Chapter Five – The Weight of Trust
The first light of dawn stretched through the trees, turning the mist above the camp into threads of gold.
Auron sat by the dying fire, his grandfather's sword laid across his knees. He dragged a cloth along its edge, the distorted reflection of his face rippling in the blade. The forest was still but for the hiss of embers and the hum of waking insects.
He had not slept. Every time his eyes closed, the river came back the fog, the Beast-born eyes, the word shipment.
The memory coiled around his gut like a cold hand.His grip tightened on the hilt. The boy who had fought the Shadow Lynx in wild desperation was gone.
What remained moved with cold, deliberate precision.
He heard Godfrey's voice in memory, quiet and certain: The beast that survives the winter is not the strongest. It is the one that knows when to strike.
Auron looked toward Lucian's tent. He could hear the boy's even breathing, soft against the dawn.
"I will not let another innocent die," he murmured. The words were not an oath of pride, but of courage; one more promise carved into a weary soul.
When the fire died, he rose.
Lucian emerged moments later, hair a tousled halo of gold. A too-large cloak hung around his shoulders, and a half-eaten loaf of bread was clutched in his hand. His voice carried lightly through the clearing. "You're up early, Auron."
Auron turned. The young noble's breath clouded in the chill air, a cup of steaming broth warming his hands. "You look like a statue," Lucian teased. "Don't tell me you sat there all night."
"I couldn't sleep."
Lucian tilted his head. "Bad dreams?"
"Something like that."
He crouched beside the ashes and stirred them with a stick, coaxing a few sparks to life. "I get them too. My brothers said it's the forest whispering. That it plays tricks on your thoughts."
Auron hummed, letting a half-lie slip. "The noises kept me awake. Probably just the wind."
Lucian studied him quietly. "It doesn't sound like the wind to me. It sounds like you're carrying a lot of noise inside."
Auron froze. The boy's tone held no judgment only the calm intuition of someone who hadn't yet learned fear. For an instant, he almost laughed at the absurd truth of it."You're too perceptive for your own good."
Lucian smiled faintly. "Comes from being ignored. People talk around you when they think you don't matter."
That struck something deep and familiar. The ache of being unseen.
To break the silence, Auron asked, "Your family runs the trade routes in the north?"
Lucian's face brightened. "Yes. House Arvel or what's left of it."
"What do you mean?"
He twirled a twig between his fingers. "We used to be one of Ironheart's great houses. Mines, iron caravans, steelworks. But the silver veins are drying up. The southern lords keep taking our contracts. Father's been trying to build new routes through the capital. This journey's half diplomacy, half desperation."
Auron listened in silence.
Lucian's smile dimmed. "No one trusts us anymore. The knights still wear our crest, but the edges of the banners are frayed."
"Is that why you came?"
Lucian gave a short laugh. "He didn't send me. I begged to come. Said it'd be my chance 'to learn the ways of the world.'" His grin faltered. "I think he just wanted me gone for a while."
"You're his son. Why would he—"
"His fourth son," Lucian corrected softly. "First inherits. Second fights. Third marries. Fourth… exists." There was no resentment in his tone, only quiet understanding. "So I learn. I help where I can. It's enough."
Auron studied him. Fragile, naïve, and yet more self-aware than most men he'd met.
Lucian looked up. "What about you? Where are you from?"
The question landed like a knife. Auron saw blood and snow. Godfrey's hand limp in the frost."Nowhere important," he said.
Lucian didn't press. Auron managed a faint smile.
The camp stirred awake. Birds broke through the mist in bursts of gray wings. Lucian squinted toward the rising sun. "We should reach Ashford soon. They say the streets are carved from white marble."
Auron gave a quiet nod. The thought meant nothing to him. His world was still ice and memory.
Lucian smiled. "I think I'll like having you around. You listen. Most people don't."
The words landed with surprising weight. Auron looked away before the warmth could reach his face.
By noon, the camp had found its rhythm. Wagons creaked. Horses snorted steam. Guards leaned on their spears, bored but alert. Beneath the surface calm, Auron felt tension coiled like a hidden snare.
He moved through the camp in silence, helping where needed, keeping his steps measured. He noted the details others missed the lazy sentries, the uneven patrols, the way certain tents drew more glances than others.
Asher's tent stood near the river, apart from the rest. Its seams were reinforced with leather, its guards too disciplined to be mere escorts. One bore no crest at all. Auron memorized their faces.
Later, under the excuse of gathering firewood, he drifted toward the camp's edge. The air smelled of sweat, dust, and steel but near Asher's post, another scent cut through: iron and fur, faint yet unmistakable. Beast-born.
He crouched, pressing his palm to the earth. Mana pulsed faintly beneath his skin, threading through soil and stone. Most signatures were human
scattered, shallow. But one thrummed low and steady, the heartbeat of something not human at all.
His suspicion sharpened.
When twilight came, Auron positioned himself near the servants' fires, lying in false rest. His eyes tracked movement instead of stars.
Two servants slipped away carrying a small crate between them. They moved too carefully, glancing around with guilt disguised as duty.
He waited until their footsteps faded, then followed silent as the snow, mana condensed in his legs to swallow sound. The wolf's bracelet warmed faintly against his wrist.
At the river's edge they stopped beneath a gnarled oak. One knelt and dug while the other kept watch. Auron caught fragments of whisper: "For him." "By dawn." "Payment."
When they left, he approached. The earth was still soft. He unearthed a small oil-wrapped parcel. Inside lay a coin of dark metal, stamped with a wolf's head and slit eyes.
He knew it. Beast-born currency of the Stonefang Horde. No human mint shaped metal that way.
Beneath it rested a strip of coded parchment. Trade cipher Auron recognized the shorthand. Quantity: one. Delivery: crimson moon. Payment secured.
His pulse slowed. The shipment is Lucian.
He buried the parcel again and brushed the soil smooth. In the distance, the campfires flickered like dying stars. Somewhere amid that light, Asher was bartering away a child's life.
The bracelet pulsed once, the faint echo of a heartbeat.
Night fell heavy.
The guards grew lax. Auron sat by the cold remains of the fire, tracing lines in the dirt
a crude map of the camp. He marked tents, patrols, and exits, then circled the oak by the river. Every line tightened the net in his mind.
He needed proof, not vengeance. Godfrey's words returned: A hunter who kills without knowing his prey invites death.
The forest wind carried distant laughter from the guards. Smoke and damp earth mingled in the air. Auron rose, scanning faces.
Two knights under Asher's command exchanged a pouch near the supply wagons. Another guard near Lucian's tent kept looking outward, toward the trees instead of in.
Pieces fell into place. At least two knights were bought. Possibly more.
He stopped before Lucian's tent. The boy slept soundly, breath slow, dreams untroubled. For a moment, Auron simply watched him the fragile calm before betrayal.
The wolf's sigil glowed faintly beneath his sleeve. "I will end this," he whispered.
The moon climbed higher, painting the camp in silver. Auron returned to his post, sword across his knees, eyes open to every shifting shadow.
He was no longer the hunted.
He turning into a hunter silent, patient, waiting for the truth to bare its throat.
The wind turned sharp with the scent of steel and rain. Somewhere far off, a wolf howled, and Auron's hand closed slowly around his grandfather's blade.