The mist had not lifted even by midday. Kaelen rode through the grey shroud, the world muted around him. Trees stood like silent sentinels, their branches heavy with dew. Each hoofbeat of his stallion echoed with strange finality, as though the land itself marked his passage.
For the first time in weeks, there was no roar of battle, no cries of the dying. Only quiet. Yet that quiet weighed heavier than any war cry.
He glanced back once, though Solareth's walls had long since vanished behind the veil of mist. A pang struck his chest — not just of duty, but of something more dangerous: longing. He had left part of himself behind in that city, in the eyes of the woman who had entrusted him with her people's future.
By the third day, Kaelen crossed the broken ridges of Elreth's Spine, a mountain pass where jagged stone carved at the sky. The path was treacherous, and twice his horse nearly slipped where rain had turned the rock to glass.
At night, he camped beneath the stars. The firelight danced across his armor, and in its glow he traced the faint veins of darkness that sometimes pulsed along his forearm — the lingering mark of the Veil's corruption.
He clenched his fist, shoving the sleeve down.
Not here. Not now.
But in the silence of the wild, when no eyes watched him, he could almost hear the whispers. A voice like oil, smooth and suffocating, curling at the edges of his thoughts.
You carry us still.
No matter how far you ride, we ride with you.
He pressed a hand against his temple until the whispers receded. He told himself they were only echoes of the siege, scars of the battle. But the unease gnawed deeper with every passing mile.
On the fifth day, the mist gave way to open plains. Kaelen's relief was short-lived. A whistle split the air, followed by the sudden thunk of an arrow embedding itself into the earth before his horse's hooves.
From the ridges above, shadows emerged — ragged men with cruel smiles, bows strung and blades drawn. Bandits, perhaps once soldiers who had turned to raiding in the chaos that followed the Veil's incursions.
Their leader stepped forward, a scarred man with a wolfskin cloak. "Fine armor for a lone rider," he sneered. "Lay down your sword, stranger, and maybe we'll let you keep your horse."
Kaelen dismounted slowly, his expression unreadable. The bandits laughed, mistaking his calm for fear.
Then steel sang.
The first to charge fell before he even realized Kaelen had drawn his blade. The second tried to flank him, only to find the knight's gauntleted fist smashing his jaw. Kaelen moved like a storm — precise, relentless, unyielding.
Within moments, the laughter had turned to screams.
The leader, trembling, dropped his blade and stumbled back. "W-who are you?"
Kaelen's blade hovered at the man's throat. His voice was low, cold. "Remember this. Solareth still stands. And its defenders are not so easily broken."
He sheathed his blade and walked away, leaving the bandits to scatter like frightened dogs.
Yet even in victory, the whispers stirred again.
You relished that. The kill. The fear in their eyes. You could have ended them all, but you chose mercy. Why?
Kaelen gritted his teeth, refusing to answer the voice only he could hear.
By the ninth day, Kaelen reached the gates of Varrowyn, a border stronghold known for its silver mines and stone walls. Unlike Solareth, Varrowyn had not yet tasted the full force of the Veil's corruption. The markets bustled, and banners flew proudly. Yet beneath the surface, Kaelen sensed unease.
At the gates, guards eyed him warily. His armor bore Solareth's crest, blackened though it was. When he declared his purpose — envoy of Queen Serenya, seeking council with Lord Deyran of Varrowyn — the guards exchanged skeptical glances before reluctantly allowing him passage.
Inside, the city felt… strained. Whispers followed him, merchants pulling their children close, nobles casting suspicious glances. To them, Solareth was a kingdom scarred, its queen weakened, its future uncertain.
When Kaelen entered Lord Deyran's hall, he found the noble seated upon a high dais, a man of middle years with calculating eyes.
"So," Deyran said, voice smooth as silk, "the rumors were true. Solareth survived its fall… though just barely. And it sends me a knight with no name, no lineage, to beg for aid."
Kaelen stiffened but bowed. "I come not to beg, my lord, but to speak truth. The Veil's corruption does not stop at Solareth's walls. Already its creatures spread across the wild lands. When they come for Varrowyn, your walls will not hold alone."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered nobles.
Deyran smirked. "You speak boldly, for a man whose city smolders."
"I speak as one who has seen what you have not," Kaelen replied, voice steady. "You may doubt Solareth. Doubt me. But doubt the threat at your peril."
The hall grew tense. Kaelen could feel their eyes upon him — some fearful, some dismissive.
Finally, Lord Deyran leaned back. "We shall see. For now, Varrowyn will not march blindly to Solareth's call. But perhaps… if you can prove yourself, knight, then your queen's plea may carry more weight."
Kaelen inclined his head, though inside his patience burned. Politics was a slower battlefield, but no less dangerous.
That evening, Kaelen lodged at a modest inn on Varrowyn's outskirts. The tavern air was thick with smoke and ale, the laughter of miners mingling with the clatter of mugs. Yet even here, whispers of the Veil lingered.
He caught fragments of conversation:
"Solareth's fallen, haven't you heard?"
"They say their queen made a pact with shadows."
"No, it was her knight — cursed by the Veil itself…"
Kaelen's jaw clenched. His hand drifted unconsciously toward his arm, where the dark veins sometimes pulsed. Were the rumors already spreading? Or did the corruption betray him without words?
Before he could dwell, a voice cut through the din.
"You're the knight from Solareth, aren't you?"
A figure slid into the seat across from him — a young woman with cropped black hair and a scar along her cheek. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, unafraid.
Kaelen's hand lingered near his blade. "And you are?"
"Someone who doesn't trust Lord Deyran," she said flatly. "Name's Lysera. Used to serve in Solareth's border watch before the Veil took my outpost. Now I serve no lord."
Kaelen studied her. She carried herself like a soldier, though her armor was mismatched and worn.
"What do you want from me?" he asked.
"To help you. Or perhaps to test you. Word is, you fight like no man alive. If that's true, then maybe you're worth following. If not…" She smirked. "Then I drink, and you go on your way."
Kaelen leaned back, wary yet intrigued. Allies rarely came unbidden, and trust was a currency more precious than gold.
For the first time since leaving Solareth, he allowed himself the faintest spark of hope.