The Exile
Elira held her magic at the ready—flickering light at her fingertips, humming just beneath the skin. She didn't lower her hand.
"Name yourself," she said.
The figure stepped fully into view. A young man, maybe a year older than her, with sun-worn skin, a long scar across his jaw, and eyes like fractured moonstone—eyes she almost recognized.
"Elric told me you'd never trust easily," he said quietly. "But I hoped you'd at least listen."
Her pulse flared. "…Rian?"
He nodded.
Rian Halven. Her brother's best friend before the exile. Before the spell gone wrong. Before the elders of Eldhollow had branded him unstable and cast him out of the town's wards.
"You have a lot of nerve showing your face here," she said, voice low. "You almost killed three apprentices."
"And yet," he said, stepping closer, "I'm not the one they've chained."
She lowered her hand, but only slightly. "What are you doing here?"
"I followed the storm wolf's trail. I saw what happened. And I saw who was watching."
That stopped her.
"There was a witness?"
Rian's mouth twitched, something like pain behind his eyes. "Not a witness. A summoner. Someone who used binding runes to lure the beast. And I think I know who."
Elira stared at him. "Why would anyone frame Elric?"
Rian hesitated, then pulled something from his satchel—a torn scrap of parchment, ink smeared but legible.
It was a sigil. One Elira had only seen once before, burned into the edge of an old Frostborne war banner.
Her blood ran cold.
"This isn't about Elric," Rian said. "It's about you."