Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The morning arrives with a pounding headache. Someone’s hammering on Garrett’s door like they’re trying to break through solid oak.
Garrett groans from his bed, pulling the pillow over his head. “Go away.”
I’m already awake. I don’t sleep much anyway. The chair by the window isn’t comfortable and what little rest I managed was plagued by fragmented dreams of Garrett’s fingers touching my hand across the tavern table.
The hammering continues, insistent and rhythmic. Whoever’s on the other side isn’t going anywhere.
“My lord!” A guard’s voice, young and urgent. “Commander Clayborne! Sir, please!”
Garrett drags himself upright and I bite back a smirk. His golden hair sticks up in seventeen different directions and there are pillow creases on his face. He looks nothing like the composed commander who questioned Valorians yesterday.
“This better be gods-damned important or I’m demoting someone to latrine duty for a month,” he mutters, his emerald eyes barely slits against the morning light streaming through his chamber windows.
I’m already moving toward the door, hand instinctively checking for the knife at my belt. Even in Garrett’s own chambers in the heart of Elvarstyne Keep, I don’t take chances. The hammering could be urgent news. It could also be an excuse to get the door open, to catch us vulnerable and unprepared.
I pull it open just wide enough to see out, my body blocking the gap.
A young guard stands there, barely old enough to shave. The Valorian insignia gleams on his chest, freshly polished. His eyes are wide with the self-importance of bearing news, but there’s genuine anxiety underneath it.
“Speak,” I say, my voice still rough from sleep and ale.
He swallows hard and looks past me, trying to peer into the room at Garrett. Protocol demands he address his commander directly, but I’m in the way and I’m not moving.
“Commander, sir, we found something. About Marcian.”
That wakes Garrett up faster than a bucket of cold water. He’s on his feet, already reaching for his shirt. The blankets tangle around his legs and he kicks them away impatiently. “Where?”
“Near his house, sir. At the outskirts, by the eastern farms.” The guard swallows again, and his hand trembles slightly where it rests against the doorframe. “There’s... There’s blood. A lot of it.”
Garrett’s face goes still. I’ve learned that it means he’s pushing emotion down, locking it away where it can’t interfere with what needs to be done. “Who found it?”
“His wife.” The guard’s voice cracks slightly on the word. “Eithne went looking when he didn’t come home. The healers gave her something to help her sleep. But she won’t stop crying.”
I can imagine. Finding that much blood, knowing it belongs to your husband. The mind goes to terrible places and conjures images you can never unsee.
Garrett is already pulling on his boots, his movements quick and efficient. “Get my horse saddled and one for Wolf. We leave in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” The guard salutes fist to chest and hurries off. His footsteps echo down the hallway, fading quickly.
Garrett doesn’t look at me as he buckles his sword belt. His jaw is tight, muscle jumping beneath the skin.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken things.
“He could still be alive,” I mutter, though I’m not sure why I’m offering comfort. That’s not what his father pays me for.
Garrett’s hands go still on the buckle. When he looks up, there’s something bleak in his gaze when he finally meets my eyes. “No, he’s not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.” He finishes with the belt and moves to his wardrobe, pulling out riding clothes.
I want to argue, but he’s probably right.
I move to my own pack, checking my weapons. They’re enough to handle most threats. Garrett watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turns away, gathering his own weapons. The keep is quiet this early. Most of the household is still sleeping.
The stables smell like hay and horse and leather. Our mounts are already prepared, saddled and ready. A young stablehand holds the reins, offering them to Garrett.
“Commander,” he says,
Garrett takes them with a nod of thanks. His horse is a beautiful creature, a gray gelding with intelligent eyes. The animal nickers softly, recognizing him. Garrett runs a hand down its neck in greeting.
My mount is darker, more skittish. It eyes me with suspicion when I approach.
Horses and Noctrals don’t usually like me.
Something about my scent maybe, the Wolven blood making them nervous.
We took horses instead of Noctrals. The village is close enough that speed doesn’t matter, and horses are easier on supplies for a short trip.
Garrett’s hangover seems to have vanished entirely, replaced by that focused intensity I recognize from the Hall of Valor. We ride out within the hour, leaving the capital’s white towers and marble walls behind.
The city’s outer districts give way to farmland.
We pass neat rows of crops, golden in the morning sun.
A farmer looks up from where he’s mending a fence, hammer in hand.
He sees Garrett’s golden hair and the Valorian insignia on his cloak and straightens.
Garrett lifts a hand in acknowledgment, his expression softening just slightly.
The farmer waves back before returning to his work.
Out here, the air smells fresh and clean. Nothing like Tiamat’s chemical reek or even the city’s concentrated humanity. If I wasn’t watching for threats, I might find it peaceful.
But there’s too much open space and too many angles to worry about. Bandits could be hiding in those trees. Any of those farmhouses could have an archer in the window. The rolling hills mean I can’t see what’s on the other side until we’re already exposed.
My training screams at me that this is terrible tactical ground. No cover and escape routes. We’re silhouetted against the sky, visible for miles.
“Where are we headed?” I ask, partly to distract myself from the anxiety crawling up my spine, partly because I need to know the terrain.
“Dúnbhrae Town,” Garrett answers without looking at me. His eyes stay fixed on the road ahead. “The eastern edge backs up against Elmwood. Marcian lived close to the tree line.”
“He’s a city guard. Why would he choose to stay so far away?” It doesn’t make sense. The commute alone would be brutal, and guards need to be able to respond quickly to calls. Living this far out is a liability.
Garrett shrugs. “Marcian grew up out here. His family has been farming that land for three generations. When he joined the Valorians, he built his house on the old family property so his wife could keep the farm running.”
“So everyone knows where he lives.” A guard with a predictable routine, living in an isolated location far from help. Easy target.
Garrett catches my meaning immediately. His hands tighten on the reins, knuckles going white. “You think someone targeted him specifically?”
“Seven Valorians don’t vanish by accident. Either someone’s targeting your soldiers or...”
“Or?”
I don’t want to voice the other possibility, but he deserves to hear it. “Or they’re being taken by one of their own. Someone who knows their routines, their routes home, and their weaknesses.”
Garrett’s expression goes cold. “No. Not my Valorians.”
“You questioned dozens of them yesterday. You were looking for inconsistencies in their stories.”
“I was being thorough.”
“You were looking for a traitor.”
He doesn’t deny it this time.
“The Valorians would die for the Aeonians without question. That kind of loyalty doesn’t leave room for betrayal,” he says, staring ahead at the road, jaw working.
“Every soldier has their breaking point.”
“Not mine.”
The certainty in his voice is absolute. I let it drop, but I don’t stop thinking about it. Seven disappearances in two months. No witnesses and no signs of struggle reported until now.
It has to be someone on the inside.
Someone who knows the Valorians’ schedules, their patrol routes, their home addresses. Someone they would trust enough to let their guard down around.
The sun climbs higher as we ride and the morning coolness burns away, replaced by warmth that makes sweat prickle at the back of my neck. My shirt sticks to my back under my armor.
Garrett calls for a stop near a stream around midday. Our horses need water and rest. Honestly, so do we. We water the horses and refill our canteens.
The small river is cold and clear, running over smooth stones.
Garrett produces bread and cheese from his saddlebag, dividing it between us without asking.
The bread is slightly stale, but the cheese is sharp and crumbly.
I eat standing up while watching the road.
My eyes scan the tree line, the curve of the stream, looking for movement and anything out of place.
Garrett sits on a fallen log, tilting his face up to the sun. His eyes close and for a moment he looks peaceful. The worry lines smooth from his face.
“Do you ever relax, Wolf?” he asks, eyes still closed.
“No.”
“Never?”
“That’s how you die.”
He opens his eyes and looks at me. “Being on alert all the time is not living.”
“I’ve survived this long.”
He stands, brushing crumbs off his trousers. “The guild trained you well. Too well, maybe.”
I’ve been running or fighting or watching my back since I was a child. Since before the guild, when I was on the streets stealing to survive. My clan was slaughtered and I learned that safety is an illusion.
But I don’t say any of that because Garrett is looking at me with something like pity. I don’t want his pity. I don’t want him to know how broken I am, how the guild took whatever small pieces of peace I might have had and ground them to dust.
“We should keep moving,” I say instead. “The day’s half gone.”
He studies me for another moment and I can see him weighing whether to push. Then he nods. “You’re right. Let’s go.”