Lysa sat alone in the shadowed corner of a bar in the lower quarter of Velmire’s Reach, a place where men traded secrets more easily than their names, and where a gold coin could buy anything except honesty. Smoke from cheap reed tobacco hung heavy in the rafters. Rough voices murmured in the common room, rising and falling like distant surf against a black shore.

  Two untouched pints of ale waited before her, their warmth slipping away with each passing moment. The man she was meant to meet was late, too late for her patience. Her jaw tightened as she ground her teeth, a habit Torvil used to scold her for. She pushed that memory aside and kept her eyes on the door.

  It creaked open. A gust of winter followed, sharp as a knife. Snowflakes tumbled across the threshold before the door thudded shut again. A tall bald man stepped inside and stamped the frost from his boots. His eyes swept the room once, a quick hunter’s glance. Then he shook the snow from his heavy coat and made his way toward her.

  He dropped into the seat opposite her as if he owned it, dragged one of the pints toward himself, and drank with a greedy thirst that made Lysa’s skin crawl.

  She did not wait for politeness.

  “So…What news do you bring? Have you found any word of my brother?”

  The man set the ale down. His eyes were small and sharp, like beads of wet stone, and they fixed on her without blinking. A smile curled across his lips, thin and greedy.

  “That information was hard to come by,” he said. “If you want me to spill it, girl, you will need to sweeten the purse.”

  Heat surged through her. Her fingers twitched toward the dagger hidden beneath her cloak.

  “How dare you. We had a deal. You know well enough what I can do to you, Harren.”

  “I do,” Harren replied. “Which is why I came here instead of running. If you kill me, you learn nothing. I think this news is worth more to you than my blood.”

  Lysa stood half out of her seat before she caught herself. The bar watched in the corners of its eye, though no one turned their head. She forced herself down again, drawing a long breath.

  “Fine,” she said at last. “You will have what you demand. Now tell me.”

  Harren leaned forward, lowering his voice until she had to bend toward him to hear. A tremor touched her spine even before he spoke, as if the shadows in the tavern leaned in as well.

  “Your brother,” he murmured. “I know where he was last seen.”

  “He is alive,” Lysa almost cried out, the words bursting from her before she could tame them.

  “Alive and kicking,” Harren said. He wiped froth from his beard with the back of his hand. “Your brother got himself tangled with a pack of lowlifes in Velmara. They tried to steal that creature of his, thought the army would pay good coin for it. He took offense, as you might imagine, and killed every last one. Well, all but a fellow who played dead long enough to crawl away. Took an arrow through the chest, barely missed his heart. A few inches to the left and he would be a corpse and I would be poorer.”

  Lysa struck the table with her palm. The mugs jumped.

  “Concentrate. Are you sure you speak of my brother. My brother had no animal companion. He never held a bow, and he certainly never killed anyone. Are you trying to lead me on some wild chase…for coin? The story is thin.”

  Harren lifted his hands, palms open in a gesture that begged for peace.

  “It is not like that. I speak the truth. Who can say how he has changed. A man loses a father, grief shapes him into something new. And did you not tell me once you never thought he would abandon you, yet he did. You do not know the new him as well as you believe.”

  Her stare cut through his excuses, cold as the winter outside.

  “Fine… Let us say I believe you. What in the gods is he doing in Velmara?”

  “How would I know,” Harren replied, shrugging.

  Lysa’s eye twitched.

  He felt the weight of her silence settling around him. His voice hurried out.

  “They say he is heading north. Maybe he will come here. That is all I have.”

  She rose. From within her coat she drew a small leather purse and placed it on the table with deliberate calm.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  “Always a pleasure,” Harren said, though relief softened his tone.

  Lysa stepped out of the bar into a narrow alley choked with snow. Wind tugged at her cloak. She walked a few paces, then drew her dagger with a smooth practiced motion and spun, ready to strike.

  A hand caught her wrist.

  “You never give up do you, even when it puts you in danger.” a familiar voice said.

  She exhaled through her teeth.

  “Brann, you know well enough not to sneak behind me.”

  He released her hand and stepped beside her. His breath fogged in the cold.

  “So what did you learn this time…Anything real or just more tavern stories.”

  “I suppose we will find out soon enough.”

  Brann frowned. “What is that supposed to mean.”

  “Apparently he is traveling this way. And he seems to be quite the killer now.”

  “What?” Brann said, baffled, but Lysa was already striding down the alley, boots crunching in the snow.

  “Lysa, wait,” he called after her. “I need more details.”

  Their walk through Velmire’s Reach felt long, though Lysa pushed the pace until Brann had to lengthen his stride to match her. Determination tightened every step she took. Snow crunched beneath her boots as she climbed through the winding streets toward the high district, where lamps burned steady and the roofs carried clean white drifts untouched by the muck below.

  The mansion stood on a hill that overlooked the whole city, its tall windows glowing like watchful eyes. The Shroud had woven an elaborate tale for Dorian, painting him as an eccentric noble who spent his days wandering the kingdom in search of pleasure, women, and games of chance. With a reputation like that, no one questioned his late night disappearances. Aerin disliked the charade, more so because she served as a maid within the household, placed carefully so that no one seeking leverage over the wealthy lord would consider her worth noticing.

  Lysa did not pause at the door. She strode inside, her cloak shedding winter across the polished floor, and marched straight up the stairway toward Dorian’s office. Brann followed, scanning the halls for eyes at their backs.

  Lysa pushed the door open without knocking.

  “I have news. He was in Velmara. How is it your men knew nothing of this?”

  Dorian, seated behind a wide desk of dark carved wood, let out a long weary sigh.

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  “We knew. We only kept it from you until we had something clearer to tell.”

  She stepped forward, anger rising again:

  “What do you mean?”

  “I did not want to come to you with word that your brother had become a killer,” he said, rubbing his brow with tired fingers. “You have suffered enough. So we searched for context, for reason, anything that might explain what he did.”

  “And did you find anything?” she asked.

  “Nothing good…” His voice grew quiet. “It was a slaughter. Seventeen corpses, mostly men… some women and only one fool survived by playing dead.”

  He hesitated, and the room seemed to hold its breath.

  Lysa’s voice dropped. “Tell me every detail. I need to know.”

  Brann slipped into the room at that moment, having taken a longer route to ensure no one shadowed them. He closed the door softly and stayed near it, listening.

  Dorian continued, each word heavy.

  “Some of the bodies were drained of blood…all of it.”

  Lysa gasped, a sharp sound in the quiet room.

  “And there is more,” Dorian said. His eyes flicked toward Brann, then back to her.

  “People are whispering,” he said at last. “Not loudly, not where a wall might carry the sound…afraid even of their own tongues.” His gaze drifted to the floor, then rose again, troubled. “They say the blood was not merely taken. They say it was… consumed.”

  He faltered there, the word hanging between them like a blade suspended by a thread.

  “He consumed it?” Her voice trembled, more confusion than fear. “That makes no sense. Why would he...”

  “We do not know,” Dorian answered. “There are too few details to draw a straight conclusion. That is why I kept it from you. I thought more clarity might dull the blow.”

  Lysa stood very still, as if the snow from outside had settled over her shoulders. Brann watched her closely, concern shadowing his eyes. The silence in the room deepened, heavy with questions no one could yet answer.

  Dorian broke the silence at last:

  “Whispers say he is heading north, but the north is wide. He could be bound for this city, or he could turn toward any number of places.”

  “To Westmere…” Brann said at once.

  Dorian looked at him, then slowly nodded.

  “It is a strong possibility.” His gaze shifted to Lysa. “It was your home. It is where everything began to unravel, in Duskmire Forest. If vengeance drives him, that place would call the loudest.”

  Lysa pushed herself to her feet.

  “Then I am going there now.”

  “I will come with you,” Brann said.

  She shook her head.

  “No. You must remain here in case he comes to Velmire. Dorian needs you. We cannot abandon everything.”

  Brann frowned…

  “Listen to yourself. No word from him for months, and now you are ready to leave it all behind and chase a rumor. We do not even know he is going there.”

  Her voice sharpened.

  “What would you have me do? Nothing! Just let him continue killing.”

  Dorian raised a hand gently.

  “If I may… It would be dangerous for you to go to Westmere. From what you told me, your friend Kett is already under the watch of General Edran. If you arrive and begin asking questions, people will notice. They will remember you and your family. You could find yourself trapped.”

  He turned toward Brann.

  “You, on the other hand, were there only briefly. Time erases such footprints. Few have ties to you. You could pass through like a ghost.”

  Lysa drew a slow breath, her shoulders stiff.

  “I understand. It seems the two of you have already decided.” She met Brann’s eyes. “Very well… I will stay. You go to Westmere.”

  She hesitated, then added quietly:

  “If you find him, Brann, set him straight. And bring him back here.”

  “I promise” Brann said.

  She turned and left the room, the door slamming hard enough to rattle the shelves.

  Dorian watched it for a moment before speaking.

  “I cannot fault her. News like that would unseat anyone.”

  Brann ran a hand through his hair.

  “What in the gods is happening with him?”

  “We won’t know until you find him,” Dorian replied. “But there is something else. Something darker that I chose not to tell her.”

  Brann lifted an eyebrow.

  “What?”

  Dorian’s expression hardened, the easy mask of the eccentric noble slipping away.

  “I have heard rumors,” Dorian said quietly “Of a hidden military base located deep in the north at the edge of Duskmire.”

  Brann’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  “I know what you told me about the forest,” Dorian continued. “About what happened there. Torvil spoke of it as well. You were forced to turn back, to flee for your lives. But had you pushed a little farther northeast, you would have found it.”

  Brann leaned back slowly, the chair creaking beneath him.

  “It explains much,” Dorian went on. “Why General Edran himself came to Westmere after you left. He was not there to keep order. He was there to see if anything had leaked. And if it had, I have no doubt he would have put the entire town to the sword and flame and blame it on the druids.”

  Brann exhaled…

  “It was luck, back then, that we left when we did.”

  “Luck, or timing,” Dorian said.

  Silence followed as Brann turned the thought over in his mind. The pieces slid into place with unsettling ease. The pressure on Kett. The sudden presence of the general. The fear that had gripped Westmere without ever naming its cause…

  “At least tell me this,” Brann said at last. “Where does this information come from?”

  Dorian gave a thin smile, humorless…

  “That is the strangest part. No one knows. Some claim it was a drunken soldier who spoke too freely. Others whisper of a wealthy official boasting after too much wine. Stories change with every telling.”

  He leaned forward, voice lowering…

  “But one thing is certain. These rumors are spreading through the kingdom like wildfire.”

  Brann’s jaw tightened…

  “Someone wants them to spread.”

  “Yes,” Dorian agreed. “Someone is pouring oil onto the flame. They want unrest, division. A kingdom too busy turning on itself to see what moves in the dark”…

  Brann stared at the desk, at the carved patterns worn smooth by years of use.

  “And my brother is walking straight into the heart of it.”

  Dorian did not deny it…

  “That is why you must be careful in Westmere. You are not walking toward answers alone. You are walking into a game already in motion.”

  Outside, the wind pressed against the windows, carrying with it the distant howl of winter through the streets of Velmire’s Reach.

  Brann spread his hands slightly…

  “What would you have me do? Try to find this base, see if there is truth to these rumors. Or remain in Westmere, work with Kett, and wait in case Riven comes there.”

  Dorian studied him for a long moment before answering…

  “If you can, do both. We need the truth at the root of this. The people deserve to know what is being done in their name.”

  “And you,” Brann asked, “what will you do while I am gone?”

  “I will search for the source of these rumors,” Dorian replied. “And I will involve Lysa as well. She needs purpose, something to occupy her thoughts, rather than drowning in visions of what her brother might have become.”

  Brann nodded…

  “That is good.” He straightened. “Then I will leave at once. The road is long and winter makes it worse, but alone, with a strong horse, I can reach Westmere quickly.”

  Dorian rose from his chair.

  “Be careful, Brann. Do not step into something you cannot escape, as you did before.”

  A faint smile touched Brann’s mouth.

  “Do not worry. Even a fool learns his lesson, eventually.”

  He turned toward the door, resolve steadying his stride as the weight of what lay ahead settled on his shoulders.