Chapter 68: I came alone
Dawn broke over Redmont like a slow exhale.
The sky shifted from black to gray to pale gold, and the town stirred to life. Malrik was already awake when the first light crept through the inn’s window, his mind turning over the road ahead.
Blackthorn. Kael. A week until the surge.
He dressed quickly and found the others already assembling in the common room. Ronan was laughing at something Garrick had said, his voice carrying across the space like a drumbeat. Mara was checking her bowstring, Corin was half-asleep over his breakfast, and Lian was already at the door, watching the street with sharp, restless eyes.
"Ready?" Ronan asked as Malrik approached.
"Ready."
The road to Blackthorn stretched ahead—two days of travel through increasingly hostile terrain.
The first day passed without incident. The rolling green hills of Redmont gave way to rockier ground, sparse trees, and the occasional burnt-out farmhouse standing like a scar on the land. Ronan’s smile faded as they rode.
"These used to be villages," he said quietly. "All of them. My mother used to tell me stories about this place when I was a child. She said these villages were prosperous once—full of hunters and fighters. The best in the north, she said. They’d trade furs and meat with Ashmore and Blackthorn. The streets were always busy."
He paused, his gaze distant.
"Now there’s nothing left. Just stone and ash."
Malrik said nothing. He rode on, Fenrir’s steady gait carrying him forward.
The landscape grew harsher as the day wore on. The soil turned dry and cracked. The trees became twisted, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. The air carried a faint, metallic scent—blood, old and dried, soaked into the earth from battles long past.
They passed the ruins of a watchtower, its stones blackened and collapsed. Ronan’s gaze lingered on it.
"Three years ago," he said, quieter this time, "we lost twenty men holding that tower. They held long enough for the villages to evacuate. They knew they weren’t coming back."
Malrik’s jaw tightened. War has always been cruel and merciless.
They camped that night in the shadow of an abandoned barn. The Ashmore warriors moved with practiced efficiency—setting watch rotations, preparing food, checking their weapons. Malrik sat apart, feeling the familiar weight of his souls resting in the void of his Soul Space.
Fenrir stirred.
Master. The road ahead carries the scent of fear.
I know. We’ll be there soon.
The people of Blackthorn are afraid. I can feel it even from here.
They won’t be afraid for much longer.
The wolf fell silent, but Malrik felt his presence like a steady heartbeat at the edge of his awareness.
The second day brought the first signs of Blackthorn’s desperation.
They passed refugees—families fleeing south, their belongings piled onto carts or carried on their backs. The faces were hollow. The eyes empty. Some carried children. Others carried nothing at all.
Ronan reined in Thunder, his voice gentle but firm. "What happened?"
One of the refugees stepped forward—an elder with a cracked voice and tired eyes. "We fled Blackthorn. The Morveth are coming. Hundreds. Thousands, maybe. The Baron’s son—young Kael—he’s doing what he can. But the walls aren’t strong enough. The soldiers aren’t enough. And the Duke..." He shook his head. "The Duke has forgotten us."
Ronan’s jaw tightened. "The Duke hasn’t forgotten you."
"With respect, my lord." The elder’s eyes were hollow. "Fear doesn’t wait for danger to arrive. It walks ahead of it. And it’s been walking ahead of us for weeks now."
They pushed on after that. The road grew rougher. The refugees grew fewer. And the shadows of the mountains loomed larger on the horizon.
By late afternoon, the walls of Blackthorn came into view.
From a distance, the barony looked like any other frontier settlement—gray stone walls, iron-reinforced gates, watchtowers at each corner. But up close, Malrik could see the cracks. The repairs that hadn’t been completed. The soldiers on the walls who looked too young or too old for the duty they’d been given.
There was a stillness in the air that felt wrong. No birds sang. No wind stirred the dust. The silence pressed against his ears like a weight.
That quiet before the storm. The kind that makes your skin crawl.
The walls were tall, but they were scarred. Dark streaks of old fire damage ran along the stones. Sections had been patched with newer, lighter stone—work that had been done hastily, without time to properly set. The battlements were manned, but the soldiers there moved with the weary, resigned pace of men who had seen too much and expected worse to come.
The gate itself was reinforced with iron, but Malrik could see the rust creeping into the hinges. The wood beneath the iron was warped in places, the grain darkened with age and weather.
This isn’t a fortress. It’s a tomb waiting to be filled.
The guards at the gate tensed the moment they saw the approaching group. Hands went to weapons. Eyes narrowed.
"State your business!" one called out, his voice tight with barely concealed fear.
Ronan rode forward. "Open the gates. I’m Ronan Ashmoor, here to see Kael."
The guard relaxed slightly, but only slightly. "We weren’t told to expect anyone."
"I’m not the kind of person who sends word ahead."
A pause. Then the guard nodded and gestured for the gate to open.
The gate groaned open—a sound of rusted iron and tired wood—and they passed through into Blackthorn proper.
The town was desperate. People moved with frantic purpose—carrying supplies, reinforcing doors, setting up barricades. Every face carried the same look: fear held at bay by willpower alone.
The streets were narrow and winding, lined with buildings that had been built quickly and maintained poorly. Most were made of wood, and Malrik could see the signs of old fires—charred beams, darkened planks, the scars of battles that had come before.
Men and women rushed past, carrying buckets of water, hauling stones, reinforcing walls. No one smiled. No one stopped to greet them.
The soldiers on the walls watched them with wary eyes. They were young, most of them—boys who should have been learning a trade, not holding a spear. And yet there they stood, their shoulders squared, their jaws set, doing what they could with what they had.
They don’t believe they’ll survive. But they’re going to fight anyway.
Ronan led them to the main hall—a modest building that had seen better days. The doors were heavy oak, scarred with old axe marks. The stone walls were covered in climbing ivy, and the windows were narrow and dark.
He dismounted and strode inside without waiting. Malrik followed.
Inside, a young man stood at a table covered with maps, surrounded by advisors and guards. He was roughly Malrik’s age—early twenties—but his face was carved with exhaustion that belonged to someone far older.
Kael Blackthorn.
He looked up. "Ronan. You came."
"I told you I would." Ronan clasped his arm. "You look terrible."
"I feel worse."
Ronan gestured to Malrik. "I brought help. Malrik. A mercenary. I assumed you’d hired him."
Kael frowned. "I didn’t. Perhaps one of my aides did." He studied Malrik with tired eyes. "We need every man we can get. Thank you for coming, stranger."
Malrik inclined his head. "I’ll do what I can."
Kael turned back to Ronan. "What news? Has the Duke sent reinforcements?"
Ronan shook his head. "That’s what I came to ask you."
Kael’s expression twisted into fury. "Reinforcements? They called my father away to support the border. They promised reinforcements. Weeks ago." His voice rose. "We’ve seen nothing. Not a single soldier. Not a single message."
"Perhaps they’re on their way—"
"On their way?" Kael slammed his fist on the table. "I’ve sent three messengers. Three! Not one returned. We’re forgotten. Abandoned. My father is gone. My people are terrified. And the Duke sits in his palace, counting his treasures!"
"Kael—"
"My father is gone! I have two thousand soldiers and a wall that’s crumbling! And the Duke doesn’t care. He’s never cared. Blackthorn is just a line on a map to him. Expendable!"
One of the advisors tried to intervene. "My lord, perhaps we should—"
"Should what? Wait longer? The Duke can rot in his palace for all I care. He’ll answer for this. When we’re all dead, he’ll answer for it."
Malrik spoke quietly. "Careful what you say."
Kael’s head snapped toward him. A bitter laugh escaped his lips.
"Careful? You’re a mercenary. A hired sword. And you’re telling me to be careful?" He stepped closer, eyes blazing. "What will you do? Report me to the Duke? You think he’ll care what a mercenary has to say?"
Ronan stepped forward. "Kael, enough."
"Enough?" Kael’s eyes were wild. "I’ve had enough of waiting. Enough of hoping. Enough of watching my people suffer while the Duke does nothing!" He turned back to Malrik. "So tell me, mercenary—what will you do? I’ve seen a hundred men like you. You come, you take our coin, and when it gets hard, you leave."
Malrik held his gaze. "I don’t run."
Kael laughed, hollow. "We’ll see."
Malrik reached into his storage ring.
The Vesperion Command Insignia materialized in his palm—silver and black, the serpent-dragon crest of House Vesperion coiled upon its surface. It gleamed in the dim light of the hall.
The room went silent.
Kael stared. His face went pale.
"My name," Malrik said, his voice cold and clear, "is Malrik Vesperion, Seventh Banner Bearer of House Vesperion... and son of Duke Vaelzareth Vesperion."
The words hit the room like a thunderclap.
Kael staggered back. His legs hit the table. His face went white—white as the stone walls around them.
Ronan stood frozen. His golden eyes were wide. He stared at Malrik, at the insignia, back at Malrik.
Then slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself to one knee.
"I offer my respect to the Seventh Banner Bearer of House Vesperion."
His voice was steady. Clear.
Malrik looked at him. "Rise."
Ronan rose without hesitation.
Kael’s knees buckled. He dropped to the ground, his head pressed to the floor, trembling.
"I’m sorry, my lord," he whispered, his voice raw and broken. "I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I had no idea who you were. The things I said—about the Duke—about your house—I never would have—"
The words spilled out of him, desperate and shaking.
Malrik stood still. Silent. Watching.
The room held its breath.
Finally, Malrik spoke.
"Stand."
His voice was quiet, but it carried weight. Authority.
Kael didn’t move. "My lord, please—"
"I said stand."
The command cut through the air like a blade. Kael’s head snapped up. He rose slowly, his hands still shaking, his face pale.
Malrik held his gaze for a long moment.
"We will deal with this after the Morveth surge," he said, his voice cold and final.
Malrik placed the Vesperion Command Insignia upon the table.
"By the authority of House Vesperion..."
"Blackthorn is now under my command."
"From this moment forward..."
"Everything within these walls answers to me."
Kael swallowed. "Yes, my lord."
He straightened, forcing himself to meet Malrik’s eyes.
"I’ll begin preparing quarters for you and your knights immediately—"
Malrik frowned.
"My knights?"
Kael blinked.
"The knights you brought from the Duchy, my lord."
A brief silence followed.
Malrik slowly shook his head.
"What do you mean... my knights?"
"I came alone."