Chapter 84: Borrowed Speed

  Laurent left the capital before the morning bells finished their second ring.

  The Vanguard badge rested openly at his chest. He didn’t hide it, didn’t touch it. He let it exist. That was enough.

  He bought the Orvak just outside the western gate.

  It was bigger than a horse, broader through the shoulders, muscle packed dense and low. Old, the trader said. Stubborn. Not built for long sprints—but strong enough that even poor riding wouldn’t waste its stride.

  “Three crowns,” the trader said. “You’ll get there faster than walking. Even if you ride badly.”

  “I don’t know how to ride,” Laurent said.

  The trader snorted and showed him anyway.

  How to mount without being thrown.

  How to sit without locking up.

  How to guide without hauling on the reins.

  Laurent listened, tried once, slid down again, nodded, and paid.

  The first hours were awkward.

  Laurent sat too stiff. His balance lagged behind the Orvak’s movement. When it shifted unexpectedly, he nearly lost the saddle and dismounted immediately, choosing to walk until his breathing settled.

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  Even then, they were faster than a man alone.

  When he remounted, the Orvak carried him forward with effortless strength. Laurent wasted speed through caution, not weakness—dismounting when doubt crept in, mounting again when it passed.

  He learned by repetition.

  By the second day, his posture loosened. By the fourth, he no longer fought the saddle. He still rode well below the Orvak’s limit—not because he knew the animal, but because he knew himself.

  Speed remained borrowed.

  The road thinned as he moved west.

  Refugees had already passed, leaving flattened grass and cold fire pits behind. Merchants traveled in small groups. Messengers didn’t slow.

  A patrol stopped him near a crossroads.

  Young guards. Local levy. Hands tightened on spears—then froze when they saw the badge.

  Laurent didn’t stop.

  He lifted his hand just enough for the metal to catch the light.

  The patrol leader straightened instantly, fist to chest.

  “Vanguard.”

  The others followed without being told—posture corrected, space cleared.

  Not fear.

  Not awe.

  Recognition.

  Laurent nodded once and continued on.

  No questions.

  No papers.

  The patrol held position until he passed.

  He walked several steps before mounting again.

  His chest felt tight in a way he didn’t recognize at first.

  At Rimewatch, he had been used—placed where failure would spread, trusted to hold when things bent. Valuable, but interchangeable. A strong asset, nothing more.

  This was different.

  No one measured his output. No one decided where to place him. They saw the badge—and accepted what it meant.

  Laurent exhaled slowly and set his foot in the stirrup.

  He didn’t smile.

  But something settled.

  He rode hard where he could and rested when he had to.

  The Orvak slowed on the sixth day, breath heavier between pushes, and Laurent adjusted without resentment.

  Faster than walking was enough.

  On foot, it would have taken nine days. With the Orvak, it took six.

  On the sixth morning, smoke marked the horizon—thin, disciplined columns rising where a city refused to panic.

  Rimewatch.

  Laurent dismounted before the outer approach and led the Orvak forward.

  At the gate, the guards saw the badge, acknowledged it, and waved him through without ceremony.

  Inside, the city felt as it had before—compressed, inward, intact.

  He handed the Orvak over to a stable near the inner wall, paid for rest and feed, then turned toward command.

  He had not returned stronger.

  He had returned with authority.

  And this time, on time.