RAYLA

  THEY RODE TOGETHER AGAIN like the crew they once were. Only this time it was Yanick leading the way.

  Koleth rode beside him, two dogs off the leash, young and reckless, laughing like they hadn’t watched the world burn. Eloen and Varn followed, then Varn again—no, Thirra, his new cave-wife, legs wrapped tight around him like ivy. Rayla didn’t trust her. Despite being with them for years now, she didn’t trust any of them, really. Except maybe Brask.

  Old Brask, with joints that cracked louder than the firewood and eyes that had seen too much. He should’ve stayed in the dwarven hold with Grambel. Warm. Safe. Instead he dragged his bones out here, chasing the same ghost they all were.

  Monster. Nemeth.

  Rayla brought up the rear. That used to be Big Mike’s place. Watcher in the shadows. Protector. But he was gone. Not gone. He left her.

  He betrayed you.

  She adjusted her coat, cracked leather tightening across her shoulders like old scabs. The wind cut sideways across the valley path, tasting like snow and ash. Her canteen clinked softly at her hip, the weight of it oddly comforting. She unscrewed the cap, took a long pull, and let the vodka burn a path through her throat.

  “Damn,” she whispered.

  The bottle whispered back.

  You deserved better. He should’ve stayed.

  Horse grunted beneath her, tired, just like her. She leaned forward, stroked its neck, eyes sharp ahead. She was always watching. Watching their backs, their boots, the way Eloen reached for his blade even in his sleep. Watching Yanick—especially him.

  He was different. Harder. More dangerous. More like her. Something had changed him and it were not the injuries suffered, it was not the broken arm. And definitely was not that girl. For sure. Love doesn’t carve a man like that. Love softens. Warps the bones, makes a fool out of muscle. This boy got sharper.

  And what happens when you lose love?

  She spat on the ground and took another drink.

  She knew what it did to the spine, the voice, the will. It didn’t make you cold. Not like that. It made you limp. Slower. Quieter. Sad.

  Yanick wasn’t sad. He was something else.

  There was steel in him now. Old metal. Rusted at the edges, but still sharp enough to draw blood. She hadn’t figured it out yet—what exactly twisted him like that. But she would.

  ***

  “I DON’T BELIEVE YOU”, Rayla said, voice harsh.

  They were seated around a low table carved from dark mountain stone, cold as the silence between them.

  The dwarven cities in the legends echoed faintly with the rhythm of hammers and steam pipes, small folk rushing through narrow brass-lined corridors, smoke rising in plumes from chimneys carved straight into the mountain rock. Gold veins glittering like veins of fire. A hum of industry, of purpose. Of war forging. That was the tale, anyway.

  But this was the real city. And here, it was still.

  No clang of iron. No roar of engines. Just the slow drip of condensation from above and the whisper of coal dying in the brazier.

  “Why would I lie?” Yanick asked.

  “Good question. Why would you?” Rayla leaned back, boots heavy on the stone floor. “Maybe because you were fucking his daughter and turned soft. Maybe she told you some bedtime story about peace and you swallowed it like a good little boy.”

  Yanick’s jaw tensed.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “I killed her brother, didn’t I?”

  Rayla snorted.

  “For you,” he added, voice low, almost bitter. “I was loyal. Always. And Amaia? I don’t know if you saw that, but she stabbed me and pushed me off a cliff.”

  He held up his right arm, still stiff, the bones under the skin misshapen like poorly forged iron.

  “See this? My damn hand still hasn’t healed. Months. You think I made that up too?”

  Rayla didn’t answer. She watched him like a hawk. Too still, too sober for her usual state. She took a slow drink, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

  “Yes, Yanick,” she said finally. “But you’ve still failed to explain what exactly you’ve been doing all this time. Your story doesn’t add up. Too many missing pieces. Too much smoke.”

  Grambel, who had been silent this whole time, stood from his stone seat with a grunt. His beard was singed at the ends from the forge, and his eyes held that weight only smiths and fathers carried.

  “The boy was always truthful,” he said. He didn’t look at Rayla, only Yanick. “He sacrificed a lot for the cause.”

  Rayla turned toward him, eyes narrow.

  “You trust too easily.”

  “No,” Grambel said, “I trust slowly. But once the metal is tested, I don’t throw it back in the fire just to see if it melts again.

  Yanick leaned forward.

  “I’m not the same man who left with Amaia. But I haven’t changed sides. I’ve seen what they’re planning. What Nemeth is planning. And it’s worse than any of us thought.”

  “Words,” Rayla said. “That’s all I’ve been hearing. And I’m tired of words.”

  Grambel stepped between them, voice gravel heavy but calm.

  “Then let’s let the truth reveal itself on the road. The gods will show what’s inside the boy, one way or another.”

  Rayla didn’t respond. Just took another drink and looked away.

  But in her head, the voice whispered: He’s lying.

  No. He believes it. And that’s worse.

  *

  Rayla found Grambel in the forge chamber, though the forge hadn’t burned in weeks, months or maybe longer. The air still held the ghost of soot. He was oiling the joints of a rusted pickaxe, small hands working slow and steady like always.

  “What did that messenger bring?” she asked, arms crossed, flask half-empty.

  Grambel didn’t look up. Just nodded few times, but that was not the answer.

  “From the east. Another city. Dwarves there were mining for the Faithful. Minerals transported to Lunareth. For their god.” His voice curled around the word like it tasted foul. “There was a mutiny. Workers turned. Killed them all. Set fire to one of their own shafts. Now the whole mountain’s bleeding iron.”

  Rayla leaned on the wall, head tilted.

  “And?”

  “They’re coming. Whole army. Not sure who they’re chasing. Could be they come here.”

  “For what?” she asked. “Thought they had all they wanted.”

  Grambel set the axe down and shrugged.

  “Are they with the Black Moon?” Rayla asked. “Or still pretending their god walks above?”

  Grambel snorted.

  “Black Moon, Half Moon, Golden Flame—doesn’t matter. They were killing dwarves long before Nemeth flew his first banner. Pushed us up here, into the snow and stone. Bloody kobolds, they called us. Useful for digging and dying. Not much else.”

  “And the Faithful?”

  “They just kept using us. Same whip, different hands.” He wiped his fingers on a cloth. “We built their holy roads. Dug their sacred fuel. Got less than rats for it.”

  Rayla’s jaw flexed.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “If our elders call for war…” Grambel shrugged. “We won’t have much choice.”

  Rayla took a pull from her flask, wiped her mouth.

  “I think they’ll be smarter than that.”

  Grambel looked at her then, the flame of the forge reflected in his tired eyes.

  “Hope you’re right, girl. But dwarves remember. And we remember long.”

  “And who are you going to support in this war?”

  “I don’t know yet, girl,” Grambel said. “It’s not my choice to make. I just hope we don’t end up on opposite sides.”

  ***

  THEY CLIMBED IN SILENCE. Horses couldn’t follow and had to be set free.

  The air thinned, bit into the lungs. Rocks slipped underfoot. Wind howled like it carried the memory of screams.

  Rayla hated mountains. Not for the climb — her body could take pain, carried worse — but for the way the silence pressed. The way the sky opened too wide. Made her feel like a mark in the scope of something she couldn’t shoot back at.

  They passed through jagged passes and narrow cuts between crumbling cliffs, the old caravan trailing behind her like ghosts she couldn’t shake. Yanick led again. His stride was all edge now. He didn’t even look back.

  This place… You know it.

  Koleth muttered something under his breath behind her. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a curse. Eloen spit on the path. Varn and Thirra walked hand in hand like this helped the make the climb easier.Brask coughed. Old lungs. Stubborn legs. He should’ve stayed below.

  Just as Yanick described it. The plateau carved between two sloped ridges, flat like a wound. In the centre a perfect disk of scorched rock. Around it, remnants of the old walls, jagged metal bones jutting out of the ground like someone tried to build a ship and gave up halfway. Nothing about it looked natural.

  Rayla froze.

  The others spread around her, breath rising in clouds. But she stood still. Something in her chest clawed. Cold fingers on her ribs.

  She couldn’t articulate this feeling. She knew he was there, Yanick said so. Nemeth. He’s been hiding there. Wounded old wolf.

  No. That wasn’t it. It was something else.

  A low whirr hummed from somewhere underfoot. Then movement. People. Half a dozen figures stepped out from the shadows along the cliffs. Old, worn clothes. Calm stares. Not armed, not panicked.

  They looked like they’d been waiting.

  From behind them, a woman, a crane assisting her in the walk.

  You know her name. You know her.

  Same stance. Same coat, only more fatigued. Both the clothes and the woman. Face thinner than Rayla remembered, wrinkled. But those eyes—calculating, distant—hadn’t changed. She didn’t look surprised to see them. Didn’t rush. She just walked straight toward them.

  And stopped in front of Yanick, who led the all the way..

  “Thank you, Yanick,” Ellie said. Her voice wasn’t loud. But it carried. “For bringing my daughter home.”