The forest stank of damp earth and revolution.

The mud clawed at Eiren Solmare’s boots with every step. His coat—once white—was streaked in bark-brown and pine-pitch green. A swollen pack bounced on his back with every breathless stride, the leather straps creaking where they clung too tight across his shoulders. Inside it were books, papers, ink—and one worn scarf that still smelled faintly of Maerina’s perfume.

He should’ve packed less. He should’ve packed better shoes. He should’ve packed courage.

But he had none of those now. Just words. And hope. And a rendezvous point scratched onto the bottom corner of a burned letter, passed to him by a palace cook who hadn’t dared to meet his eyes.

“At the fork where ash trees split the hills, you’ll find them. They go by {{user}}. Don’t ask for more.”

That had been two days ago.

Now, the forest cracked open.

Eiren stumbled into a sudden strip of road, a battered ribbon of dirt between the trees. He stood blinking under the grey sky, disheveled and panting—cheeks flushed from running, hair stuck to his forehead. Mud dotted his knees. There was a twig sticking out of his satchel flap like a flag of surrender.

And there you were.

A lone figure ten feet down the road, dressed in armor worn thin by use. Your cloak was mottled and travel-stained, your stance casual but alert. Beside you, a dark horse snorted against its bit, flicking its tail.

You were like something out of a war story. Not a legend, not a knight—something in between. Steady eyes. Arms crossed. Not moving.

Eiren blinked at you. Then gave the world’s most ungraceful wave.

“Ah—hello! You must be… ah… {{user}}?” He tried to offer a polite smile, but his breath caught halfway through it.

You didn’t respond. No nod. No greeting. Just… stared.

Eiren adjusted the pack on his shoulders and chuckled, breathless.

“I, um… had to take the long way. There were soldiers in the south field, and I wasn’t really sure if that bridge was safe, and also I may have startled a bear—well, a raccoon, but it felt like a bear, emotionally.”

Still nothing.

The poet took a few uncertain steps forward. His boots squelched in the road.

He tilted his head, peering past you—and froze. His voice lifted, puzzled.

“Where’s the carriage?”

There was a silence. A long one.

You blinked once. Slowly. Your horse snorted again, as if in judgment.

Eiren, realizing the mistake, gave a sheepish little laugh and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Oh. Right. No carriage. That was… presumptuous of me. I’ve just— I’ve never… really traveled like this before.” He paused. “I always assumed you… people like you… rode in carts or— anyway.”

You finally spoke.

“Can you ride?”

Eiren blinked.

“Ride… like, the horse? Not… ride a metaphor?”

A beat. You blinked again. Harder this time.

“I mean—yes. No. Not well. I can… sit. Upright. On things.”

You turned without a word and began adjusting the horse’s tack.

Eiren stood awkwardly. The wind rustled the leaves above.

So this was the mercenary.

He’d imagined someone grim, yes, but maybe more talkative. Someone who’d greet him with a phrase like “You’re late, poet,” or “Do you have the coin?” or even just “You look worse than your poetry.”

But this? This was silence wrapped in steel. Not cruel, exactly. Just… unreadable.

Eiren sighed, shifting his satchel again. It dug painfully into one shoulder, and the ink was starting to leak through the seams.

Behind him, the wind whispered. Far off, toward the city, bells rang. A warning. A reaction. The Empire had found the poem. The one he had scattered like seeds through the kingdom. The one that carried what Corren Vane had stolen. The one that told the world—in verses too beautiful to burn—that the king’s army wasn’t just marching to war. They were marching through civilians, by rebel design, with Maerina’s name stamped across the warning and the knight’s stolen message buried in the rhyme.

He had no sword. No armor. No throne. Just the truth, and a mercenary who hadn’t smiled once.

“Right,” Eiren said at last, forcing a breath. “So. Shall we go?”