The Western Marches were a lawless frontier. Without the High Council's Aether-infused guards, local warlords had risen, wielding crude iron swords and bows.
Lyra reached the village the farmer had described, but she found it in flames. A band of raiders was looting the granaries. In the center of the square, a group of villagers was huddled, guarded by men on horseback.
"Where is the healer?" the lead raider barked, his horse trampling a vegetable patch. "We heard he has a stash of 'Old World' silver."
"I have no silver," a voice rang out from a small stone hut.
A man stepped out. He was older than Kaelen had been perhaps in his late twenties now with a beard trimmed short and eyes that looked like they had seen the birth and death of stars. He wore a simple linen tunic, but he stood with a posture that made the raiders' horses shy away.