The village was called Thornwick, and it was barely more than a cluster of buildings huddled
together against the Moors.
A tavern. A general store. A smithy. A few dozen houses, their walls thick and windows
narrow. The kind of place where strangers were noticed and remembered—exactly what
Roen didn't need.
But they had no choice. They needed supplies.
"We'll be quick," Roen said as they approached. "In and out. Don't tell anyone where we're
going."
The general store was run by a woman with sharp eyes and a ready smile—the kind of smile
that calculated the contents of your purse while asking what you needed. Roen paid for
bread, dried meat, a length of rope, and two wool blankets with the few coins he had left.
The woman's eyes lingered on his face. "Traveling far?"
"North," Roen said vaguely. "Family business."
"North." Her smile didn't waver. "Dangerous country, the Moors. Bandits. Worse things. You
sure you don't want to wait for a caravan?"
"Can't wait. Family business."
He paid and left before she could ask more questions. Mirelle was waiting outside with two
walking sticks she'd traded for at the smithy—not weapons, but better than nothing.
"She'll remember us," Mirelle said quietly as they walked away.
"Probably. But by the time anyone comes asking, we'll be long gone."
They left Thornwick behind, following the northern road as it wound deeper into the Moors.
The land grew wilder with every mile. Trees gave way to scrub. Scrub gave way to rocky
hills. The road became a suggestion, then a memory, then nothing at all.
By afternoon, they were navigating by instinct and the distant shape of the Pale Mountains
on the horizon.
"Three weeks," Mirelle said, staring at the distant peaks. "If we're lucky."
"If we're lucky," Roen agreed. "Which we usually aren't."
They made camp that first night in the ruins of an old watchtower. Its stones were blackened
by ancient fire, weathered by centuries of wind and rain. But the walls still stood, offering
shelter from the cold Moors wind.
Mirelle slept fitfully, twitching at every sound. Roen stayed awake, the pouch in his lap,
watching the stars wheel overhead.
He was thinking about the commander's face. The way she'd looked when he mentioned the
Pale Mountains. Recognition, yes. But also something else. Something darker.
Fear?
What was in the sphere? What had Sable taken from the Empire? And why did it need to go
to a monastery full of monks who'd sworn never to use magic for violence?
Questions without answers. Threads without ends.
Roen leaned back against the cold stone and let his eyes close. Tomorrow would bring new
problems. New dangers. But tonight, he was alive. He had a job. He had Mirelle.
He had a thread to follow.
The second day was harder.
The trail disappeared entirely, swallowed by the wild Moors. Roen navigated by the sun and the distant mountains, but the going was slow. They encountered their first obstacle by
midmorning—a river, swollen with spring runoff, blocking their path.
"Bridge is out," Mirelle observed, pointing to the rotting remains of a wooden structure
downstream.
"We'll find a crossing." Roen studied the river, looking for a narrow point. "There."
The crossing was treacherous—slippery rocks, knee-deep water, a current that threatened to sweep them away. But they made it, emerging on the other side soaked and shivering.
"Welcome to the Moors," Roen muttered, wringing water from his shirt.
By evening, they'd made perhaps ten miles. The Pale Mountains seemed no closer. And
Roen was beginning to understand why so few people returned from this journey.
"It's not just bandits," Mirelle said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. "It's everything. The land itself doesn't want you here."
"Then we'll have to convince it otherwise."
They made camp again, this time in a shallow cave at the base of a rocky hill. The fire was
small—there was little wood to be found—but it was enough to warm their hands.
Roen pulled out the pouch and turned it over in his hands.
"You're not going to open it," Mirelle said. It wasn't a question.
"Sable said not to. Said if I tried, they'd know." He frowned. "Who's 'they'?"
"The monks?"
"Maybe." He tucked the pouch away. "Or maybe something else."
Mirelle was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "Roen... what if we don't make it?"
He looked at her. In the firelight, she looked younger than her fifteen years. Scared.
Vulnerable.
"We'll make it," he said. "I got us this far, didn't I?"
"You got us chased out of Ashford by the Empire, hunted by a Gold Weaver, and lost in the middle of nowhere." She smiled slightly. "But yeah. We're still breathing."
"We're still breathing," he agreed. "That's something."