Report to the King and the Council. His words, the words of a frontier knight from a barely known house, were to help prepare a kingdom for a war it had all but forgotten how to fight.

  "The ripples from Alderholt will spread. We must gather the strength of Argren, all its disparate parts. A Full Great Council, at the earliest opportunity." Falazar had declared, his portentuous eyes boring into Tyrell's.

  And so it was decreed. Summons were dispatched by the swiftest riders and the fastest ravens to the farthest corners of the realm, calling the great nobles, the banner-lords and even envoys from the more cooperative dwarven clans to Alkaer. The Council would convene with a breathtakingly short notice, barely enough time for those in the remotest fiefdoms to answer.

  Until then, Ronigren was on leave, though rest remained a distant luxury. His mind replayed the audience with Tyrell and Falazar. He’d felt like a raw recruit again, stammering out his report, acutely aware of his rough frontier manners and the mud still clinging to his boots on those polished floors. Corporal Gregan had accompanied the Alderholt survivors' escort part of the way before being tasked to join Ronigren in the capital. The grizzled corporal, though sticking out like a spade in a flower pot amidst the formality of Alkaer, was a familiar face in a sea of strangers.

  "Sir Varden," Gregan greeted him with a rough clap on the shoulder, his face creased with concern. "Heard you saw the High Marshal himself. And the old spook, Falazar. How’d it go? You look like you’ve wrestled a snow bear and lost."

  Ronigren managed a weary smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "As well as can be expected, Gregan. They listened. Though I confess, standing before men like that… It's a different kind of fight. One wrong word in that room is worse than a missed parry. At least now the whole kingdom will hear what we saw." He still couldn't quite believe that he was the one who had to deliver such news.

  They spent the intervening day navigating the labyrinthine streets of Alkaer. The sheer press of people, the clamor of market cries, the aroma of exotic spices mingling with the stench of refuse in the narrower alleys, the opulent displays in merchant stalls juxtaposed with the grim poverty in the city's shadowed corners – it was a world unto itself. His wary gait out of sync with the rapid, intricate rhythms of city folks, his hand going to his sword hilt in the crowded thoroughfares, a habit that earned him more than a few disdainful glances. And to think that for a brief few years, he had called this place home.

  Gregan seemed to take it more in stride, his sharp eyes missing little, though he grumbled good-naturedly about the price of ale "Five coppers for this swill? Highway robbery!" and the peacocking of the city guard "More polish on their breastplates than sense in their heads, I reckon they’d run a mile I say boo." His at times inane chatter was a welcome distraction from the woes yet to come.

  In 'The Gilded Griffin,' an always crowded tavern known for its strong cider and even stronger rumors, Ronigren had an encounter that stirred long faded memories. A voice, smooth and cultured, called his name. "Ronigren? By the forgotten gods, is that you under all that grime?"

  He turned to see Beryl of House Lanza – a distant cousin, his mother’s cousin’s son. They had played together as boys in the rolling hills of their ancestral lands, their families both minor nobility, though Beryl’s branch had always been more ambitious, more closely attuned to the intricate dance of courtly power. Beryl was impeccably dressed in silks the color of wine, a silver signet ring flashing on his finger as he twirled an expensive-looking black chain.

  He was surrounded by a coterie of similarly attired young nobles, their conversation a light, dismissive patter about an upcoming tourney and the latest scandal involving a duchess and a stableboy.

  Stolen story; please report.

  "Beryl," Ronigren acknowledged, a faint awkwardness coloring his tone. With his soft hands and carefully cultivated ennui, Beryl was a creature from another reality. He felt a familiar pang – not quite envy, but a sharp awareness of the different paths their lives, once so similar, had taken.

  "We heard whispers," Beryl said, his eyes, shrewd and assessing despite their languid expression, taking in Ronigren’s worn leathers. "Something about… goblins? Up north? Terribly dull business, I should imagine. Though Father seems rather vexed by it. Says it's distracting from the truly important matter of the new trade agreements with Verranza."

  If Beryl was jesting, it wasn’t amusing at all. "It was more than 'dull business,' cousin. People died."

  Beryl waved a dismissive hand, though an unreadable expression crossed his face for a moment. "Yes, yes, tragic, of course. But the frontiers are always… untidy. One can’t expect Alkaer’s civility to extend to every hovel in the wilderness." He offered Ronigren a goblet of wine. "Still, it's good to see you, Ron. You must tell me all about your adventures. Perhaps after the Great Council has dispensed with this tedious northern affair. We’re planning a hawking party next week. You should join us. Remind yourself what civilized life is like."

  The memories of their earlier life receded like a torch falling down in a dark well. He made his polite excuses, the taste of expensive wine suddenly bitter on his tongue.

  Later, as evening began to settle and the gas lamps were being lit along the main thoroughfares, he left Gregan to drink the tavern dry and lingered by the imposing stone walls of the Royal Scribes' Academy, where he had spent a few happy years attempting to master subjects far removed from the martial skills he was training for, and another familiar figure caught his eye.

  She was selling small, brightly colored trinkets and charms from a tray; carved animals, polished stones, ribbons of dubious magical potency. Her hair, the color of spun copper, was artfully arranged, and though her dress was simple it was well-maintained. Her sharp and intelligent green eyes scanned the passing crowd.

  "Elmyra?" Ronigren asked, a note of disbelief in his voice.

  The woman turned, and a wide, genuine smile lit up her face, chasing away the practiced merchant’s keenness. She had always been so quick, so light, so… effortless. "Ronigren! By the Lady’s Grace, I almost didn’t recognize you! You’ve grown." Her smile was as warm and unpretentious as he remembered, especially after having to endure Beryl's polished condescension.

  Elmyra had been a fixture outside the Academy gates years ago, a girl barely older than himself selling sweetmeats and ink sticks to the students. They’d shared jokes, scraps of their lunches, traded stories. She had a fire within back then, and he had delighted in her observations and wit. Now, a small, discreetly tied red ribbon at her wrist hinted at a life of a courtesan. Her hands, as she gestured, moved with a subtle grace, a hint of the sleight of hand that was as much a part of her current profession as her witty conversation.

  "And you, Elmyra," Ronigren said, returning her smile, a genuine warmth spreading through him, "you look… well."

  "Surviving," she said, her eyes sparkling with a resilient humor. "Thriving, even, in my own way. Alkaer is a city of many paths, Ron. We all find the one that fits our feet, or the one we’re pushed onto." She glanced at his grim expression, the weariness in his eyes. "You look like you carry the weight of the world, old friend. Those goblins everyone’s whispering about… you were there, weren’t you?"

  He nodded. "I was."

  Elmyra’s smile softened with empathy, and she gave a gentle squeeze to his arm. "It’s a hard road, the one soldiers walk. But it’s good to see a friendly face." Her gaze shed its veil, truer now as it locked into his. "If you need an ear to bend, Ron, or just a quiet place away from all this officialdom, and from those stiff-necked nobles who wouldn't know a real problem if it bit them on their silken arses, you know where to find women of my calling. Some of us are better listeners than any confessor. And sometimes, a friendly voice is better armor than steel."

  “I don’t doubt it. You always knew the right thing to say. And the right way to say it.” He flashed her a genuine smile, a rare expression on him these days.

  Despite the grim circumstances that had brought him to Alkaer, and the anxieties that gnawed at him, seeing Elmyra, witnessing her resilience and strength, was a small, unexpected comfort. Shards of a past life could perhaps be placed anew in the mosaic of his future. The capital, for all its overwhelming strangeness, still held pockets of familiar humanity.