping blood. His mouth, stretched impossibly wide, emitted screams that contained centuries of agony.

  "You'll wish that you had made a deal with the djinn of your lands," Lady Veldrin continued, her voice almost tender in its cruelty. "For their punishments would be far kinder."

  The vision mercifully vanished, and Lady Veldrin's shadow-form dissolved into wisps of darkness that slithered back into the mirror on the floor. The room warmed, the candle's flame returned to its natural color, and the only evidence of the visitation was the six shadow demons that remained, watching Selene with patient, hungry anticipation.

  Selene exhaled a shaking breath, pressing her palms against her eyes. For the first time since accepting this commission, she found herself reconsidering her choices. Lady Veldrin was right about one thing – the djinn of her homeland were notorious for their cruel interpretations of wishes, their punishments elegant in their perfect irony.

  But what she had just witnessed promised something far beyond mere irony. That was obliteration of self, a torment that transcended mortality and extended into realms no living being should ever witness.

  She straightened her spine and faced the waiting demons. There was only one path forward now. Success, or something worse than death.

  The first tender fingers of dawn reached across the eastern horizon, painting the sky in delicate strokes of rose and amber. Dew glistened on blades of grass lining the western road to Cedarcrest, a road that had witnessed more than its share of travelers—merchants with their wares, pilgrims on sacred journeys, families seeking new beginnings.

  This morning, it witnessed something else entirely.

  Bolgar Grimbeard, respected dwarf trader of the Ironshield Merchant Guild, stood at the reins of his lead wagon, a seasoned traveler who had weathered bandits and blizzards with equal stoicism. The caravan had pushed through the night, five heavily-laden wagons creaking beneath their bounty of metal goods and exotic spices from the western provinces. His thick fingers, adorned with the silver guild rings that marked his status, tightened imperceptibly on the leather reins as he rounded the final bend before Cedarcrest.

  The wagon lurched to an abrupt halt, the oxen lowing nervously as they sensed their master's sudden tension.

  "By the Ancestors," Bolgar whispered, his voice uncharacteristically brittle in the morning stillness.

  Before him, bathed in the fragile light of early dawn, lay a tableau of horror. Bodies sprawled across the blood-darkened earth like abandoned dolls, their fine garments now stiff with dried gore. Weapons—blades of quality steel that spoke of wealth and privilege—lay still clutched in lifeless hands. Morning mist curled around the scene like spectral witnesses to the night's violence.

  Bolgar raised a hand, signaling the caravan behind him to halt. Two of his guards—hardened veterans who had seen their share of death—approached with hands resting on sword pommels, though the stillness of the scene made it clear the danger had long passed.

  "Check for survivors," Bolgar ordered, knowing there would be none but bound by merchant codes to confirm what his eyes already told him.

  The guards moved with practiced efficiency, checking each fallen form with professional detachment that nonetheless couldn't completely hide their discomfort. These were no common bandits or unfortunate travelers. The quality of their clothing, the signet rings that adorned their stiffened fingers—these were sons of Cedarcrest's noble houses.

  "Master Grimbeard," called one guard, his voice tight. "You should see this."

  Bolgar approached with measured steps, his boots leaving imprints in the blood-crusted earth. The guard pointed toward a body that lay separate from the others, its condition distinct in one horrifying detail—the head was missing from its shoulders.

  The dwarf followed the guard's troubled gaze to a nearby drainage ditch where something round had come to rest among tangled weeds. Even without approaching closer, Bolgar recognized the face—Erik, son of Fredrick the blacksmith guild master. The boy's features were frozen in an expression of shock, eyes mercifully closed, hair matted with dirt and congealed blood.

  "By Arios's light," Bolgar whispered, the invocation of the Lion's name falling from his lips with unconscious reverence. His weathered face paled beneath his iron-gray beard. "This will bring hell upon us all."

  Decision crystallized in the dwarf's mind with the clarity that had made him successful in trade for seven decades. "Gareth, Torvin—stay with the bodies. Let nothing disturb them." He turned back toward his wagon, movements suddenly urgent. "The rest of you, secure the caravan and wait. I ride for the town."

  With a practiced leap that belied his stocky frame, Bolgar mounted the lead wagon's bench and snapped the reins. The oxen lurched forward, more responsive to the sharp command in his voice than the leather against their flanks. The wagon careened down the road at dangerous speed, abandoning the careful pace of a merchant for the urgency of a messenger bearing dire news.

  The western gate of Cedarcrest loomed ahead, its cedar-reinforced walls catching the strengthening morning light. Bolgar bypassed the usual merchant entrance with its inspection queues and tax collectors, instead steering directly for the side gate reserved for official business. The guards there recognized him—few in Cedarcrest didn't know Bolgar Grimbeard—and started to wave him toward the proper merchant entrance until they saw his face.

  "I must see Captain Harren," Bolgar called, not slowing. "Murder on the western road!"

  The guards exchanged alarmed glances before one took off at a run toward the barracks while the other waved Bolgar through without the customary inspection.

  Captain Harren was a man who took pride in rising before his men, setting an example of discipline through twenty years of service to Cedarcrest's guard. This morning found him at his desk, spoon halfway to his mouth, steam rising from a bowl of porridge as he reviewed the night patrol's reports. The door to his office burst open without the customary knock, revealing a breathless guardsman.

  "Captain! Bolgar Grimbeard has arrived with news of murder on the western road!"

  The spoon clattered against the wooden bowl as Harren stood, chair scraping against floor planks. By the time Bolgar entered, the captain was already buckling on his sword belt, face composed into the professional mask that had served him through countless crises.

  "Master Grimbeard," he acknowledged with a nod. "Report."

  The dwarf merchant, normally the embodiment of composed dignity, spoke in rapid bursts punctuated by breaths that seemed insufficient to fuel his words. As details emerged—six bodies, noble sons, Erik's decapitation—Harren's expression hardened from professional concern to grim horror.

  "Show me," was all he said when Bolgar finished.

  The expedition departed within fifteen minutes—Harren, twelve of his best men, and two healers who would serve as coroners in this grim task. Bolgar led them back along the western road, the bright morning sunshine now seeming a cruel counterpoint to their somber purpose.

  The scene appeared unchanged, save for the gathering of carrion birds that Bolgar's guards had been busy scaring away. Harren knelt beside each body in turn, his experienced eyes gathering details that ordinary men might miss—the patterns of wounds, the positions of fallen weapons, the final moments recorded in blood upon the earth.

  When he reached Erik's remains, the captain's composure slipped momentarily, a fleeting grimace crossing his weathered features. He had watched the blacksmith's son grow from a boisterous child to a young man, had shared drinks with Fredrick at the Hammer and Tongs on festival nights. This was not merely a crime; this was a wound that would bleed the entire town.

  "Prepare them for transport," he ordered, his voice steady once more. "Treat them with respect." He paused, gaze lingering on Erik's separated head. "Especially him."

  By mid-morning, a somber procession made its way through Cedarcrest's western gate. The usual bustle of market-day commerce stuttered and stilled as townspeople turned to witness six shrouded forms carried on stretchers, one noticeably shorter than the others—the truncated length an obscene reminder of the violence that had created it.

  Whispers rippled through the gathering crowd. Women clutched children protectively to their skirts, as if death might prove contagious. Men removed caps in grim respect, bowing heads while exchanging worried glances. The procession moved inexorably toward the town square, where the bodies would be laid beneath the great cedar tree—a place normally associated with festivals and celebrations, now transformed into an impromptu morgue.

  Word of the discovery spread through Cedarcrest like fire through dry timber. In Fredrick's forge, the rhythmic strikes of hammer against anvil continued unabated, the blacksmith unaware that his world was about to shatter. His apprentice, Tomas, had gone to investigate the commotion at the gate, drawn by the gathering crowd and hushed exclamations.

  The boy returned at a run, face ashen beneath the soot of morning forge work, chest heaving as he struggled to gather enough breath to deliver his message. He burst through the workshop door, nearly colliding with a rack of cooling horseshoes.

  "Master Fredrick!" he gasped, words tumbling over themselves in frantic haste. "You must come quickly! There's—there's been a terrible event on the western road!"

  Fredrick barely glanced up from his work, muscular arms glistening with sweat as he shaped hot metal with practiced precision. At fifty-three, he had built Cedarcrest's most respected forge through discipline and dedication, qualities he attempted to instill in his apprentices with varying success.

  "Whatever it is can wait until this order is complete," he replied, his deep voice carrying the gruff impatience that had become his hallmark. "Back to work, boy."

  "But sir, the guards have brought in bodies from the road, and people are saying—"

  "I said back to work!" Fredrick's hammer came down with extra force, sending sparks cascading across the stone floor. "Town gossip doesn't forge steel."

  Tomas retreated, recognizing the futility of further argument. He had just returned to his station when another figure appeared in the doorway—the broad-shouldered form of Captain Harren himself, helmet clutched against his chest rather than worn proudly on his head. Something in the captain's stance, in the unusual formality of his bearing, brought Fredrick's hammer to a mid-swing halt.

  "Fred," Harren said, using the familiar name that spoke of decades of friendship. His voice carried an uncharacteristic gentleness that sent a shiver of premonition down the blacksmith's spine. "I need you to come with me."

  The hammer lowered slowly to the anvil as Fredrick studied his friend's face. "What's happened, Isaac?"

  Harren's eyes slid away, unable to meet the question directly. "Please, Fred. Just come."

  Something in the captain's tone silenced further protests. Fredrick set aside his tools with deliberate care, wiping his hands on his leather apron before removing it. Without a word to Tomas, he followed Harren into the street, squinting slightly as his eyes adjusted from forge dimness to morning brightness.

  They walked in silence toward the town square, where a crowd had gathered, held back by a line of grim-faced guards. The sea of townspeople parted before them, conversations dying mid-word, faces turning away from Fredrick's questioning gaze as if eye contact might somehow make them complicit in the tragedy he had yet to discover.

  In the center of the square, beneath the spreading branches of the ancient cedar that had given the town its name, six bodies lay in a solemn row, covered with linen sheets whose pristine whiteness seemed an obscene contrast to what they concealed. Around them knelt parents—mothers with faces buried in handkerchiefs, fathers with expressions carved from stone, grief temporarily hardened into shock and disbelief.

  Fredrick recognized them all—guild masters, merchants, members of the town council. People whose patronage had built his business, whose sons had grown alongside his own. A sickening realization began to unfurl in his gut, a creeping dread that tightened his throat and quickened his breath.

  "Isaac," he managed, the single word carrying the weight of a question he suddenly didn't want answered.

  With visible reluctance, Captain Harren led him to the shortest body—the one that ended where a neck should have continued into a head. "I'm deeply sorry, Fred," he said, the formal words hollow against the magnitude of what they preceded.

  Slowly, with the reluctance of a man unveiling a nightmare, Harren pulled back the covering.

  Fredrick stared at the revealed form, mind refusing to connect the bloodless, dirt-smeared body with that of his son. The fine festival clothes—now torn and saturated with dried blood—were recognizable, as was the silver guild ring on the stiffened hand, crafted by Fredrick himself for Erik's eighteenth birthday. Yet his mind rebelled against the evidence before his eyes, insisting that this must be someone else, some terrible mistake.

  For ten long seconds he stared, unblinking, as recognition crawled through his defenses with inexorable cruelty. The shoulders that had broadened with pride under his guidance. The hands that had learned to grip hammer and tongs. The chest that no longer rose and fell with the breath of life.

  "Where is..." he began, voice cracking into fragments, unable to complete the question that would make this horror complete.

  Harren wordlessly directed his attention to a separate bundle. With trembling hands that had never before failed in their strength, Fredrick drew back the cloth.

  Erik's face lay revealed in the morning light, eyes mercifully closed, expression frozen in final shock. The brutal severing had been cleaned somewhat by the healers, but nothing could disguise the violence that had separated a son from his future.

  The blacksmith's knees surrendered beneath the weight of recognition. He collapsed beside his son's remains, one massive hand gathering the severed head to his chest while the other clutched at Erik's lifeless shoulder, as if trying to reunite what violence had sundered.

  "My boy," he whispered, words meant only for the son who could no longer hear them. "My wild, foolish boy."

  A keening wail pierced the unnatural quiet of the square—a sound so primal and anguished that several onlookers turned away, unable to bear witness to such naked grief. Lady Helaine, Erik's mother, had arrived, guided by another guard to the scene of unimaginable loss. Her elegant composure—the careful mask of nobility she had maintained through decades as Fredrick's wife—shattered completely at the sight before her.

  She collapsed to her knees beside Fredrick, her ornate dress pooling around her like spilled wine. Her scream of denial transformed into wracking sobs as she reached for what remained of her only child, fingers hovering over Erik's face as if afraid her touch might cause further harm.

  Fredrick's arm encircled her shoulders, drawing her against him as they knelt together in shared devastation. Their combined grief—her unrestrained wailing and his silent tears—merged with the sounds of other parents mourning their own losses, creating a terrible chorus beneath the cedar tree.

  Captain Harren stepped back, signaling his men to give the families space for their private agonies. The crowd of onlookers began to disperse, some wiping at tears of sympathy, others already whispering theories and accusations.

  In the shadow of the great cedar, a blacksmith and his wife cradled the broken remains of their son—their pride, their legacy, their future—unmindful of the blood soaking into fine clothes, oblivious to the witnesses of their anguish. Their world had contracted to this single, incomprehensible moment, where everything that had seemed important only hours before was revealed as meaningless against the finality of death.

  And throughout Cedarcrest, behind closed doors and in hushed conversations, one question began to form on every lip: who had done this terrible thing, and what vengeance would follow?