It had been a long time since I had rapport with other human beings. I had forgotten how it felt.

  From the journal of Drago? Buh?scu

  The cart rattled down the Aluta river road for days before reaching a village just large enough to not be unfriendly, but small enough to be remote. Julianos drove the wagon into the commons. They’d traded some of the less conspicuous cavarul gear on the way, gaining food and other basics.

  When the wagon rocked to a stop, Dragos raised his head from the journal entries he’d been reading. He was a cavaler now, and Julianos was not. They’d made the decision succinctly. The knight couldn’t protect the children if the Lumanitori and their cavalerul were after him.

  Dragos nudged the children leaning on him. Olta sat up and pulled her scarf from her head, glancing around. Her wan face and haunted eyes scanned the field where animals wandered, nibbling grasses. Burdei ringed the common green in a loose circle. A communal clay dome smoked nearby. A woman stood up, hand cast over her brow to look at them.

  Julianos seemed caught by the woman by the oven, and Dragos glanced at her again. A lazy smile tugged at the healing scar on his cheek. “How about this place?”

  The little boy grabbed Dragos's shoulder and hauled himself up from his cat-like curl against the albstrig?’s side. He tugged at the back of Julianos’ shirt. “Home?”

  Boaz had asked the same question every time they stopped, but this time it wasn’t met with a no. Julianos looked over his shoulder, no helmet on his head, hair tied back in a simple leather strap. “A new home. Yes.”

  Dragos glanced at Olta, whose bare feet crossed, toes pressing into each other. When she looked up, she startled to see Dragos considering her with a solemn gaze. “Olta, all that happened is done. Julianos is your father, and to stay safe, he always has been. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, flicking a look up at the man on the wagoner’s box. “Boaz is young, he’ll forget. You won’t… and you don’t have to.”

  Olta’s dark eyes welled but didn’t spill. Her lips pinched tight.

  “You may not speak to anyone about them. Your future is more important than those who left you behind, and you never tell anyone but Julianos what you see.” Dragos's words were harsh, but if she resented her parents, it would be easier on her. He wasn’t sure if he made the right choice, trying to influence her like that.

  However, he’d rather she live to be sorry.

  He eased to his feet and gave the ex-knight a thump on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Good luck.”

  The man flinched, eyes widening. “You’re not staying?”

  Dragos shook his head, the ear flaps on the helmet he wore rattling on bronze hinges. “My being with you will only cause trouble. Live, brother, and raise your children.”

  He tipped his chin at the woman, who had gone back to watching her bread, though she glanced over her shoulder when he stood. “Maybe even find a wife, huh?”

  “Light willing,” Julianos sighed, gripping the rough hemp rope in his hands.

  Dragos walked to the tail of the cart and undid the latch to climb out. The cart rocked as he eased to his still sore feet, which were sound enough for walking, and he didn’t dare linger. Olta and Boaz scrambled after. He grabbed them both in his arms to lift them down, and they wrapped their arms around him.

  “Don’t go,” Olta whispered against the oiled leather of his helmet.

  “I must. Eat well and grow strong, my little Zaleska.” Dragos smiled at the boy next, held up in his other. “And you, too. Be good.”

  He crouched to set them down, and Julianos rounded the cart.

  They faced each other. The ex-knight offered him a hand calloused from sword training. Soon, different calluses would be added, enough to hide who he’d been. Dragos took the hand offered and shook it, clapping his other over both.

  “Will you come back?” Julianos asked.

  “I can’t promise, but I want to. One day,” Dragos said. None of it was a lie.

  With a nod, Julianos let go of his hand. Dragos took his peddler’s box, incongruous to the bronze-embellished leathers he wore, and the cloth sack beside it. Where the wagon had stopped, he continued.

  He walked out of the little farming village, past herds of sheep, along the lonely road. Clouds gathered overhead, graying the brilliance of summer grass and glimmering green leaves as he walked. He grew tired quicker than he’d have liked, and his feet demanded a rest before he’d gotten a handful of miles away.

  The forest pressed in on either side by the time he relented. In the distance, the soft rush of water told him the Aluta flowed somewhere beyond the wall of beech, silver fur, and spruce. He chose a random spot and eased down to sit on the road. The throbbing of his feet remained, but relief flooded through him. As he sat, he considered the polyhedral shapes, edges roughened, full of silt.

  A sweet breeze whispered through the trees, bringing the scent of pine with it. Despite the looming gray overhead, his spirit expanded, drinking in the natural energy of the world. Hollow loneliness had set in, yet it didn’t hurt like it once had.

  He had an urge to call an owl and fly with it, but it would be a frivolous waste of power. Soul spent for a moment of something even more powerful than he felt already? Wasteful.

  Voices carried, barely perceptible at first. He flipped one of the leather flaps up, tilting his head toward the sounds. Travelers came and went on a road—a given. Dragos weighed his choices. Fade into the forest and watch them pass, or stay where he was.

  His throbbing feet suggested he sit still and trust in his new identity. The falseness of it irritated, but it was the best way to keep Julianos and the children safe. Dragos became Julianos Vladmire, a cavaler on a mission to Southern Calruthia, beyond the mountains.

  In the armor of the cavarul, few would question his strange eyes and unusual paleness. His helmet hid the fact that his hair was what made the white plume atop it. It was an excellent disguise.

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  The small cluster of travelers came around the bend. Men and women, all young—well, of similar age to himself, chatting and laughing. An Aur woman paused to pluck edelweiss from a sunny spot and twirled it in her fingers. Odd that he saw a group of carefree people his age and saw them as youthful.

  Dragos reluctantly eased up to his feet as they approached, led by a man with untamed brown hair and a puckish light in his eyes. It reminded him of Johan, his cohort brother, whose eyes sparkled with mischief. He pushed the thought away before it could sting too much.

  The man raised a hand in greeting.

  “Cavaler, Foc bun ?i paine cald?. What a day, eh? Luck holds that no rain falls,” the man called.

  Dragos's chin dipped briefly in return. “Lumina s?-?i fie pa?ii.”

  Instead of walking past him, as he’d expected, the young man stopped, forcing his procession to do the same. Dragos counted fourteen in all, and a few donkeys laden with wares and tools plodded to a stop.

  “A lonely road to travel. Night will fall before you get to the next town,” the man said, glancing back the way they’d come, then up at the sky, whose clouds rolled restlessly. He gestured along the road. “Why don’t you come with us? Our new home isn’t far, just around the next bend, from what I’m told. A warm meal and a bit of shelter is better than spending the night out here alone.”

  Dragos took a step back and eyed the caravan again. Such as it was. His brows creased as he returned his attention to the man. He’d just passed through the way the group was headed but had seen no hint of a village or even a road through the dense forest. He held up a hand and murmured, “I couldn’t impose.”

  A woman stepped up beside the man, a basket slung over her back, her hair a loose braid studded with wildflowers plucked from the roadside. Her dark eyes roamed Dragos, pausing on the sword belted to his hip. Had she known Dragos had never wielded a sword in his life, her gaze might not have lingered so long on it before she made her decision.

  Her smile, when it came, was wide as the sky, and her eyes sparkled with a freedom that pulsed from her very spirit. Everything about her felt unrestrained and—effortlessly happy. It pulled on something inside him.

  A thing that wanted so badly to break.

  “Octavian doesn’t make offers lightly. He must have a good feeling about you,” the woman said, her voice warm and light, like a candle in the dark. The lute hanging before her on a strap explained the appeal of her voice.

  It didn’t quite explain away how her voice resonated inside him and illuminated the darkest shadows of his heart.

  “Good feeling?” Dragos asked, flat-footed from the exchange so far. He glanced between them, and someone at the back of the group echoed the offer.

  The group leader grinned. “You look like a man with many stories. I won’t demand them, but all of us are the same. People like us should look out for one another, offer hospitality, especially when the weather threatens.”

  With a helpless shrug, Dragos relented. The clouds thickened with every passing hour, and he knew the misery of being alone, without shelter when it came. Hot food and shelter was too enticing to turn down.

  “Alright.”

  “Excellent,” Octavian replied, curling his fingers in a welcoming gesture. “Come, cavaler.”

  Octavian moved forward again, and Dragos fell into step. The hemp bag that hung limply off his shoulder bounced and twisted as he walked. The peddler’s box took up the rhythmic and familiar rattle of travel.

  It was only a moment before the man beside him started asking questions. It was customary, but it still prickled the hairs on Dragos's neck. He wasn’t one for light conversations, preferring silence and awareness of his surroundings. Even with the cavaler and the children, he'd kept watch in silence. He never intended to stay with them long. Didn't want the children to get too attached.

  He’d been alone too long, perhaps.

  “Have you traveled far, cavaler?” Octavian asked, his voice as carefree as a song thrush. Whatever weighted the world down did not contain this man, though his clothes hung raggedly and his grass sandals were shredded nearly off his feet.

  “Mm,” Dragos grunted, then, realizing that wasn’t a good enough answer, he said, “I go where I must. I’ve traveled the interior of the Embrace extensively.”

  He paused, then added, “Call me Julianos.”

  “So you’re from the Palisades, then? Amazing.” Octavian said, his easy grin flashing again. “We’re from the south, came up from Dorvali. It’s said there’s no war in the north.”

  War. That explained a lot. Dragos's chin tipped down as he considered things. When he spoke, his tone was cautious, as though the things he spoke of could change. Because they could. “The northern border is open, and people from Poselru come and go. There is peace.”

  “That’s what we are looking for. Why should we fight for a country that tosses its people to the Mul?ime de Aur like fodder to pigs?” Octavian’s voice roughened, his brows frowning. “No. We’ll put the mountains between us, we said. And here we are.”

  “Where is this home you speak of, then?” Dragos asked, gaze flicking along the dense honeysuckle and blackthorn lining the roadside, overshadowed by pine and beech.

  “Bassus scouted ahead and found a well.” Octavian cocked a thumb back over his shoulder at a man who smiled brightly. “We’ll start our village there.”

  “A well?” Dragos mused, not feeling the warmth of satisfaction they did. A well in the middle of a dense forest, by itself? It rang in his ears, not a sound, but a faint and looming warning.

  It was best that he did go with them, then. These innocent settlers from the south weren’t used to mountain life. Southern Calruthia was known more for its swamps than its peaks, and then, there was the well. Hamlets grew and died out as a matter of course, for many different reasons, most not related to Nerostit?, but… He’d go with them. The well's water could be poisoned.

  Bassus trotted forward to lead the way, dark braids bouncing. His easy lope was weary, a testament to the hundreds of miles traveled over the unmentioned days. The woman who’d spoken picked up her stride to walk beside Dragos, placing him between her and Octavian.

  “Where are you from before the Palisades, Julianos?” she asked, gently flicking her scarf over her shoulder, gaze slipping along his form before moving to Octavian.

  “Vladmiren,” Dragos murmured, gaze lowering. He didn’t like their proximity. The woman’s presence meant he had to walk closer to Octavian, and the closer people got to him, the more they noticed his differences.

  “Such unusual eyes,” She murmured, head tilting, leaning to see what he tried to hide.

  Octavian hissed at her, then flicked an apologetic hand. “Ignore Chinhua.”

  Chinua stuck her tongue out at the man, then said to Dragos, “Are you sure there is no war in Northern Calruthia? That scar is fresh.”

  Dragos touched his cheek. The bruising had faded to an ugly, mottled yellow, still thick and swollen, the crusting scab mostly flaked away. “No war. There are other dangers I’m sworn to fight.”

  The lie tasted as ashen as all the others, yet this one grazed close to the truth. He’d not sworn anything nor made a vow. Circumstance and conscience drove him toward it each time. Fool that he was. He knew better.

  “Here!” Bassus stopped up ahead. The gray day muted his smile as he disappeared into the blackthorn. When they got to the spot he’d slipped in, Dragos was amazed to see the faint echo of a path. A clear gap in the thicket, obscured by a few twists and turns to make it seem like an unending wall. Nature’s optical illusion.

  “Huh,” Dragos murmured.

  A cheer went up from behind as the group caught up to them. Octavian gestured for him to go ahead. He could see Bassus’ head, just above the thicket, weaving through a passage that was wide enough for the donkeys to pass comfortably.

  The woods felt cooler, but it could have been the shade. Dragos paused, scanning the area with his mind’s eye, but saw no warning signs for Unspoken. No concentration of tiny spirits to warn of trouble ahead.

  The fact that he missed the path at all made his skin crawl with doubt, but, with a glance at Chinhua and Octavian, he stepped into the brush.

  Burdei (boor-DAY): A type of pit-house or half-dug out shelter, combining sod house and log cabin build concepts.

  Foc bun ?i paine cald? (Fawk boon shee puy-neh kal-deh): A blessing: Good fire and warm bread to you.

  Lumina s?-?i fie pa?ii (loo-MEE-nee-leh suh-tsheef-YEH PAH-shee): May light guide your steps.

  Mul?ime de Aur (mool-tseh-meh deh awr): The Golden Throng, massive warbands from the East.