Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Envoys and the Old Road
A storm crawled across the horizon as Caedren stood atop the outermost tower, the wind tugging at his cloak. Lightning forked along distant hills, illuminating the sky with cold flashes of silver and blue. Below, the Free Bastion hummed with preparation—fletchers sharpening arrows beneath awnings, masons reinforcing the eastern walls with fresh mortar, scribes copying orders by candlelight in rooms thick with ink and anxiety.
But war was not always won with battlements.
Sometimes, it was won by memory.
And so he summoned the envoys.
Not soldiers. Not generals. But those who could move like breath through a forest, who carried silence better than steel.
Three rode out before dusk.
—Eris of the Hollow Vale, a silent tracker whose arrows whispered in flight. Her eyes were pale green, almost grey, and she spoke only when the wind was still. Once, she had guided an entire village across the Spine without being seen. She carried no banner, only a broken locket and a quiver of bone-fletched shafts.
—Tarn Virell, once a thief, now Caedren's most trusted shadow. He had survived four hanging attempts, two betrayals, and one knife to the heart. Where he walked, secrets died. His blade was dull on purpose—he preferred the soundless finish of strangulation.
—And Brother Aluin, a monk of the Forgotten Path, who claimed to have heard Ivan's voice in dreams. His robes were stitched from the pages of ruined tomes, and his staff bore the runes of a language no one had spoken in centuries. He often spoke in riddles, but his eyes saw clearly. Too clearly.
Their mission: find the man known only to Caedren and a few others—Lorien, the last student of the Oathbreaker.
"We don't even know if he lives," Neris had warned, her arms crossed as she leaned against the map table. The candlelight danced across her scarred face. She had always believed in steel before hope.
"We don't," Caedren replied. "But if he does, we'll need him. The Assenters remember him. They fear him. That alone makes him valuable."
"And if he's lost his way?"
Caedren's gaze didn't waver. "Then I'll bring him back."
The three envoys departed under moonlight, each riding a different path, each carrying a small iron token etched with the mark of a broken circle—the secret sign of the Ashen Oath.
Eris took the northern ridge, through silent woods where the trees grew too close together and legends spoke of beasts that mimicked men's voices. She moved swiftly, her footfalls lighter than snowflakes, bow ready in her hand. By dawn, she had vanished into the timberlands, where the dead leaves whispered secrets to those who listened.
Tarn descended the river road, following whispers among mercenaries who traded in information and blood. He bribed ferrymen and drunk warlords, listened to barmaids who never forgot a name. He followed the trail of smuggled scrolls and outlaw songs, piecing together a map made of rumors.
Brother Aluin walked the Old Pilgrim's Way barefoot, humming hymns in dead tongues, claiming the stones would guide him. He paused at every crossroads to recite verses to the sky, touching ancient trees like old friends. Birds followed him, and once, a deer walked at his side for two full hours before vanishing into mist.
Each path was a gamble.
Each could end in silence.
Caedren remained, his sword sheathed at his side, watching the stars emerge like old sentinels in the sky. He spent each night atop the tower, sleeping little, reading old letters from Lorien—most half-burned, most unreadable—and tracing the faded ink with his fingers.
He did not pray.
He did not beg fate for aid.
He simply whispered to the wind:
"If you still walk this world, Lorien… I need you."
He remembered the lessons passed in silence. The feel of the training stave slamming into his ribs. The way Lorien would say, "The world doesn't need another hero. It needs someone who remembers why we stopped needing them."
Far beyond the Free Bastion, beyond the hills and dark forests, beyond rivers swollen with rain, in a cave carved by forgotten waters beneath the bones of the Broken Spine, an old man stirred.
He opened one eye.
The fire before him crackled low.
Outside, the storm rumbled.
He whispered:
"They've come."
Then he stood, joints aching, sword leaning beside the wall, untouched for years.
And for the first time in a decade, Lorien stepped into the rain.