Chapter 48

  In the following hour, Thulegard awoke piece by piece, like a sleepy giant peeling off the warm fur of its dreams. What had been quiet alleyways under the cool morning sun were now filled with voices, footsteps, clinking coins, and the bright tap of hooves on stone.

  A warm haze rose from the food stalls, mingling with the scents of spices, roasted meat, sweet pastries, and steaming tea. Somewhere, a frying pan hissed, and a young gnome—with exaggerated gestures—was hawking his steaming fish pies. The city was coming alive—by the minute.

  We sat on the stone bench, slightly damp from the night’s dew, between two small fountains topped with icy statues. Vin, curious, had halved one of her melons, holding a hand above it while her fingers traced elegant motions across the fruit—as though caressing it.

  "Mana," she murmured absentmindedly. "Gently bound. A warming enchantment that hardly even registers. Clever… and constantly active."

  I watched her from the corner of my eye. Even through her thin linen gloves, she could feel the magical current.

  "Probably all the food here is treated the same," she said at last, looking up, her eyes briefly sparkling in the light.

  The warmth radiating from the melon was genuinely pleasant—not scalding, but like a campfire that doesn’t burn, only gently warms. And in this biting cold still lurking beneath the surface, it was more than welcome.

  Then it happened—the long-awaited shift. The atmosphere around us changed almost imperceptibly: with every open door, every bright vendor’s call, every child’s laughter, the square became more vibrant—but with a notable restraint. Polite reserve between dragonborn, orcs, humans, elves, beastfolk. People spoke, traded, exchanged—genuine camaraderie.

  That cold pride filled the air again—like every citizen understood how fragile this peace was, and each was determined to uphold it with iron discipline. Narla, the young dragonborn I’d met earlier, was nowhere to be seen. I recalled the earnest expression on her face, the urgency in her voice when she asked me to speak a good word for her people.

  Back then, I’d thought it was insecurity—an effect of bad experiences. But the longer I observed Thulegard, the more I asked myself: What exactly did she see that we didn’t? What did she know that lay hidden beneath the surface?

  I pushed the thought aside—too early for suspicions. We continued exploring the market, weaving between stalls, chatting briefly with a dwarf jeweler offering polished lapis lazuli as luck stones, and watched a group of children—an orc, an elf, and a cat-girl—playing a stone game on the ground.

  And then it happened.

  It began subtlety. A murmur swept through the crowd—no more than a whisper traveling from one end of the square to the other:

  “They’re coming…”

  I turned toward the direction of those gazes—down the long main street, where buildings thinned and the city edge began.

  First I saw only three shadows. Then four. Then more.

  Slender, dark figures, mounted on horseback. And what horses they were: northern steeds—bigger than typical mounts, with long shaggy manes and eyes like liquid ice. Their hooves struck the pavement like drumbeats, though they were still distant. Their breath rolled in steaming clouds, as if dragging winter behind them.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  The riders were armored, yet not in gleaming steel. Their armor was matte, weathered by snow, wind, and time. On their pauldrons, a barely visible emblem—a curved silver thorn spiraling outward.

  They approached at a measured pace—not a gallop, but far from leisurely. A march. A procession.

  Around us, the crowd reacted—but not as I’d expected. No shouts. No fleeing. No panicked vendors packing up, no children being ushered away. Instead: silence. A taut, waiting silence. Faces turned serious. Conversations halted. Eyes fixed on the approaching riders—not in fear, but in a resigned readiness. As though they knew what was coming. As if they’d seen it a hundred times before.

  A gust of wind swept the square as sunlight faded. Clouds rolled in from nowhere—dark, heavy, nearly violet-gray. In seconds, the light dulled, shadows lengthened. The melon in my hand no longer steamed.

  I felt my fingers tighten around the hilt of my sword—not from fear, but instinct.

  Vin said quietly: "This isn’t normal."

  And I had to agree. Because something very, very strange was happening here.

  The blue dragonborn who had been selling scales yesterday stood close by. He looked tense—his leathery nostrils flared slightly, amber eyes alert, fixed on the approaching riders.

  I stepped beside him, leaned forward, and whispered, “Do you know what’s happening?”

  He nodded slowly, as though he’d been expecting me to ask. In a low, strained voice—barely audible over the bustling square—he answered: “The Silverthorn barbarians are coming,” “They demand taxes... in exchange for protection. In return, they harm none of us.”

  His gaze briefly shifted to an elderly woman calmly sliding her fruit crate under her stall, then to a foxy beast?person gently stroking her little son’s head. No panic. No chaos. Merely a strange, resigned calm.

  I frowned. “Why doesn’t the city?lord do anything about it?”

  This time, the dragonborn smiled—not mocking, but almost in admiration. “What do you think keeps any of us from slinking in our houses in fear?” He raised one claw and pointed toward the darkening sky: “Because our protector will appear.” He spoke reverently, then, in a measured tone, as though speaking of a daily?renewed legend: “Reyn, the ruler of shadow and storm.”

  A chill crept down my spine.

  Oh.

  That… explained a lot. And yet it was more than I had expected.

  If it were true—if the secretive city?lord commanded shadow magic—then he was no mere mortal. Not a politician, not a nobleman. He was something else. Something greater.

  Shadow magic is rare. And dangerous. Not because of darkness itself—but because of how it functions. Unlike pure or corrupted mana with clear channels, shadow magic draws upon raw, unfiltered mana—and moreover, it intertwines with cosmic mana, that rare energy flowing between the realms.

  Uncontrolled, it’s lethal. Controlled—it’s divine.

  But that’s a story for another time.

  Now... the riders drew nearer. Eleven in total. As they reached the square’s edge, they drew their horses to a synchronous halt—like soldiers long accustomed to riding together. The beasts stamped restlessly; steam rose from their nostrils, like smoke from old hearths.

  The riders dismounted one by one. Their armor wasn’t gleaming metal, but weathered leather reinforced with furs—gear that had endured Thulegard’s harsh winter. The shoulders padded, forearms braced by chainmail. Each belt carried a massive battle?axe—dull, heavy, fit for beheadings.

  The leader was unmistakable. At least a head taller than I—mind, I’m no small person. A scar slashed across his right cheek to his brow. His silver?blonde hair pulled into a rough braid. Draped across his shoulders was the hide of a giant white wolf, its head serving as a grim helmet. Beneath the leather armor peeked chainmail—old but clean. His boots looked strong enough to batter doors down. He stood proud, chest broad, axe held casually.

  He silently surveyed the crowd—almost provocatively. Then he stepped forward, and his deep, rough, authoritative voice echoed across the square: “Come on! You know the deal.” He raised his axe slightly, then let it drop deliberately. “Give us your money, and in return, we will bring no harm to this fair city.”

  The words were polite—but the threat lay between them, like a sharpened blade. No one answered. No one made a move.

  The marketplace froze. Vendors held their breath. A child was gently guided behind a stall by his father. But no screams. No running.

  It was a silent, rigid waiting.

  And I sensed a shift in the distance—a subtle shimmer in the air, a low, ominous rumble within the clouds. Then... a gust of wind. Not any ordinary wind—but one that felt as if it came from another realm.