The road north stopped pretending to be a road before midday.
Stone gave way to packed dirt, then to ruts carved by wagons that no longer came this way. Grass pushed up through the gaps, tough and pale, bending under Kael's boots before springing back. There were no markers, no patrol signs, no sigils carved into stone to remind travelers who owned the land.
The farther he walked, the quieter the world felt.
Not empty.
Unclaimed.
Kael adjusted the pack on his shoulder and kept moving.
The presence inside him reacted to the change almost immediately. In Blackspire, authority had pressed from every direction, layered and reinforced. Outside the walls, it thinned, stretched out over distance like cloth pulled too tight.
Here, authority gathered instead of layered.
Small knots. Local gravity.
Dangerous in different ways.
Kael felt the first one before he saw it.
A pressure, low and wide, resting ahead like a hand on the land. Not sharp like the sanctioned officer's medallion. Not rotten like Soren's borrowed permissions.
This was crude.
Heavy.
Kael slowed, scanning the terrain.
The road dipped into a shallow valley where broken stone jutted from the earth like exposed ribs. A few dead trees clung to the slopes, twisted and bare. Smoke curled lazily from somewhere near the center.
A camp.
Not traders this time.
Kael crouched behind a rise and studied it carefully.
A dozen tents. Rough canvas and patched leather. Fires burning openly. Weapons stacked in careless piles. Men and women moved about with the easy confidence of people who did not expect consequences.
Bandits.
No banners. No uniforms.
But the weight was there, pressing outward from the largest tent near the center.
Kael narrowed his eyes.
That was new.
In the city, power came from recognition. Titles. Records. Sanction. Here, it came from something else.
Fear.
Reputation.
Violence that went unanswered long enough to harden into rule.
Kael exhaled slowly.
This was what Mara had warned him about.
He could turn back. Circle wide around the valley and lose a day or two avoiding the camp.
The presence pulsed once, faintly insistent.
Kael grimaced.
Avoiding power like this meant letting it remain intact. Letting it grow unchecked. Letting it spread outward until it became harder to deal with.
He did not need another Blackspire waiting down the road.
Kael rose and walked forward.
The first shout came when he was halfway down the slope.
"Oi!"
A man stood, squinting toward him. Others followed, hands going to weapons. Not disciplined. Not panicked.
Curious.
Kael stopped where he was and raised one hand.
"I'm passing through," he called. "I don't want trouble."
Laughter rippled through the camp.
A woman with a shaved head and a long spear stepped forward. "Nobody passes through," she said. "Not without paying."
Kael nodded. "That's what I was told."
She grinned. "Smart city boy."
He did not correct her.
Another figure emerged from the large tent.
Kael felt the pressure spike.
The man was tall and broad, with scars crossing his arms and neck. He wore layered leather armor reinforced with metal plates taken from different sources. A heavy axe rested across his shoulders like it belonged there.
His eyes fixed on Kael.
The presence stirred sharply, reacting to him.
This was the source.
The man studied Kael in silence, then spoke.
"You walk alone," he said. "Injured. Carrying something that makes my teeth itch."
Kael met his gaze. "You're the one in charge."
The man smiled, slow and humorless. "I am."
"What's your name," Kael asked.
"Names matter to cities," the man replied. "Out here, weight matters."
Kael inclined his head. "Then you have weight."
The man laughed, a deep booming sound. "Careful. Flattery gets you worked less hard before you die."
Kael did not smile.
"I'm not here to stay," he said. "I'll pay your toll and move on."
The man's eyes flicked to Kael's pack, then to his knife. "Your toll is everything you carry."
Kael shook his head. "That won't work."
The camp quieted.
The man stepped forward, axe dropping from his shoulders into his hands. "You misunderstand. This is not a negotiation."
Kael felt the presence coil tight.
He stepped forward too.
"This is," Kael said calmly, "an evaluation."
The man frowned. "Of what."
"Of how much trouble you are," Kael replied.
For a heartbeat, the valley went still.
Then the man laughed again, louder this time. "I like you."
He swung the axe casually, testing its weight. "Let's see how much you bleed."
The bandits spread out, forming a loose ring. Not disciplined, but practiced. They had done this before. Many times.
Kael inhaled slowly.
This was not the city. There would be no bells. No inquisitors. No sanctioned response.
Only consequences.
He reached inward.
The presence answered fully for the first time since leaving Blackspire.
It did not surge outward violently.
It settled.
The weight of the valley shifted.
Kael stepped forward.
The man charged.
Fast for someone his size. The axe came down in a brutal arc meant to split Kael in half. Kael twisted aside at the last second, the blade smashing into stone and sending shards flying.
Kael slashed low, aiming for the knee.
The man snarled and kicked, boot catching Kael's thigh and sending him sprawling. Pain flared. Kael rolled as the axe came down again, splitting the ground where his head had been.
The presence pulsed.
Kael pushed himself up and met the next swing head on, not with strength, but with intent.
As the axe passed close, Kael reached out and touched the haft.
Cold flooded outward.
The man grunted as his swing faltered, momentum stuttering as if the weapon had suddenly grown heavier.
"What did you do," he growled.
Kael did not answer.
He pressed harder.
The presence sank into the man's line of authority, not clean or sanctioned, but thick with fear and blood. Kael felt it resist, not because it was protected, but because it was rooted in violence.
The bandits watched, confused, as their leader staggered.
Kael drove his knife into the man's side.
The blade bit deep. Blood spilled.
The man roared and backhanded Kael across the face. Kael flew, hit the ground hard, stars exploding behind his eyes.
The presence recoiled.
Kael spat blood and forced himself up.
Pain screamed through his body, but beneath it, something else burned.
Clarity.
The man was strong.
But his authority was shallow.
It existed because no one had challenged it properly.
Kael stepped forward again.
"You rule because people fear you," Kael said, voice steady despite the blood in his mouth. "That makes you fragile."
The man snarled and charged again.
Kael waited.
At the last moment, he stepped inside the swing and drove his knife up under the man's ribs, angling toward the heart.
The man froze.
The axe slipped from his hands.
Kael pressed his palm to the man's chest.
The presence surged.
This time, it pulled.
Not just strength. Not just recognition.
Fear.
Reputation.
The stories whispered by survivors.
The man gasped as his legs buckled.
Kael leaned close. "This is what happens when someone heavier walks into your valley."
The man collapsed.
The line snapped.
Kael staggered as weight poured into him, rough and uneven. It did not settle cleanly like before. This authority was wild, jagged, resisting even as it was consumed.
Kael screamed as it burned through him.
When he regained his footing, the camp was silent.
The bandits stared at him.
Some backed away. Others dropped their weapons.
Kael straightened slowly, blood dripping from his chin, chest heaving.
"You can leave," he said. "Or you can stay and see how much more weight I can carry."
No one argued.
They scattered, fleeing into the hills, dragging wounded with them.
Kael stood alone in the valley.
The presence settled, heavier than ever.
Not stronger.
Wider.
Kael looked down at his shaking hands.
This authority felt different.
Unstable.
He exhaled slowly.
The frontier did not grant power cleanly.
It demanded control.
Kael turned and walked away from the ruined camp, leaving the body where it lay.
Behind him, the valley felt lighter.
Ahead, the land waited.