The descent from the hill was longer than it had seemed.
The road wound in gentle curves along the slope, bordered by low dry-stone walls that separated the path from the cultivated fields arranged in terraces. As the three riders advanced, the air gradually changed—the clean wind of the highlands gave way to a denser scent, heavy with woodsmoke, horse manure, the sweat of crowds, and the sweet perfume of ripe fruit rotting in the roadside ditches. Alfra drew closer not only through sight, but through smell and sound, as though the city possessed a living body that could be felt long before its walls came into view.
Rurik sniffed loudly, wrinkling his broad nose.
"Smell of civilization. I always forget how much I hate it."
"You spent three weeks in Mirior," Bjorn observed without taking his eyes from the road.
"Mirior smelled like swamp and misery. This is different. Here it smells like too many people, too much food, and too much silver. I don't know which is worse."
"At least no one here tries to charge you a fee to cross a bridge that collapsed last winter," Bjorn said.
"No, here they just charge three times as much for a room with a wall that doesn't let the wind in."
Akel listened to the exchange without joining in. His eyes swept across the sides of the road with careful attention, mapping the movements of wagons and pedestrians that grew thicker by the minute. Peasants led mules laden with firewood; a group of pilgrims in patched robes walked in a line, chanting softly; merchants escorted by armed guards occupied nearly the entire width of the road with their covered wagons. The traffic flowed with a certain chaotic order, as if everyone shared an unspoken agreement that no one had time to yield, but no one wanted to pay the cost of a collision either.
The first outer wall appeared before them.
It was massive, built from gray stone blocks worn by centuries of wind and rain, yet still imposing. Watchtowers rose at regular intervals, each crowned with banners fluttering against the orange sky. The main gate—an arched double entrance reinforced with wrought iron—swallowed a continuous stream of people, animals, and vehicles under the supervision of guards wearing chainmail and tabards bearing Umbria's colors.
Akel slowed his mount, allowing Bjorn to take the lead.
"Entry fee?" he asked.
"Already paid," Bjorn replied without looking back. "Selena sent the transit seals with a messenger last week."
"Of course she did," Rurik muttered, adjusting the blanket over his shoulders. "That woman won't even let the wind into camp without first charging it a symbolic toll and recording the name of the gust in triplicate."
"And thanks to that, you don't have to hand over three silver coins to cross this gate," Bjorn reminded him.
"I'd rather hand over three coins than spend half an hour listening to Selena complain that you delayed the itinerary because of a tavern brawl."
"The brawl was yours."
"And you took too long to help me get out of it, which makes you an accomplice."
"I prefer the term 'passive observer.'"
"The term you prefer only reinforces my argument."
Akel almost smiled.
The gate swallowed them.
The sound of the city crashed over them like a wave.
Akel had passed through Alfra on other occasions, but the impression was always the same: a constant pressure on the senses, a calculated overload of noise, color, and movement that made Mirior seem like a sleepy village on the edge of oblivion. The streets were paved with broad, regular stones, worn down in the center by years of traffic. Three- and four-story buildings lined the main road, their dark wooden facades and masonry walls rising like cliffs that narrowed the sky overhead. Guild and tavern signs hung above the doors, swaying in the wind, while the upper windows jutted outward, allowing residents to watch the movement below without abandoning their daily chores.
Rurik pulled on the reins to avoid a street vendor pushing a cart loaded with smoked fish, the salty smell mixing with the sweat of the crowd.
"How can so many people live packed together in this anthill without the gods deciding to sink the city out of sheer boredom?" he grumbled.
"The gods have patience," Bjorn replied, "but tax collectors don't."
"And where's the camp?"
"Eastern district, beyond the second wall. Iron Gate."
"Are we going around the center?"
"If we try to cross the center now, we'll arrive tomorrow."
Akel agreed with a nod and followed Bjorn down a side street that climbed diagonally away from the main flow. The passage narrowed between tinsmith workshops and urban storehouses, where barefoot apprentices ran about carrying buckets of water and tools. The air smelled of charcoal, grease, and sawdust; the hammering of the smithies echoed steadily, like the heart of an iron beast buried beneath the city's foundations.
They crossed a small market covered by patched awnings. Women haggled over sacks of flour; a butcher cleaned his knife on a dark cloth; children chased a skinny dog between the stalls, laughing loudly. No one paid attention to the three riders. In Alfra, armed men were simply another category of passerby.
Akel noticed that Rurik had stopped complaining. The dwarf watched the stalls with sharp eyes, evaluating prices and goods with the speed of someone who had spent his entire life bargaining at roadside markets. Bjorn maintained a steady pace, leading them with the confidence of someone who knew every shortcut.
"How long until Iron Gate?" Akel asked.
"Less than half an hour, if we don't have to detour around a religious procession."
"There are processions?"
"There always are. But this week the guards have been dispersing the larger ones. Apparently, some preachers have been using the streets to speak about the 'rights of creatures.' A subject the merchants would rather not hear about."
"Merchant wisdom," Rurik commented. "Nothing scares away customers faster than someone shouting about werewolves and vampires while you're trying to sell cabbages."
"Have you heard one of those speeches?" Akel asked.
Bjorn hesitated for a moment.
"One. In Mirior."
Akel waited.
"He was a middle-aged man, wearing a tattered robe, with feverish eyes. He spoke about how humans had hunted and persecuted 'ancient races' out of fear and greed. He said monsters don't simply appear from nowhere, that they are the fruit of human cruelty."
"Fruit of cruelty?" Rurik repeated skeptically. "Has he ever seen a Kieran up close?"
"I doubt it."
"Then he doesn't know what he's talking about."
"Perhaps not," Bjorn admitted. "But people were listening. And they weren't merely curious."
Akel silently stored the information away.
The street opened onto a wider avenue that followed the base of the second wall. The nature of the traffic changed there: more soldiers, more supply wagons, more mercenaries with weapons openly displayed. Campaign camps, shipyards, and stables occupied large plots of land enclosed by wooden stakes.
When they reached Iron Gate—a lower, narrower passage flanked by two squat towers—Bjorn raised a hand, signaling them to stop beneath the shade of an old chestnut tree.
"Before we continue," he said, turning in his saddle, "it's worth knowing what awaits you at the camp."
Akel watched him.
"I thought you'd already told me."
"I told you part of it. The public part."
"And now you're going to tell me the part no one likes to talk about?"
"Something like that."
Bjorn removed one hand from the reins and slowly rubbed the back of his neck, as though searching for the right words. Rurik, for the first time, remained silent, his eyes fixed on the gate towers.
"Rodric hasn't changed much," Bjorn began. "He's still the same leader you left behind. Firm, calculating, tired. But the Pardas' pressure has gotten worse. They aren't just stealing contracts anymore. They're spreading rumors."
"What kind?"
"That the Levis company can't be trusted. That we abandoned allies in the north. That our men disappear without explanation and return months later as if nothing happened."
The implication was obvious. Akel felt his jaw tighten.
"They're talking about me," he said without inflection.
Bjorn nodded.
"Some of the rumors. Not all of them. But enough to make certain nobles hesitate before striking a deal."
"And the baron of Umbria?"
"Keeping the door half-open. He hasn't signed anything. He hasn't refused either. He's waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
Bjorn met Akel's crimson eyes.
"A gesture. Proof that the Levis are still worthy of trust."
Silence fell between them, heavy and still.
Akel looked toward Iron Gate, where lanterns were beginning to glow from brackets along the walls. Evening was dying quickly, and Alfra's night brought with it a thin mist rising from the distant river.
"I didn't come back to serve as proof," Akel said at last.
"No one is asking you to."
"But Rodric will want me to stay."
Bjorn did not deny it.
Akel looked away.
Iron Gate passed quickly. The guards recognized the seals they presented and allowed them through without difficulty. The district beyond was less dense, made up of large walled plots, repair workshops, lumber depots, and semi-permanent camps belonging to mercenary companies. Campfires dotted the open ground, while the sound of hammers, sharpening wheels, and male voices rose into the night air.
They followed a packed gravel road alongside a stream of dark water. On the left, silhouettes of tents and wagons stood against the orange glow of campfires. On the right, the city walls rose like a silent backdrop.
Then they saw the banner.
A spear planted in the earth, bearing a strip of dark blue cloth with the embroidered symbol of a blade crossed by an oak branch.
The Levis banner.
Akel felt his stomach tighten slightly.
The camp was not small. There were perhaps twelve tents arranged in a semicircle around a central fire, along with covered wagons, a portable forge, and a makeshift enclosure for the horses. The forge was burning brightly—the pulsing glow illuminated the squat figure of Thornin, Rurik's brother, hammering a piece of metal against the anvil with steady, powerful blows. The smell of hot iron and charcoal mixed with the aroma of stew spreading through the air.
"The dwarf is working," Rurik muttered, as though it were a personal offense. "Always hammering. The man never rests."
"He's making the wagon hinges," Bjorn explained. "Borges said they needed to be replaced before the next journey."
"Hinges. What glorious work for a smith of his clan."
"At least he's contributing."
Rurik gave him an offended look.
"I contribute with my presence, Bjorn. It's a heavy burden I carry bravely every day."
Akel dismounted slowly.
The ground beneath his boots was dry and cold. The hammer continued its rhythmic pounding, but as soon as the riders were spotted, the rhythm broke.
Thornin raised his head first. Then, one by one, other faces appeared between the tents.
Perta, her hands covered in flour, appeared at the entrance of the supply tent. Perk and Pirk stopped their game of dice near the fire. Borges, sitting atop a stack of sacks, slowly closed the notebook resting on his knees. Elbi, leaning against the canvas clothesline, merely watched with her clear, expressionless eyes.
Then a tall figure with graying hair tied back stepped away from the entrance of the main tent.
Rodric.
He did not run. Nor did he shout. He simply walked toward Akel with the firm, measured stride of a man who had commanded soldiers for decades. His steps were steady, but there was something in his shoulders—a tension slowly easing, almost imperceptibly—that betrayed the relief he kept contained.
Selena appeared just behind him, her hands clean and her travel dress covered by a green wool shawl. Her eyes swept over Akel from head to toe with the speed of a precise assessment, weighing damage, exhaustion, and wounds.
Rodric stopped two steps away.
"You're back."
It was not a question.
"I'm back," Akel replied, his voice low.
The silence around them was almost complete. Even Thornin had lowered his hammer.
"I hope you're not just passing through," Rodric added, his eyes hard as stone, though his mouth betrayed the slightest effort not to show more.
Akel did not answer.
Selena snorted and crossed her arms.
"Four months, Akel. Four. Not a letter, not a message. Nothing. And the boy shows up as though he went out yesterday to buy tobacco."
"I don't smoke," Akel said.
"And you don't write. Maybe that's the problem."
A low laugh escaped Bjorn. Rurik discreetly elbowed him in the arm.
Rodric ignored the exchange.
"Come. We have things to discuss."
He turned and walked back toward the main tent. Akel remained still for a moment, feeling the weight of the eyes around him. They were not hostile. They were simply... attentive. Curious.
Then Selena passed him and, before following her husband, murmured:
"Carina is going to want to know you've arrived."
Akel did not move.
The mention of the name fell like an ember onto dry straw.
He looked toward the fire. Perk and Pirk had abandoned their dice. Perta was smiling discreetly. Elbi had already walked away.
And near the horse enclosure, a slender, motionless figure was watching.
Carina.
She did not wave. She did not smile. She merely raised her chin slightly, as though acknowledging an old debt and still deciding whether she intended to collect it.
Akel looked away.
And walked after Rodric.
---
The main tent was larger than it appeared from outside.
A folding table occupied the center, covered with maps, letters, and supply lists. Two cast-iron candle holders cast yellowish light over the papers, creating long shadows that trembled across the canvas walls. Wooden benches, travel chests, and, in one corner, a weapons rack holding two training swords completed the interior.
Rodric stood beside the table, his knuckles resting against the edge of the map, his eyes fixed on a point among the routes drawn across it.
Selena closed the canvas flap behind them.
"Speak," Rodric said without ceremony.
Akel remained standing.
"About what?"
"About what you know. About what you saw. About what's happening beyond the borders."
"More than the rumors?"
Rodric raised his head.
"Much more."
Akel considered for a moment. Then, in a low and controlled voice, he told them what he could: his conversation with Harlan, the strange movements of the monsters, the abandoned nests, the creatures leaving their old territories, and the discreet presence of the Order. The words came in short sentences, without emotion, as though he were reciting a report.
Rodric listened without interrupting.
Selena, leaning against a chest, merely frowned.
When Akel finished, silence settled over the tent once more.
"And you think this has something to do with the Pardas?" Rodric asked.
"Not directly," Akel replied. "But if the monsters are migrating, the hunting contracts will change. And if the Order is involved, it isn't because of money."
"The Order never gets involved without a reason."
"Exactly."
Rodric straightened and crossed his arms.
"So you came looking for answers."
"I came to understand," Akel corrected. "And to keep someone I know from dying because they didn't know what was coming."
The sentence hung in the air.
Selena looked at her husband. Rodric kept his eyes on Akel, weighing every word.
"If that's the case, you'll need more than good intentions," Rodric said.
"I know."
"And you'll need to trust us."
This time, Akel did not answer.
Rodric sighed, running a hand over his face, weathered by sun and war.
"I'm glad you came back."
Akel said nothing.
But for a moment, the silence between them seemed less empty.