“I won’t be gone long,” he promised.
“Go, Alaric,” she replied gently.
And with that, he left.
***
Derran Ashby was one of the youngest men to serve under Alaric’s father’s trade group, just a year younger than Alaric. But unlike many in their circle, Derran preferred the outskirts of society to the polished halls of nobility. Alaric couldn’t blame him. Navigating Caltheris’ rigid hierarchy must have been difficult without a family name to offer protection, but Derran likely never had to endure arranged courtships or the constant pressure of noble expectations. Seeing him stationed out here in the eastern lands of Centaro wasn’t a surprise. If anything, he looked like he belonged in Cindermoor.
The pair had never been particularly close, but their paths had crossed often during Alaric’s travels to nearby outposts. Derran had always struck him as sharp, someone with a dry sense of humor and the rare ability to know exactly when to speak and when to stay silent.
He greeted Alaric with a firm handshake. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Alaric clasped his hand. “Thought I’d stop by, make sure things are running smoothly.” His voice lowered slightly. “I’d like to keep my presence quiet, if you don’t mind.”
Derran nodded once—a man who knew how to keep things discreet. Alaric did not doubt that both his father and Lord Duskwood had expected he’d pass through this trading post eventually. But what unsettled him was the silence—why hadn’t there been word of Lord Duskwood tracking them? Surely, by now, he had men searching for Evelyne.
“No delays?” Alaric asked.
Derran scratched his jaw, eyes narrowing in thought. “A few things here and there, but nothing out of the ordinary. One shipment from the Southern Isles came in a day late, and there have been some reports of missing cargo, but nothing serious.”
Alaric gave a slow nod. That was still far better than the unrest near Mokkvyrn Forest. And the fact that goods from the Southern Isles were arriving was promising. If the delay happened further north near the northeastern stretch, the south and the seas would likely still be untouched by the Noskari.
His gaze drifted, landing on a worker a few feet away. Alaric wasn’t familiar with most of the men stationed at this outpost besides Derran and a few of his father’s trusted men, yet this one stood out. Something about him held Alaric’s attention.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, carrying himself with an unsettling stillness. His dark tunic looked far too heavy for the day’s warmth, the sleeves pushed up just enough to expose tanned forearms. Even Alaric was sweating beneath the sun, his linen shirt clinging to his back, but the man appeared untouched by the heat. As the stranger shifted to lift a crate, something caught Alaric’s eye. A scar. Not just any scar, but adeep mark burned into his skin, raised like it had been branded. Its shape struck a chord of recognition. It was disturbingly familiar.
“Something wrong?”
Derran’s voice pulled him back. Alaric masked his unease. “Is he new?” He tilted his head toward the man.
“Yeah. Arrived yesterday. Quiet type. Doesn’t leave that spot much.”
Something gnawed at the back of Alaric’s mind, an instinct he couldn’t shake urging him to look closer. Without hesitation, he crossed the distance to the worker. The man seemed to sense his approach and turned, offering a faint smile.
Alaric extended a hand. “Alaric Stonebridge.”
The man took it, his grip unexpectedly strong, far stronger than it should have been. Alaric withdrew his hand a moment later, a frown forming as a quiet tension stirred beneath his thoughts. Strangely, the man didn’t give his name.
Forcing an easy smile, Alaric tried again. “They’ve got you on unloading duty? That’s no fun in this heat.”
“I’m fine.” The response was clipped and dismissive. The man turned back toward the gravel road, staring into the distance as if the conversation had ended. Quiet type, indeed.
Alaric glanced toward Derran with a look that said,Alright then. Derran merely shrugged, clearly just as aware of the awkwardness.
“I’ll be in town until tomorrow,” Alaric told Derran before leaving. “You know where to find me if there’s anything worth reporting.”
Derran gave him a nod. “Good seeing you, Alaric.”
But Alaric’s mind wasn’t on the farewell. It was still on the scar.
***
Evelyne stood before the mirror in the quiet room she shared with Heidara, studying the face that stared back at her. It no longer belonged to the girl who had once stumbled into the forest, aching, uncertain, and afraid. That girl was gone. In her place stood someone stronger, steadier. A woman shaped by survival. A warrior in her own right.
The slit skirt she wore shifted with each step, soft leather brushing one thigh while the longer panel draped low on the other side, offering a teasing glimpse of newly sun-kissed skin. This time, Evelyne didn’t shy away from the cropped leathers. The dark brown top hugged her frame, wrapping neatly around her ribs and ending just above her navel. It highlighted the strength she’d earned, the faint lines of her stomach visible beneath the candlelight. For once, she reveled in the sight.
“You look perfect,” Heidara said, stepping up behind her.
