A cold morning breeze threaded through the trees, stirring the mist that clung to the underbrush. The cart rumbled along the damp dirt road, wheels leaving shallow grooves in the softened earth. Above, the sky stretched dull and gray, the sun buried behind thick clouds, casting a washed-out light over the landscape. The scent of pine and wet bark hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint musk of old leather and iron from the cart’s cargo.

  Garrin, perched at the front with the ease of a man long accustomed to the road, cast a glance over his shoulder. Lucian lay among the supplies, his arms crossed over his chest, breath slow and steady in the rhythm of sleep. With a knowing chuckle, Garrin reached over and tapped the heel of his boot.

  “Wake up, boy,” he said. “We’re close.”

  Lucian stirred, eyelids fluttering before he pushed himself upright with a quiet groan. His muscles still bore the weight of exhaustion, the dull ache of battle lingering—but manageable. He exhaled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he took in his surroundings. The trees had begun to thin, their skeletal branches reaching skyward like grasping fingers. And there, on the horizon, wooden watchtowers jutted above the landscape, standing sentry over a sprawling village—the largest settlement he had ever laid eyes on.

  Garrin followed his gaze. “That’s Torenfeld,” he said, gesturing with a tilt of his head. “Biggest stop between here and the capital. Folk come through for trade, mercenary work, or to disappear. And that”—his voice took on a note of emphasis—“is where you’ll want to start.”

  Lucian’s eyes followed the motion of Garrin’s hand toward a building standing a head taller than the rest, its wooden frame reinforced with dark iron bands. Smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, and even from a distance, Lucian could see figures moving in and out beneath the heavy oak sign hanging above the door. The Gilded Hart.

  “The tavern’s got ears,” Garrin continued. “If your man’s been through here, someone will know. Just depends on what you’re willing to pay.”

  Lucian nodded, feeling anticipation coil in his chest. This was it—the first real step into the unknown.

  But before he could dwell on it, Garrin’s tone shifted. “Listen, boy,” he said, the easygoing air replaced by something firmer. “Taverns are good for finding information, but they’re bad for keeping your teeth in your head. You’re young, and you don’t know how the world works yet. People see an Ascen, they react in one of two ways—either they steer clear, or they see a challenge.” He shot Lucian a look, sharp and assessing. “You’re not some seasoned sellsword. You’ve got power, sure, but that won’t stop someone who knows how to use a knife in the dark.”

  Lucian absorbed the words, his fingers curling into a fist. “I’ll be careful.”

  Garrin grunted, clearly unconvinced.

  By the time they reached the village gates, the morning had worn on, the mist retreating to the shaded corners where the sun had yet to reach. Torenfeld’s walls rose before them, a patchwork of timber and stone, reinforced with iron bands that bore the marks of age and weather. At the entrance, two guards stood watch, clad in chainmail dulled by travel dust and time. Their hands rested on the pommels of their swords, but their eyes—sharp and assessing—did most of the work.

  As the cart neared, one of them stepped forward, raising a gloved hand. “Halt.”

  Garrin tugged the reins, bringing the horses to a slow stop. With the practiced ease of a man who had done this a hundred times before, he offered a disarming smile. “Just a merchant looking to trade,” he said, gesturing toward the supplies. “Got goods to sell and coin to spend.”

  The guard’s gaze swept over the cart before shifting to Lucian. “And the boy?”

  “Traveling with me,” Garrin answered smoothly. “But we part ways here.”

  The guards exchanged a glance—silent communication passing between them—before stepping aside. “You know the rules,” the first one said. “No trouble. Pay your dues if you’re selling.”

  Garrin tipped an imaginary hat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  As they rolled into the village proper, Lucian took in the sights with quiet scrutiny. The streets were alive with movement—merchants hawking wares beneath brightly colored canopies, laborers hauling barrels toward the market square, children darting between carts with the nimbleness of effortless mischief. The air carried the rich scent of roasting meat and fresh bread, underscored by the faint, acrid tang of blacksmith’s forges further down the way.

  Yet there was an edge to the place. A wariness in the way people moved, how their hands lingered near belt knives or tucked purses closer when unfamiliar faces passed. Conversations shifted when outsiders walked too near, voices dipping into hushed tones.

  This was a place where opportunity and danger walked hand in hand.

  Garrin guided the cart toward the stables near the market square, bringing it to a halt before dismounting with a grunt. He handed the reins to a stablehand—an older man with a weathered face and calloused hands—before turning to Lucian.

  “Well, boy,” he said, dusting his hands off. “This is where we part ways.”

  Lucian hesitated. He had grown accustomed to Garrin’s presence, his blunt advice, his easy confidence that made the road feel less uncertain. Now, standing on the threshold of something unfamiliar, the weight of solitude settled on him.

  Before he could dwell on it, Garrin reached into his coat and pulled free a small leather pouch, tossing it to him. Lucian caught it, the weight heavier than expected.

  Curious, he loosened the drawstrings and peered inside. Coins. Some dull iron, others polished silver, and one that gleamed with a warm golden hue.

  “That one’s crown,” Garrin said, gesturing to the golden alloy. “Rare. Worth a lot. Don’t go flashing it around unless you want to be relieved of it.” He pointed next to the silver. “Those are regals. Good for most trades. And the iron? Drakes. Common folk use those.” He smirked at Lucian’s furrowed brow. “A hundred drakes make a regal. Ten regals make a crown. You’ll figure it out.”

  To Lucian, money had always been abstract. At the church, food, shelter, and supplies had been given freely. Now, it was something to keep track of, something that could mean the difference between survival and an empty stomach.

  He clenched the pouch in his palm, looking up at Garrin. “Thank you. For everything.”

  Garrin exhaled, ruffling Lucian’s hair with a rough chuckle. “Don’t make me regret it, boy.”

  And with that, he turned back to his cart, already bartering with the stablehand over the cost of boarding his horses.

  Lucian lingered only a moment before closing his fingers around the pouch and turning away.

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  He had a destination.

  --------------------------------------

  Lucian moved through the streets of Torenfeld with careful steps, his eyes scanning the unfamiliar world around him. A strange mix of curiosity and unease settled in his chest—everything here was so alive, so unpredictable, a stark contrast to the rigid order of the church. The village was far larger than he had anticipated, its streets winding between rows of timber-framed buildings. Canopies of bright cloth stretched between stalls, shading merchants who called out their wares in loud, persuasive voices. The air buzzed with conversation—a mixture of haggling, laughter, and the occasional sharp exchange when deals soured.

  The sheer energy of the place was overwhelming. At the church, life had been orderly—prayers at dawn, training by noon, study in the evenings. Here, chaos reigned. People moved in all directions, carts rumbled by, and children darted through narrow gaps, their hands quick to snatch unattended trinkets before vanishing into the crowd.

  A sudden jostle broke Lucian from his thoughts. A boy, no older than ten, collided into him, hands moving faster than Lucian could react. By the time he caught the child’s wrist, he felt the weight of his coin pouch lessen.

  “Nice try,” Lucian said, tightening his grip just enough to hold the boy in place.

  The urchin struggled, eyes wide with alarm, before settling into an easy smirk. “Was worth a shot,” he muttered. “Let go, will ya?”

  Lucian held his gaze for a moment before releasing him. The boy darted back into the crowd, disappearing like smoke in the wind.

  A lesson learned. He tugged his pouch tighter around his belt and moved on.

  The aroma of roasting meat curled through the air, leading Lucian toward a row of food vendors. His stomach, unaccustomed to long stretches without church rations, tightened with hunger. A stout man turned skewers over an open flame, the fat sizzling as it dripped into the coals below.

  “You buying or just staring?” the man grunted.

  Lucian hesitated. He had coin, but he wasn’t sure how much to part with. He reached into the pouch and pulled out a single iron drake, placing it on the counter.

  The vendor eyed it before snorting. “That’ll get you half a bite, lad.”

  Lucian frowned, shifting awkwardly. He had never bartered before—at the church, food had been given freely, not measured in coins and negotiations. "How much, then?"

  “Three drakes for a skewer. More if you want something that hasn’t been sitting out since morning.”

  With a reluctant sigh, Lucian fished out two more coins and slid them over. The vendor smirked, speared a fresh skewer from the back, and handed it over. “You’ll learn quick,” he said. “Keep your coin close, and never pay first price.”

  Lucian took the food and moved aside, biting into the meat. It was salty, tough, but better than he expected. As he chewed, he let his gaze wander again, taking in the small details of the village—mercenaries sharpening their blades outside a smithy, cloaked figures exchanging hushed words in shadowed alleys, a bard tuning his lute beneath an old oak tree.

  He was beginning to understand. Torenfeld was not just a place to pass through. It was a place where survival meant knowing when to listen, when to bargain, and when to remain unseen.

  He finished his skewer and dusted his hands off. It was time to find The Gilded Hart.

  -----------------------------

  Lucian spotted The Gilded Hart just ahead, its sturdy wooden frame reinforced with dark iron bands. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, and the warm glow of lanterns spilled from the windows, casting flickering light onto the worn cobblestone path. The heavy oak sign swayed in the breeze, its carved stag’s head gleaming with a faint golden sheen.

  Just as he took a step forward, a presence loomed behind him—massive, imposing. A heavy scent of sweat, leather, and steel filled the air. He felt it before he saw it—the quiet weight of something powerful looming in his shadow.

  Lucian slowly turned.

  The man behind him was a brute of a mercenary, easily a head taller than most, with broad shoulders and thick arms that looked like they could split wood with a single blow. He carried a massive war hammer in one hand as if it were a walking stick, its worn handle wrapped in faded leather. His face was lined with old scars, and his eyes—dark and calculating—settled on Lucian with mild disinterest. Three others stood behind him, leaner but no less dangerous, their armor mismatched but well-used.

  “Mind moving, kid?” the man rumbled, his voice deep as thunder.

  Lucian held his gaze for a moment before stepping aside. "Apologies," he muttered.

  The mercenary said nothing at first, simply watching him with the same measured look. Then, with a faint smirk, he said, "Bit young to be walking into a place like this, don’t you think?"

  His allies chuckled, one of them muttering something under his breath that Lucian couldn’t quite catch.

  Lucian straightened slightly, his fingers instinctively brushing against the pouch at his belt—whether for reassurance or caution, he wasn’t sure. He had expected the tavern to be dangerous, but he hadn’t expected to be tested before even setting foot inside.

  Still, this was his first step into the unknown—he wouldn’t turn back now.

  Lucian stepped through the heavy wooden doors of The Gilded Hart, and the scene inside was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

  The air was thick with the scent of ale, roasted meat, and the faint trace of damp wood. A great hearth crackled at the far end of the tavern, casting a flickering golden light over the gathered patrons. The place was alive with noise—cheers and laughter, the clatter of tankards against tables, and the occasional thud of a fist slamming down in either victory or frustration.

  Mercenaries, traders, and wanderers filled the room, some hunched over maps, others engaged in loud stories of past battles or lucrative deals. A bard strummed a lute in the corner, weaving a lively tune that barely cut through the din of voices. Barmaids maneuvered through the crowd with practiced ease, dodging outstretched hands and refilling mugs before moving on.

  He moved carefully through the room, taking in the sight of armored men swapping war stories, traders bartering over goods, and a few solitary figures sitting in shadowed corners, speaking in hushed voices.

  A sudden commotion snapped his attention to the side.

  At a nearby table, two men shot up from their seats, knocking over mugs as they squared off. The cause? A simple deck of cards.

  “You cheating bastard!” one of them snarled, flipping the table in anger.

  The other, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, only smirked. “Maybe you’re just terrible at cards, Garren.”

  The first man lunged, swinging a wild punch. The other dodged easily, laughing as he shoved him back. Instead of breaking it up, the tavern chuckled and jeered, placing bets on the next punch.

  Lucian watched silently. He had heard of tavern brawls but had never seen one. From the amused reactions around him, it was clear that this was nothing unusual—just another night at The Gilded Hart.

  Deciding not to linger, he made his way toward the bar. The bartender, a burly man with a grizzled beard and sharp eyes, glanced up from cleaning a mug as Lucian approached.

  “You lost, boy?” the bartender asked, setting the mug down with a dull thunk.

  Lucian met his gaze and shook his head. “No. I’m looking for information.”

  The bartender raised a brow, setting the mug aside. "What kind of information are you after?"

  Lucian straightened slightly. "I'm looking for a person."

  For a moment, the bartender studied him, his expression unreadable. Then, with a low chuckle, he leaned against the counter. "Then you came to the right place, kid." He wiped his hands on a rag before nodding toward a dimly lit corner of the tavern. "Over there. Those are your guys—informants, if you can afford their price."

  Lucian followed the bartender’s gesture, his gaze landing on a shadowed table where three figures sat, partially hidden from the bustling activity of the room. One of them was shuffling a deck of cards lazily, another was speaking in low tones to his companion, and the third, a hooded man, seemed to be watching everything and nothing at once.

  Lucian nodded, taking in the information. He knew he didn’t have much coin to spare, but if these men had the knowledge he needed, then he had no choice but to see what they knew.

  With measured steps, he approached the table, feeling the weight of unseen eyes on him.

  The man in the middle barely looked up from his cards. He was older, with a short, graying beard and a sharp gaze that flickered to Lucian only for a moment before returning to his hand.

  “What do you want, boy?” the man asked, his voice steady but uninterested. The other two men at the table glanced at Lucian, their expressions unreadable. One of them smirked slightly, while the hooded figure simply watched, silent and still.

  Lucian stood his ground, keeping his voice calm. “I need information.”

  The man in the middle exhaled, setting his cards down. “Information ain’t free,” he said, finally meeting Lucian’s gaze. “Depends on what you’re askin’ and what you’re willin’ to pay.”

  Lucian expected as much. He reached for his coin pouch, feeling the weight of what little he had left. “I’m looking for someone,” he said carefully. “A man named Orin Kael.”

  The moment the name left his lips, the mood at the table shifted. The smirk on the other man’s face faded, and even the hooded figure subtly straightened. The middle man, however, remained unreadable, tapping a finger on the table as he considered Lucian’s words.

  “Well now,” he said slowly, “that’s an interesting name.”