Dragon Touched

They rode at a steady pace now, hooves muted by grass and packed earth as the road stretched out ahead of them. The farmstead was long out of sight, swallowed by the dark.

“I gave them a convenient lie for when they’re questioned,” Al said with a shrug. “If the Crown has magic that can peel truth from fiction, then it had to be true. East, then south. Something simple they could say without hesitation.”

Elowen stared at him. Shock crossed her face, followed by something heavier. “You did that to protect them.”

“Yes.”

“But what of us?” she pressed. “We’re a target.”

“We’re a moving target,” Al replied. “Best kind. Hard to pin down. They won’t know where to aim until we strike.”

That did not comfort her as much as he probably intended, but she nodded anyway.

They reached a crossroads, the stone marker half-buried and worn smooth by years of travel. Al slowed his horse and lifted his gaze to the sky.

The night above them was crowded with stars. More than he was used to. No haze. No glow from cities. Just cold, sharp light scattered across black.

“We go north,” he said, turning his horse onto the narrower track.

Catrin reined in beside him. “How do you know this is north.”

Al raised an arm and pointed upward. “See those stars there?” He traced the shape in the air. “That cluster. We call it the Big Dipper. The end of it points to the North Star. If you ride toward that, you’re heading north.”

Rhyosyn leaned back in her saddle, following the line of his finger. A faint smile touched her lips. “We don’t call it that.”

Al glanced at her. “What do you call it.”

“The Hearth-Ladle,” she said. “The gods are said to have placed it in the sky to remind us that even the heavens must be tended.” She shifted her hand slightly. “And that smaller pattern beside it, the one that mirrors it.”

“The Little Dipper,” Al said automatically.

Rhyosyn shook her head. “We call that one the Child’s Cup. It follows the Hearth-Ladle, never straying far.”

Catrin considered the stars again, seeing them anew. “And the fixed star.”

“The Nail of the Sky,” Rhyosyn said. “Everything turns around it.”

Al nodded slowly. Different names. Same truth.

“North it is,” he said.

They rode on beneath unfamiliar constellations, guided by a sky that did not care who hunted whom, or how many blood debts had been named below it.

“We’ll find a place to stop soon,” Al said.

Catrin shot him a sharp look. “Is that a good idea.”

“If you run tired, you make mistakes,” Al replied. “And I’ve got the feeling our enemy is bigger than we are.” He glanced back along the dark road, then forward again. “Right now our assets are me, you three—”

“What about me?” Elowen asked.

Al did not hesitate. “Four.”

That single word settled something.

Catrin exhaled slowly. “Stopping means fire.”

“No,” Al said. “Stopping means quiet. Shelter. We eat cold. No light. No noise.”

Rhyosyn nodded. “There are folds in the land north of here. Old shepherd hollows. Easy to miss if you don’t know where to look.”

“Good,” Al said. “We take one. Two hours. No more.”

“And if they catch us resting?” Elowen asked.

“They won’t,” Al replied. “Because they’ll be chasing the trail we gave them.”

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He shifted in the saddle, scanning the dark as if already mapping ground no one else could see. “Rest is not weakness,” he added. “It’s preparation.”

No one argued.

They rode on, slower now, deliberate, each breath measured. Above them, the Nail of the Sky held steady, uncaring and constant, while below it four riders moved like ghosts through a world that had decided they should not exist.