The hills softened as they rode east, the jagged ridges giving way to rolling pasture and smoke-colored mist. Fences appeared first — splintered posts and wire-twine clinging to the land like forgotten promises — then the faint scent of hearth-smoke carried on the wind.
“More settled lands,” Catrin announced, though she said it like a warning rather than relief. “We’ve reached the marches of Atherai’s heart.”
Al adjusted in the saddle, taking in the distant glimmer of rooftops. “Atherai,” he repeated, testing the name. “That’s what you call this place?”
Rhyosyn nodded. “The Far Land. The last continent our ancestors claimed. Two hundred and fifty years since the first banners were planted, give or take.”
“Only two-fifty?” Al frowned. “That’s young. You stopped expanding?”
“We stopped surviving,” Pryce corrected. “Too few births, too many deaths. Even the crown can’t breed soldiers out of air.”
Evan spat into the dust. “And too many of the old tribes still hold the wilds. The goblins have their canyons, the kobolds their tunnels, and worse things hide under both. The first settlers called them monsters. The tribes call us invaders.”
Al looked out across the fields, where the wind bent long grass in waves. “Sounds familiar,” he murmured.
Rhyosyn gave him a curious look. “Your people fought such tribes as well?”
“Not the same,” Al said. “But the stories rhyme.”
They rode on in thoughtful silence, the rhythm of hooves blending with the faraway clang of a blacksmith’s hammer. Every mile seemed to pull them closer to something that looked like civilization — roads laid in gravel, wagon tracks, the faint shimmer of mana-lamps along the horizon — yet Al couldn’t shake the feeling they were still on the edge of a frontier that wanted them gone.
Behind him, Pryce and Rhyosyn spoke in low tones about the history he’d just learned.
“He asked when the expansion stopped,” Rhyosyn murmured. “Not why. He’s thinking like a soldier.”
Pryce’s lips curved in a thin smile. “Then perhaps he’ll see what our generals refuse to: Atherai isn’t waiting to be conquered. It’s waiting to be understood.”
The young Marine had seen far better roads in Afghanistan. Hell, he’d seen better roads bombed flat in Afghanistan. Still, he had to remind himself those roads had been built for cars and convoys, not hooves.
Here, the road was barely more than a pair of ruts carved through red-brown soil, the center line choked with wild grass. Yet as Al looked closer, something about it nagged at him. The wheel base was familiar — close to what a compact car might’ve used. The spacing wasn’t quite even, but it was too deliberate to be random.
He crouched for a moment, fingers brushing one of the grooves. “Iron rims or wood,” he murmured. “You’ve got carts coming through here, but not often enough to keep the track clean.”
The women exchanged looks at his strange, matter-of-fact tone.
“Clearly,” he added, standing again, “some of your people get along with the natives — the goblins, kobolds, whoever else — given how deep those cultists were dug in. Can’t run that far inland without somebody’s help.”
The words dropped into silence. Rhyosyn’s brow furrowed, Pryce’s mouth drew tight, and even Catrin’s grip on her reins stiffened. None of them seemed to have considered the possibility.
“That… has not been recorded,” Catrin said at last.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
“Doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened,” Al replied. He nodded toward the distant haze where faint rooftops broke the horizon. “What city is that anyway?”
“The borderward holding of Caelvarn,” Pryce said after a pause. “One of the fort towns. The last civilized waystation before the Green Divide.”
Al nodded, committing the name to memory. “Caelvarn,” he repeated. “Got a ring to it. Guess I’ll find out what civilization looks like around here.”
The walls were old — locally quarried limestone, from what Al could tell. The blocks were rough-cut but fitted tight, seams sealed with the kind of care that came from generations of maintenance, not pride of design. What the place lacked in grandeur it made up for in sheer presence.
They rose at least fifty feet by his estimation, maybe more — high enough to make him wonder how many sieges it had taken before someone decided taller was safer. The surface was pitted, worn by wind and rain, the pale stone darkened in streaks where runoff had carved lazy rivers down its face.
A broad gate stood ahead, barred with iron and flanked by towers crowned in banners that barely moved in the still air. The sound of hooves echoed off the stone as they approached, drawing curious stares from the guards posted above.
“So what happens now?” Al asked, glancing toward the women.
The ladies exchanged uncertain looks. Pryce’s chin lifted, but it was an act of habit rather than confidence. Catrin’s fingers drummed on her pommel; Rhyosyn’s gaze shifted between the gate and the soldiers watching them from the parapet.
“I suppose,” Catrin said finally, “we report our success — or what passes for it.”
“And what about me?”
That question drew silence. Pryce’s lips pressed thin. Rhyosyn’s eyes softened a fraction, but she said nothing.
Evan cleared her throat. “Protocol says we deliver all findings to the commandant. That would include… him.”
“‘Findings,’ huh?” Al muttered. “Glad to know I rank just above evidence and just below a horse.”
Idris shot him a quick, sympathetic glance. “It isn’t personal, Marine. You’re… complicated.”
Al looked up at the looming gate and the shadows moving behind the battlements. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s one way to put it.”
The gate creaked as it began to rise, the sound of chains rattling through the air. The fort beyond came into view — narrow streets of stone and timber, banners fluttering from towers, the faint smell of coal smoke and tanned leather. Civilization, he supposed.
But the wary looks from the guards and the uncertain silence from his companions made it feel a lot more like another kind of cage.
The gate captain was already waiting by the time they passed beneath the portcullis. She stood in a polished breastplate and dark crimson cloak, the mark of the Triumvirate embroidered in silver thread over her heart.
Her eyes swept over the group, pausing only briefly on each of the noblewomen — the recognition automatic, the deference practiced. But when her gaze landed on Al, her composure faltered. Just for a heartbeat.
A man.
The word whispered through the guard line like wind through tall grass. Helmets tilted, voices dropped to murmurs. A few of the younger soldiers stared outright before their captain’s sharp bark scattered them back to their duties.
“Lady Arwen,” the captain said crisply, addressing Catrin first. “Your arrival was not expected for another fortnight.”
“Our mission concluded sooner than planned,” Catrin replied evenly.
“I see.” The captain’s gaze flicked toward Al again, lingering longer this time. “And this…?”
“Our charge,” Pryce cut in smoothly before Catrin could answer. “By decree of the crown and under the seal of the Triumvirate.”
The captain blinked, uncertain whether that was a lie, a joke, or both. But whatever doubts she had, she swallowed them with a soldier’s discipline. “As you say, my lady. The Commandant will wish to see you immediately.”
She gestured to one of her subordinates — a broad-shouldered sergeant with the fresh-scrubbed look of someone barely out of cadet camp. “Take the mounts to the stables. See they’re fed and watered. And send word to the Commandant that the daughters of Arwen, Pryce, and Vaughn have returned from Aelthar’s Maw.”
The sergeant saluted and hurried off, calling for stable hands.
As they dismounted, Al felt eyes still on him — curious, cautious, a few wide with something between fascination and disbelief. A few whispered to one another when they thought he couldn’t hear.
Evan leaned closer to him as she handed off her reins. “You’ll have to forgive them,” she murmured. “For most of these girls, you’re the first man they’ve ever seen up close.”
Al gave her a look halfway between discomfort and dry humor. “Guess I should start charging admission.”
Idris snorted a laugh that she tried — and failed — to stifle.
“Don’t,” Evan warned, smiling despite herself. “They’d pay.”
The gate captain cleared her throat sharply. “This way, my ladies. The Commandant’s hall awaits.”
As they walked deeper into the fortress, Al noticed how the noise shifted — from the distant hammering of the outer yard to the muted clang of boots on stone. The further they went, the quieter the stares became, but the more he felt them.
He wasn’t sure whether he was being escorted to an office, a debriefing — or a holding cell.