Chapter 52

  Despite everything—despite the careful distance, despite the cracks in my thoughts that never quite faded—Reyn gave me the feeling that he might be someone who stays. Not an ally out of necessity, not a temporary pact, not a shadow vanishing after the next fight.

  A friend.

  Maybe even one for life.

  Vin sat a few stools away, still deep in a lively debate with Arik about the differences between southern and northern firewhiskeys. His hands moved as he talked, his smile was genuine, and his voice burned with literal energy—just like always.

  Maira had already gone upstairs to rest.

  And so Reyn and I remained.

  Plenty of space. Plenty of time.

  And two mugs that suspiciously kept refilling.

  We talked about magic. About techniques. About mana currents, anchor points, the perfect blend of speed and precision in close combat. I told him about the trials of the Eagle Order, the stone amphitheater in the high mountains, where we had to face five opponents at once—unarmed, with only a wooden staff and our mind.

  Reyn listened with interest. Then he spoke of Silberdorn. Of his first victory over them—not in war, but in a duel to the death. He had defeated a general and made a statement. Not through conquest, but through control. Of course, they returned often out of greed, but never with success.

  And then, he said casually, Rurik simply stopped giving orders one day. People turned to Reyn. And eventually... he became the lord of the city. No coronation. No title. Just trust.

  We laughed at times. Fell silent at others.

  But about our pasts—about what came before—we said nothing. He didn’t ask about my childhood. I didn’t ask about his. It was a silent agreement. And I was grateful for that.

  Yet one thing wouldn’t leave me. Since we arrived. Since Narla.

  I took a sip, set down my mug, and asked with feigned ease:

  “Tell me… do you know a dragonborn woman named Narla? I met her yesterday morning—just before we arrived here at the inn. She told me it’s hard for dragonkin in Thulegard. That they’re barely accepted here. But… to be honest, since I’ve been here, I’ve seen the opposite. People seem open. Even warm. So... why would she say something like that?”

  I spoke calmly, almost casually—but inside, I watched Reyn closely.

  And then I saw it. For the tiniest fraction of a second—barely more than a blink—something flickered across his face.

  His smile froze. His brows drew together just a little. The warmth that had carried him through our conversation vanished. Replaced by something darker.

  Irritation. Maybe even… guilt.

  But just as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

  Reyn blinked, smiled, and downed his mug in one long pull.

  Then he set it down with a dry klonk and replied with that same old, almost-too-perfect charm:

  “Narla… yes. I know her.”

  He paused for a moment.

  “I understand why she said that. But… it’s more complicated than it seems.”

  Then he fell silent. No excuse. No distraction. Just that one sentence—and a look that said more than words ever could.

  I had touched a nerve, just as he had touched mine.

  And a question began to take root inside me:

  What exactly had Reyn done to unite Thulegard? And what had been lost along the way?

  I shook the head and finished my drink – the alcohol wasn’t strong enough to make me stumble, but just enough to soften the edges of my senses. Five beers. All paid by Reyn. I leaned on my elbow, stared into the nearly empty mug, and felt a slight pull in my shoulders. It was late. I should head upstairs.

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  I turned to Reyn to say goodbye – but his posture had changed. He no longer sat relaxed like before. His eyes were fixed on the floor, as if searching for answers only he could understand. Then he looked up, briefly and curtly:

  “Later. I… have something to take care of.”

  No smile. No further words.

  And the next moment, he was gone. Not standing up, not walking out the door – just gone. Dissolved in a brief, barely visible shimmer. As if the room itself had swallowed him.

  I sat still for a moment, blinking.

  “What the…?”

  My eyes swept across the tavern. No one seemed to notice. The guests laughed, drank, argued and flirted like nothing had happened.

  Slowly, I extended my inner sense, carefully feeling for traces in the air – and there it was: a faint, almost invisible veil of mana, no stronger than a whisper.

  Teleportation. Of course. Why not. Flying, illusions, sunshine in the north – so why not vanish when it’s convenient.

  I exhaled a quiet snort and shook my head. How many more tricks does he have up his sleeve?

  Just as I was about to slide off the stool, someone cleared their throat loudly. I turned – Arik, the barkeeper, stood there with arms crossed. His coal-black eyes looked tired but now glowed faintly red.

  “You only paid for one night, paladin. Two gold coins per night.”

  I froze.

  “Oh, crap.”

  My gaze dropped to my coin pouch. I opened it, hoping for a miracle – but all I heard was a sparse rustle. Eight bronze coins. Maybe enough for a piece of bread and a half-warm soup. But definitely not a room.

  “Uh…” I began. But before I could stammer further, I heard a familiar voice beside me:

  “I’ll pay.”

  Vin. She stepped up to the counter, placed eight shiny gold coins on the bar – casually, as if it were spare change. I stared at her, then at the money, then back at her. 892 bronze coins. Just like that.

  Arik let the coins vanish into the register with a satisfied grunt.

  “Alright. Two rooms, two nights.”

  I was about to say something – like wait a second, why two rooms for three people? – but Vin had already turned halfway away, as if everything was settled. I watched her and thought:

  Why can’t we all just sleep in the same room? Would be half the cost.

  But no – the Ashblood had insisted on “privacy.” Or, more likely: he just liked having gold – and showing it off.

  But then another thought hit me. One that had already nagged at me during the melon thing.

  I turned to Vin.

  “Hey… where did you get all that money anyway?”

  She paused, looked at me, slightly amused, almost as if she’d been expecting the question. Then she shrugged, raised an eyebrow and simply said:

  “Well. I’ve got my ways.”

  No further explanation. No hint. Just a wink – and then she headed up the stairs.

  I stayed behind, sighed quietly, and shook my head. The night wasn’t over, but I’d definitely seen enough for today.

  I took my remaining eight bronze coins, tucked them back into the pouch, and made my way upstairs.

  -

  It was the middle of that same night. The window creaked softly in the wind—though there was no wind outside. Narla had retreated to her small, shabby room over two hours ago. The door was triple-locked, reinforced with a homemade latch, but it felt like paper against whatever was brewing out there.

  The children—two young dragonborn, barely six—cowered beneath the bed. Their scaly tails trembled, their eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, full of panicked hopelessness.

  "Quiet," Narla whispered, barely able to breathe herself. "Everything will be fine. I’m here."

  But she knew that wasn’t true. Nothing was fine.

  Ever since nightfall, she’d had that feeling—not fear, not paranoia—no, the cold, certain knowledge that someone was watching her. As if a second, alien shadow moved within her own. One that shifted when she did. One that stood still when she walked. One that followed her, though she was alone.

  She had tried to reach Rurik. One last hope. Maybe he was still nearby, maybe…

  But the guard in front of his house had only laughed:

  "The lord is busy. You know... with a guest."

  Of course he was.

  Rurik, self-proclaimed patron of the Forgotten—too busy to help a member of his own community. And that’s the kind of man who wants to be a leader?

  Still, Narla had tried. For herself. For the children. For the hope that this nightmare would end.

  Then came the flash. A blinding burst of light, like from a storm no one had forecast. No thunder. No rain. Just that one light—blinding white and wrong. It sliced through the darkness like a blade.

  Narla gasped, recoiling. Her claws clung to the wall, eyes staring out into the night.

  Was it a warning? A sign?

  No. It was the beginning.

  The next moment—he was there. Suddenly.

  No door had opened. No window broken. But the black figure was standing there. As if it had always been there.

  Tall. Broad. The silhouette almost inhuman. A long, pitch-black cloak enveloped the entire body, every line, every movement hidden deliberately. The face was concealed beneath a hood, but the gaze could be felt—a weight, pressing down like a boulder on the chest.

  The man’s hands were clad in executioner’s gloves—old, leather, stitched with metal. The symbolism unmistakable.

  He was no murderer.

  He was a judge.

  His voice cut through the paralyzing silence like a guillotine:

  "Narla Velk."

  She flinched. Her name, in his mouth, sounded like a death sentence.

  "You’ve made a mistake. A grave one."

  Narla stumbled back. Her spine hit the cold wall. The children beneath the bed trembled. One sobbed quietly. She wanted to scream—but no sound came. Her knees trembled.

  "You’ve endangered the unity of Thulegard."

  The voice was calm, almost soulless.

  "There is only one sentence for that."

  Narla raised her hands, tears running down her cheeks, her claws trembling.

  "Please..." she whimpered. "Please… spare me. At least the children… they don’t know anything. I… I didn’t mean to hurt anyone."

  A moment of silence. Then—a smile. Not a kind one. A soft, sad, almost regretful smile.

  "Your children will be fine."

  The words were spoken gently, almost like a promise.

  Then the figure stepped closer and whispered in a voice so deep it was more of a tremor than a sound:

  "And you will be reunited with your husband."

  Narla’s eyes widened. She wanted to scream, but no sound came anymore.

  "NO—!"

  A final scream that never ended.

  In the next moment, all was silent.

  No blood. No cry. No body.

  Only a shadow. A pitch-black, distorted outline on the wall. Like it had been burned in. Like a warning. Like the last remnant of what Narla Velk once was.