By the time the Ashford family reached Rook’s Crossing, the sun was sitting high in a pale, overcast sky, casting long, watery shadows over the muddy earth.
The settlement was exactly as Kane remembered it from his days marching the border roads: a miserable, weathered collection of perhaps twelve leaning wooden houses clustered around a single, narrow stone-and-timber bridge. The bridge spanned a fast-moving, foam-tipped river that cut sharply through the eastern foothills. Bundles of drying herbs hung from the eaves of the modest homes, swaying gently in the biting wind. It was not a fortress, nor was it a city of great commerce. It was simply a place where tired travelers stopped to resupply before facing the brutal incline of the mountain passes.
For the Ashfords, it was a desperate lifeline.
Cassian and Kairo were running on fumes. The adrenaline of the Grave-Maw attack had burned out of their systems, leaving only the ache of their cracked seals behind. Kairo was dragging his left leg, his face pale and drawn, while Cassian’s eyes held a glassy, distant focus, his body fighting a severe, lingering migraine left behind by the stellar gravity he had held the night before.
“Sit here,” Elara commanded gently, guiding her sons toward a cluster of heavy, moss-covered boulders near the riverbank, just beneath the shadow of the bridge. “Keep out of the wind. I am going to change your bandages, Kairo.”
Kairo collapsed against the stone with a heavy sigh, not even possessing the energy to complain as Elara knelt beside him, unpacking her dwindling supply of green herbal paste. Cassian sat beside him, pulling his knees to his chest, trying to regulate his breathing through the pounding in his skull.
Kane did not sit. He unbuckled a small, heavy leather coin purse from his belt.
“Stay out of sight,” Kane told Elara, his voice a low, gravelly murmur designed not to carry over the rushing water of the river. “The villagers here are suspicious of strangers, and a handful of silver coins will make them talk if the Priest Hunters pass through. I am going to buy two horses from the stable master. We ride for the Monastery of Silent Stars within the hour.”
Elara nodded, her hands already busy treating Kairo’s leg. She looked up at her husband, her sharp, healer’s eyes catching the subtle tension in his jaw. “Hurry back, Kane. You look paler than they do.”
“Just tired,” Kane lied smoothly, offering her a faint, reassuring nod before turning away and walking up the muddy embankment toward the settlement’s modest stables.
Every step Kane took was a masterclass in deception. Beneath his heavy leather armor, his chest felt as if it had been packed with burning coals. The demonic infection awakened by the Grave-Maw’s death and the twins’ unsealing was spreading. The black, corrupted veins had crawled upward from the old scar on his lower ribs, reaching toward his heart like the roots of a poisoned tree.
But the physical pain was nothing compared to the psychological torture.
As Kane walked away from his family, the dark whispering in his mind grew louder, a vile, hissing static urging him to turn back. Draw the steel. The golden light is a threat. Cut it down before it grows.
Kane clamped down on the intrusion with every ounce of his will, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands until they nearly drew blood. He would not surrender his mind. He would not become the demon. He forced his legs to carry him to the stables, focusing entirely on the Nine Roots, anchoring his humanity to the simple, practical task of inspecting horses and counting silver.
The stable master was a stooped old man named Hobb, with one milky eye and hands like knotted rope. He took Kane's silver without counting it, which told Kane he had been paid to keep his mouth shut before.
"Two mountain horses," Hobb grunted, leading out a pair of shaggy bays. "Best I've got. Won't win any races, but they won't snap a leg on the passes either." He scratched the mare's neck and kept his good eye on the straw. "Busy week for strangers."
Kane's hand paused on the reins. "Is it."
"White robes came through three days back. Asking after a family. Man, woman, two boys. Twins." Hobb's good eye drifted to Kane's face, then away again. "Told them I hadn't seen any twins. Hadn't, then."
Three days. They are already three days ahead of us, Mara Venn had said. Kane's stomach turned cold.
"And after them," Hobb went on, as if he were talking about the weather, "a fella in a grey cloak. Old soldier, by the way he walked. Took a room for one night, paid double, never slept in the bed. Left before sunrise on foot, and left a good horse in my stall that he never came back for." He spat into the straw. "Strangest thing. Folk don't leave horses."
"Did he give a name?"
"Didn't give anything but coin." Hobb held out the reins. "You look like you're carrying a fever, friend. Whatever you're running from, I'd run faster."
Kane took the reins. "Thank you."
"Don't. I never saw you either."
Down by the river, Cassian sat silently, his blue eyes scanning the environment.
The Third Root: Awareness. The visible weapon is rarely the entire danger. Observe terrain, distance, exits, shadows, and changes in the environment.
Even exhausted, Cassian’s reincarnated instincts refused to turn off. He watched the flow of the river, mapping the slippery rocks that could be used to cross if the bridge fell. He watched the twelve houses above, noting which chimneys had smoke and which windows remained dark.
Then, his gaze drifted upward, settling on the heavy timber support beams of the bridge arching directly over their heads.
Cassian frowned. He leaned forward, his migraine momentarily forgotten. He squinted at the thickest, oldest wooden pillar anchored into the riverbank. There, carved deeply into the wood just above the water line, was a symbol. It was roughly the size of a man’s hand.
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“Mom,” Cassian whispered, pointing up at the timber. “Look at that.”
Elara tied off Kairo’s bandage and followed Cassian’s gaze. “It’s just a carving, Cassian. Probably left by river merchants or local kids.”
“No, it’s not,” Cassian said, his voice dropping into a register of analytical certainty. He stood up, his legs shaking slightly, and stepped closer to the wooden pillar. “Look at the edges of the cuts. The wood around it is dark and water-logged from years of flooding. But the inside of the carving is light brown. The splinters are still jagged.”
Kairo pushed himself up on his good leg, leaning against the boulder, his violet eyes catching the anomaly. “Cass is right. Someone carved that recently. Like… in the last day or two.”
Cassian traced his fingers lightly over the symbol without touching the wood. It was an incredibly precise mark: a long, vertical spear, snapped cleanly in half, with the two broken pieces resting parallel to one another.
Just as Cassian stepped back, the heavy crunch of boots sounded on the gravel. Kane descended the embankment, leading two sturdy, shaggy mountain horses by their reins. The beasts looked temperamental, but they had thick legs built for the steep eastern passes.
“Mount up,” Kane ordered, keeping his voice low. “We need to clear the settlement before the locals start asking too many questions.”
“Dad,” Cassian said, turning around and pointing to the pillar. “Look at this. Does this mean anything to you?”
Kane secured the reins to a heavy iron ring driven into a boulder. He stepped toward the wooden pillar, expecting to see a local bandit mark or a trader’s guild sign.
The moment Kane’s eyes locked onto the Broken Spear, his entire body froze.
The color completely drained from his face. His broad shoulders tightened, and his hand instinctively dropped toward the hilt of his dark steel sword. For a fleeting second, through the twin bond, Cassian and Kairo felt a suffocating wave of shock and grief radiate from their father—an emotion so profound it made both boys hold their breath.
“Kane?” Elara asked, stepping forward, recognizing the shift in her husband’s demeanor. “What is it? What does that mean?”
Kane reached out, his calloused fingers trembling slightly as he touched the fresh cuts in the wood. He pressed his thumb against the jagged edge of the carving. A small, dry wood shaving fell away. Cassian had been right. The mark was fresh. It had been carved within the last forty-eight hours.
“It’s impossible,” Kane whispered, his voice barely audible over the rushing river.
“Dad, what is it?” Kairo pressed, limping closer.
Kane slowly pulled his hand away from the wood. His eyes were wide, haunted by ghosts he had buried over a decade ago. “It is a private seal. A military mark used for hidden supply routes, emergency retreat signals, and orders that could not be intercepted by standard couriers.”
“Whose seal?” Cassian asked, his analytical mind already trying to piece the puzzle together.
“Commander Rellan,” Kane answered, the name tasting like ash on his tongue.
Elara gasped softly, her hands flying to her mouth. She knew the stories. Every person living near the border knew the name of the man who had commanded the suicidal defense of Red Hollow.
“I don’t understand,” Cassian said, furrowing his brow. “You told us about Red Hollow. You told us Commander Rellan ordered fifty men to hold the bridge, and only eight survived. You told us he died.”
“He did die,” Kane said, his voice hardening, though the certainty he once possessed was beginning to crack. “I was there, Cassian. I saw the battle lines collapse. I saw him take three lances to the chest to buy us time to pull the wounded out of the mud. I closed his eyes myself.”
“Then who carved his seal under a bridge in Rook’s Crossing yesterday?” Kairo asked, looking up at the fresh wood.
Kane stared at the Broken Spear. The symbol was flawless. It contained a tiny, deliberate imperfection on the left side of the spearhead—a hidden counter-forgery measure that only Rellan and his most trusted lieutenants knew about. Whoever had carved this had known Rellan’s deepest military secrets.
Kane had buried that man. He had closed his eyes. And yet here was his hand, fresh in the wood.
An old soldier in a grey cloak, Hobb had said. Paid double. Never slept. Never came back for his horse.
But this mark pointed straight east. It pointed directly toward the hidden roads leading to the city of Highmere.
Before Kane could process what the seal meant, a sound shattered the quiet murmur of the river.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
It was the bronze warning bell situated in the center of Rook’s Crossing. But unlike the Grave-Maw attack, the bell was ringing with a clear, sharp, frantic tone. This was a human alarm.
Kane spun around, his hand gripping his sword hilt, his veteran instincts instantly shoving the mystery of Commander Rellan to the back of his mind. He looked up the muddy embankment toward the leaning wooden houses of the settlement.
Villagers were screaming, scattering into the woods or slamming their heavy wooden doors shut, throwing iron deadbolts into place.
From the western road—the exact road the Ashford family had just traveled—the rhythmic, thunderous pounding of armored hooves shook the muddy earth.
“Fuck. They found us,” Kane snarled, his eyes narrowing at the speed of the approaching threat.
At the crest of the hill, overlooking the narrow stone-and-timber bridge of Rook’s Crossing, five riders appeared. They wore pristine white plate armor and heavy white cloaks that snapped in the wind. These were not ordinary soldiers. They were Priest Hunter Vanguard outriders—elite, fast-moving scouts designed to pin down fleeing heretics until the main Inquisition force arrived.
Leading the pack were two huge, unnatural tracking hounds. The beasts were devoid of hair, their skin a sickly, pale gray, with heavy silver collars bolted around their muscular necks. They did not bark. They did not growl. They moved in lethal silence, their black eyes locking onto the residual temporal energy radiating from Cassian and Kairo.
“Mount up!” Kane roared, drawing his dark steel sword with a sharp, ringing hiss.
“There’s no time!” Elara shouted over the approaching thunder of hooves, shoving Cassian and Kairo toward the narrow bridge. “They’re too fast! The horses can’t outrun them on this mud!”
She was right. The Vanguard outriders were already charging down the embankment, their silver-forged longswords drawn, the silent tracking hounds leaping effortlessly over the muddy terrain.
Kane realized their tactical nightmare in a fraction of a second. If they tried to run across the open foothills, the hounds would tear the boys apart before they made it half a mile. There was only one defensible position.
The bridge.
It was less than ten feet wide, flanked by rushing, freezing water on both sides. A perfect choke point. The Vanguard riders could not surround them; they would have to funnel their attack straight into Kane’s blade.
“Get across the bridge! Run for the tree line on the other side!” Kane yelled, physically shoving Cassian and Kairo onto the slick stone planks of the crossing. “Do not stop running!”
“Dad, no!” Kairo yelled, fighting against Elara’s grip as she tried to pull him forward. “You can’t hold five of them alone!”
“Move, Kairo!” Kane bellowed, stepping onto the dead center of the bridge. He planted his boots directly into the First Root: Balance, dropping his center of gravity, turning his broad frame into an immovable wall of leather and steel.
The dark veins on his chest burned with excruciating heat. The demonic hunger whispered in his ears, begging to be let loose, promising him the strength to slaughter the white-robed zealots charging toward him. Kane ignored the corruption, relying entirely on the human discipline that had kept him alive for thirty years.
He raised his sword, pointing the dark steel directly at the charging Vanguard.
The two silent tracking hounds hit the bridge first, their pale muscles coiling as they leapt into the air, aiming straight for Kane’s throat. Behind them, the five Priest Hunters spurred their warhorses forward, their silver swords gleaming with anti-magic containment runes.
Cassian and Kairo stood paralyzed at the far end of the bridge, their twin bond flaring with terror. They were exhausted, battered, and bleeding.
But they were still his sons. And they refused to let their father face the Inquisition alone.