The Boar’s Bane

The Desert Rats did not rise when Yohan approached.

They adjusted.

Hands drifted closer to hilts as if by habit rather than threat. A rider downwind turned his horse so scent would not carry inward. Space widened, narrowed, measured in increments too small to notice unless one had learned to survive by noticing them. Courtesy here was a form of defense. Standing too quickly was an invitation.

Canvas snapped softly overhead.

Yahmes waited beneath a patched scholar’s tent, its cloth bleached pale by years of sun and stitched through with repairs that told a longer history than banners ever could. Ink-stained seams crossed old spear tears. Sigils had been cut away, resewn, then cut again. Knowledge that had learned how to endure.

A horse stamped somewhere behind the tent, tack chiming once before settling.

Yahmes did not move until Yohan crossed the invisible line where watching became engagement. Then he stood—not hurried, not defiant—meeting Yohan at equal height, eyes level, posture relaxed in the way of a man who did not need to prove it.

“You come wearing another man’s leash,” Yahmes said.

His voice was calm. Around them, the Desert Rats leaned in without appearing to.

“So they believe,” Yohan replied.

A pause followed—thin, precise. Not hesitation. Assessment.

The corner of Yahmes’s mouth lifted briefly, sharp and gone again. The wind tugged the tent flap open just enough to reveal maps weighed down with stones, their corners curled from use rather than neglect.

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They spoke without naming crowns.

Yahmes asked about people, not banners—about which clans still spoke lineage aloud instead of deferring to priests, which river folk remembered tolls paid to a king rather than a House, which groves had begun to issue verdicts instead of blessings. Each question tested not loyalty but memory. Each answer landed like a careful step across ice that had not yet decided whether to hold.

When Cael’s name surfaced, Yahmes’s eyes hardened.

“The desert has known that balance,” he said. “A rite that serves power instead of land. It burns clean—and leaves nothing alive beneath it.”

Wind carried grit against the tent, whispering like distant sand.

Toren’s name earned a single nod. “Coin always believes it can outlast consequence.”

Jothere’s name lingered.

It hung between them long enough that one of the horses shifted again, uneasy.

“If I step forward,” Yahmes said at last, “I become a problem every House will try to solve differently.”

“Yes,” Yohan said. “Which is why you won’t step forward yet.”

Yahmes studied him anew—not measuring ambition, but intent. The desert beyond the camp stretched wide and patient, a place that remembered every mistake made too loudly.

“Then what do you intend?” Yahmes asked.

“We visit the clans in the order they still remember,” Yohan said. “Horse first. Always horse first.”

Something settled behind Yahmes’s eyes—not relief, but alignment. He exhaled slowly, as if a piece long carried had finally been set where it belonged.

“And I ride as what?” Yahmes asked.

“A local merchant,” Yohan said. “One who knows horseflesh, desert spice, and which riders can still count lineage without asking a priest.”

Yahmes smiled again—this time without warmth. Not humor, but recognition. A baring of teeth rather than an offering.

“That will let me hear what they say,” he said, “when they don’t think blood is listening.”

“I’m not here to crown you,” Yohan said. “I’m here to make sure that when you are named, the land already knows you—so no one can quietly bury you.”

The canvas snapped again as the wind shifted. Beyond it, the Desert Rats returned to their easy stillness, tension folded away but never dismissed.

Yahmes held Yohan’s gaze in silence, eyes sharp enough to strip pretense to bone. The desert waited with him—old, patient, unforgiving of noise.

“That,” Yahmes said at last, his voice low as buried stone,

“is a patience I can trust.”