Southern Vale, Between Duskspire Ridge and the Old Crown Road
The road split beneath a skeletal alder tree.
To the left, the trail snaked toward Southvale proper—a once-prosperous river hub now rife with Temple taxes and merchant unrest. To the right, the path wound through Duskspire Ridge, a rocky stretch of highland passage seldom used by travelers save smugglers and fugitive sellswords.
Aeron reined in his horse, eyeing the forked post. No markers remained, only a crude dagger stabbed through the signboard, pinning a twist of dried holly and rag.
Harwin squinted. "Southvale's no safer than the hills. Word is they've hanged three for coin-clipping and two more for mocking a bishop's boots."
Elric snorted. "Sounds like a normal feast day."
Aeron dismounted and studied the dagger. Its hilt bore an old symbol—two crescents back to back, carved shallow.
A mercenary's mark.
"Halfpence," he muttered.
Harwin frowned. "Thought they were broken."
"They were." Aeron pulled the dagger free and wiped the blade. "Or bought."
The boy stared up at him. "Are we going where they are?"
"No," Aeron said. "We're going where they think we won't."
He took the high path, toward Duskspire.
By dusk, the mist had returned—thicker this time, coiling through the scrub like smoke from an unseen fire.
They rode single file. The ridge narrowed at points to little more than a footpath between crumbling rock faces. Crows wheeled overhead, their cries distant and ragged.
They made camp beneath an overhang carved by wind and time.
Aeron sat near the fire, sharpening the dagger. Elric brewed bark tea. Harwin checked the fletching on his arrows, muttering to himself.
Then came the sound—stone on stone. Deliberate.
They drew weapons, but it was the boy who moved first—crawling up the ridge wall toward the sound.
Aeron hissed. "Stay—!"
But the boy froze. Then whispered down: "Someone's carving. A warning."
Aeron climbed after him, fingers finding purchase in narrow cracks. At the ledge, he saw it—a carving in fresh chalk, beside a small burial cairn.
A half-circle. A crown. And a line drawn through both.
Another warning. Or a message.
Harwin joined him. "That's the third one we've seen."
Aeron nodded. "Someone's tracing our steps."
"Or drawing us forward."
Later, as the fire dimmed, Aeron pulled the bone mask from his pack.
He studied it long—until dawn smeared blood-orange across the peaks.
The boy stirred.
"Who do you think he is?" he asked. "The one with your face?"
Aeron didn't answer for a while. Then: "A lie. Or worse."
"Worse than a lie?"
"A truth with teeth."