Chapter 21: The Weight of What Was Lost

  The lodge was hushed in the pale spill of morning. Through the cracked shutters, chill air drifted in, carrying narrow bands of sunlight that stretched across the floor like drawn blades.

  Aeor sat at the table, his sword laid bare upon the wood. Each pass of the cloth drew a sharp glint from the steel, the rhythm steady and methodical, as though his own resolve depended on it.

  Across from him, Dregor leaned back in his chair, arms folded. He said nothing, eyes fixed on the doorway, the slow tap of a thick finger against his forearm the only sound. A muted counterpoint to the silence.

  At the far side of the room, Velora crouched beside Baron. The Dusktail hunched over a shallow bowl, whiskers twitching with each bite. Velora watched with a stillness that seemed less like affection and more like a scholar studying some fragile thread in a tapestry.

  Aeor's cloth stilled on the blade. "What time were we meant to meet them?"

  "Midday," Velora replied without lifting her gaze.

  Dregor tilted his head toward the shutters, where the sunlight had shifted further across the floor. "Then we're late already."

  Their eyes turned toward the same place, the door to Zoey's room. Even Baron paused mid-chew, crumbs caught in her whiskers as she blinked at it.

  The door burst open. The quiet shattered like glass.

  Zoey stumbled out in a tangle of half-laced boots and a crooked cloak, hair spilling wild over her shoulders. She nearly tripped on the loose lace, caught herself with a grin as unbothered as ever, and swept her gaze across the room. The instant she saw Baron, her fatigue vanished.

  "Baron!" she gasped, rushing forward with outstretched arms.

  Velora rose smoothly, one hand alighting on her shoulder. Her voice was soft, yet cut clean through Zoey's momentum. "She has already been tended to. You, however, look half-undone."

  Zoey froze mid-step, pouting. "Fine, fine." She threw her hands up with exaggerated surrender. "But don't think she doesn't prefer me."

  The Dusktail blinked once, then deliberately turned her back, resuming her meal with slow, dignified bites. Her tail flicked once, almost dismissively.

  Zoey gasped. "Betrayal? In my own lodge?"

  When she reemerged moments later with cloak straightened and boots tied, the others were already waiting at the door. Baron finished grooming herself, then leapt in a fluid motion to Zoey's shoulder, perching with the quiet certainty of a sovereign who owed no allegiance.

  "See?" Zoey said, triumphant. "She knows where true loyalty lies."

  Aeor shook his head, but there was the faintest pull of a smile as he fastened his sword at his side. Velora’s silence held steady, though the calm in her eyes softened for a heartbeat. Dregor grumbled something about punctuality, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a quiet amusement that matched the others.

  Together they stepped into the streets of Sar'Vareth. The city was already alive, vendors calling over early crowds, banners rippling in the wind, the morning air thick with the scent of bread and smoke. Baron perched high on Zoey’s shoulder, surveying the bustle with the calm authority of a tiny sovereign.

  Their path wound through traders hauling wares and acolytes whispering chants. The further they walked, the city's cadence shifted. Laughter faded into clipped orders, hammer strikes rang, and the low murmur of Initiates gathering in the barracks filled the air.

  Just before they entered the barracks, Baron hopped down, tail flicking as she padded away.

  Zoey clutched at her chest with mock despair. "There she goes, off to perform her noble duties. Abandoned again!"

  The barracks gates loomed ahead, iron plates catching pale sunlight like a warning. Beyond them, the outer courtyard unfolded in disciplined motion. Towers and broad platforms ringed the grounds, leather harnesses swaying from railings as handlers barked orders over the heavy beat of strider wings.

  On the lower tiers, Initiates clashed in circles of trampled dirt. Archers loosed arrows at targets hauled along rope tracks. A Skyburden screeched as it plunged onto a reinforced perch, talons gouging wood until a handler steadied it. The air reeked of sweat, oiled leather, and feed grain, every breath thick with the clamor of drills and the restless cries of avians wheeling above.

  Aeor swept his gaze across the expanse. "Do we know where we're supposed to meet them?"

  Velora, walking just behind, withdrew the folded parchment. "The letter mentions the outer courtyard."

  Zoey leaned in, eyes flicking. "And the names again?"

  Velora traced the parchment. "Salthar, Pevthar, and Korren."

  Aeor let his focus slip, Threadgaze tugging faintly at his vision. Faces sharpened, each one painted by the faintest whisper of Essence. He passed over Initiates tightening gear, handlers shouting orders, a pair of archers laughing at a missed shot. None bore the names they had been given.

  Then his sight caught on a man leaning near the edge of the training yard, leathers worn but kept with care. The whisper slid into Aeor's mind, precise and certain.

  Korren

  Race: Human

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  He stood easy beside a rack of training swords, as though the courtyard were his hearth. Broad-shouldered, dark hair cropped close, a scar running along his jaw, the kind of scar earned facing forward, not running. His grin was sharp, a blade in its own right, equal parts invitation and warning.

  That scar. That face. He was there when Dregor and I first came to the barracks.

  Korren met his stare, raising a lazy hand in greeting. Confidence radiated from him like heat from stone.

  "Over there," Aeor said, waving back.

  The others followed his line of sight.

  Zoey leaned in, eyes flicking between the men beside Korren. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "That's the guard from the main gate. When we first entered the city."

  Two orcs flanked Korren. One rolled a practice blade lazily across his palm, the ease of long-forged strength in every motion. The other bent to re-tie a buckle, yet his gaze never stilled, cutting across the yard as though weighing every heartbeat around him.

  Aeor let Threadgaze unfurl, the Archives whispering as his focus sharpened.

  Salt

  Race: Orc

  Warm eyes under a heavy brow. Blunt tusks. His grip looked as though it could crush bone, but there was a steadiness behind it.

  Pepper

  Race: Orc

  Lean frame. Still body, but eyes restless, never settling. A predator’s patience.

  Salt and Pepper… The letter had Salthar and Pevthar. Are the Archives giving me what they’re called, not who they are?

  Aeor glanced sideways. Zoey’s brow was furrowed, the same confusion flickering in her eyes.

  "The names," she murmured. "The Archives are whispering their nicknames."

  "Has the Archives ever made sense before?" Velora's tone was even, unreadable.

  The thought lingered between them as their steps carried them closer. Korren was the first to break the silence.

  "About time," he said, his voice rich with mocking ease. "Was starting to think you'd turned back."

  The broader orc stepped forward. "Good to see you made it. I knew I recognized your names from the letter. Hard to forget a stabilized Awakened and her company."

  "Hello again," Aeor said, raising his hand for a shake. "Looks like we're in your care for this thread."

  "Hardly," Salthar replied, gripping firmly. "You've got a Kindled class among you. A stabilized awakened. One with two affinities. And a Threaded tier skillet, of all things."

  He paused, then fixed Aeor with a look. "Of the four, you're the most ordinary."

  The remark drew a chuckle from Zoey, Dregor, and even Velora.

  "Oh, how wrong you are," Zoey said brightly, giving her skillet a playful twirl as she flashed Aeor a grin. "Just wait until you see his monstrous ability."

  The three men exchanged a look, curiosity sharpening in their eyes.

  Aeor only shook his head. "I'd rather it doesn't come to that."

  Korren slid easily into the silence, taking command of the moment. "Alright then. Enough mystery. Let's talk about the plan."

  He spread a parchment across his knee with a flick, the rough map catching the morning light.

  "The thread should be simple enough. Two days out to Sil'Karrel, two days combing the vicinity, two days back. Six in total." His tone was easy, but edged with the weight of someone accustomed to setting terms.

  Aeor leaned in, eyes following the crude ink strokes, hills, streams, a shaded patch marking a forest.

  Korren's grin slanted. "These timings hold if we use avians. On foot, this thread drags close to a month."

  "We do have matters to settle here in eight days," Dregor said, voice steady. "I second the use of avians."

  Pevthar cut in, words sharp as steel drawn from a sheath. "Avians are the preferred means. Salt and I have our own, and you, Korren, as well."

  Korren gave a short nod.

  "The barracks will lend them out," Salt added. "If the mounts are tied to a thread, the cost comes from your reward. No upfront coin. Keeps eager Initiates biting at more quests." His tone was deep, practiced, the kind of line repeated a hundred times to a hundred hopefuls.

  "Flying puts us higher," Velora said. "We’ll see threats before they close. Safer that way."

  Aeor and Zoey nodded in agreement.

  Korren tapped the map, drawing them back in. "Then mounts for speed, but eyes sharp. We'll scout this stretch on foot." His finger traced a dark patch. "The canopy here is too thick to see through. If corruption festers anywhere, it's there. Assume beasts. Stay cautious."

  Zoey leaned closer, her voice small, stripped of its usual spark. "If we're hit... what's the plan?"

  "Disengage if you can. We're not there to fight," Salt replied.

  Zoey gave a quiet nod.

  From there the grindstone of planning took hold. Roles weighed, routes argued, supplies counted and recounted. They spoke of beasts lurking in the dark canopy, of ridges twisting the wind, of the peril in flying too high where unseen currents tore wings from the sky. The words pressed and circled until the hour was gone.

  By the end, a plan had taken shape. Rough, imperfect, uncertain, but enough to carry them on.

  The courtyard's din pressed back around them, the ring of sparring steel, handlers shouting orders, the restless cries of wings overhead. For a moment, it almost felt ordinary, though only for a moment.

  Then the sound faltered. Voices dipped, boots slowed, even the clash of steel on steel faded as seven figures staggered through the gates. A few wore the dark blue of Sar’Vareth’s guard, their uniforms little more than blood-soaked rags. The rest had only travel-worn leathers, torn and blackened. Bandages clung to them in strips, already seeping through, and their weapons dragged low at their sides, more burden than blade.

  Aeor noticed Salthar stiffen, his easy grin vanishing as recognition flared in his eyes.

  "Torven?" Salthar whispered.

  Conversation died not only around them, but across the courtyard. Dozens of Otherworld Initiates and locals turned to watch.

  One of the bloodied men broke from the group. He was young, barely older than Aeor, yet his eyes were hollow, ringed by grief so sharp it seemed to cut him from the inside. He stumbled forward, planting himself in the center of the courtyard, shoulders trembling with rage. His voice cracked as it carried across the still air.

  "Do you know what you abandoned us to?" Torven spat, scanning the gathered faces. "The weight of what you refused to do?"

  No one answered. The silence pressed close, heavy as smoke in the lungs.

  "I begged," he went on, voice breaking against the weight of it. "I went to the officers, to the clergy, to anyone who would listen. The beasts were a day from Ora'Then. And do you know what they told me?" His words climbed into a raw shout. "That they needed fifty. Fifty willing souls before they would even consider issuing the thread."

  A murmur rippled through the courtyard. Ora'Then was no forgotten outpost. Everyone knew its name, its people, its place in the Sol'Karenth's memory. Faces shifted, jaws set, eyes lowered.

  Torven let out a jagged laugh, half-choke, half-sob. "Fifty. They wrote it down like tallying grain. As if fifty could be scraped together while the very air reeked of the beasts’ corruption, while our homes shook with their howls." His fists clenched, knuckles bone-white. "We found fifteen. Fifteen fools who thought our homes were worth saving." His voice dropped, hoarse and ragged. "We stood anyway. We tried anyway."

  He tore at the dried blood on his sleeve, leaving a smear across his cheek. "I watched fields turn black as fire rolled through them. I watched beasts tear through houses where my family slept. Do you know how many of us returned?" He spread his arms wide to the four figures behind him. "Seven. Three guards, four villagers. Out of hundreds. The rest are ash, bone, and screams."

  His words cracked at the last syllable. The courtyard seemed to shrink around him, silence pressing harder, suffocating, as if the very stones were listening.

  "They told me the Princess fights for us," Torven rasped, voice raw. "They told me she was a daughter of the sun, a rider of dragons. But she wasn't there for Ora'Then. None of you were." He jabbed toward the barracks entrance. "These priests. These nobles. These gods of ours." He spat the last word like poison, his gaze dragging over the gathered Initiates before locking briefly on Aeor. "They watched us burn."

  Salthar shifted uncomfortably, jaw tight. Beside him, Pevthar's tusked mouth pressed into a grim line. Dregor sat like carved stone, but the slow grind of his teeth betrayed him. Zoey, for once, had nothing to say.

  Aeor's chest constricted. He thought of Barek and Zura, of how helpless he had been even then. He thought of Vaelkar's colossal form shattering the sky. Would he have rushed to Ora'Then if he had known? Or would he, too, have been devoured beneath that tide? The answer coiled darkly inside him, offering no peace.

  Torven's strength broke. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the stones with a sob that clawed out of his throat. "My mother. My sister. They begged me to bring them out. I tried. Gods, I tried, but it wasn't enough." His voice fractured, lost in shuddering breaths. "Now there's nothing left."

  Two guards from the barracks rushed forward. One knelt beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. Another gestured for the survivors to follow, but none moved. Their eyes burned with the same hollow fury, as if the courtyard itself were guilty.

  Salthar crossed the space without hesitation. He crouched beside Torven, muttering something low and earnest. His massive hand rested carefully on the young man's back. Torven leaned into it, sobbing harder, until the guards helped him to his feet and guided him toward the hall. The others trailed after, limping, silent.

  The courtyard remained still. Not even whispers dared break it.

  Aeor felt the silence stretch, taut as a blade's edge, until Pevthar finally exhaled. His voice was quieter than usual. "The Archives doesn't care about grief." His eyes stayed fixed on the retreating figures. "But grief never forgets the dead. Not ever."

  The words lingered, simple and heavy, until Korren spoke with his usual bluntness, though even his tone carried a weary edge. "The Princess does fight. She’s out there every damned day, saving who she can. I've seen it with my own eyes." The confidence in his voice faltered, leaving only tired conviction. "Torven's right about one thing, though. She wasn't there for him. And when grief takes hold, it doesn't care for reason. It only remembers the grave it had to dig."