Kaelen crested the last barren ridge at dusk, with Liam padding silently at his side. In the valley below lay Blackbarrow, a huddle of timber and stone clinging to the frontier. Smoke from cookfires smeared the darkening sky, and the scent of charred wood and old blood carried on the wind. Kaelen narrowed his eyes. Something is wrong here. Even without seeing the broken palisade or the crude gibbets at the town’s edge, he could feel an unease crawling under his skin. It was the same prickling instinct that had saved him in the past — a sense that evil lurked nearby. Liam’s ears flattened and a low growl rumbled in the wolf’s throat. Kaelen rested a gloved hand on his familiar’s neck, gently scratching. “I feel it too,” he murmured. “Stay close.”
As they approached Blackbarrow’s gate, no welcoming party emerged — only two sullen men with spears. They wore mismatched leathers and the hardened scowls of mercenaries. One spat on the ground when he saw the black wolf at Kaelen’s heel.
“Halt there,” barked the taller guard, stepping forward. The fading light gleamed on a tarnished badge pinned to his vest — a crude emblem of a rearing stallion. It might once have been a knight’s crest, now defaced and claimed by outlaws. The man’s voice tried for authority, but Kaelen noted the quaver beneath it. “State your business in Blackbarrow.”
Kaelen pulled back his hood. The last of the sun caught the streak of silver in his jet-black hair and the ragged scar that curved from his brow to cheek. His eyes, dark with ember-red flecks, regarded the guards coldly. “Traveling through. Looking for a meal and a bed.” He kept his tone flat, arms at his sides. He knew how he must look to them — a tall, broad-shouldered stranger clad in worn black armor, a greatsword strapped to his back, and a wolf at his side. In these times, that image often inspired fear.
The second guard, a stocky fellow with rotten teeth, eyed Kaelen’s sword hilt and sneered. “That’ll be a toll, then. Ten silvers for you, and…” He jabbed his spear toward Liam. “…another ten for the beast.”
Liam’s lips curled, a flash of white fang. Kaelen subtly shifted his stance, placing himself between the wolf and the men. “Toll? Since when do frontier towns charge entry fees?” His voice was quiet, but there was an edge beneath it.
The tall guard snorted. “Since our lord Protector made it so. Blackbarrow is safe haven now. You pay, you get the protection of Lord Ganthor and his Black Stallions.” He gestured to the horse emblem on his chest. “No pay, you can turn right back into the wasteland.”
Kaelen’s jaw tightened. Lord Protector… He exchanged a glance with Liam. The wolf’s golden eyes seemed to say it plainly: Thieves. The smell of cheap ale and stale sweat on these “guards” told Kaelen enough. They were bandits playing at soldiery. Blackbarrow must be under their thumb.
Slowly, Kaelen reached to his belt. The guards tensed, knuckles whitening on their spear shafts, until they saw he was drawing out a coin pouch. Kaelen plucked a single silver coin and flicked it towards the tall guard’s feet. It rang against a stone. “That’s my offer. One silver, for one quiet night. Take it or leave it.”
The man’s face darkened. “Are you mocking us, bastard?”
Kaelen said nothing, meeting the man’s glare with a steady, unblinking stare. In the silence, Liam let out a soft, throaty growl.
For a moment, it looked as though the stocky bandit would lunge with his spear. But the taller one laid a hand on his partner’s arm, stopping him. The tall guard licked his lips, eyes flicking to Liam and back to Kaelen. He seemed to reconsider—perhaps recalling some rumor or simply sensing that this was not a man to extort. He bent and picked up the coin. “Fine,” he spat. “One silver. But cause any trouble and you’ll answer to Lord Ganthor’s justice.”
Kaelen allowed himself a grim half-smile. “Understood.” With a small tug on Liam’s fur to signal forward, he walked past the glowering sentries and entered Blackbarrow.
The main street was a strip of hardened mud lined by ramshackle buildings. In better days, Blackbarrow might have been a modest trading post, alive with caravans carrying salt and iron. Now, the windows were shuttered and only a few souls scurried about. Kaelen saw a hunched old woman hurriedly pulling a child indoors at the sight of him. A pair of lean young men loitered by a water trough, hands resting not-so-casually on the hatchets at their belts. They watched him with predator’s eyes. More of Ganthor’s thugs, no doubt.
Kaelen moved with measured steps, neither slow nor hurried. Liam padded close, head low. The wolf’s ears twitched as he picked up the hushed voices around them.
“Another stranger… gods help him.”
“Did you see that wolf? Spirits preserve us…”
“…big sword. But wait till he meets Ganthor.”
Each murmured remark died as quickly as it came. The townsfolk of Blackbarrow had learned not to draw attention. A cluster of villagers unloading firewood froze when Kaelen passed, their faces smudged with soot and fear. He offered a nod of greeting. None returned it. Instead, one man’s gaze fell to Kaelen’s gloved left hand, where a faint golden light glimmered from beneath the leather — the Talisman of the Allseer that hung around Kaelen’s wrist glinted as if catching a sunbeam. The man’s eyes widened at the holy symbol, but a companion quickly shook his head and the group shuffled away.
Kaelen suppressed a sigh. He had hoped for at least a neutral reception, but the people here were clearly on edge. Whether they feared him or the so-called protector’s wrath, it mattered little. Either way, trust would be hard-won.
At the center of town stood what passed for a square: a flagstone plaza with a stone well. By the well, a notice board was planted, papers fluttering. Kaelen glanced at the largest poster, illuminated by a flickering torch sconce. On it was painted the same stallion emblem and bold black letters: “By order of Lord Protector Ganthor – Curfew at nightfall. Obey the Black Stallions. Report all suspicious persons.”
Beneath that, another paper: “All crimes punishable by the Protector’s Justice.” The word justice was crossed out and someone had scrawled mercy beneath it in crude letters, likely as a dark joke. Kaelen’s eyes drifted lower. A dark stain of dried blood marred the base of the post. And next to it… he noticed with a clench of his jaw… a small shape on the ground, like a bundle of cloth. He stepped closer, and his heart tightened. It was a child’s doll, one arm torn off, lying in the mud.
Liam sniffed at the doll and whined softly. Kaelen felt a surge of empathy and rage coil together in his chest. He gently lifted the toy, wiping mud from its carved wooden face. How did this get here? He imagined some little girl ripped from her doll’s arms… perhaps as her family was punished or worse. The thought triggered an old memory — of flames and screams in another village, his own hands slick with blood after the dragon’s fury. Kaelen swallowed, forcing the memory down. Not now. He tucked the doll carefully into his cloak, determined to find its owner if he could.
The creak of a tavern sign drew his attention. The Thirsty Hare, read the faded lettering above a dilapidated inn across the square. Light and voices leaked from its shuttered windows — the only lively noise in town. If there was any place to gather information quietly, it would be there. Kaelen stepped toward the inn.
Inside, the common room was dim and hazy with pipe smoke. A dozen or so patrons turned to look as the door swung open, then quickly looked away. Kaelen’s entrance had the same effect here as outside: conversations died to whispers, a few chairs scraped as people edged away from him and Liam. The innkeep, a balding man with a stained apron, paused mid-wipe of a mug, uncertainty plain on his face.
Kaelen approached the bar. He could feel all the furtive glances pricking his back. Liam stayed by the door, sitting calmly but watchful. The wolf’s presence all but guaranteed no one would try to pick Kaelen’s pocket or stab him from behind. Not that anyone seemed eager to approach anyway.
“What’ll it be, m’lord?” the innkeep ventured, voice trembling slightly on the honorific.
“I’m no lord,” Kaelen said quietly. “Just a meal and ale, if you have it. And a bit of information.”
The innkeep nodded, wringing the rag in his hands. “Aye… we’ve stew on the fire. Slow-cooked venison. Ale’s fairly fresh.” He hesitated, glancing nervously to a table in the corner where two figures in leather sat. Even without their stallion badges visible, Kaelen could tell they were part of Ganthor’s crew — their swagger and open display of steel made it obvious. One of them, a wiry man with a scar across his nose, was eyeing Kaelen with open hostility, likely noting the newcomer’s weapons.
“I’ll pay,” Kaelen assured the innkeep and slid a few coppers across the counter. Money tended to ease tension.
As the innkeep busied himself with a bowl and tankard, Kaelen continued in a low tone, “The town seems… quiet. Has there been trouble of late?”
The man froze for a heartbeat, then resumed pouring ale with shaking hands. “Ah… n-no more than usual, stranger.” He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Blackbarrow’s a rough place these days, but safe enough if you mind yourself.”
Kaelen nodded slowly, sensing the man’s fear. He didn’t press further; it would do no good to get the innkeep in trouble in front of those bandits. Instead, he thanked him and took the offered bowl and drink.
Scanning the room, he chose a spot at a long table away from others. As he sat, Liam trotted over and settled at his feet. Kaelen ate in silence, ears keen for any useful chatter in the tavern. At first there was none — only the crackle of the hearth and clink of mugs. Gradually, low conversation resumed among the patrons, though now in even more cautious tones.
He caught fragments from a nearby table of weary farmers:
“…took near all our grain this time. Said it’s ‘taxes for protection.’”
“Hush, you want Joren to hear? He’ll cut out your tongue…”
Then from the bar, one of the mercenaries with the scar was muttering to his companion:
“…wolf’ll be trouble. Ought to gut it outside.”
The other chuckled. “You first. That beast looks like it eats our kind for supper.”
Scar-Nose scowled. “We’ll see what Lord Ganthor says. Bastard came in armed, no respect. Could be one of them Allseer agents, or bounty hunter. Either way…”
Kaelen kept his eyes down on his stew, pretending not to hear. But Liam let out a low chuff, sensing his master’s tension. Gently, Kaelen placed a boot on the wolf’s paw under the table — a subtle reassurance.
“Easy,” he whispered. He needed to handle this carefully. Taking on two thugs here would be simple, but it would blow any chance of moving quietly through Blackbarrow. Yet, as he reminded himself, he wasn’t here just to pass through anymore. Not after seeing that doll and those fearful faces. I can’t ignore this.
He was deciding whether to confront the bandits in the tavern or wait for a better moment when a voice spoke at his elbow:
“Mind if I sit? The ale tastes better with company.”
Kaelen looked up sharply. He hadn’t heard anyone approach — a sign he’d been more distracted than he realized. Beside him stood a man perhaps five or six years younger than Kaelen, lean and athletic, with unruly sandy hair and a travel-worn cloak. Bright hazel eyes regarded him with a mix of curiosity and amusement. He carried a short sword at his hip but had his hands open in a placating gesture.
Liam bristled, but Kaelen calmed the wolf with a soft word. He studied the stranger. He did not wear the stallion badge and didn’t have the hardened look of the Black Stallions. In fact, he seemed like an outsider, possibly another mercenary or adventurer.
When Kaelen didn’t immediately refuse, the young man slipped onto the bench opposite him and raised his own tankard in salute. “Here’s to unlikely friends in unlikely places,” he quipped softly before taking a swig.
Kaelen arched an eyebrow. “You presume much,” he said, but not harshly. In truth, he was surprised anyone in this town had the nerve to approach him willingly.
The stranger grinned. “Maybe. You looked like you could use some friendly conversation that isn’t whispered behind your back.” He glanced pointedly at the farmers and then at the bar where the bandits sat glowering. “Name’s Rowan.”
Kaelen gave a small nod. “Kaelen.” He didn’t offer more. He rarely did.
Rowan’s eyes lit with recognition, and he leaned in, voice dropping. “The Kaelen? Dragonslayer… dark hero… that Kaelen?” His tone held awe but also a note of skepticism, as if weighing truth against legend.
Kaelen tensed. He wasn’t accustomed to being recognized so openly — certainly not to hearing the word hero. More often it was cursed or killer. He looked Rowan in the eye. “I’m no hero,” he muttered.
Rowan studied him a moment, then shrugged amiably. “Well, maybe not yet. But you made one hell of an entrance here. Word travels fast in a small town. Folks are already talking about the black-clad warrior who stared down Joren and his goon at the gate.” He smirked, tilting his head towards the scar-nosed bandit at the bar. “That one there is Joren. And he’s too stupid to let a grudge die. Just a heads up.”
As if on cue, Joren scraped back his stool and started toward their table, the other bandit in tow. Rowan sighed. “Ah, and here comes the ray of sunshine now.”
Kaelen set aside his half-finished bowl and slowly stood, facing the approaching thugs. Liam rose too, a silent shadow at Kaelen’s side, fangs just visible.
Joren stopped a few paces away, hand on the pommel of a jagged knife at his belt. His companion rested a hand on his own sword hilt. The tavern had gone deathly quiet again; patrons shrank back against the walls. The innkeep hovered behind his counter, wringing that poor rag nearly to shreds.
“You,” Joren snarled at Kaelen. His scarred nose wrinkled as if smelling something foul. “Gave you a chance to pay fair, and you insulted us. Lord Ganthor don’t like insults.” His eyes flicked to Rowan. “And you, Rowan. Didn’t think you’d still be skulking around. Thought you had enough coin to move on.”
Rowan offered a lazy, mocking salute. “What can I say? The local hospitality has me enthralled.” He flashed a cheeky grin that only made Joren scowl harder.
Kaelen’s voice cut through the tension like a blade of ice. “If there’s a problem, take it outside. No need to spill blood in here.” His stance was calm but ready, one hand lightly resting on the table as if casual — yet Rowan didn’t miss how close that hand was to the greatsword hilt over Kaelen’s shoulder.
Joren spat on the floor. “You think you’re giving orders, dog? This town already has a protector. Last thing we need is some wandering killer making trouble.” He glanced around at the watching villagers. “You all best remember that. Lord Ganthor keeps you safe. Strangers like him only bring death.” A few of the patrons lowered their eyes; one or two nodded ever so slightly in fearful agreement.
Kaelen felt a pang at that. They think I’m worse? He couldn’t entirely blame them. His name carried dark whispers in some places — tales of the “cursed dragonslayer” with inhuman powers. And here he stood, gloved hand twitching inches from a deadly blade, a wolf at his side. He probably did look every bit the menace Ganthor painted him to be.
Rowan opened his mouth, perhaps to retort, but Kaelen lifted a hand to silence him. He locked eyes with Joren. “I have no quarrel with you. I paid your toll and I keep to myself. Leave it at that.”
Joren’s lips curled into a nasty grin. “Too late. You showed disrespect. Now we gotta make an example, see? Otherwise every peasant with a pitchfork will think they can spit on Ganthor’s law.”
His comrade stepped forward and hissed, “Hand over that big sword, nice and easy. Lord’s orders: no armed strangers. You’re coming with us to kneel before him and beg forgiveness. Maybe if you’re real polite, he’ll let you crawl out alive.”
A growl rumbled in Kaelen’s chest at the bandit’s insolence. Liam mirrored it, a deep warning that made the hairs on the men’s necks stand up. Kaelen fought down a flash of anger. In years past, he might have answered such a threat swiftly—with steel and fury. But that was the old Kaelen, the one he was trying to leave behind.
He moved slowly, deliberately unbuckling the sheath of his greatsword from his back. Joren’s grin widened, seeing apparent compliance, but Kaelen’s eyes remained cold and unyielding.
Rowan looked at Kaelen in alarm. “What are you—?” he began, but Kaelen shot him a look that said: Trust me.
Kaelen held out his sword, still in its scabbard, as though to surrender it. Joren stepped closer, one hand reaching for the weapon. The second bandit stayed a pace back, hand on his own sword, ready to assist if needed.
The instant Joren’s filthy fingers touched the black leather scabbard, Kaelen struck. He yanked the sheath back and away, simultaneously driving his other fist straight into Joren’s jaw with a sickening crack. The bandit dropped like a stone, knocked cold before his knife even left its belt.
Almost in the same breath, the second thug lunged, drawing his short sword and slashing at Kaelen’s side. Kaelen pivoted, and for a heartbeat the world slowed. He could sense the arc of the blade coming — not just see it, but feel the malice guiding it. That burgeoning empathic power within him flared, and the taste of iron filled his mouth, a warning. Kaelen twisted aside just enough that the sword sliced the air by his ribs. In a fluid motion, he brought the weighted scabbard of his greatsword swinging around and slammed it across the man’s temple. The thug yelped, crumpling to his knees, half-conscious and bleeding from a gash above his ear.
Kaelen stepped back, heart pounding but controlled. The tavern was in utter silence, broken only by Rowan’s low whistle of appreciation. In two blinks of an eye, Kaelen had incapacitated both troublemakers without even unsheathing his blade.
Liam trotted over to sniff at Joren’s inert form, then sneezed in distaste. Rowan chuckled under his breath. The wolf looked almost disappointed the scuffle ended so quickly.
Kaelen exhaled, reining in the adrenaline coursing through him. He surveyed the room. None of the other patrons moved to aid the bandits. Most stared at Kaelen in awe or fear. The innkeep peeked up from behind the bar, eyes huge.
Rowan stood and clapped Kaelen on the shoulder. “Remind me never to play cards against you, friend. You don’t bluff.” He then prodded the conscious-but-dazed bandit with his boot. “Go on, pick up your partner and crawl back to your master. Tell Ganthor exactly what happened here.” Rowan’s tone turned icy. “Tell him the people of Blackbarrow have had enough of his kind.”
The wounded bandit shot Rowan a poisonous glare as he staggered to his feet. He swayed, clutching his head, and fearfully eyed Kaelen and Liam, who still watched him like a hawk and hound ready to pounce. Deciding self-preservation was the better part of valor, he stooped to grab Joren’s collar and began dragging his unconscious comrade toward the door, stumbling in haste.
Kaelen’s voice stopped him. “Wait.” He bent down and picked up the single silver coin Joren had dropped when he fell. Kaelen pressed it into the bandit’s trembling hand. “Your toll,” he said quietly. “Now leave.” The man flushed with humiliation but nodded once, too afraid to reply. He hauled Joren out into the night.
When the door shut, a collective breath released in the tavern. Someone let out a nervous laugh. The innkeep emerged from behind the bar at last, wiping sweat from his brow. Kaelen looked around, unsure what reaction to expect. Grateful applause? Shouts of anger? Instead he found mostly stunned, wary silence.
He couldn’t blame them. Their “protector’s” men had just been dispatched, but that could bring worse repercussions. Kaelen frowned, feeling he may have just made things harder for these people if Ganthor decided to retaliate against the whole town for this embarrassment.
As if reading his thoughts, Rowan spoke up brightly to the room: “Next round’s on me, in honor of our courageous friend here!” He raised Kaelen’s tankard (which had miraculously not spilled) and the mood in the room lifted slightly. A few tentative cheers even went up when Rowan slammed the tankard back in front of Kaelen and winked. “Drink. You’ve earned it.”
One by one, people returned to their seats. A low murmur of conversation resumed, anxious but tinged with a new hopefulness. The farmers who had whispered before now regarded Kaelen with a kind of respect.
Kaelen sank down, finally unsheathing his sword—not as a threat, but to check it. The scabbard strike had left a hairline crack in the old leather. He ran a thumb over it thoughtfully. That would need repair. Not important now, but it grounded him to focus on something mundane for a second. Liam settled at his feet again, but his ears remained perked toward the door.
Rowan slid back onto the bench across from Kaelen, pushing Kaelen’s untouched ale toward him. “You’d best finish that. No telling when you’ll get another chance. I suspect Lord Ganthor will want to see you shortly.”
Kaelen drank, the cool bitterness of the ale soothing his dry throat. “He’ll come, or he’ll send more. Either way, this ends tonight,” he said quietly. His words were more confident than he felt. In truth, he was calculating outcomes. Ganthor could storm in with dozens of men, putting everyone here at risk. Perhaps Kaelen should meet him elsewhere, away from innocents. But Rowan seemed to read the concern on his face.
“He’ll probably want to put on a show,” Rowan said. “Ganthor fancies himself a hero to these folk — twisted as that is. He won’t like that you undermined him. My guess? He challenges you publicly, to save face. And if you refuse or if you lose… well, it’ll cement his grip. If you win…” Rowan gave a lopsided grin, “the people might finally see him for what he is.”
Kaelen studied Rowan. The young mercenary spoke of the townsfolk with genuine care. “You seem to know a lot about this Ganthor,” Kaelen observed. “And you didn’t run or hide when his bullies came. Why?”
Rowan shrugged and took a sip from his own drink. “Came through here a week ago looking for honest work. Found none, unless you count serving that self-appointed lord. I refused. Since then, I’ve seen enough. These people are barely surviving under his thumb. Someone’s got to push back.” He paused, eyes twinkling. “Besides, I have a soft spot for lost causes and brooding warriors with mysterious pasts.”
Kaelen huffed a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “Is that what I am to you?”
“You tell me,” Rowan said lightly. Then, more seriously, “I’ve heard the stories, Kaelen. About Cinderpeak, the dragon Gorgonath… and about you. Some say you died slaying the beast. Others say you absorbed its soul and lived, forever cursed. Seeing you now, I’ll admit I’m inclined to believe the latter.” He nodded toward Liam. “And the fact you travel with a wolf and… well, you fight like ten men. Most folks might fear you’re a monster yourself.”
Kaelen’s gaze fell. The familiar weight of shame settled in his chest. “I fight against monsters,” he whispered, almost to himself.
Rowan leaned forward. “I believe that. But these villagers? They don’t know you. They only know that if Ganthor calls you a threat, maybe you are one. They’re scared, and fear makes folks cruel or cowardly.” He glanced around the tavern; a few eavesdroppers quickly looked away. In a softer voice, Rowan continued, “If you want to help them, you have to show them you’re different from the likes of Ganthor. More than just a bigger sword.”
Kaelen absorbed Rowan’s words. It was strangely reassuring to have someone speak so plainly. He gave a small nod. “No killing, unless I must. No displays of… unnatural power.” His hand drifted near the Allseer talisman at his neck, its gentle warmth a reminder of the vow he’d made to use his strength for light, not destruction.
Rowan’s lips quirked. “And maybe try smiling once or twice. But one miracle at a time.”
Before Kaelen could muster a reply, the tavern door banged open, making several patrons flinch. A burly silhouette filled the doorway. The man who entered was armored in a half-plate cuirass that had once been gleaming white enamel, now dirtied and scratched. A tattered cloak of burgundy hung from his shoulders. He had a broad, weathered face with a close-cropped grey beard, and a jagged scar bisected his left eyebrow. At his hip was a longsword, well-crafted. This must be Lord Ganthor.
Behind him, a posse of six more armed men fanned out, including the two Kaelen had driven off (Joren was awake now, sporting a swollen jaw and murderous eyes). Villagers and drinkers shrank back against the walls, out of the way. Fear crackled in the air.
Ganthor stepped forward, surveying the room with a theatrical disappointment. “What’s this I hear,” he growled, voice commanding, “about insurrection brewing in my town?”
No one dared answer. Ganthor’s gaze fell upon Kaelen, who had risen from his seat to face the new threat. Ganthor’s eyes narrowed as he took in the sight — a tall, armored warrior with an unsheathed greatsword held loosely in one hand, and a wolf at his side, hackles raised. A faint flicker of uncertainty crossed the self-styled lord’s face, but he masked it with a sneer.
“So,” Ganthor said, loud enough for all to hear, “you’re the outsider who’s been causing my men grief. Striking them down, stirring up these simple folk with false hope.” He took a step closer, and his men followed, ringing out to semi-circle around Kaelen and Rowan. “I am Lord Protector Ganthor, sworn guardian of Blackbarrow. And you are…?”
“Kaelen,” he answered evenly.
A hush fell. Some of the townsfolk exchanged quick, wide-eyed looks. It was clear that name carried weight, even here. Ganthor’s eyes flickered—recognition, perhaps—and his sneer faltered. “Kaelen… Yes, I’ve heard of you. The cursed knight-errant. Dragonslayer, they say. Kinslayer, others say.” His tone oozed contempt. “Tell me, is it madness or malice that brings you to my town?”
Kaelen’s grip tightened on his sword. The implication that he’d slain kin stung, conjuring a flash of faces from his past — friends lost, innocents he’d failed to save. He forced those ghosts aside. “I came for a meal and rest,” he said, voice hard. “But I stay to right a wrong. These people are not yours to terrorize.”
A few gasps sounded. Ganthor barked a laugh. “Terrorize? I protect them, you fool. Who do you think keeps the riffraff and raiders at bay? Who hunted down the highwaymen preying on our roads, or the goblin raiders from the hills? I did.” He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “And yes, protection has costs. Someone must have the spine to lead, to make the hard choices. Certainly not these cowardly peasants.” He cast a withering glare around at the cowering onlookers. Many bowed their heads, shamed or frightened.
Kaelen felt a burn of anger in his chest. “And the merchants you robbed on the road? The ‘taxes’ you squeeze from starving farmers? Was that a hard choice too?” He took a step forward, blade pointed down but tense with readiness. “From where I stand, you’re no protector. Just another tyrant preying on the weak.”
Ganthor’s face darkened. He drew his longsword in one swift motion; its steel gleamed in the lantern-light. “Mind your tongue. I was a knight of the realm once. Sir Ganthor of Greyfen, sworn before King and Allseer.” He spat on the tavern floor. “But where were those oaths when the world fell apart? When war and blight came, the nobility fled and left us to fend alone. I made myself the law here. Without me, Blackbarrow would be ashes and bones. I earned this lordship through blood.”
“You took it through fear,” Kaelen replied, and let the people see him turn his back on Ganthor for a moment to address them. “Is there anyone here who truly feels safe and free under this man’s protection? Speak, if so.” He scanned the room. Villagers looked to one another, hesitant. In many faces Kaelen saw confusion and dread… but also a flicker of yearning. They wanted to speak. Ganthor’s men glared and tightened their grip on weapons, intimidating any who met their eyes.
A young woman’s voice, trembling but audible, broke the silence. “He—he saved us from the orcs last winter… but…” All eyes turned to a slight woman near the fireplace holding a toddler in her arms. She quailed at the sudden attention, especially as Ganthor’s cold stare bore down on her. Yet she gathered her courage and continued in a rush, “But he also took my husband as payment. Dragged him off in chains when we couldn’t give more coin. We haven’t seen Tomas since.” Her voice cracked. She clutched the child closer, tears brimming.
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Others stepped forward by inches, spurred by her bravery. An older man next to her nodded. “Aye. Ganthor’s ‘justice’ gave my boy twenty lashes for speaking out of turn. The lad can barely walk now.”
Another villager: “The so-called protector let his men seize our crop seed for ‘taxes’. Now spring planting’s gone and we’ll starve come next harvest…”
Each voice grew bolder, layering accusation upon accusation. The dam had broken. Fear was slowly giving way to anger and long-suppressed outrage. Kaelen watched Ganthor’s face pale with fury as the truth of his reign was laid bare.
“Silence!” Ganthor roared, raising his blade. His cronies moved in with menace, one ramming the pommel of his sword into the old man’s gut to shut him up. The man crumpled, coughing. The young woman shrank back with a sob as another bandit advanced and ripped her child from her arms, holding a knife to the wailing toddler’s neck.
The crowd instantly fell to terrified hush, horror etched on every face. Ganthor sneered, regaining control by sheer brutality. “Ungrateful swine, all of you,” he hissed. “I am your only hope. Without me, bandits and beasts would rend you apart.” He nodded to the ruffian who held the child. “Perhaps a lesson is in order, to remind you what happens when you forget your place.”
Kaelen’s blood turned to ice. This had to stop now. He locked eyes with Rowan; the mercenary’s face was taut with rage and concern. Rowan’s hand twitched near a throwing dagger at his belt, but Kaelen subtly lifted a hand. A plan formed in Kaelen’s mind, clear and resolute: Challenge Ganthor directly, draw him away from harming the hostages.
Kaelen took a step forward, drawing Ganthor’s attention fully back to himself. “Ganthor!” he shouted. “You call yourself a knight—act like one. Face me honorably. Or are you just a coward hiding behind henchmen and hostages?”
Ganthor’s blade tip wavered. He bristled at the insult. “You dare—”
Kaelen pressed on, voice strong and echoing in the tavern rafters. “I challenge you. One-on-one. No interference. Prove your claim to protector in front of everyone. Or admit you’re nothing but a thug.” He pointed the tip of his greatsword at Ganthor in formal challenge. “If I win, you release this town from your grip. If you win, well… one less cursed killer to worry about.”
A tense hush fell. Ganthor’s eye twitched. Kaelen could see the conflict on the man’s face: accept and risk defeat, or refuse and look weak. Pride won out.
“Fine,” Ganthor snarled. He jerked his chin at his men. “Let the worm have his duel. Back off.” The bandit holding the toddler hesitated, then slowly lowered his knife and set the crying child down. The child ran back into his mother’s arms. A collective sigh of relief murmured through the villagers, though fear still hung heavy.
Rowan swiftly moved to help the old man who’d been struck, pulling him gently out of harm’s way. As he passed Kaelen, Rowan whispered, “Be careful. He’s strong.” Kaelen gave a tight nod, eyes never leaving Ganthor.
Ganthor stepped into the center of the tavern’s open floor, rolling his shoulders. He addressed the onlookers grandly: “Bear witness! I slay this outsider in fair combat, and let it show what becomes of all who challenge the Protector of Blackbarrow.”
One of his cronies dragged a table aside to clear space. The villagers pressed back against the walls and stairwell, forming a ring. Many looked terrified and fascinated in equal measure. Liam circled behind Kaelen, ready to leap in if needed, but Kaelen glanced at him and murmured, “Stay, Liam. Only if they break the rules.” The wolf chuffed begrudgingly and sat by Rowan and the injured old man, watching with wary eyes.
Kaelen removed his cloak, tossing it aside and adjusting his grip on his sword with both hands. This space was cramped for a greatsword, but he had practiced in tighter confines. Ganthor’s longsword would have the advantage in speed, Kaelen’s blade in reach and power, but only if he managed not to crash it into a beam or post. The tavern’s lantern light danced across the polished steel of both men’s weapons.
For a heartbeat, Kaelen closed his eyes. He calmed his breathing, feeling the subtle warmth of the Allseer’s talisman against his chest, the steady hum in his bones that guided him. Let me not lose myself to fury. Let this battle show the truth.
Somewhere in the crowd, he thought he heard the old man Rowan helped rasp a soft prayer. Others might have joined in under their breath. Kaelen felt a faint ripple in the air — whether it was magic or simply the collective hope of desperate people, he could not tell. But it strengthened his resolve.
Ganthor struck first. With a roar, he lunged, feinting high then whipping his sword toward Kaelen’s flank. Kaelen reacted on instinct sharpened by countless battles. He parried low, the clash of steel on steel ringing out. Sparks flew. Ganthor pressed, heavy and brutal, raining two more blows in quick succession. Kaelen parried each, boots braced against the floorboards. The man was indeed strong, and skilled; he hadn’t been lying about once being a knight.
Kaelen stepped to the side, trying to create space for a counter, but Ganthor advanced aggressively, not giving him a moment to bring the longer blade around. The false lord’s face was a snarl of determination. He swung down a powerful overhand chop. Kaelen caught it on his greatsword’s crossguard inches above his head. The impact jarred his arms and for a split second the sheer force drove him to one knee. A few villagers cried out in dismay.
Ganthor leered, pressing down with brute strength, trying to force Kaelen to collapse. “Is this all the famed dragonslayer can muster?” he growled through clenched teeth.
Kaelen gritted back, holding firm. “You haven’t seen anything yet.” With a surge of will, Kaelen twisted, deflecting Ganthor’s blade aside and rolling out from under the locked position. Ganthor stumbled forward a step, caught off guard by the sudden release. Kaelen seized that opening—spinning and bringing his greatsword around in a broad arc.
Ganthor recovered quickly, just enough to interpose his sword. The two blades met with a thunderous clang. Kaelen’s strike, though partially blocked, still hit with enough force to knock Ganthor back into a table, which shattered under his weight. The crowd scattered from that side of the room with yelps.
The bandit lord snarled in anger, scrambling up. A cut on his forehead from the fall trickled blood down his temple. Kaelen stood a few paces away, chest heaving, sword at the ready. He did not press the advantage recklessly. Instead, he began to circle, forcing Ganthor to move as well. The older man limped a half-step – likely a bruised hip from the fall. Kaelen’s eyes honed in on that weakness.
Ganthor realized the tactic and his scowl deepened. He lunged again, sweeping low this time. Kaelen leapt back, the tip of Ganthor’s sword slashing just shy of his thigh armor. Kaelen retaliated with a thrust, testing the man’s defenses. Ganthor parried and countered in a fluid motion, nearly nicking Kaelen’s shoulder. The crowd flinched and swayed with each near-hit, the anxiety palpable.
As the duel raged, Kaelen felt a shift within himself — the stirring of the beast he kept caged. The dragon’s fire in his blood quickened, urging him to unleash it, to end this fight in one terrifying blaze. He could practically hear Gorgonath’s distant roar in his ears, the remnant of the dragon’s soul coiled in him. It promised power, a swift victory through destruction. I could incinerate Ganthor where he stands…
No. Kaelen grit his teeth and shoved that temptation down. If he resorted to dragonfire now, in front of these people, they would never see him as anything but a monster. And worse, he might lose control. He remembered the Allseer’s guidance: Shield the weak, do not scorch them. He would win this with skill and honor.
Ganthor came at him anew, swinging furiously. “Fight back, coward!” he taunted as Kaelen stayed mostly on defense. Ganthor’s blade nicked Kaelen’s forearm, slicing through the leather there. A red line of blood welled up. Encouraged, Ganthor pressed harder. “Is this how you killed the dragon? By cowering? Maybe the bards got it wrong—maybe you begged the beast for mercy while it burned your village!”
Kaelen’s vision flashed with red anger at the mention of his village, of that night of fire and loss. He parried an overhead strike with such force that Ganthor actually reeled. Now Kaelen advanced, raining a series of blows that forced the self-proclaimed protector onto the back foot. Left, right, thrust, overhead — Kaelen attacked with measured ferocity, each swing of his greatsword flowing into the next like a relentless tide.
Ganthor blocked desperately, teeth bared. Kaelen’s greater reach was telling now; a slice opened a shallow cut on Ganthor’s armored thigh, another grazed his gauntlet, sending sparks. Kaelen saw fear flicker in Ganthor’s eyes as he was driven back toward the center of the room. The bandit leader’s men stepped aside, not daring to interfere but shouting encouragements.
Desperate, Ganthor aimed a heavy slash at Kaelen’s head. Kaelen ducked, and in that split-second, he released one hand from his sword and slammed his armored elbow into Ganthor’s face. The crunch of cartilage was sickening. Ganthor staggered with a howl, blood spurting from his broken nose.
Before Ganthor could recover, Kaelen followed with a pommel strike to the gut. Ganthor doubled over, gasping. Kaelen kicked him square in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. A cheer rose from somewhere in the crowd, quickly silenced by shock at their own daring.
Ganthor’s sword had flown from his hand and skidded across the floor, coming to rest at Liam’s paws. The wolf sniffed it and promptly kicked it farther away with a toss of his head, as if the steel offended him. Ganthor groaned, scrambling backward on the floorboards, reaching frantically for a dagger at his boot.
Kaelen stalked toward him, breathing hard but steady. He knocked the dagger aside with his foot before Ganthor could draw it. Then he planted the tip of his greatsword against Ganthor’s breastplate, right over the man’s pounding heart.
It was over. “Yield,” Kaelen said, voice quiet but carrying in the stunned silence.
Ganthor’s face was a mask of hate and panic. Blood from his nose smeared his lips and chin. He looked past the blade at the ring of villagers now encircling them both at a safer distance. He saw his men; some had hands on their weapons, but none dared move with Liam prowling behind them and Rowan now holding a drawn sword as well, ready to stop any interference.
The bandit leader let out a bitter, ragged laugh. “Fine. Kill me then. If you think that will save them. Go on!” He beat a gauntleted fist against his own chest, clanging on the metal under Kaelen’s sword tip. “Do it, killer. That’s what you are, isn’t it? That’s what they’ll remember. Not your noble duel—just the blood.”
Kaelen’s blade pressed a fraction more, denting the old breastplate. His hands trembled with the urge to finish it. Ganthor was a blight on these people; his death would likely bring relief. It would be so easy…
The room was deathly quiet. All watched, breath held, as Kaelen stood poised to deliver judgment.
Kaelen remembered another moment, years ago, standing over a different defeated foe. Back then he hadn’t hesitated. He’d taken vengeance and felt nothing but emptiness after. I am not that man anymore.
He lifted his sword from Ganthor’s chest. And then, with a sharp motion, he flipped the greatsword in his grip and slammed the pommel down onto Ganthor’s gauntlet. Bone cracked; Ganthor cried out and the dagger he had concealed in that hand clattered free. Kaelen kicked it away. It was the last fight left in the man.
“I won’t kill you,” Kaelen said evenly, loud enough for all to hear. “Not today.” He stepped back, lowering his sword completely. A collective gasp rose from the villagers. Ganthor himself looked astonished—perhaps even a touch afraid now, of what justice might come instead of a clean death.
Kaelen turned to the onlookers. He saw in their faces an awe and wonder that hadn’t been there before. They had expected a slaughter. Instead, they saw mercy. “Your ‘protector’ is defeated,” Kaelen proclaimed, voice carrying in the rafters. “His claim over you is broken. What happens with him now… is your choice. Real justice, not the kind he dealt.”
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Rowan stepped forward, sheathing his sword and raising his arms. “Blackbarrow, you’re free!” he shouted, face flushed with triumph. A cheer finally broke out, tentative at first, then building. One by one, the townsfolk surrounded Ganthor’s fallen form. Two of his own men quietly slipped out the door, unwilling to share his fate, while others threw down their weapons, surrendering now that their leader was done.
Ganthor tried to rise, clutching his broken hand, but the old farmer whose son had been lashed pushed him back down with a gnarled stick. “Stay down, devil,” the old man spat, though not without a glance at Kaelen as if to seek permission. Kaelen gave a slight nod, and the old farmer’s face creased in a fierce grin.
Several villagers took up ropes and within moments, Ganthor was being bound hand and foot. Some shouted curses and demands for retribution. The young mother stepped forward, still holding her child, and fixed Ganthor with tear-stained eyes. “Where is my husband? Where is Tomas?” she demanded. Ganthor only snarled and looked away. One of the bandits who had surrendered mumbled that Tomas and others had been sold off to slavers weeks ago. This caused an angry roar among the crowd and the bandit shrank back.
Kaelen felt a pang of sorrow for the woman and others whose loved ones might never return. At least now, perhaps, they had a chance to find them or rebuild without fear.
He noticed the doll he had picked up earlier tumbling from his cloak in the chaos. It rolled near the child in the woman’s arms. The little girl, eyes red from crying, wriggled down and toddled over to pick up her one-armed doll. “Puppa!” she cried happily, hugging it.
Kaelen’s chest tightened at the sight. He hadn’t saved the father, but he’d returned the daughter’s doll — a small token of normalcy. The mother met Kaelen’s gaze with a wavering smile of gratitude amidst her tears. It was more thanks than he ever needed.
Meanwhile, Rowan and a few sturdier townsfolk were hauling Ganthor up. “What’ll we do with him?” one man asked. “If we let him go, he’ll come back with more men.”
“A trial, I say,” growled another. “Hang him for his crimes come dawn.”
Ganthor blanched and began to protest, but Rowan shoved a rag into his mouth to silence him. “He’ll answer to real justice now. Perhaps the King’s court in the capital would be interested in a rogue knight’s crimes,” Rowan suggested to the villagers, “if you can get him there. Or you handle it your own way. Either case, his reign here is finished.”
Kaelen felt a soft tug at his sleeve. He looked down to find the same child now standing beside him, staring up in innocent wonder. She reached up on tiptoe and placed her tiny hand on Kaelen’s gauntleted fist, the one that still gripped his sword. “Mister… ouch?” she asked, pointing at a trickle of blood where the bandit’s blade had nicked his forearm.
His throat tightened. Gently, Kaelen went down on one knee to be at eye level. The girl’s fearless concern, even after all that terror, stirred something deep in him. “It’s just a scratch,” he said softly.
From behind him, he heard a gruff voice — the blacksmith, stepping forward. “Here, let me see that wound, warrior.” The barrel-chested blacksmith removed his leather glove, revealing a hand tough with calluses. Kaelen extended his arm and the blacksmith inspected the cut. “Superficial. Still, let’s get you cleaned up.” The man called to the innkeep for clean water and cloth.
As the tension eased, villagers crowded around Kaelen, not too near, but enough to express their gratitude in their own ways. The innkeep stammered that Kaelen’s meal and lodging would be free of charge. The farmer whose son had been whipped clasped Kaelen’s hand and choked out thanks. A few children, emboldened by the little girl, peered curiously at Liam, who was lapping up spilled ale from the floor (to Rowan’s great amusement). The wolf looked up with foam on his whiskers and let out what might have been a sneezy chuckle, allowing the children to pat his thick fur.
Kaelen watched Liam indulge the kids and felt a soft warmth in his chest. This was what he had fought for: to see smiles on faces that had only known fear. He closed his eyes briefly, offering silent gratitude to the Allseer that he had not lost himself to darkness this night.
The blacksmith returned with a wet cloth. But before he could dab it on Kaelen’s arm, Kaelen raised his other hand slightly. “Allow me,” he murmured. He unfastened the glove on his left hand, exposing bare skin faintly aglow with inner light. Concentrating, he passed his palm over the bleeding cut. A gentle warmth emanated, and beneath his hand golden flecks of light danced and sank into the wound. In seconds, the bleeding stopped and the flesh knit itself closed, leaving only a faint pink line on his skin.
The blacksmith’s eyes widened. “By the Allseer… A healing gift?”
Around them, whispers of astonishment spread. Some villagers looked at Kaelen with something like reverence now. Kaelen hastily tugged his glove back on, a little self-conscious. “Just a small blessing,” he said quietly. “Save your water for those truly hurt.”
As if on cue, a teenage boy limped forward, supported by two others — he had been one of Ganthor’s whipping victims. His back was torn with lash wounds. Without hesitation, Kaelen went to him and repeated the process, this time letting the glow shine a bit brighter. The boy gasped as the pain eased and angry red welts faded to smooth skin. Murmurs of “miracle” and “Allseer’s light” rustled through the onlookers. Kaelen simply nodded to the boy, who stared at him with grateful, adoring eyes.
Rowan clapped Kaelen on the back gently. “You continue to surprise, my friend,” he said with a grin. “First mercy, now miracles. Perhaps hero isn’t such a stretch after all.”
Kaelen felt his cheeks heat and tried to deflect. He turned to the blacksmith, noticing the man’s own left arm was in a sling. “You’re injured,” Kaelen said.
“Old wound. Ganthor’s men roughed me up when I wouldn’t shoe their horses fast enough,” the blacksmith replied.
Kaelen’s eyes drifted to a worktable near the hearth where he saw a broken longsword blade lying among some tools and metal scraps. It looked ancient, engraved with faded runes, now snapped about two-thirds down. He reached out, drawn to it. “May I?” he asked.
The blacksmith blinked, then nodded. “It’s scrap metal I was melting down. Some family heirloom a farmer traded for food. Likely not worth much, blade’s broken clean.”
Kaelen picked up the shard of sword. The moment his fingers touched the cold steel, a subtle vibration hummed through him. It resonated faintly with the power coiled inside his chest. His eyes widened — this was no ordinary scrap. A memory stirred: legends of old knights wielding blades blessed by the Allseer. The runes on this piece looked like the script of those ancient days.
He could feel something in it, as if the blade itself yearned to be whole and wielded again. Liam sniffed at it and sneezed out a small puff of smoke, confirming a whiff of magic even the wolf could sense. Kaelen carefully set it down, not wanting to alarm anyone with talk of magic blades right now. But he made a note to inquire later. Perhaps this seemingly humble town held more secrets.
The blacksmith misread Kaelen’s interest. “If you fancy it, take it,” he said. “Consider it payment for what you’ve done. And I’ll mend that scabbard of yours, free of charge. Least I can do.” He gestured at the cracked leather on Kaelen’s sword sheath.
Kaelen inclined his head gratefully. “Thank you.”
The blacksmith gave a half-smile. “No, sir. Thank you. You saved our town.”
Those words felt strange to Kaelen. He had slain monsters and even saved lives before, but rarely had anyone thanked him so openly. Always he moved on, a solitary wanderer. Now, as he looked around at the villagers of Blackbarrow — relieved, tending to each other’s hurts, already talking eagerly of rebuilding their council and sending for missing kin — he allowed himself a moment of quiet pride. This was a victory not just of might, but of character. And it felt… good.
A sudden cheer erupted as two burly farmers hoisted Rowan up onto their shoulders for a moment, in jovial celebration. “Three cheers for Kaelen and Rowan!” someone shouted. The crowd responded with a ragged cheer, though Kaelen noticed Rowan got nearly as many claps on the back as he did. Rowan laughed, looking a bit embarrassed at the attention but happy. Kaelen gave him a small smirk, and Rowan winked back.
Kaelen raised a hand to quiet the celebration. “Tonight, Blackbarrow is yours again,” he said. “Stand together and no new tyrant will dare claim it. You’ve seen what unity can do. Don’t let fear break it again.”
An older woman — perhaps a town elder — stepped forward and bowed her head. “We won’t forget, sir. Safe travels to you, wherever you head. You’ll always have friends in Blackbarrow.”
There was a chorus of agreement. Some villagers began to chant softly, “Kaelen, Kaelen,” but that quickly transformed into an old Allseer blessing song, rising in gentle melody. It seemed more fitting, and Kaelen was grateful not to be singled out as some idol.
Ganthor, bound and gagged, was dragged out to the makeshift jail — a reinforced storehouse. His remaining cronies were similarly dealt with or chased out into the darkness with warnings never to return. The tension in the air was evaporating, replaced by a cautious exhilaration.
Rowan hopped down from the farmers’ shoulders and landed next to Kaelen. “Well, that was something. You sure know how to make an exit memorable,” he teased.
Kaelen was bone-weary now that the adrenaline ebbed. He scratched Liam behind the ears. The wolf yawned, big jaws gaping — the excitement had worn on him too. “I suspect it’s best we leave soon,” Kaelen said. “The sooner Ganthor is out of my sight, the better I’ll sleep. And I have further roads to travel.”
Rowan nodded slowly. “The big evil stirring, right? The rumors of corrupted creatures and dark cults?” His hazel eyes gleamed. “You’re hunting it, aren’t you? That’s why you’re really out here.”
Kaelen gave Rowan a sharp look. He hadn’t explicitly told Rowan of his quest, but perhaps stories of Kaelen’s mission had spread as well. “If I am?”
Rowan grinned. “Then you’ll need all the help you can get. World’s a big place, full of danger. And as you may have noticed, I have a knack for handling troublemakers.” He spun a dagger deftly between his fingers and sheathed it. “Besides, I owe you. If you hadn’t stepped in back there, I’d probably be bleeding out on the tavern floor.”
Kaelen considered the mercenary. In a single evening Rowan had shown bravery, kindness, and skill — and despite his lighthearted facade, a good heart. Having an ally like that… a friend, even, might not be so bad. Kaelen had been alone for so long, aside from Liam. Perhaps the time had come to accept some company.
He extended his forearm. Rowan clasped it firmly in the warrior’s shake. “Welcome aboard,” Kaelen said quietly, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
Rowan beamed. “To the road, then. Let’s see what trouble we can get into next.”
Before departing, Kaelen retrieved the broken sword shard from the blacksmith’s table and wrapped it carefully in cloth. The blacksmith had insisted again that he keep it, sensing it was meaningful to him. Kaelen felt strangely drawn to it, as if fate intended their paths to cross. He slid the bundle into his pack, alongside the freshly repaired scabbard now housing his greatsword.
Liam took one last lap around the tavern, happily accepting scraps of venison and ear rubs from grateful townsfolk. The wolf had earned quite a few fans among the children especially. Kaelen whistled softly and Liam trotted back to his side, licking his chops contentedly.
Finally, under a canopy of stars, Kaelen and Rowan set out from Blackbarrow. A small crowd gathered at the road out, holding lanterns. They waved and called out well-wishes.
Rowan walked a step behind Kaelen, shaking his head in wonder. “Must feel good, huh? Riding off into the night after actually making things better.”
Kaelen looked over his shoulder at the dimly lit faces of Blackbarrow’s people. The young mother stood in her doorway, child on her hip, watching their saviors depart with a hopeful smile. The old farmer raised his cane in salute. The innkeep and blacksmith called out, “Safe travels! Allseer guide you!”
“It does,” Kaelen admitted softly, feeling a warmth in his chest that wasn’t dragon fire for once. It was lighter, cleaner. Hope. Perhaps even a spark of redemption.
As they passed the old wooden sign marking the edge of town, Rowan fell into stride beside Kaelen. Liam ranged a little ahead, sniffing the new scents of the wild beyond. Rowan cleared his throat. “So, Kaelen… since we’re traveling together, I ought to warn you I snore something fierce. And I prefer my whiskey before bed. Also, I—”
Kaelen raised a hand, feigning exasperation. “Are you going to chatter the whole way?”
Rowan laughed. “Likely, yes. Somebody has to fill the silence, and your wolf isn’t much of a talker.”
Liam glanced back with a huff, as if offended. Rowan chuckled. “No offense, Liam.”
Kaelen couldn’t help a quiet chuckle himself. It felt foreign, but good. He shook his head. “Just keep up. We have a long journey ahead.”
“As you say, oh fearless leader,” Rowan quipped dramatically, then tipped an imaginary hat.
Together, the three figures — man, mercenary, and wolf — vanished into the whispering night. Behind them, Blackbarrow’s first night of freedom in a long while began, and ahead, the greater darkness still loomed. But now Kaelen did not walk into it alone. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt he might actually be worthy of the title some had given him: savior. The road to redemption stretched on, but step by step, he was finding it.
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