The wind smelled of blood before he saw the wreck.
Corren was following a broken trail through the woods—branches snapped in unnatural angles, muddy wheels etched deep into the earth. Then came the fire. Not much. Just embers. And the shape of a carriage tipped on its side, half-buried in a thicket.
Six bodies lay scattered in the clearing. Five of them dressed in dark leather, masks still clinging to bloodless faces. Assassins.
The sixth wore the crest of a noble house, armor scorched and blade broken in hand. A guard. Dead. Only just.
Corren stepped into the smoke.
A whimper sounded near the ruin.
Two children crouched beneath the overturned carriage. A boy and a girl—twins, maybe six years old. They were wrapped in travel cloaks that looked too fine for the mud they now wore. The girl held a small dagger in shaking fingers. The boy clung to her arm.
"Stay back," she said, voice small but brave.
"I'm not one of them," Corren answered.
The girl's eyes narrowed. "Everyone says that."
He knelt. "I kill quietly when I want to. And I wouldn't waste time talking if I were here to hurt you."
That gave them pause. The boy looked at his sister. She nodded.
"I'm Merrian," the girl said. "This is my brother, Maxwell."
Corren gave no name.
Merrian studied him like she was used to being the smartest person in the room. "You're not normal."
"No," Corren said. "I'm not."
Before anything more could be said, the wind shifted. Hard. Wrong.
Corren stood, eyes scanning. The song returned—not one, but many. Six. Their tones distinct. One pulsed sharp like steel on glass. Another, soft and sly like a lullaby hummed too slowly.
Then one more. Louder. More complex. A swirling rhythm threaded with razor-sharp gusts.
Mage.
The first assassin appeared at the treeline. Crossbow in hand, he didn't even get the bolt loosed. Corren's knife struck his throat before the man realized he'd been seen.
Then they came fast.
The second and third rushed from opposite sides. Corren spun low, slashed one across the knee, then used the man's own falling weight to block the other. His sword—Virellen—was vibrating faster now, the strange metallic green edge humming with deadly energy. The more songs that surrounded him, the more it responded. Like it was feeding off the tension between life and death. A quick thrust ended both.
The fourth fell to a thrown blade.
But the fifth was the mage.
She floated several feet above the ground, cloaked in swirling air. Her fingers moved in sharp, angular patterns. Wind gathered at her back like wings.
Corren felt her song—it was furious. Proud. Laced with something deeper than hate. A need to prove.
She hurled a blast of compressed wind that shattered bark from a tree inches from his head. He ducked and rolled, but another blast caught his leg mid-motion, sending him tumbling.
She descended like a hawk.
The next gust came, sharper this time, meant to cut. He dodged—barely.
Then something clicked inside him. A shift.
His breath deepened. His mind sharpened. His limbs moved with more precision, more strength than before—like something inside had been holding back and now, finally, released.
He had broken through.
Warden Bearer.
The song didn't just warn him. It opened.
He felt her fear—buried under years of obedience. The guilt of failed missions. The need to be seen. She wasn't killing for gold. She was killing to matter.
Corren moved with that knowledge. He feinted left, drew her attack, then closed the gap. Her eyes widened as he got too close. Too fast.
His blade met her side just beneath the ribs.
The wind died.
She collapsed, eyes already glassing.
The sixth assassin ran. Corren let him.
He returned to the twins. Merrian was standing guard, blade still in hand. Maxwell cried quietly into her sleeve.
"They're gone," Corren said. "You're safe. For now."
Merrian looked up. Her lip trembled, but she held it still. "They killed everyone."
"I know."
"Are you going to take us?" she asked.
He paused.
"Where?"
"To Velcrith. To our grandfather."
Corren's stomach twisted. Velcrith was the seat of the northern Duke.
Grandfather.
He didn't know who these children were. Not for certain. But something in their faces—something in their bearing—hinted at names and bloodlines he'd rather not cross.
Still, he looked at them. Two small, trembling figures. Orphans for the day, but not for life.
"I'll take you," he said.
Merrian's shoulders relaxed.
Maxwell looked up. "Promise?"
Corren nodded. "Promise."
The wind had stilled.