The river bent wide, and beyond its curve Havenmoor rose in pale stone and silver banners.
Ashwyn stopped before the gates. He did not even set foot on the road that led across the bridge. The old Warden planted his staff in the soil and let the wind catch his cloak. Bramble padded up beside him, watchful, while Eldros shifted in the treeline, half-seen, half-felt. The prisoner sagged against the roots that bound him, and Ashwyn tapped them once so they tightened, just enough to remind him.
"I will not enter," Ashwyn said quietly. "Stone listens poorly. Trees tell me more. The land here is watching, and I'll keep watch with it."
Tamsin frowned. "Are you certain? You've been walking since dawn. There may be shelter, medicine—"
"I have what I need," Ashwyn said simply. "Go with them. See what waits inside. Learn what the town pretends to be."
She studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod. "Don't let him bleed out," she told him, tipping her head toward the raider.
Ashwyn's mouth curved like a secret smile. "Not until he's spoken every word he knows."
So Tamsin followed the others across the bridge.
---
Havenmoor opened like a painted page.
Its walls were pale limestone, tall but not grim, and ivy curled green and soft along their base. Banners of silver fish and golden wheat hung in the still air. The gates stood wide. Guards leaned easy on spears polished bright, their half-plate gleaming as if oiled each morning.
Inside, the streets were swept clean. Stalls spilled fruit and cheeses, honey glowed in glass jars, bolts of dyed cloth shone in the sun. The air smelled of bread and roasting meat, lavender, mint planted in the gutters so even the drains carried sweetness. Children played tag, shrieking with laughter. A man tuned a fiddle near the fountain, water dancing in arcs behind him.
Rowan slowed, his mouth half-open. He had forgotten towns could look like this. Forgotten that people could walk unafraid.
"Whole place looks dipped in soap," Brennar muttered, but his voice was lighter than usual. His eyes had already picked out the tavern sign—a painted boar lifting a tankard. "Now that," he said, "is a good omen."
Toren grinned wide, soaking in every sound. "I could live here," he said, almost giddy.
Nyx's lips barely moved. "Too clean. Too pleased with itself." She melted into the shadow of a doorway, her gaze tracking the guards on the tower.
Ari ignored the chatter, her sharp eyes already on a row of shops. "Fletchers," she said. "And a bowyer who knows his wood. I'll need coin."
Lyra tilted her head, listening past the crowd noise. A soft bray carried over the market hum. She smiled. "Stables," she said, almost to herself.
Brennar clapped Rowan on the back. "Come on, boy. A mug of ale and a plate of meat. Best cure for all the gloom."
Rowan managed a small smile, the warmth of the town sinking into him despite himself.
The group parted ways: Rowan, Brennar, and Toren pushed through the tavern doors with laughter already chasing them. Ari strode toward the bowyer's stall, Nyx trailing in her wake, vanishing and reappearing like smoke between carts. Tamsin and Lyra veered toward the sound of braying.
---
The stable yard was quiet, a patch of sun warming the flagstones. A boy brushed a mare, humming. Two dogs lay sprawled, tails thumping when Lyra crouched and tore a strip of bread to share with them.
"You'll get fat," she told them kindly, and they wagged as if they didn't mind.
A low, plaintive bray pulled her gaze to the last stall. A dun mule stood there, ears flicking, eyes dark and patient. Its packs were old, patched leather, sagging from long use.
"Hungry?" Lyra asked softly. She pulled a corner of bread from her pouch and held it out. The mule nibbled, chewed, and nosed her again.
Tamsin leaned on the post, arms crossed, watching. "You'll have nothing left if you keep that up."
Lyra laughed, but her hand was already reaching back into the pouch. Dried apples, a handful of oats, a heel of cheese. The mule took each, then pressed her again. Not greedy—just steady. Asking without shame.
Lyra's smile softened. "All right then. You can have the last of it." She gave her own date, the one she'd saved for herself. The mule ate it with a satisfied huff.
The air shifted. It wasn't just a breeze. The leather packs shivered. A faint shimmer ran across them like light on water. Lyra blinked, her hand still on the mule's nose, when something brushed her mind—warmth, gratitude, promise.
You fed me. I will carry what you cannot.
Lyra gasped. Tamsin's hand flew to her mouth. "By the Hollow," she whispered. "It's… it's bonding with you."
The mule's eyes held depth now, steady and endless as a well. The worn leather packs no longer sagged; they seemed deeper, shadowed, as if space itself bent inside them. Lyra tugged one flap open and dropped in her herb satchel. It vanished as though into a pond. She reached back inside—and her hand closed around thyme as if she had known exactly where it was.
Her laugh was startled, bright. "Endless," she whispered. "It carries everything."
Tamsin shook her head in awe. "I've never seen a spirit take form before. Never. And to choose you—" Her eyes softened. "Lyra, this is… rare."
Lyra stroked the mule's brow, her voice hushed. "Your name is Bounty."
The mule snorted once, stamping lightly as if in agreement.
At the stable door, Ari's voice carried. "What in the gods' names did I just see?" She stepped into the yard, new quiver at her hip. Nyx followed, leaning on the post with a smirk, though her eyes were sharp.
"Looks like she fed it until the world itself took notice," Nyx said. "Kindness made flesh. Or mule, in this case."
Ari studied the animal, then Lyra. "Another Soulkin," she said slowly. Her tone was not jealous, only stunned. "The spirits are with us."
Lyra's cheeks flushed, but her smile stayed. "I didn't plan it. I just… couldn't stop giving."
"That," Tamsin said quietly, "was the trial. And you passed without knowing."
The mule flicked an ear and lowered its head into Lyra's palm.
---
The tavern was a riot of warmth and noise. Brennar's laugh boomed above the music, tankard already in his hand. Toren had matched him drink for drink, his cheeks red, eyes bright. Rowan tried to keep up, though his smile was smaller, his face flushed from his first strong ale.
The door opened. Ari stepped in, Lyra and Tamsin close behind. Nyx slipped in last, eyes sweeping the corners. The trio at the table barely noticed until Ari's voice cut through the noise.
"You'll want to sober up," she said, flat and steady. "Lyra has gained a Soulkin."
The tavern noise went on, mugs clattering, fiddle tuning, but at their table, everything stilled. Rowan blinked, Brennar set his drink down slow, Toren's grin froze in place.
Lyra touched her hand to her chest, still flushed from the bond. Behind her, Bounty's bray drifted faintly from the yard.
The chapter closed on the silence that followed.