Zyran's knuckles had gone white around the reins, leather biting into his palms. The afternoon sun beat down without mercy, turning the air thick and heavy, but the heat in his chest burned hotter still. Behind him rode men whose armour bore the sigil of seven serpents, each one coiled and bloodied. A warning more than a crest. Their horns, dark as the steel they wore, caught the light as they moved in lockstep, a tide of approaching violence.

  At Zyran's back, the masked man kept his mount steady, gloved hand wrapped around the young girl who sat before him. She trembled despite the heat. Blood had dried in rusty streaks down her wrists where rope had cut deep, and fresh crimson still leaked from her split lip. Her sobs had gone silent miles ago, replaced by shallow breathing that hitched with each step of the horse. His face remained hidden beneath a red cloth wound tight around his features.

  At the village edge, women waited. They lined the road with children clutching their legs, chains clinking with every nervous shift. Their auburn and brown hair caught the breeze, horns small and uncertain, wrapping around their heads in slim curves. An old woman stood at the front, her face a map of hard years and harder choices.

  Zyran's raised fist brought the column to a halt. The sudden silence spread in an instant. No birds sang. Only the whisper of wind through dry grass and the soft crying of children filled the void.

  He dismounted in one fluid motion, boots striking ground with purpose. The masked man followed, guiding the young girl down with care that seemed foreign to his concealed features. She swayed, and he steadied her.

  Zyran approached the old woman. She lowered herself in respect, and the others followed like wheat bending before a storm.

  "Thar'dren zhol'drae?" (Where are those humans?) His voice cut through the quiet.

  "Ul'dros thar'vel, vor'dren vel'shar.” Her answer came weighted with exhaustion and fear. “Zha'mir drae'zul ven'sha. Thar'kor drae'nok vel'vaar. Zhal'kor'vaar, o Khaan'drel."(In the old tavern, they feed their needs. No woman dares stand near them. No strong men remain to face them. Help us, O Protector of Old Blood.)

  Zyran's gaze swept across the gathered women. Fear carved their faces, the children stared with eyes too old for their small faces, questions dying on their lips before they could form. The chains around their necks and ankles spoke of bindings, each clink a reminder of who they were.

  His focus returned to the old woman. "Thar'kai vor'drae zhol'veth?" (Then who tends to them?)

  The old woman's eyes flickered to the young girl beside him, then to the temple by the hill where white stone caught the sun. Her throat worked, but no sound came. When she finally spoke, her voice crumbled like old parchment.

  "Ein... ein ul Zha'mira." (One… one of the Sisters.)

  Zyran's hand clenched so tight the bones showed white beneath scarred knuckles. The ring on his finger (gold set with ruby, a trident etched in its face) caught the light. His men shifted behind him, curses hissing between clenched teeth.

  From the withered tavern came laughter, rough and careless, the sound of men who believed themselves beyond consequence.

  Zyran moved forward. He did not look back when he spoke. "Vor'drae vel'zan thal'kai. Zhol'drae shal'vor thar'dren a drae'shul." (You all may breathe free; I shall remind them of who they are, and where they stood.)

  His boots struck the ground in measured steps, each one bringing him closer to judgment. His men followed, shadows stretching long before them.

  As they neared the tavern, voices bled through the walls.

  "Why didn't we see any men around here, huh?" The speaker's words slurred, drink-loosened and careless. "Fuck! This is really a strong drink... what was it called again?"

  A younger voice, hesitant. "Zar’mer?"

  An older correction. "Zor'mer."

  Then came a woman's voice, soft as falling ash. "Zor'mir." A pause. "Tears of Mother. It's not actually a drink. We use this in rituals when serving our supreme lord."

  The drunk voice again, harsher now. "Zor'mir, yes, the drink for your dark lord."

  A chair scraped. A woman’s squeak of protest was quickly stifled.

  Zyran stopped outside the entrance. Three riding horses stood tethered to posts worn smooth by rope. One bore a cage with three pigeons that cooed nervously, sensing the shift in the air. Four mules laden with supplies (ration bags, water pouches, parchments and spilt ink staining the leather) stood with heads low, exhausted from long travel.

  Inside, the drunk voice continued, "Tell me, dear, why are there no men in this village? Only you here can speak our tongue, I am pleased with it…"

  The woman's answer came broken and fragile. "Most of the men have been taken by his highness for–"

  Her voice shattered with a gasp.

  “Continue.”

  Her voice came again in a trembling voice, “Your… your hand, good sir. Please…”

  "My lord, you should leave her, please." The young voice, trying to be reasonable, to be good.

  Laughter erupted, cruel and knowing. “You should be like Godfrey there, my good squire.”

  The young voice came again. “But my lord, we are in an unknown place where–“

  "Don't worry, little Reeve. There are no true men in these regions, no one to protect them." A different voice, deeper and closer to the entrance. "But I have to say, how can they leave such beauties alone? If they were on our side, such peasants would have been ravaged by the local lords for a few coins."

  "Yes, just look at her. You won't find such a piece even in the Golden Capital, even amongst those maidens of the Great Houses."

  "Ser Haimmond, please not again.” An older voice came with uncertainty. “We are not here for such... savagery..."

  "Shhh." A gulp. "Please continue, my dear. Tell me what those chains are for? We have been seeing the same from the moment we walked that great road. Except for the family we first saw there, everyone has been wearing them as ornaments."

  Besides Zyran, the woman's hands began to shake violently at the words of the family. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Zyran reached out, his hand engulfing hers, and squeezed once.

  He raised his other hand in a closed fist. His men stopped, settling into positions around the tavern's perimeter like stones in a net. He looked to the masked man beside him.

  "Come with me."

  Zyran pushed the door open. The hinges groaned, wood scraping stone.

  The scene burned itself into his vision.

  The tavern woman stood behind the counter, head bowed so low her chin nearly touched her chest, hands moving mechanically as she prepared drinks she would never be paid for. At a far table, an old man in grey robes sat with two younger companions (one brown-haired, one shorter with dark hair). They ate simple fare, no drinks, eyes carefully averted from the main spectacle.

  Beside them, two scholars hunched over a separate table, surrounded by parchments and mapping tools, quills and ink and measuring scales. Lost in their work or pretending to be with madness around.

  The large centre table held three men. Two wore the light armour of hired swords, weapons at their sides, postures relaxed with false security. The third had his back to the door. Long hair, thick beard, the bearing of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted.

  And in his lap sat a woman with blonde hair and pale grey eyes, slim horns the colour of ash. Tears tracked down her face in silent rivers. The man's hand rested on her thigh, fingers pressing into soft flesh, claiming ownership of someone he never should.

  The door's groan drew eyes. The scholars glanced up first, then froze. One guard noticed, hand drifting toward his sword. The tavern woman's head snapped up, hope flaring in her expression.

  The woman in the man's lap saw Zyran.

  Her voice broke like glass as her tears finally released every pain she had withstood till now. "O Protector."

  “What!?” Haimmond looked at her in confusion. "I didn't even do anything yet."

  Each step Zyran took seemed to make the air heavier. The golden strands in his crimson eyes caught the dim tavern light, making them appear to glow with rage from within. The scars running from the eyebrows to the lower lids on both eyes stood out starkly against his face. Marks of old violence by his own, old lessons learned in blood.

  Another guard noticed him now, half-rising from his seat.

  Zyran stopped three paces from their table, "You may leave him, Sister."

  Haimmond turned towards the voice from behind in a drunken state. The Sister tried to stand, but his hand clamped around her wrist, grip tight enough to make her wince.

  "Who are you?" Haimmond's voice held more annoyance than concern with how drunk he was. “She is mine for now. Come back later.” Both guards stood, hands on sword hilts.

  Zyran stared at that hand on the Sister's wrist. He watched the flesh turn red, watched her fingers go pale from restricted blood flow. He did not look at Haimmond's face when he spoke.

  "No man, unless permitted by the Sister who serves the Sacred Mother, may touch them." Each word fell with the weight of law, of certainty. "Not even Highbloods. Nor the King himself."

  Haimmond looked to his guards, to the frozen scholars, to the men at the far table whose food had been forgotten. "What's this bastard rumbling about?"

  The masked man stepped forward, and when he spoke, his accent disappeared entirely. The words flowed in perfect Orrinth, native and flawless. "What my master spoke is one of the old laws followed in the Awadha’ar, and even in this realm.” He paused, letting it sink in. “Which also means that no man who has placed his hand on her will be leaving this place alive."

  The silence filled the room with a gasp from the back and even a prayer of light. It was not because of the threat itself, no, but because of how it was delivered. In their own language, with absolute conviction.

  He pointed at Haimmond's hand on the Sister's wrist. "I would leave her, if I were you."

  Haimmond released her as if burned. The Sister fled to Zyran's side, and he placed his hand atop her head in a gesture of protection that seemed ritualistic.

  “Forgive us, my lords.” The old scholar at the back table stood, hands raised in placation. "Forgive us for anything we have done to displease the lady. We are not accustomed to these lands and the culture you follow, my lord."

  "Don't give excuses for the barbarism you have shown so far.” The masked man's lip curled. “It was the nature of humans to devour the weak and please their greed and lust."

  "You speak as though you have met humans before." The old scholar's voice held genuine confusion.

  "Isn't that why I know it truly?" His smile held no warmth. "On this side, men knows that their daughters, their sisters, their mothers are safe from that greed and lust. They know that even if their king would not protect them, other men would never even think of laying a finger on them.” He paused. “It's the only reason they never protest against any order of the king, even if he were the one to place these chains upon them."

  He drew the traumatised woman forward, displaying her swollen face, her split lip, the rope burns on her wrists like obscene bracelets. Every man in the tavern went still from the savagery they had witnessed by their own lord only a few nights ago.

  "They even know the consequences for one who commits the crime."

  A guard drew his sword, but even before that, the man’s wand cleared his belt with a word of power that followed.

  "Vistrus!"

  A bolt of sickly green energy crackled across the space, struck the guard's chest, and hurled him into the wall. He hit with a wet crunch and slid down, leaving a dark smear.

  Every hand present went to the weapons. Chairs scraped. Someone gasped from the back. Except Haimmond, who sat frozen as if the drink was fading and his mind was finally clearing with what was happening around him.

  “Leaving the current matter aside…” Zyran walked forward and sat across from him with deliberate care, "You must know this girl," He pointed to the young girl beside the man, whose tears now fell freely, mixing with dried blood. "She lived with her family near the Road of Destiny. Varan, as we call it. Her ancestors were the ones who designed and built that road. The First Vrakar gave them a hundred acres around the first pillars as a gift."

  He gestured for the girl to come closer, and the girl approached him. Zyran wiped her tears with his thumb, the gesture achingly tender for a man with rage in his eyes.

  "Her father is a Master Architect in service to His Highness the King, along with her two brothers. He is unaware of any horrors that his daughter had to go through for the kindness he had taught her to have. Her brothers do not know that their mother, for whom they have been working day and night, will never be in their homestead when they return, for the kindness she taught them."

  “Why?” Haimmond's voice came out thin and breaking. "Why are you telling me all this?"

  "I want you to know,” Zyran met his eyes finally, “that her blood carries more weight than any of the humans sitting here. Her mother knew the old ways better than most of the Highblood. She knew that when someone came requesting food and shelter with kindness, even if they were different in race and in thoughts, she would treat them as an honoured guest." He paused. "The guest you were when she accepted you in her home. But little did she know of the monsters inside you all."

  "We… we didn't want to… kill her mother." Haimmond's voice trembled. "But she resisted–"

  "Who was it?" Zyran's voice dropped to a whisper, meant only for the girl's ears.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  The girl looked in his eyes, searching for the confidence she needed to face the same monsters that had brought horrors upon her flesh and that of her mother. She looked at Haimmond and nodded.

  "He… killed her." She looked at the other two guards. "Along with them."

  Then her gaze shifted to everyone around the room. From scholars to the ones with quills. Her gaze stopped on the one holding the spoon, the shorter man with dark hair.

  Fresh tears welled.

  "Take her, Sister."

  The Sister guided the girl away, wiping her own tears while cradling the young girl close.

  For moments, only the groaning of the wounded guard filled the silence.

  Then Haimmond nodded at the dark-haired man. He lunged upward, knife already in motion. The blade spun through the air, a silver blur aimed at the masked man’s throat.

  The sorcerer dove sideways, robes whipping, the knife passing close enough to kiss his ear.

  In that instant of chaos, the other guard at Haimmond's table drew and lunged. His blade kissed the side of Zyran's neck, edge resting against his jugular.

  "Good one, Godfrey."

  “See?” Haimmond rose, laughter pouring out of him like poison. "Threats won't do anything, smartass. We were already ready for situations like this." He glanced at the scholars. "More than those old men, anyway."

  The old man in the back found his voice once again. "What do you think you are doing? Release him!"

  "Will you shut it, Master Peres?" Haimmond walked over to the sorcerer, planted a boot on his chest. "Why don't you help Master Gales with the map?" He pressed down, and the man grimaced. "So, sorcerer, eh? Let’s see your face first."

  Haimmond's fingers found the edge of the red scarf and pulled. The cloth unwound in his grip, layer after layer falling away to reveal raven hair first, then a pale forehead, then... emerald eyes with a human face.

  Haimmond stumbled back a step. "What? You... you are a human?"

  "You think you were the first to venture this far in the forbidden lands?" The masked man’s laugh came breathless but genuine.

  Haimmond spoke, "I thought there were no humans on this side."

  "It's not as if I have a choice." He turned his head, exposing the branded mark of an eye seared into the flesh of his neck. "I live here, since your lords despise me." The eye of wrath, seared into flesh. "They gave me this when I tried to reason with them over the rights of magic usage by the sorcerers. I was the first to have gotten one of these."

  Master Gales went pale, the older scholar who knew the symbol and what it represented and who was the first to get that inscribed on them. "Are you Iskander... Salvador?"

  “Salvador… So they still remember my name.”

  Iskander’s laugh filled the room, along with the sound of dripping blood that came from the small cut from the wound on Zyran's neck.

  Old symbols flared to life along Zyran's right-hand fingers. Runes. Words etched in old script across the flesh of each finger. One glowed crimson, and one drop of blood began to move towards the sword at his neck. It started at the tip, that one drop of blood, and travelled down the blade toward the guard's hand.

  The guard's eyes went wide as the blood disappeared on his skin. He tried to release the weapon, but his fingers wouldn't respond. He tried to scream, but his mouth didn’t open. A muffled scream filled the tavern as rust spread across steel and then across skin, rot consuming the metal and meat alike, spreading up his arm in a wave of decay.

  Zyran rose from his seat. His hand shot out and caught the guard by the throat, lifted him as if he weighed nothing. The man's feet kicked air, hands clawing uselessly at Zyran's wrist as he threw him on the side. He then turned to look at Haimmond, and even before he could sheathe his sword, he grabbed him and slammed him face-first onto the table. His nose shattered with a wet crunch, blood spraying across the floor.

  The other guard rose to his feet, and Godfrey drew weapons, desperation overriding sense.

  Zyran raised his hand, and the blood around the place turned into a thick smoke of crimson and erupted, tendrils shooting across the tavern like seeking serpents. They wrapped around every man holding steel, coiled around throats and chests. Zyran closed his fist.

  The wet snap of breaking necks echoed in rapid succession. One. Two. Three. Bodies dropped.

  The tavern woman fled to the kitchen, her screams fading as she ran. The remaining men (the scholars, the young squire) pressed back against the walls, hands raised, weapons long abandoned.

  Zyran pointed at them to sit. And they sat.

  The young squire, Reeve, leaned toward Master Peres beside him, voice barely audible, "That magic... isn't that the same she uses?"

  "Who?"

  "That woman. That witch. Even his eyes gave the same chill."

  "It couldn't be.” Master Peres shook his head violently, though his voice was uncertain. “It cannot be."

  Zyran grabbed Haimmond by his hair and dragged him across the floor. Haimmond's hand scrabbled at his belt, fingers closing around the hilt of his sword. In moments, the steel sang free as he twisted, slashing upward in a wild arc. Zyran had already released him, stepping back as the blade cut only air. Haimmond scrambled to his feet, sword trembling, blood and snot streaming down his face.

  "I'll kill you, you fucking savage! You dare lay your peasant hands on me? I am Haimmond the Jackle, Accustomed Knight of Valar."

  Haimmond lunged with trained movements, each strike proper and committed, but Zyran moved like water around stone. A sidestep. A palm redirects the blade past his ribs. A backward sway that let steel pass close enough to kiss cloth. His expression never changed, bored almost, as if watching a child's tantrum. When Haimmond brought his sword down in an overhead chop, Zyran stepped inside the arc and caught his wrist mid-swing.

  Then he twisted.

  Haimmond's scream filled the tavern as the bone snapped, and the sword clattered to the floor.

  "Did you think having such titles made you worthy of them? Our soldiers are even better than you, O Knight of Valar."

  Zyran's fist caught him in the temple, spinning his head sideways. Before Haimmond could fall, Zyran grabbed the back of his neck and hauled him upright. What followed was methodical brutality. Fist to face, again and again and again, with each impact came wet sounds that made even Iskander shift uncomfortably. His nose broke again, and the cheekbone gave way to flesh beneath. Blood sprayed in arcs across the floor. When Haimmond's legs gave out, Zyran held him up by the hair alone and continued his march. An eye swelled shut, socket darkening to purple-black. Blood poured from the mouth, mixing with broken teeth.

  When Zyran finally released him outside in the open, Haimmond collapsed like a sack of grain. His face had been transformed into something barely recognisable in blood and flesh. Both eyes swollen shut, nose crushed flat, lips split in multiple places.

  But he still breathed. Shallow, bubbling breaths through broken passages.

  Zyran stood over him, knuckles split and bleeding, chest rising and falling evenly. He looked to his men, his voice calm as still water.

  "Bring my sword."

  One soldier sprinted for the horses, grateful for the excuse to look away.

  Zyran looked to the others. "Capture the remaining three."

  Haimmond groaned, a wet gurgling sound. Somehow, impossibly, he began to crawl. Not away, but toward the young girl who stood frozen in horror and relief. His broken hand scraped uselessly across the ground. His good hand reached out, fingers grasping.

  "Please." The word came out mangled through his ruined mouth. "Please... forgive... me..."

  Zyran's boot came down on that reaching hand. Bones crunched like dry twigs. The fingers splayed at wrong angles.

  Haimmond's scream died in his throat, choked off by blood and broken teeth.

  The three men from the tavern were herded out in chains. The villagers gathered in a growing circle, drawn by instinct from blood. Women with their hands over the eyes of their children. Even the old and the infirm. All come to witness justice, to see if it still existed in the reign of the King who himself had placed these chains around them.

  A soldier returned with Zyran's longsword. "Here, my lord."

  Two men hauled Haimmond to his knees, gripping him tight. Blood dripped from him, darkening the soil in spreading stains.

  Zyran drew the sword, and he closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice carried across the gathered crowd with ritual formality, with the weight of ceremony:

  "For the crime you commit against the old laws written by the First Seven, I, Zyran of Emberheart, Lord Protector of the Realm, sentence you to death."

  The sword rose. Sunlight ran along its length like liquid fire, like judgment made manifest.

  It fell.

  The head separated cleanly. For a breath, the body remained upright, kneeling in grotesque prayer. Then it toppled sideways. Blood fountained in pulsing arcs, each spurt weaker than the last, until the heart beneath understood what the mind could not.

  The silence that followed was not empty. It was the silence of held breath, of suspended judgment, of a world waiting to see what came next. The kind of silence that pressed against the chest and made the ears ring.

  Then the roar came.

  Not from the gathered crowd, but from the distant sky. Something vast moved beyond the heat shimmer, wings spread wide enough to swallow the sun. The shadow passed over them like a judgment of its own. Children buried their faces in their mothers' skirts. Old women touched the chains at their throats and whispered prayers in the old tongue.

  Zyran stood motionless, sword still extended, blood crawling down the fuller in lazy rivulets. Each drop struck the packed soil with a sound too quiet to hear but impossible to ignore. He watched the beast circle, a dark wheel against the sky, free in ways he had never been.

  Iskander stepped forward, careful to avoid the spreading pool. "What should we do with the others?"

  For long moments, Zyran did not answer. He stared at the distant mountains, at the beast now circling high above, its wings spread wide enough to eclipse the sun. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a weariness that went deeper than flesh.

  "Send the young one back. And bring the others with us."

  "Why send one back, if I may ask, my master?"

  "It is already the third time we have found humans in two months. These had reached safely from the Old Battlefield. Whoever is sending them will not wait until he gets what he wants." He paused, watching the beast circle. "And I do not want any of this to happen again."

  "So, we just have to give them what they want?"

  "I believe…" Zyran's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "It will become the cause for her to return."

  Iskander nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. “She will, my master. I am sure of it.” He turned to relay orders, but Zyran's voice stopped him.

  "Are all humans like these, Iskander?"

  Iskander turned back, and for a moment, something raw crossed his face. Something that might have been caused by pain or memory or both. "Not everyone, my master. Some are so precious and kind, for whom one would raise swords against the High King themselves." He smiled, sad and knowing. "But there are some who believe they are better than others... some with greater ambitions. They didn’t get to have anyone precious in their lives."

  "Like you?"

  "Just like myself." Iskander met his eyes without flinching. "Before meeting you, my master."

  Zyran passed the longsword to the nearest soldier without looking, his eyes fixed on the spreading pool of crimson that darkened the packed land. The blade left his grip with reluctance, blood still fresh along its length.

  He turned toward the gathered villagers, toward the women who clutched their children close, toward the old ones. The Sister stood with the young girl, her arm wrapped protectively around shoulders that still trembled. Tears tracked clean lines through the dust on both their faces. When Zyran approached, the Sister fell to her knees, pulling the girl down with her.

  "O Protector. The Holy Lord chosen by the High Priests of the Divines." Her voice broke as she seized his hands, pressed her lips to bloodied knuckles. The warmth of her breath mingled with the copper scent of violence. "Blessed be the Mother who sent you to us. Blessed be the Divines who guide your blade." She pressed his hands to both eyes. "No matter those Highbloods speak of you, we, the children, will always believe in you."

  Around them, voices rose in prayer. Old words in the old tongue, words that preceded the chains, that remembered when protection meant something beyond mere survival.

  Zyran knelt before them, his bloodied hand gentle as it touched the crown of the girl's head. "You are safe now."

  The girl looked up at him, eyes red and swollen. "My father... he..."

  "Will know the truth. Your brothers will know the truth." Zyran's voice was soft but carried absolute certainty. "They will know their mother died with honor. They will know their sister survived because she was strong enough to seek help." He paused. "They will know the monsters who brought this upon your family have been judged." He paused again. "I will speak with His Highness the King for giving leave to your family to be with you in the dark times, I am sure he will understand."

  Behind them, soldiers moved with practiced efficiency. Bodies wrapped in cloth. The headless corpse of Haimmond was dragged away, leaving only a dark stain that would take time to fade.

  Footsteps approached from behind. Iskander's voice carried warning and curiosity in equal measure. "My master."

  Zyran rose, turning to find Iskander with one hand gripping the young squire's shoulder. His face had gone the color of old parchment, eyes too wide, breath coming in shallow gasps that threatened to become full panic.

  "Here he is." Iskander's grip tightened as the boy tried to pull away.

  Reeve's mouth worked soundlessly. His legs trembled so violently that only Iskander's hold kept him upright. When he finally found his voice, it came out thin and breaking. "Please. Please, I didn't... I tried to stop him. I told him not to..." The words tumbled over each other, desperate and raw. "I'm just a squire. I only followed orders. Please don't kill me. Please. I have a mother, a sister. Please."

  Zyran studied him for a long moment. The boy's terror was genuine, carved into every line of his face, every hitch of his breath. A boy who had followed a monster and learned too late what that monster truly was.

  "Give him the best of their horses." Zyran's voice was flat, empty of the rage that had burned so bright moments before. "We don't want him to overstay in our lands, do we?"

  Iskander nodded, already moving to relay the order. Reeve sagged with relief so profound his knees buckled.

  Then the sky split with sound.

  The roar came closer than before, a primal thunder that shook the chest and rattled teeth. The shadow passed over them again, but this time it descended. Massive wings spread wide enough to eclipse the afternoon sun, each beat of those wings sending dust devils spinning across the ground.

  Reeve's legs gave out entirely. He dropped to the ground, hands over his head, a wordless keen of terror escaping his throat. Around them, villagers fell to their knees in prayer, chains clinking as they pressed foreheads to dirt.

  They whispered only one word to the sky. "Raknor!"

  Zyran stood motionless, head tilted back, watching the creature. The beast's gaze met his, held it, and in that moment a silence fell that was deeper than fear. An understanding passed between man and dragon, wordless and complete.

  Zyran knelt beside Reeve, who had curled into himself like a beaten dog. He placed one hand on the boy's shoulder, felt the violent trembling beneath his palm. When he leaned close, his voice was barely a whisper against the boy's ear.

  "Leave while I still feel generous and remind your lords of what waits them on this side if they ever try to show their greed over my people."

  Reeve's head jerked up, eyes white-rimmed with terror.

  Zyran's gaze shifted to the circling beast above. "My beast will watch over you until you reach your destination. If you try to wander from your path..." He did not finish. Did not need to. The implication hung in the air like smoke.

  He rose to his feet, eyes still on the dragon. "Though dragons are creatures of impatience."

  As if in answer, the beast descended lower still, close enough that the wind from its wings flattened grass and sent cloaks billowing. It opened its maw, and the roar that emerged was directed entirely at the cowering boy on the ground.

  Reeve scrambled backward on hands and knees, sobbing openly now. He crawled toward the horse, a fine mare of his late master. His hands shook so badly he could barely grip the stirrup. On his first attempt to mount, his legs gave out and he tumbled back to the earth with a painful thud.

  Laughter erupted from the gathered soldiers. Not cruel, but the kind of laughter that comes after violence, when men need to remember what it is to be alive.

  Reeve tried again, this time managing to haul himself into the saddle. He fumbled with the reins, turned the horse with jerky, graceless movements. The moment the mare's head pointed toward the road, he kicked his heels into her flanks with desperate strength.

  The horse bolted.

  Reeve clung to the saddle with white-knuckled terror, bouncing awkwardly with each stride, clearly no practised rider. Dust rose in clouds behind the fleeing pair. The laughter from the soldiers followed him down the road, along with the prayers of the villagers who watched him go.

  Above, the dragon spread its wings wide and launched itself skyward. It climbed in a lazy spiral, then turned to follow the fleeing rider. A shadow trailing a speck of dust. A promise written in scales and flame.