BLACK HOLLOW
The forest was colder in Black Hollow — not by temperature, but by presence. Even the trees stood differently there: crooked like broken backs, silent like they'd seen too much and spoken too little. Fog curled around the roots like snakes coiled in prayer, and every breath tasted like ash and metal.
Damon rode at the front, his eyes narrowing beneath the cowl of his hood. His axe rested sheathed across his back, but he felt the pull of it — as if the blade itself sensed what they were walking into.
They had found it.
The route.
The vein through which Travis had been pumping rot across regions.
Black Hollow, that damned, twisting throat between Braemorin and Stonecrest — perfect for smuggling things no man should trade in.
Two days ago, it had only been a suspicion. Now, it bled before them.
They came under night. Damon preferred it that way. So did his Kingsmen. They were his blades, his mind when fury threatened to consume him. Each man as sharp as the next. Not many could ride beside a man like Damon Dragarth. These did.
The first caravan had three wagons. Covered. Heavy. Guarded by ten men dressed in worn steel.
There was no conversation, only movement. Blades sang low in the night. Arrows whispered across the silence. When it ended, only the Kingsmen stood.
Damon pulled the flap on the first wagon.
His body tensed. His breath caught.
Inside, twenty… maybe twenty-five girls.
Eyes wide, skin dirtied, bodies trembling.
Some looked too tired to weep. Others too broken to understand they'd been saved.
Their dresses — if you could call them that — were torn cloth, scraps barely clinging to their frames. One girl, no older than fourteen, looked up at him. Her lip was split. Her arms held another child to her chest.
She whispered, "Please… please don't take us."
Damon's jaw clenched. He stepped back. Leon appeared at his shoulder.
"What now?" he said, voice tight,
"Braemorin," Damon said, finally. "Send them to Captain Elric. Tell him not to let the girls out of sight. Feed them. Clothe them. Keep them safe."
The second caravan came the next day — same path, same godless trade. This one was worse.
Men. Boys. Fathers. Sons.
Chained together like livestock. Their backs bore the memory of whips. Some had no teeth. Some had no eyes. All of them had blood on them that didn't look like their own.
Roran opened one of the wagons and turned away to retch.
Damon didn't speak. He couldn't. Not for a long while.
One of the prisoners crawled forward, chains dragging, and held Damon's boots. "Thank you," he croaked. "Thank you…"
The Kingsmen moved quickly. No survivors among the enemy. No message left behind. No trace to warn Travis.
That was the goal.
Silence.
Surprise.
And when Damon would finally ride into that man's camp, it would not be with banners.
It would be with vengeance.
***************
The stone halls of Arkenfall echoed with the rhythm of footsteps — three pairs, weaving through sunlight-drenched corridors dressed with crimson tapestries and the soft gleam of golden sconces.
"…and that's why the Banner of Rulic is never lowered," Gareth was saying, his voice light with amusement. "Even when the lord of the province dies — they keep the banner raised for a full fortnight. Mourning, yes. But also to confuse potential enemies. Clever, really."
Neriah's brow arched. "But isn't that sort of dishonest?"
"Absolutely." Gareth grinned. "That's politics."
She let out a laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls like music.
Lady Rhea walked to Neriah's left, her hands clasped neatly behind her back. "The Banners are more than politics," she said, her tone even and precise. "Each one tells a story. A history of allegiance, sacrifice, betrayal, and blood. You'd do well to remember them all. Someday, someone may judge you by how well you know their house's colors."
"I've been studying," Neriah replied, not missing a beat. "
They turned into a quieter corridor, one that led to the old scriptorium. The smell of parchment and cedar oil lingered faintly in the air.
Gareth slowed his steps. "I have to leave you two now," he said, adjusting the folds of his cloak. He turned to Neriah then, his gaze fond. "You're doing well, Neriah. Don't let the Mistress of Accord make your head explode. She means well."
Lady Rhea raised a brow but said nothing.
Neriah smiled at the King's hand and stepped ahead, Rhea prepared to follow — but Gareth called her name.
"Rhea."
She turned slightly.
"Try being nicer." His voice dropped an octave — not mocking, not commanding. Just… gentle.
Rhea paused. Then gave him a small, tight smile. "I'm trying."
She turned and moved to catch up with Neriah, her stride even, her head high.
Gareth watched them for a moment, their figures retreating into sunlight and shadow.
Then, the soft scrape of boots sounded behind him.
A guard approached — young, armor polished, eyes sharp. He bowed wordlessly and held out a sealed letter.
Gareth took it without a word. His gaze flicked over the wax seal — a falcon's wing pressed deep into red. Recognition flickered in his eyes.
He didn't open it.
Just slipped it inside the folds of his tunic and turned down the hall, the weight of something unspoken pressing on his back.