The river looked harmless.
It wound between moss-covered stones and low-hanging branches, glinting in the midday light. The current was faster than it appeared, but the surface sang quiet and calm.
Corren felt it before he heard it—a wrongness. Not a sound. A song.
Faint. Flickering.
He turned just in time to see Maxwell slipping on the bank, his small foot caught in slick mud. The boy stumbled forward, arms flailing, and the river surged like it had been waiting.
Corren moved.
One moment he was on the trail. The next, knee-deep in the icy water, snatching Maxwell's cloak before the current could claim him. The boy gasped and clung to his arm.
"You all right?" Corren asked, breath low.
Maxwell nodded, eyes wide.
Merrian stood at the edge, pale. "He just slipped—one second, and—"
"I know," Corren said. "But I felt it."
He didn't explain.
He never did.
Velcrith came into view two days later.
High walls of pale stone, flags fluttering from its towers. Wide gates flanked by guards in polished steel. A city built to withstand both weather and war.
The twins went quiet as they approached. Merrian gripped Maxwell's hand tighter. Corren walked them right up to the edge.
"Go to the gates," he said. "Tell them your names. You'll be safe from here."
"You're not coming?" Merrian asked.
"No."
"But—"
"I keep promises. I never said more than that."
He turned before they could answer. Took the side path into the woods. Didn't look back.
The northern keep was carved from ancient stone, half-fortress, half-manor. Its halls echoed with footsteps and worry.
Duke Stilleon stood at the top of the stairwell, hands white-knuckled around the balustrade. His advisors had spoken of assassins. Of a destroyed carriage. Of no survivors.
Until now.
The gates opened.
Merrian and Maxwell burst through like windblown leaves, cloaks torn, cheeks flushed. He reached them in three strides.
"Grandfather!" they cried together.
He dropped to his knees, arms around them both, breath caught between relief and disbelief.
"I thought you were—"
"We almost were," Merrian said. "But he saved us."
"Who?"
She paused. Looked up at him. "A man. With a strange sword. He didn't tell us his name."
Maxwell added, "He fights like a monster. A good one."
The Duke took them inside, fed and washed, listened to every word.
Later, in his study, Merrian recounted the story again. Fewer tears this time. More detail. The mage. The river. The quiet firelight.
"He never slept," she said. "He always knew where danger was."
The Duke's face darkened.
He pulled a drawer from his desk. Took out a parchment. A poster.
WANTED – ALIVE.
The sketch stared back at him.
He turned it to face her.
"Was this the man?"
Merrian leaned forward. Studied it carefully. Then she nodded.
"Yes. That's him. The sword wasn't in the drawing, but the face is close enough. Why is he being hunted, Grandfather?"
He didn't answer right away.
Because the man who saved them was the same man his daughter feared. The same man the Baroness had ordered watched, tracked, captured if found.
But Merrian's eyes were steady. Not afraid.
"He saved us, Grandfather. That's all that matters."
He folded the poster. Quietly.
"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps that is."