Chapter 18 #2
His companions laughed at this, the sound harsh against the mountain stillness. "Might get good coin for him in the slave markets," another suggested. "Pretty little thing like that."
Nero felt something cold and terrible settle in his chest. The boy's face, streaked with tears and dirt, reminded him powerfully of Romash—his son, lost so many years ago to sickness. The same dark hair, the same wide eyes, the same fragile body that made Nero's heart ache.
But every second he delayed here was another second Casteel remained in danger.
The boy whimpered as the soldier reached for him, and Nero's feet were moving before his mind had fully processed the decision. He hadn’t been able to save Romash, but he could save this little one.
He came down the slope like an avalanche given corporeal form, his enhanced speed carrying him into the midst of the soldiers before they could react.
The first man died with Nero's borrowed blade between his ribs, driven upward into his heart with surgical precision.
The second managed to draw his sword before Nero's fist crushed his windpipe.
The third soldier, the one who had been taunting the boy, spun with his weapon raised, but Nero was already inside his guard. A knee to the man's groin doubled him over, and Nero's elbow to the back of his neck dropped him to the ground with a wet crack.
The fourth soldier turned to flee, but Nero's thrown dagger caught him between the shoulder blades. He pitched forward into the dirt and lay still.
Silence fell over the ruined farmstead, broken only by the crackling of dying flames and the boy's ragged breathing.
Nero stood amid the carnage, blood spattering his clothes, his chest heaving with the aftermath of violence.
The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with smoke and the lingering horror of what these men had done.
The boy pressed himself harder against the stone foundation, his small body trembling. His eyes—so heartbreakingly similar to Romash's—darted between Nero and the bodies scattered around the yard.
"It's all right," Nero said softly, crouching down to make himself less threatening. "They can't hurt you now."
The child's lips moved, but no sound emerged. Shock, Nero realized. He'd seen it in soldiers after their first real battle, that peculiar stillness that came when the mind couldn't process what it had witnessed.
"What's your name?" Nero asked, keeping his voice gentle despite the urgency clawing at his chest.
"R-River," the boy whispered finally, his voice barely audible. "Mama? Pa? Why won’t they wake?"
Nero's heart clenched. The boy was too young to understand what he'd witnessed, too innocent to comprehend that his parents lay dead mere yards away. "They're gone, River. I'm sorry."
The child's face crumpled, tears streaming down dirt-stained cheeks. "I want Mama," he sobbed.
"Did anyone else live here?" Nero asked quietly, taking a cautious step closer, glancing around the devastated farmstead. No other buildings stood nearby—this family had lived in isolation, probably choosing the remote location for safety. That isolation had become their death.
He felt Casteel's presence flicker—still alive, still conscious, but something was happening. The connection carried undertones of wonder mixed with fear, as if his mate had discovered something miraculous and terrible simultaneously.
Nero needed to move. Every moment he delayed was another moment Casteel remained in danger. But he couldn't leave a traumatized child alone among the bodies of his family, couldn't abandon him to die of exposure or become prey for the next group of soldiers who passed this way.
"River," he said carefully, "do you have other family? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?"
The boy shook his head, still pressed against the stone wall. "Just Mama and Pa. They said if ever bad men came, Pa would protect us." Fresh tears coursed down his cheeks. "But they hurt Pa first, and then they hurt Mama, and I couldn't do anything."
Nero closed his eyes briefly, fighting back the memories of his own loss—his wife, his unborn child, Romash wasting away while he watched helplessly. It was too close.
"I have to go," he said gently. "Someone I love is in danger. But I can't leave you here." He extended his hand, palm up, offering rather than demanding. "Will you come with me?"
River stared at the offered hand with wary incomprehension. "Where?"
"To find my mate," Nero replied honestly. "And then..." He hesitated, unable to promise safety or security when his own future was so uncertain. "Then we'll find somewhere safe for you."
The boy's eyes darted to his parents' bodies, then back to Nero's face. "The bad men might come back?"
"Yes," Nero admitted. "Which is why we need to leave now." He couldn’t even risk a delay to bury the dead, and he hoped taking their son to safety was enough recompence.
River took a shuddering breath, then reached out with a small, trembling hand. His fingers were ice-cold when they touched Nero's palm, and they clung tightly when Nero gently closed his hand around them.
"We need to move quickly," Nero said, helping the boy to his feet. "Can you run?"
River nodded, though his legs shook beneath him. "Papa taught me. For if the wolves come."
Nero felt a twist of irony at the words, given what now resided within him.
He looked around the farmstead one last time, wishing he could give the dead the proper rites, but there was no time.
Instead, he quickly gathered what supplies he could find—a small waterskin, a half-loaf of bread that had somehow survived the destruction, a child's cloak that hung from a peg near the door.
"Here," he said, draping the cloak around River's shoulders. "It's cold in the mountains."
The boy clutched the familiar garment, burying his face in the rough wool for a moment. When he looked up, his eyes were still terrified, but there was a flicker of determination there as well. "I'm ready."
Nero spared one last glance at the bodies, silently promising that the men who had ordered this atrocity would pay. Then he took River's small hand in his and led him away from the ruins of his childhood.
They moved east through increasingly rugged terrain, Nero simply picking River up, humbled by the trusting way River wrapped his little arms around Nero's neck.
Casteel's presence remained constant but distant, like a star glimpsed through heavy clouds, but he didn't seem afraid. No immediate danger.
"Are we going to find your mate?" River asked, his small voice breaking the silence as they navigated a narrow mountain path.
"Yes," Nero replied, scanning the horizon for any sign of pursuit. "His name is Casteel."
"Is he lost?"
Nero's jaw tightened. "In a way. Bad men are trying to take him somewhere he doesn't want to go."
River's hand tightened in his. "Like the bad men at my house?"
"Yes," Nero said carefully, lifting the boy over a fallen log. "But we're going to find him first."
They crested a ridge and Nero paused, setting River down a moment, his enhanced senses stretching outward.
The wind carried fragments of sound—distant voices, the creak of leather, metal against stone.
Mercenaries were still in these mountains, still hunting.
Through his bond with Casteel, he felt a strange mixture of awe and urgency, as if his mate had discovered something wondrous but remained in danger.
"Are you a wolf?" River asked suddenly, his young eyes studying Nero's face with surprising perception.
Nero glanced down, startled. "What makes you ask that?"
"Your eyes," the boy said simply. "They shine silver sometimes. And you're really strong."
A small smile touched Nero's lips despite everything. "Yes," he admitted. "Part of me is wolf."
"Will you eat me?" River's voice was curious rather than frightened.
"No," Nero assured him, squeezing the small hand in his. "My wolf protects those I care about."
They continued downward into a narrow valley where a stream cut through the rocks. Nero helped River drink, then refilled their small waterskin. As the boy splashed his face clean of tears and grime, Nero closed his eyes, focusing on his bond with Casteel.
The connection flickered, but it was there—and it was leading him southeast, toward a gap between two distant peaks.
Whatever was happening to Casteel, he was moving, but not a captive as Nero had feared.
Relief washed through him, tempered by the knowledge that danger still lurked in these mountains.
"We need to keep moving," he told River, who nodded with the solemn acceptance of a child who had seen too much in too short a time.
They paused by a stream after nearly a bell before Nero froze, his enhanced hearing picking up the rhythmic thunder of approaching hooves. His arms tightened around the little boy and he dove behind a cluster of boulders just as riders appeared on the ridge above.
Silver Guard. At least twenty, moving with military precision along the very path they had been following. "Quarter the valley systematically," came a soldier's voice from the ridge. "Spread out in teams of four. Check every cave, every overhang. They can't have gotten far."
Nero pressed himself deeper into the shadow of the boulder, one hand covering River's mouth to muffle any sound. The boy's eyes were wide with fear, but he remained perfectly still, perhaps understanding instinctively that their lives depended on his silence.
Nero felt a sudden surge of excitement, but not his own. His mate was experiencing something extraordinary, but the connection carried undertones of imminent danger that made Nero's protective instincts flare.