The road came into view just past dawn.
A narrow path carved between low hills, its stones sunken and dusted with age. Here and there, traces of the old border markings still lingered—faded signs, rotted posts, a shrine half-eaten by vines. Kaelar paused beside it and ran his hand over the weather-worn wood. The carving had once been sacred. Now it was barely legible.
He felt no reverence.
He moved on.
The trees thickened as he walked, and for the first time since he rose from the ash, birds stirred in the branches above. Small ones. Quiet. They didn't sing. They watched. Leaves rustled in dull breezes, and somewhere in the distance, a river whispered.
Signs of life. Signs of the kingdom.
His stride shifted. Slower. Measured.
He was nearing people.
He could not walk into the world looking like a revenant dragged from fire. His body, though healing, still bore the marks—scarred muscle, open scabs, blood-stiffened skin. His face had mended better than most of him, but even that carried a haunted sharpness. His eyes burned in dim light, and no one would mistake them for natural anymore.
He'd need a name. A story. A mask.
Fortunately, he had always known how to wear one.
He found what he needed near the edge of a farming hamlet.
The fields had been harvested early. Straw lay piled in damp clusters beside a broken cart. No guards. No watchers. Just a pair of boots left drying beside a shed and a coat hung from the fence.
Kaelar took them.
He washed in the trough, teeth clenched as cold water stung his wounds. His skin peeled in places. Bruises had bloomed down his ribs. The burns across his back were angry and red, but they no longer bled. He dressed slowly, careful not to tear the healing seams.
The coat was long, dark brown, wool-blend. The boots were too tight. He wrapped his hands in cloth. Covered the chains with leather cord. And when he looked at his reflection in the surface of the trough, he saw something closer to human.
Not him.
But close enough.
A passing farmer might call him a traveler. A merchant's guard. A laborer from the edge of the Vale.
They would not call him Kaelar.
Not yet.
The outer ring of Halren's domain began with a checkpoint—one of many. A squat, ugly gatehouse straddled the road ahead, built of stone and mudbrick. Its portcullis was up. Two guards loitered nearby, both in dull green tabards marked with the insignia of House Valarre: a spear wrapped in thorns.
He recognized it.
Once, they had ridden under his banner.
Now they guarded roads against ghosts.
Kaelar walked toward them with a traveler's gait—tired but steady, head down, cloak drawn close. When they glanced up, he offered a nod.
The older one spoke first. "State your name."
"Seren," he said, without hesitation.
The name tasted clean. Forgettable.
"From?"
"Vaet's Hollow. Looking for work."
The younger guard squinted. "What's with your hands?"
Kaelar smiled faintly, showing just enough teeth. "Fieldwork. Boar caught me wrong. Still bleeds now and then."
The guard snorted. "Hope you stuck it good."
Kaelar didn't answer. He let his eyes linger just a moment too long, not threatening—just curious enough to make the boy shift his weight.
"Move along," the older one said, already losing interest.
He did.
Beyond the checkpoint, the land opened into quiet sprawl.
Wheat fields. Stone fences. Small cottages speckled the horizon. Life, ordinary and soft. Children ran through puddles. Dogs barked. Women hung cloth from windows. All of it bathed in a golden morning haze.
It was almost beautiful.
He hated it.
Every smile made his fingers twitch.
Every moment of peace made his skin itch.
They had smiled like this the day before his execution.
He reached the outpost town of Ternstead by late afternoon.
A minor trade hub—less guarded, more welcoming. No walls. Just a central square surrounded by timber shops, sloped roofs, and gossip thick as mud. The scent of baking bread, spilled beer, and horse dung filled the air.
Kaelar passed unnoticed.
The coat helped. So did the posture. Slouched just slightly, arms at his sides, movements slow but never uncertain. The kind of man no one looks at twice unless he wants them to.
He entered a tavern called The Burnt Apple.
Inside: low ceilings, smoke-stained beams, half a dozen patrons.
He took a table near the window.
The barkeep brought him watered ale and crusted stew. He didn't complain. He hadn't tasted food in what felt like eternity. Even rot would have passed as divine.
He ate in silence.
Watched. Listened.
Two men at the far end argued over grain taxes. A girl whispered to her friend about a merchant lord's scandal. A bard tuned his harp in the corner, not yet brave enough to sing.
Nothing useful.
Until the door opened.
And someone from the past stepped through.
She wore courier's leathers. Dusty from travel, hood down, pale hair braided to one side. Her face was thinner than he remembered. Eyes sharper. She had the look of someone who had not rested in months—but still carried herself like a blade.
Her name was Arine.
Once, she had served as his contact in the capital—liaison between royal intelligence and the outer legions. She had known every whisper before it became law. And she had vanished three weeks before his execution.
He watched her order at the bar.
Watched her turn, ale in hand.
And watched her freeze when their eyes met.
Only for a second.
Then she moved to a different table, slow and deliberate.
But it was too late.
Kaelar rose.
Crossed the room in three steps.
Sat opposite her.
Silence.
She didn't speak right away. Her hands stayed on the tankard, knuckles tight.
He tilted his head slightly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"No," she said quietly. "You look like one."
Her voice hadn't changed. Dry, precise, just sharp enough to sting.
"I expected you to be dead," she added.
"I was."
She narrowed her eyes. "Then what are you now?"
Kaelar's smile was faint. "The result of someone else's mistake."
Another silence.
"You shouldn't be here," Arine said.
"I am."
"They'll kill you."
"They tried."
She looked down into her drink. "You don't look like him anymore."
"Good."
They spoke little after that.
But when she left, he followed.
And when she reached her horse, saddling in silence, she said without turning, "If you're going to make this worse… do it quickly."
"I'm not here for revenge," he said.
She looked back.
"I'm here to correct history."
Then he vanished into the streetlight.