The names hung in the air long after Kael had spoken them.

  Orin. Rhea. Tarin. Joran. Lila.

  The path seemed to grow quiet, as if even the birds were listening. Kael’s breath came heavy, his palms damp against his sides. He had spoken them aloud, and now they were real.

  Daren’s stick pressed into the mud, steady. His eyes narrowed, searching Kael’s face as though he might pull the meaning straight from him. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

  Finally, Daren broke the silence. “Orin…” His voice was slow, touched with something Kael could not read. “Yes. I know him. Or I did, once.”

  Kael’s head lifted quickly. “You know him? Truly?”

  “I do,” Daren said with a firm nod. His eyes grew distant, as if he were staring not at the muddy path before them but at some memory far behind. “Orin was no noble, no knight, but he was strong in a way many lords never are. His hands were hard from the forge, his back straight even when others bent. He spoke little, yet when he did, men listened. Not because of fine words, but because they trusted him.”

  Kael swallowed, his chest stirring with something that almost felt like hope. “What was he to this hall?”

  Daren shifted his weight, leaning on the stick. “The hall’s fire never died while Orin tended it. He worked the forge at the edge of the yard. Horses wore his shoes, soldiers bore his blades, farmers carried his plows. He did not just build with iron—he built with his word. If Orin said he would do something, it was done.”

  Kael’s thoughts raced. Bren’s forge had made him feel small, clumsy, foolish. But this—this was the kind of man he needed. A man who could shape more than iron. A man who could shape trust.

  “Where is he now?” Kael asked quickly.

  “That, I cannot say,” Daren admitted. His voice was steady, though regret softened its edge. “When the hall was left to ruin, many scattered. Some sought work in the low towns, others joined passing bands. Orin stayed as long as he could. I remember the day he left. He did not shout, he did not curse—he only laid his hammer down on the anvil and walked away. I have not seen him since.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Kael frowned. “But he could still be close?”

  “Perhaps,” Daren said. “Or perhaps gone far. Men like Orin are sought after wherever there is need of strong hands and steady work. A man like him leaves a mark. If he yet lives, there will be whispers of him somewhere.”

  Kael nodded, gripping the thought tight like a rope. If he lives, he can be found.

  “And the others?” he asked. “Rhea, Tarin, Joran, Lila?”

  At that, Daren’s face stilled. He shook his head slowly. “Those names mean nothing to me. They are strangers to my ears. If they belonged to this hall, it was in ways I did not see. Or else they came after I was gone from the court. I cannot place them, Kael.”

  The words hit like stones. Kael had hoped for more—for a flicker of recognition, a thread to follow. But there was nothing. Only Orin, and the rest left shadowed.

  “They matter,” Kael said, his voice low but firm. “Even if you don’t know them. Even if no one else remembers. They matter.”

  Daren studied him, his eyes dark beneath the low sky. “Then tell me why. Why these names, out of all the names in the ledgers? Why call for them, when there are others we know still live nearby—others who might return if asked?”

  Kael’s throat tightened. For a moment he said nothing. His mind turned back to the forge, to Bren’s voice sharp with doubt, to the whispers of villagers calling him boy, not heir. But that wasn’t the reason he needed. Not here. Not now.

  He dug deeper. He thought of the ledgers filled with names, long lists of people who had once stood with this house. He thought of the broken stalls, the garden choked with weeds, the roof sagging above them. He thought of the council’s cold words. One month. No more. If he failed, the house would be stripped from him forever.

  When he spoke, his voice was steady. “Because they are tied to what we lost. Because they are tied to what this hall could be again. I can’t explain it with proof or pages, but I know I need them. Orin. Rhea. Tarin. Joran. Lila. Without them, I cannot carry this weight.”

  The silence stretched. Daren’s gaze did not waver. He leaned harder on his stick, the wood pressing into the mud.

  “You speak with fire,” the old man said at last, “but fire burns out quickly if not fed. Pride is no fuel. Shame is no fuel. If this is only to prove Bren wrong, or to hush the villagers’ whispers, then you will not last the month.” His tone sharpened, but not with anger—only truth. “And the hall will crumble all the same.”

  Kael’s jaw tightened, but he did not look away. “It isn’t just that. I want to show them, yes—but more than that, I want to build what they will return to. This hall cannot rise on me alone. It needs more. And I believe those names carry that more.”

  For the first time, Daren’s face softened. The corners of his mouth twitched, almost into a smile, but not quite.

  “Very well,” he said slowly. “Then let us begin. I can help you seek Orin. That much I can promise. But the others…” He shook his head again. “The others may be beyond me. You would need more than my eyes and my stick to find them. Messengers. Riders. And time.”

  “Then we’ll use the time we have,” Kael answered quickly.

  “A month,” Daren reminded him, his voice low and sharp. “That is all the council has given. One month to prove you can hold this house. If you waste it chasing ghosts, the crest will be stripped from your hands before you even see one of those faces.”

  The words stung, but Kael stood firm. “Then I’ll take that risk.”

  Daren stared at him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. “So be it.”

  They walked on. The path bent upward toward the hall. Its roof sagged under the weight of years, its walls rough with moss and cracks. Yet it still stood. Waiting.

  Behind Kael, the names seemed to echo in the cool air.

  Orin. Rhea. Tarin. Joran. Lila.

  One month to find them—or fall.