Chapter 71: A Thorn in the Ash
The eastern wind howled down Caer Durell’s spine like a curse trying to find a mouth. By dawn, snow lashed the lower ramparts, the blue fire guttered to its edges, and every torch along the west-facing corridor burned shorter than it should.
Leon rode before the sun crested the peaks.
No banner. No retinue. Just two riders at his flank—old Gerran, who’d once scouted the Hinterwalls blindfolded, and Naeve, the youngest march-blood still standing after the Vale campaign. Elena had picked them herself. Quiet. Fast. Loyal enough to bleed without needing to be asked.
They took the southern pass first, then veered northwest before the Watch could mark them. The road to Halin’s spine was empty—but not dead. Too many footprints in snow that had fallen only hours before. Hoofprints. Heavy tread.
"Someone’s circling," Gerran muttered. "They want us to know we’re followed."
Leon didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed on the ridge ahead. A thin column of smoke rose behind it—too pale to be a fire, too sharp to be a mistake.
Naeve spotted it next. "Signal fire?"
"No," Leon said. "Old seer powder. Thorn ash."
Naeve blinked. "That’s a royal code."
"It was."
The path narrowed where the rocks turned red. Old volcanic stone, charred and stubborn, broke through the snow like burnt fingers. The cliffs funneled them toward a weathered arch of stone—once a guardway, now half-collapsed. They passed under it, and for a breath, the wind stopped.