Outskirts of Ternbray, Western Velgrath Borderlands
The rain gave way to mist, clinging to the trees like old guilt. By the time Aeron's group crested the ridge overlooking the hollow, the sky had soured to slate, and the valley below reeked of damp ash and roasted grain.
Ternbray, once a grain-hold under the House of Alderfall, lay in partial ruin—roofs caved, walls blackened by fire, but smoke still curled from three intact chimneys.
"Someone still lives," Harwin muttered.
"Or squats," Elric said, loosening his axe.
Aeron signaled for caution. They moved through the ruined streets in a loose diamond, boots sloshing through mud and scattered oats. The stone granary had collapsed, but the manor hall—long and flat, built into the hill—still stood. Its doors were barred from inside, yet a roasted scent wafted out.
"Meat," said the washer-widow. "Smells like goat."
A boy's voice called from behind the door: "State your banners or leave."
"No banners," Aeron answered. "We seek food and news."
A pause. Then the door creaked open.
Inside were seven people—five children, a gaunt woman with a stitched cheek, and a tall man with streaked black hair and a chipped shortblade tucked through his belt.
The man looked them over. "You've got steel. That makes you dangerous. Hungry?"
Aeron nodded once. "Enough to be polite."
That earned a dry smile. "Then sit. But don't lie."
The meal was served on wooden slats near the hearth—goat haunch, boiled roots, and black bread. The woman poured thick cider and passed no questions. The children stared but didn't speak.
After the second bite, Harwin whispered, "They've hosted strangers before."
"Too clean?" Aeron asked.
"Too calm. And no salt."
Aeron nodded once. The bread tasted fine. But the knives were laid out wrong—four at the host's side, one at each guest's place. And the youngest child's wrist bore fresh bruises.
He leaned forward. "Where's your lord?"
The tall man answered. "Alderfall's dead. Arrow through the jaw last spring. When the river levy failed."
"And the men who took his keep?"
"Wore no sigil. Said they served tribute. Took the barley, burned the grainhouse, left us this hall as a joke."
"Yet you're still standing."
The man met his gaze. "We're good at surviving jokes."
After the meal, Aeron stood slowly. "You fed us. I owe a truth."
He placed the half-cut coin on the table. The blackened side faced up.
The man's eyes twitched. His fingers brushed the hilt of his chipped blade.
"My father made ten of those," Aeron said quietly. "I buried him with one. I lost mine during exile. Now two have surfaced in two fortnights."
The man spoke slowly. "I knew one bearer. Died on the River Rusk. Left something in my care."
He turned. From beneath a floorboard, he drew a satchel wrapped in oilskin. Inside: a sealed scroll, a sigil ring marked with thorns, and a black ribbon tied in a precise, military knot.
Aeron stared at the ribbon. "That's a mourning bind. Used only by river captains after a blood oath."
The man nodded. "He said: 'Give this to the last Thorne, if he survives.'"
That night, Aeron sat alone near the coals, turning the ring in his hand.
He was not the last Thorne. But he might be the last who remembered.
And memory, like steel, could cut both ways.