Late Winter, 2178

  Northern Territories - Continental Authority Border

  Five days. That’s how long it had taken for Regal’s hands to stop shaking.

  Not from the cold. That passed.

  Not from the blood loss. That would come again.

  From her—the memory of her burning with fever, light as kindling in his arms, her breath a shallow whisper of resistance in a dead world.

  He didn’t know if she’d made it. Didn’t stay to find out.

  Some part of him refused to ask.

  Dawn spilled through the warped cabin windows, pale and brittle. He gathered what little remained: fresh bandages. A clean shirt. The broken axe, wrapped in oilcloth. And the metal case he hadn’t dared open—not yet.

  Behind him, Marta clattered dishes with too much force, a sound that echoed with blame. Her husband, Joren, stood like a post in the doorway, arms folded, saying nothing. "That poor child. We're so sorry."

  Something in her tone made Regal pause. "She'll recover."

  Marta and Joren exchanged a look heavy with meaning.

  "What?" Regal demanded.

  Joren shook his head. "Not our place to say. But whatever she endured at the Ossuary..." He trailed off, jaw working. "There are just some things that can’t be undone."

  Regal's hand moved to the knife at his belt. "Explain."

  "No," Marta cut in. "We've said more than we should. We will pray for her. Now it's time you were gone."

  The silence stretched taut between them.

  "Who's watching her?" Regal asked finally, grinding his teeth as tears formed in his eyes.

  "Our daughter… Mira. She knows what to do." Marta's voice softened slightly. "We'll keep her safe… and comfortable. Until…," her voice dropped, shaking her head.

  "You have our word," Joren finished.

  Regal looked at them — friends of his father, strong and dependable, but older now, worn to the limit of what they could still give. They helped Regal prepare for the Ossuary raid, tended his wounds and gave him as much as they could spare for the journey ahead. Now he saw a couple who looked at him with pity and fear. Grieving for things that he was hopeful would not come to be.

  He couldn’t stay to watch hope fade. Not again.

  He nodded once, shouldered his pack, and stepped into the bitter morning without looking back.

  The tavern was one of many nameless establishments that dotted the border towns – dingy, smoke-filled, and populated by those looking to forget or be forgotten. Regal fell into both categories.

  Three drinks in, the numbness he sought remained elusive. The Ossuary, Joren's cryptic words, the weight of what he'd done and what remained undone – it all circled like carrion birds, waiting.

  A fourth drink. A fifth.

  Still, clarity refused to dull. Only the pain in his side lessened, the knife wound still far from healed.

  "You're not from around here."

  The voice belonged to a heavyset man with a Union garrison tattoo on his forearm – weathered, faded, but unmistakable. Not active military. Probably discharged. Dangerous nonetheless.

  Regal stared into his glass. "Just passing through."

  "Funny time of year to be traveling." The man leaned closer, alcohol heavy on his breath. "Unless you're running from something."

  Two more men drifted over, sensing entertainment. Former soldiers by their bearing, though they wore civilian clothes now.

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  "I'm not looking for trouble," Regal said, the lie bitter on his tongue. In truth, trouble was exactly what he wanted – something simple, something physical, something to drive out the thoughts that wouldn't quiet.

  The first man grinned. "Bit late for that. You've got that Freehold look about you."

  Regal could have walked away. Should have. Instead, he finished his drink and set the glass down with deliberate care.

  "And you've got that Union stink," he said quietly.

  What followed was brief and vicious. Regal landed the first blow – a sharp jab to the leader's throat that sent him reeling. The second man caught a chair to the ribs.

  But Regal was wounded, drunk, and outnumbered. The third man caught him from behind, arm locked around his neck, while the leader recovered and drove a fist into Regal's still-healing side.

  White-hot pain exploded through him. His vision tunneled.

  The next few minutes blurred – fists and boots, the crack of his head against the bar, the distant shouting of the tavern keeper.

  Then cold air as they dragged him outside. A final kick sent him tumbling down an embankment into a roadside ditch – a narrow channel of half-frozen runoff and mud.

  "Welcome to Union territory, Freehold trash," one of them called, laughing as they walked away.

  Regal lay face-down in the icy water, too dazed to move. Pain radiated through his body in steady waves. His reopened side wound bled freely, turning the water pink around him.

  The cold seeped through his clothes, numbing his skin but not the deeper ache that had nothing to do with physical wounds.

  He wasn't sure how long he remained there – minutes or hours as twilight deepened around him. Long enough for the water to seep into his boots. Long enough for his fingers to lose feeling.

  When he finally forced himself to move, it was because something dug into his ribs from inside his jacket. The metal case from the Ossuary.

  With clumsy, half-frozen fingers, he reached for it, nearly dropping it into the muddy water. The case gleamed dully in the fading light, its seamless surface unmarred despite everything.

  Regal turned it over in his hands, searching again for some mechanism to open it. In his frustration, he struck it against a stone protruding from the ditch.

  To his surprise, a thin seam appeared along one edge. Another blow widened it enough to wedge his thumbnail in.

  The case split open with a soft hiss.

  Inside lay a glass vial containing perhaps three ounces of liquid – a murky brownish-green substance with suspended particles that seemed to shift and swirl of their own accord. It reminded him of nothing so much as pond water, yet something about it held his gaze.

  A distant light from the town caught the vial at an odd angle, and for a moment, Regal could have sworn the liquid glowed faintly from within.

  He carefully extracted the vial, holding it up against the darkening sky. There were no markings, no labels to indicate its purpose or contents. Just murky fluid with something suspended inside—something that seemed to respond to his touch, churning slightly whenever his fingers shifted.

  Whatever this was, the Union had thought it worth keeping locked away in the Ossuary. That alone made it valuable.

  Groaning, Regal pulled himself from the ditch. His clothes hung heavy with freezing water and mud. Blood had soaked through his shirt, the bandages beneath torn open. One eye was swelling shut, and his ribs protested with each breath.

  But he was alive. And now, he had a purpose.

  The boarding house sat on the edge of town – cheap, anonymous, and blessedly warm. The proprietor barely glanced at Regal's battered state, just took his money and handed over a key.

  In the small room, he peeled off his sodden clothes, revealing a body mapped with recent wounds and older scars. The knife gash in his side had reopened, raw and angry. A fresh cut on his thigh from the fall had begun to scab over.

  The hot water of the shower stung every abrasion, turning pink as it circled the drain. Regal stood under the spray until the heat began to fade, then methodically cleaned and bandaged his wounds.

  Only when that was done did he return to the vial.

  He set it on the room's small table, watching how the contents moved. Not like water or oil, but something between – viscous yet responsive, as if alive in some primitive way.

  Regal had seen many strange things during his preparations for the Ossuary raid, heard whispers of technologies and substances the Union kept hidden. This, though... this felt different. Important.

  Whatever it was, he needed answers.

  Morning found him studying maps by weak sunlight. Braelocke Hollow lay five days south on foot – a gray smudge on the border between Union and Freehold territories. A place where rules bent and broke, where information flowed freely for those with means to pay.

  If anyone could identify the mysterious substance, they'd be found there.

  Regal packed his few belongings, securing the vial carefully in an inner pocket. His body ached with each movement, but purpose drove him forward. The girl was safe. His wounds would heal. And somewhere ahead lay answers, and after that, vengeance.

  He stepped onto the road as the sun cleared the horizon, casting long shadows across the frozen ground. Five days to Braelocke Hollow. Five days closer to Shori Ashford.

  One step. Then another.

  Half a mile back, among the skeletal trees where the frost never melted, a figure stood motionless. Cloaked in brown, face lost in shadow — only the faintest flicker of gold reflected in his eyes when the light struck just right.

  He watched Regal Eldain depart, the old fury coiled tight in his stride. Watched him walk the road that would burn cities and break men.

  The figure said nothing. Only turned, disappearing into the woods with a grace that left no sound behind.

  Some roads must be walked alone.

  At least at first.