Morning came without ceremony.

  Pain remained—deep in muscle and bone—but it no longer ruled her. It had retreated to a dull, persistent ache. The kind that reminded you of the price already paid, not the debt still owed.

  Ivaline stood on her own feet again.

  Once—testing balance.

  Twice—testing will.

  Her knee protested. Her ribs answered. But nothing gave.

  Bram’s healing had sealed what could be sealed.

  Nyssa’s hands had done the rest—binding, cleaning, reinforcing.

  Not perfect.

  But enough.

  Seraphine, unfortunately, was unraveling.

  “I’M USELESS—!” she wailed for the third time, pacing tight, frantic circles near the dying fire. “Storm pressure, cutting arcs, layered shields—I can shatter battalions! But healing!? NOTHING! NOT EVEN A LESSER HEALING! WHAT KIND OF MAGE IS THAT!?”

  Nyssa smacked the back of her head with a rolled cloth without even turning.

  “Still alive, aren’t we?” she said flatly. “That’s success.”

  Seraphine sniffed, wiped her face with her sleeve, then glared openly at Bram.

  “Next life,” she declared, voice cracking, “I’m learning healing first.”

  Bram smiled—gentle, tired, unoffended.

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  Aldric and Garrick, meanwhile, never strayed far from the inspector.

  They didn’t threaten him.

  They didn’t need to.

  They were simply… there.

  Every movement observed.

  Every word heard.

  Every pause noted.

  The inspector behaved himself—if only because the air around him had grown dense with consequence.

  By noon, the city walls rose into view.

  One day behind the fastest pace.

  But given a staged bandit encounter and a wild orc engagement?

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  This was considered fast.

  The moment the gate guards saw what dragged behind the carriage, everything stopped.

  Steel rang free of scabbards.

  Voices rose.

  Signal flags snapped upward.

  An orc carcass was not unheard of.

  But it was never ignored.

  Officers came running. Soldiers. Adventurers. Clerks with ink-stained fingers. Healers in white. Mages layered in sigils. Someone shouted toward the barracks. Another toward the Adventurer Branch.

  The crowd thickened—then stalled.

  “An orc?”

  “No—wild. Look at the tusk wear.”

  “Gods… it’s fresh.”

  “Did anyone inform Gruthak?”

  “The guild will. Don’t worry.”

  “But who killed it?”

  Then someone noticed who walked at the head of the escort.

  “…The Four Bastions?”

  The name rippled outward.

  Weapons lowered.

  Postures eased.

  Shouts faded into murmurs.

  “Well,” someone muttered, “that explains it.”

  Tension bled away. A silver-rank party handling a wild orc was notable—but not alarming.

  A few guards stepped forward, clapping Garrick on the shoulder, offering praise.

  “Clean work.”

  “Didn’t think you would found a wild one and took it down.”

  “Well done.”

  Then Aldric spoke.

  His voice was calm.

  Clear.

  Carried by years of command.

  “We didn’t subdue it.”

  The murmurs faltered.

  Aldric stepped aside and guided Ivaline forward with a light hand on her shoulder.

  “She did,” he said. “Alone.”

  Silence fell like a blade.

  Ivaline blinked.

  Once.

  Then again.

  “…Good morning?” she offered, uncertain why the world had stopped breathing.

  For a heartbeat, no one spoke.

  Then—

  “A child?”

  “A girl?”

  “Alone?”

  “That was a wild orc—”

  “Impossible.”

  “Wait—Iron rank?”

  “No—look properly. The badge is real.”

  “An Iron against a wild orc…?”

  “A child her age is Iron?”

  “She’s younger than Rivel.”

  Eyes shifted.

  Measured.

  Recalculated.

  The inspector suddenly found the road very small beneath his feet.

  Messengers ran.

  The Adventurer Branch dispatched senior staff.

  The military sent officers.

  The Magic Guild sent evaluators.

  The Alchemy Guild sent alchemists—not to accuse, but to confirm.

  No deaths.

  No hidden casualties.

  No deception.

  Then another carriage arrived.

  Noble sigils. Baronial—but not decorative.

  A house that had once commissioned the Four Bastions.

  A figure stepped down, curiosity sharp behind practiced composure.

  Interest had turned to attention.

  Attention was becoming gravity.

  The inspector felt it the instant the crest caught the light.

  Not recognition.

  Calculation.

  That sigil did not belong to a frontier lord.

  It belonged to oversight.

  His mouth went dry.

  They would ask about the escort route.

  Why the road had deviated.

  How bandits appeared on an unpatrolled path.

  And worse—

  They would cross-reference.

  Bounty markers.

  False reports.

  Previous “incidents” that had ended quietly.

  Paperwork smoothed.

  Witnesses dismissed.

  Patterns.

  His gaze flicked—once, involuntarily—to the road behind the carriage.

  To the dark smear dragged for miles.

  No bodies, he thought desperately.

  They’ll need bodies.

  Then memory struck like ice.

  The bandits hadn’t fled.

  They had withdrawn.

  Alive.

  Unpaid.

  Unbound.

  Loose ends.

  His breath hitched.

  If even one spoke—

  If coin trails were followed—

  If this escort was reviewed not as procedure, but as conduct—

  He swallowed hard.

  The girl had not just survived.

  She had forced witnesses to exist.

  At last, the noble’s gaze passed over him.

  Lingering.

  Assessing.

  The inspector bowed automatically.

  Too quickly.

  The noble’s eyebrow lifted—just a fraction.

  Not accusation.

  Interest.

  And that was worse.

  Much worse.

  Chronicle observed it all and recorded a single thought:

  This was no longer a frontier town’s story.

  This was how legends begin—

  Not with applause.

  But with disbelief.