There was no hope on the path to Riverhelm.
Even the trees appeared to be slanting away from the path as it wound through deserted woods and abandoned towns. Joren, a broad-shouldered man with a dark beard speckled with grey and a leather cloak with patches, rode first. Over the past month, lines had been carved into his face, more from loss than from age. Mira sat lighter in the saddle behind him, her hair tied back in a loose braid that blew in the wind, her wiry frame wrapped in a hunter's wrap. Her keen, ever-moving eyes scanned the brush, the sky, and the shadows.
They didn't talk much. Not much could be said.
They were silent because they were tired of understanding, not because they were tense. They were two strands taken from a tapestry that was falling apart too quickly to be repaired.
"You think she'll respond?" As they rode through the ruins of what had once been a village square, Mira interrupted the silence with a question. Here, the stones were charred. In the middle, a broken cart covered in vines was rotting.
Joren didn't look around. "If she can recall her identity. as well as who we were.
"If," Mira whispered. Three crows arose from a partially collapsed roof as she looked up. "The weight of that word increases daily."
Like a memory, Riverhelm emerged from the fog. tall, grizzled, and worn out.
With its bridges thrown boldly over the twin forks of the River Vael and its towers shaped from pale stone, it had once been a gem of trade. The lower walls were now covered in moss. Through shattered statues, Ivy curled up. The dark iron gates, gleaming from recent oiling, stood tall and bristled with reinforcements.
The guards on top of the battlements straightened as the riders came closer.
A voice yelled, "Halt!" "State your names and what your business!"
Joren held back. He produced a wax-sealed scroll from his satchel.
"Joren of Greyrest. We seek audience with the Baroness of Riverhelm. We carry her cousin's seal."
There was a pause. The guards didn't lower their weapons.
Then, the gates groaned inward, just wide enough for a mounted rider to pass. She emerged alone.
Ser Calenne.
She wore black-lacquered armor chased with silver thread, the sigil of thorned ivy over riverstone etched into the breastplate. Her hair was shorn short, her jaw sharp. She sat her mount like a blade, rigid, ready to cut.
"I am Warden Calenne," she said. "The Baroness does not grant audience to strangers without proof."
Joren handed down the scroll without dismounting. She broke the seal, read, then glanced up.
"Wait here."
She turned and rode back through the gates, and they were shut again without another word.
Before the gates opened, they had to wait for over two hours. Mira paced. Joren sat quietly.
Riverhelm opened up to them as a city holding its breath.
Here, people moved quietly and effectively. The streets were patrolled by soldiers in matching armor. Instead of selling fresh goods, vendors sold dried goods. Kids worked instead of playing. Smoke hung in the air, heavy with salt and tannins, and soot marked the chimneys. The majority of faces were drawn and pale. They all kept an eye on the newcomers.
At the center of the city was the Baroness's hall, which was functional rather than opulent. There were no tapestries on the walls. Just ledgers, maps, and weapons. Lady Elyra stood in the middle.
She was not seated. She stood by a long oaken table, hands braced on either side. She wore no crown, only a cloak of deep blue lined in foxfur. Her hair, black shot through with silver, was braided back in soldier's fashion. Her eyes were storm-colored, and they flicked from Joren to Mira with unsettling precision.
"You come bearing the seal of a forgotten province," she said. "And you ask me to risk men and steel for a place that hasn't sent a tithe in over a decade."
Joren bowed his head respectfully. "We ask only for aid. Not charity."
Lady Elyra's mouth twitched. Not a smile, more like the memory of one.
Mira stepped forward. "Greyrest still stands. But only just. If it falls, so does the last shield between this rot and the inner lands."
Elyra turned to Calenne. "Do they look like liars?"
"They look desperate," the Warden said.
"That's close enough." Elyra looked back to the two of them. "Stay the night. You'll have your answer by dawn."
Their room was cold stone, the bed a cot. A single oil lamp flickered on the sill.
"Not a friendly place," Mira muttered as she unbuckled her boots.
Joren sat on the edge of the cot, staring at his hands.
"I don't need friendly. Just willing."
Outside, through the slit of a window, the city moved like a wary animal. From below came whispers. Voices at the edge of earshot.
"They want steel?"
"Let them burn."
"We can't spare the men."
"Baroness owes them nothing."
One voice, hushed but clear: "She'll help. She's like her cousin, soft in the wrong places."
Mira sighed. "We should've said we brought gold."
Joren leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Truth is heavier than gold these days. But it doesn't melt when the fire comes."
She gave him a tired look, but said nothing.
The bell tower rang just once with the sun.
They were summoned before the Baroness again, this time in the outer courtyard. A column of riders stood ready—ten in total, lean and stern, wearing the mark of Riverhelm.
Elyra stood at the front. She held a parchment in one hand, a sword in the other.
"I cannot spare an army," she said. "But I will send a blade. Ten men. Timber. Tools. Enough to rebuild. Enough to remind the Fractured Ring that we are not all shadows."
Mira exhaled. Joren straightened.
"Thank you, my lady," he said.
Elyra held up the parchment. "And this, your letter. Copied and sent to the Holds. Let them all hear: Greyrest still stands."
Then she turned to her riders.
"Ride hard. Ride fast. And remind them what it means to hold."
And with that, Riverhelm's gate opened not just for two, but for hope, carried on hooves and the strength of old oaths remembered.