The Borderwood, Two Leagues East of Ternbray
The mist thickened into fog, and the trees grew close enough to whisper. Aeron's band rode quietly now, bellies full, hearts uneasy. Each tree seemed to lean with intent, every crow's cry a warning. The Borderwood had long been called the "Mourner's Cloak" by locals—too dense, too dark, and thick with ghosts that never made a sound.
Harwin rode a half-step behind Aeron, one hand ever near his hilt. "Don't like riding with full stomachs and unknown debts."
"They fed us without poison," Aeron murmured. "That counts for mercy."
"Or cowardice. The man knew who you were. That coin's become your herald."
"Then best I start acting like someone worth following."
From behind them, the boy—still unnamed by his own choosing—watched with narrowed eyes, half-listening to every exchange. Elric rode at the rear, humming a half-drunk marching tune that made the widow wince.
Then they saw it.
A thin spiral of smoke, no wider than a knife's edge, curling through the trees just ahead. Not cookfire smoke. Not hearth.
Signal smoke.
Aeron raised his fist. The company halted without a word. The boy instinctively slid off his pony and began moving low along the underbrush. Harwin blinked at that.
"He's been watching you," the knight muttered. "Mimics you, too."
"He learns quick," Aeron replied.
"So did ghosts."
They advanced slowly. The smoke rose from a glade circled by stone cairns—six, freshly built, moss still bleeding where it had been peeled. In the center: a single iron pot hanging above a flame that burned too hot for wet wood.
Then came the whistle—low, three notes. Echoed back once. A pattern they'd heard before.
Aeron whispered, "Same signal as at the Widow's Hearth."
"Then we're being watched," Harwin said grimly.
"Not watched. Summoned."
They found her seated on a stone slab at the far edge of the glade, cloaked in bark-brown wool. Her hair was braided with dried thistle, her skin pale as birch, lips dyed blue with winterberry. No weapon was visible, but her posture was too perfect to be untrained.
"I knew your father," she said. Her voice held the weight of knells.
"So does half the realm," Aeron replied.
"But I remember how he died."
That silenced him.
She gestured to the cairns. "He's not in any of these. But one of his men is. Garl Vess, River Steward. Cut down trying to ferry news across the Rusk."
She stood, moving like smoke. "He carried your father's last seal. Broken and scorched. The seal's wax bore the sign of a pact long forgotten."
"What pact?" Aeron asked.
"Between Thornes and those who remember how to disappear."
Harwin stepped forward. "And what do you want in return? No one gives history for free."
The woman smiled faintly. "What I want… is to ensure he survives long enough to make use of it."
She handed Aeron a folded cloth. Inside was a map—crude, but recent. Marked with troop movements, roads, and supply caches hidden in forgotten ruins. The sign of the Velstrom March was circled in red.
Aeron studied it. "You're with the old roadsmen. The ones who ran the covert rails during the Grain Wars."
"Some still live," she said. "And we remember who bled when lords toasted."
As dusk fell, the woman vanished into the forest, as if she'd never been. Aeron folded the map and tucked it into his sleeve.
"We ride south," he said. "There's more to claim than old keeps and memories."
The boy finally spoke. "Will we find a place?"
Aeron didn't look back. "No," he said. "We'll make one."