2.7 KiB
They gathered in the courtyard before dawn, where frost turned stone to glass and breath to ghosts. The gates of Winter’s Edge stood closed behind them—iron gritted with rime, their hinges stiff from long disuse. Soon, they would creak open again, but not for armies. Only for four souls walking toward a forgotten legend.
Telaryn stood at the center, shoulders squared beneath her cloak, the battered cuirass still unpolished, still marked by ash. Around her: silence. And the three who had chosen to follow.
Halven arrived first. Hood drawn up against the wind, lantern in hand, scrolls tucked beneath one arm like a priest hiding sacred truths. His eyes met hers with quiet resolve.
“I can’t stop you,” he said. “So I’ll make sure you understand what you’re walking into. Even if it costs me.”
Telaryn nodded, her voice low. “I’ll need more than swords where we’re going.”
He gave a tired smile. “I was never good with swords.”
Alisha came next, hair tied back, face pale in the grey light. She carried no blade—only a healer’s satchel and the weight of unspoken things. She didn’t speak, not at first. Just stood beside Telaryn, close enough to touch, but didn’t.
Finally, she said, “You don’t have to protect me from what you’re becoming. I came to walk beside you. Not behind.”
Telaryn looked away before answering. “That may be harder than you think.”
“I know,” Alisha whispered.
Weylan arrived last, out of breath, the haft of his spear tapping the stone with every stride. His shoulders were broad for his youth, but his gaze was sharp now, honed since the riverside, since the first time blood froze on his hands.
“I made a promise,” he said simply. “To the captain. And to you, even if you never asked it of me.”
He wore Enric’s old pendant now—sunburst worn down to a smooth blur, its leather cord frayed but still strong. Around his waist, the antler badge of Talpis was freshly polished, though his boots were torn and his gloves fingerless.
Telaryn studied them—one by one. Scholar. Healer. Warrior-in-the-making.
Not an army. But hers.
Above them, the sky was pale with a coming sun. Behind them, the watchtower stood silent. Commander Vessan watched from the parapet, arms crossed, lips unspeaking. She gave no blessing. Only a nod.
The gates opened with a low, echoing groan.
Telaryn turned toward the peaks, the frost-blind heights where old truths slept.
She didn’t look back.
The townspeople would remember that—how she walked into the mountains, not as a queen, not as a girl, but as something between.
A promise. Or a warning. And the snow swallowed their footprints before the sun could rise.