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The uncertainty does not lessen my resentment.
Chaos magic shaped the walls above us. Dark elf power carved roads through mountains and raised structures no human could build in a lifetime. Rhysandir Morwen’thir could send one skilled worker to repair this pump properly. He could release fuel from his stores or order water carried from the protected springs inside his walls.
Instead, humans kneel on ice and sacrifice firewood to keep a single well functioning.
The light burns steadily.
Wind strikes the yard hard enough to tear one corner of a nearby awning free. Snow thickens, swallowing the nearest roofs. The humans waiting for water pull scarves over their mouths and press closer together.
Bran looks toward the mountain pass. “The storm is coming faster.”
“Yes.”
“Will the repair last through it?”
I place one hand on the wooden lever. The brace holds, but the entire housing trembles under another gust.
“It has to.”
The answer satisfies neither of us.
Residents continue filling their buckets while daylight disappears. We restored their water today. Tomorrow, the leather may split. The lever may crack. The pipe beneath the frozen ground may stop drawing altogether.
Lowtown has survived through repaired tools, shared food, stubborn hands, and promises made when none of us know how to keep them.
The storm descending from the ridge may be stronger than all of those things.
6
RHYSANDIR
Lord Varrus requests more soldiers as though armies are grain that can be harvested twice each year.
He stands in the center of King Rython Vatoris’s court beneath the silver emblem of the Warrior. Crimson leather crosses his black armor, matching the ceremonial sash worn over one shoulder. The thin scar above his brow pales when he raises his voice.
“The northern houses report increased waira movement along the Causadurn Ridge,” he says. “Mining caravans vanish while border lords spend coin upon walls and merchant treaties. We require twice the present patrols.”
Murmurs of approval move through the Khuzuth nobles gathered along the stepped floor.
I remain beside the eastern column reserved for House Morwen’thir. Joran stands three paces behind me with the other captains. Twelve guards wait outside the royal hall, exactly as protocol allows.
The journey to Orthani took four days.
Varrus has used every one of them.
King Rython sits upon a throne carved from black neptherium. Silver veins move within the stone under his hands, responding to royal magic. He wears no crown. Khuzuth kings do not require ornaments to identify themselves within their own courts.
His gaze lands on Varrus. “You propose doubling patrols across the entire northern ridge?”
“Across the vulnerable roads.”
“Which roads qualify?”
Varrus gestures toward the court scribe. A map is unrolled across a low table.
Three routes have been marked.
All serve lands bordering his own.
