"Oh, yes, yes! A scholar, of sorts," the owlkin said, his eyes widening with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. "Though, I seem to be chronically disorganized. And my spectacles! Have you seen them? They're quite round, with... well, never mind. Petirorin! The city of laws! Built from dragon bones! Utterly fascinating!" He shivered with a mixture of excitement and mild anxiety. "All those ancient texts, all those legal precedents, all housed within the dragon's... ribcage! Or is it the spine? I believe I read somewhere it was the spine. Or perhaps the... talons? No, no, that wouldn't make sense." He tapped his beak thoughtfully.
"The bones, all of them, are used," Steven said, his tone flat. "Every law, every treaty, every agreement, etched into the very structure of the city. All the governing bodies, the law-keepers, the scribes who record every legal nuance—they're all headed there, just like us. If you need to know the law of any nation, Petirorin is where you'll find it. Every nation has a consulate in that city."
"Yes, yes, of course! But the dragon!" the owlkin said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his large amber eyes wide. "Do you think it's still... present? Its essence, its... its legal opinion, perhaps?"
Steven's gaze drifted towards the distant treeline, where the faint outline of mountains could just barely be seen on a clear day. "Some say its spirit lingers, some say it's just a grand monument. No one knows for sure. But it's a place of immense power. Best to keep your wits about you when you're there."
"Wits? Oh, dear," the owlkin said, his eyes widening further. "I seem to have misplaced mine somewhere between the last clearing and... well, never mind. Thank you, good sir! You've been most helpful! I must go and... and find my spectacles. And perhaps a map. Or a cheese sandwich. Yes, a cheese sandwich would be excellent." He fluttered his wings, nearly losing his balance, and then launched himself into the air, his journal fluttering open, pages scattering in the breeze, his attention already flitting towards the distant mountains. Steven watched him go, a faint, almost imperceptible shake of his head before turning back to the rising sun.
The rest of the day unfolded with the familiar rhythm of the caravan's journey. Sun climbed, then dipped, painting the vast expanse of the sky in hues of deepening orange. Nott and Vidar completed their duties, helping with deliveries and maintaining their patrols, the subtle movements and gentle hum of the caravan a comforting constant. But as the sun began its final descent, casting long, distorted shadows across the forest trail they were now traversing, Nott felt a prickle of unease. The air, usually crisp and clear in the twilight, didn't smell right – a faint, almost metallic tang, unusual for the wilderness.
Vidar, ever attuned to his sister's unspoken cues, felt the shift in her demeanor. His own senses, already heightened from days on the open road, sharpened further. His ears, typically sifting through the countless sounds of the caravan and the forest, now picked up subtle, discordant movements in the trees: the snapping of twigs, the rustle of leaves. But these weren't the erratic sounds of wild creatures; the steps were distinct, bipedal.
He found Steven near an ornate, cushioned wagon, helping one of the blue-hued Fae attendants. The Fae woman within, her voice a melodious whine, was complaining about the attendant's pace. "Truly, such sluggishness," she purred, her tone laced with impatience. The attendant, head bowed, murmured apologies, calling her "Mistress Olivia."
Vidar approached Steven, Nott a silent, watchful shadow at his side. "Steven," Vidar began, keeping his voice low, "something feels off. The woods... it's too quiet, and then there are sounds." He gestured vaguely towards the tree line.
Steven, who had been listening intently to the forest even while assisting the attendant, grunted, his amber eyes scanning the deepening shadows. "Aye. Noticed it myself. The birds went silent a while back. And there's a scent on the wind that ain't from any beastkin, not a natural one anyway." He glanced from Vidar to Nott, whose tail had subtly bristled, her eyes wide with a quiet, primal apprehension. "Your sister picks up on it too, I see."
Nott nodded, her hands signing quickly: The air smells wrong. And footsteps. Two legs.
"She says the air smells wrong, and she hears bipedal footsteps," Vidar translated, his own concern deepening.
Steven's jaw tightened. "Smart girl. It's bandits. And they're closer than they should be." He pushed off the wagon wheel, his movements suddenly coiled and alert. "They're circling. Expect them to hit soon after dark. Get to your assigned positions. Stay sharp. Don't be late this time, it might be your last." With a curt nod, Steven moved away, melting into the growing twilight, already coordinating the other guardians. Vidar and Nott exchanged a grim look. The quiet unease had now solidified into a chilling certainty.