Chapter 3 The Envoy Arrives

The horn's second blast was louder, closer.

Caelen stepped out of the barracks, hand on his blade, snow already dusting his shoulders again. The outpost had changed: men were on their feet, rifles emerging from cloaks, boots crunching hurried patterns into the slush-packed ground. Someone shouted near the forge-short, sharp, not panicked but not calm either.

Then came the third blast, and silence followed it like a held breath.

A shape emerged from the fog: a standard-bearer on horseback, flanked by four riders in polished armor that caught what little sun made it through the haze. Behind them trailed a covered wagon and more soldiers-twenty, maybe thirty. No banners, no crests. Just the gleam of steel and the confidence of men who knew they weren't bluffing.

Caelen recognized the lead rider.

Ser Rowen Lieric, called The Hound of the Hollow, a name earned not for his loyalty but for his appetite. A favorite of the crown, equal parts charming and cruel. He was dressed in furs over chainmail, a bastard sword slung lazily across his back, and a bored expression playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Evening," Rowen called, reining in just past the gate, voice smooth as spiced wine. "Lovely weather. Who's in charge here?"

The woman with the crooked jaw stepped forward. "Depends what you're selling."

"Mercy," Rowen said with a grin. "Conditional, of course."

Several smugglers snorted. One hawked phlegm into the snow.

"We're not rebels," the woman said.

"Didn't say you were." Rowen dismounted in a fluid motion, then patted his horse's flank. "We're simply following reports of seditious traffic-illegal weapons, seditious pamphlets, questionable loyalties. The usual winter mix."

Caelen edged sideways along the outer circle of the onlookers. He watched the wagon, the men behind it. Too quiet. Helmets low. Eyes everywhere.

Rowen turned, now facing the crowd with arms wide.

"But I am a generous man," he said. "We'll eat, trade stories, inspect what needs inspecting, and be on our way by sunrise. No one need be hurt."

Another horn sounded-not theirs. A sharp note, close. A signal.

Caelen's gut twisted.

Rythe appeared from the barracks, musket slung, brows low.

Rowen spotted her and smiled wider. "Ah. A familiar face. Lady Rythe. We danced once at a tavern in the Marshlands. You nearly stabbed me."

"You nearly deserved it," she said.

"Still true."

He turned to the woman in charge. "Might we make use of your hall for supper? I'd hate to eat in the cold."

She hesitated.

"Please," Rowen said, bowing slightly. "We're all friends here, aren't we?"

The woman nodded once. "You get one night."

Rowen flashed teeth. "That's all I need."

The sun dipped. Fires lit. The envoy's men ate in shifts, swapping jokes and meat and lies. Inside the main hall, a feast of dried root stew and boiled pork was laid out as if the kingdom weren't bleeding out less than fifty leagues away.

Caelen sat in a corner, untouched plate, eyes never leaving Rowen.

The knight laughed loud, drank louder, spun stories of campaign battles that always ended with his blade in someone important. He wore his charisma like armor-too smooth, too deliberate. Every smile was a weight shifting.

Rythe sat near him, expression neutral, saying little. Playing along. She knew better than to show her hand.

Then Caelen saw it: a glint of metal beneath Rowen's sleeve. A vial. Small, glass. He palmed it, fingers quick. Poured something into his drink.

No one noticed. Except Caelen.

He stood slowly, pushing away from the table.

Rowen caught the movement with the corner of his eye. "Ah. The brooding stranger," he said loudly. "You've hardly touched your meat. Afraid it's poisoned?"

Caelen said nothing.

"I jest," Rowen said. "Unless you're guilty, of course."

Caelen stepped forward. "You have too many men for a diplomatic visit."

Rowen grinned. "I have exactly as many as I need."

Caelen's hand moved toward his coat.

And that's when the first soldier drew steel.

The sound of the blade unsheathing cut across the laughter like a bell.

Then everything shattered.

The envoy's men flipped the long table, revealing crossbows already loaded underneath. Two guards at the back cut down the smugglers nearest the firepit. Someone screamed. Rythe lunged for her musket.

Caelen moved on instinct, driving his elbow into the closest soldier's throat, wrenching a blade from a falling body.

The room became a furnace of screams and steel.

He didn't see who struck him-only the blur of motion and a blinding crack across his skull.

He hit the floor. Blood filled his mouth. His ears rang.

Boots ran past him. Smoke rolled in. Flames licked the ceiling beams.

Then-

A hand gripped his collar and dragged him out of the room, across wet earth and broken glass, into cold, clean night.

He coughed, clawed for air. His vision cleared just enough to see the cloaked figure kneeling beside him.

Lareth.

The mage's face was older, grayer-but those ice-pale eyes hadn't changed.

"I told you," Lareth said, voice a rasp. "One day you'd have to burn your way back in."