The Journey, Book 3: Chapter 3 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 4: Banished.
Althor was angrier than anyone had ever seen him. He stormed from the farmlands back toward the mountains, boots grinding furrows in the earth, his cloak whipping behind him like a shadow made of flame.
Genevieve quickened her pace until she was beside him, skirts brushing the stone, breath visible in the cold mountain air. “You cannot meet fire with fire, Althor,” she said. “You know what happened the last time our house sought vengeance without thought.”
He rounded on her, eyes wild and glinting like embers under his brow. “And what would you have me do, Genevieve? Sit idle while they trespass again? While they touch what’s ours?”
Her hand caught his arm — not a queen’s command, but a wife’s plea. “I would have you be wiser than they expect. The Garricksons thrive on chaos. Every time one of them drags you into anger, their ghosts win another battle.”
Althor’s jaw clenched. He looked away toward the peaks, their tips wreathed in mist. “You speak as if I am still that boy in the forge,” he muttered, voice low. “As if I haven’t learned restraint.”
“You’ve learned it,” she said softly, “but anger still knows your name.”
Donal shifted awkwardly nearby but said nothing; even he knew better than to step between them when the queen’s tone turned like that — quiet, cutting, true.
After a long silence, Althor exhaled hard, the air whistling between his teeth. “If I let this pass, they’ll think me weak.”
Genevieve’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then show them strength in patience. Let them wonder what you’re planning instead of showing them your rage.”
That was when Donal finally spoke, voice steady but cautious. “Her Majesty the Queen is right. This needs to be dealt with carefully. Your family’s history with the Garricksons is well known.”
Althor’s head snapped toward him — and then came that thunderous Dwarvish curse that split the mountain air before Tarasque’s approach broke the silence.
The echo of Althor’s curse still trembled through the cavern when Tarasque appeared at the mouth of the passage. The torchlight caught the embroidery on her cloak — a quiet reminder of the dragon with whom she shared her bond. Her presence alone seemed to cool the air.
“King Althor,” she said, her voice calm but commanding. “Elqi has reassured me she is safe. She’ll remain in the farmlands until this is settled. But if you truly wish to find who’s behind this — and why — I may be able to help.”
Althor turned slowly, still seething. “You may be able to help?” he repeated. “You don’t know the weight of our history, Tarasque. You don’t know how deep the Garricksons’ treachery runs.”
“I know enough,” she replied, unfazed. “But I also stand outside your old grudges. That makes me useful. There are things people will tell me that they’d never say to their king. And dragons,” she added quietly, “have ways of learning what even whispers fear to speak aloud.”
Genevieve stepped forward then — the firelight tracing the fine braids in her dark hair. “She speaks truth, my love,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “Tarasque is honoured among our kin. The miners trust her. The forgemasters respect her counsel. She could reach places your crown cannot.”
Donal nodded. “If anyone can pry secrets from the tunnels, it’s her. No one lies easily to a woman bonded to a dragon.”
Althor’s glare softened, though his anger still burned beneath the surface. “You’d risk yourself for this?”
Tarasque’s eyes flickered — something sharp, almost amused. “You call it risk. I call it purpose. Someone has stirred trouble in your lands, and I intend to know who — and why. Elqi’s safety depends on it, as does your peace.”
The king’s hand clenched into a fist. He looked between his queen, his friend, and the dragon-bonded outsider who now offered her aid. The mountain wind sighed through the stone, as if urging him toward reason.
At last, Althor exhaled. “Very well. If the dwarves revere you as they say, then let that reverence open doors I cannot. But heed me, Tarasque — if this is a trap, if any harm comes to her or mine, I will not be stayed by friendship or honour.”
Tarasque inclined her head, her tone a whisper of iron. “Then I will make sure it never comes to that, Your Majesty.”
The chamber fell quiet again, filled only by the faint hum of the forge-fires below — the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
The wind had barely settled when Genevieve stepped closer to Tarasque, her voice steady and persuasive. “If you’re to uncover who’s behind this, you’ll need someone who understands our laws, our protocols. Not just the mines and tunnels, but the customs, the limits of what can and cannot be done.”
Althor’s scowl softened — just slightly — as he said, “She is right. I will not allow my guest to be endangered by kin from a misunderstanding, by mine honour. You will have guidance. And I insist it.”
Tarquase’s sharp gaze met his, her pride flickering in the torchlight. “I can handle Dwarves. I don’t need—”
Donal stepped forward before the conversation could spiral. “With respect, Lady Tara, you may know people and lands, but the Dwarves’ tunnels are a labyrinth. Laws and traditions are as important as passageways themselves. Ignoring them could get you turned away—or worse. You need someone who knows the rules.”
Tara’s eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a line, but after a long moment she gave a small nod. “Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll take your scribe, if it keeps me from getting trapped in bureaucracy—or a mine collapse.”
Althor’s frown cracked into something resembling a grin. “Good. Then let me introduce you to Borin.”
A Dwarf emerged from the shadows, carrying a bundle of scrolls neatly tied with leather cords. His round spectacles reflected the torchlight, and his beard was threaded with silver. “Borin, at your service,” he said with a slight bow. “I was the one who translated the ancient laws from Old Dwarvish to the Common Dwarvish we all speak now. Every nuance, every precedent, I know it as well as I know the mines themselves.”
Tara tilted her head, studying him. “So, you are the one who turns rules into… words that even a dragon-bonded outsider might follow?”
Borin gave a small chuckle. “I prefer to think of it as ensuring you do not step where you should not, or speak where you ought to remain silent. The tunnels are not forgiving, and neither are our customs.”
Genevieve smiled faintly, resting a hand on Althor’s arm. “You’ll find he is thorough, patient, and indispensable. And he is… well, less likely to curse you in Dwarvish than the king, at least.”
Tarquase allowed herself a wry smirk. “Then let’s hope his patience matches mine. Lead the way, Borin.”
Borin’s eyes twinkled. “Very well, Lady Tarasque. Follow closely, and do not speak out of turn. The tunnels listen more than you think.”
Althor watched them with a mix of pride and lingering suspicion. “Remember,” he said, voice low but firm, “our people are watching. Do not give them reason to doubt your respect for the laws—or for me.”
Tara inclined her head once, a silent acknowledgement of the warning. Then, with Borin at her side, she stepped toward the shadows of the endless tunnels, the faint hiss of dragon-bonded power brushing against her skin like a promise and a warning all at once.
She inclined her head. “Yes. Take me to the forges first. If there are answers to be found, they’ll start where the metal breathes.”
They descended through the tunnels, Borin leading the way with the easy gait of one born beneath stone. The air thickened with heat and the rhythmic thunder of hammers. The forges glowed ahead — a sea of molten light and labour, sparks dancing like fireflies caught in smoke.
Borin gestured quietly. “The forges are where tongues loosen, but only for those who earn respect. Speak wisely, and they may speak freely.”
Tarasque nodded, scanning the chamber. Workers moved in practised unison; each clang of hammer against steel was part of an unending song. Near the back, a thick-armed forgemaster shaped a chain link with meticulous precision, his hammer striking in a rhythm that spoke of decades of skill.
She approached and watched him work in silence until the pause between strikes. “That’s fine work,” she said. “Chain rings that clean don’t come from strength alone.”
The forgemaster grunted without looking up. “Strength helps.”
“May I watch?”
He gave her a side-eye glance — an outsider in a foreign cloak. “You may, though it won’t be thrilling unless you like monotony.”
Tara smiled faintly. “Repetition reveals mastery. Could you show me?”
Borin’s brows rose, but he gave her a subtle nod. The forgemaster hesitated, then shrugged. “As you like.”
He picked up a glowing ring from the coals and demonstrated three clean blows: one to shape, one to curve, one to seal. When he finished, Tarasque studied the pattern, then lifted a new rod herself.
The smith’s mouth twitched in amusement — until her first strike. Her rhythm was awkward at first, but she adjusted, finding the pulse of the metal. By the third ring her blows were sure, deliberate, guided more by instinct than practice. When she quenched the link, it hissed steam and gleamed almost perfect.
The forgemaster examined it, brow furrowed. “Not bad,” he said grudgingly. “Where’d you learn patience like that?”
“From a dragon,” she answered simply. “They’re terrible teachers, but excellent examples.”
The smith barked a laugh. A few others nearby chuckled, and the atmosphere softened. “You’ve got a decent arm, outsider. What brings you down here?”
“Questions,” Tarasque said, setting the hammer aside. “I’m trying to learn who’s been moving things through the tunnels that shouldn’t be moved — and why. The farmlands are uneasy.”
The forgemaster’s expression darkened. “You might be chasing ghosts. Still… there’s been talk. Strangers hauling crates through the side shafts at night. Not from any guild I know.”
“Who oversees those tunnels?” she asked quietly.
He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Not me. But I can tell you who does. And if you’re wise, you’ll visit when the fires burn low. Some truths hate the sound of hammers.”
Borin’s quill hovered over his parchment, eyes glinting. “That sounds worth noting.”
The forgemaster shot him a look. “No writing until I’ve spoken plain. Meet me by the slag pits when the night’s quiet. Bring no guards — and no king’s eyes.”
Tarasque nodded once. “Understood.”
As she turned away, Borin murmured, “You handled that well.”
She smiled, faintly but with satisfaction. “Dwarves respect craft, not crowns. I only gave them something worth respecting.”
The forges quieted as the night deepened, their glow sinking into the stone like dying embers. The rhythmic clang of hammers faded, replaced by the slow hiss of cooling metal and the murmur of low conversation. Tarasque moved through the tunnels with Borin at her side, the air still hot but heavy now, as if the mountain itself was holding its breath.
The slag pits lay beyond the main chambers — wide, black basins where molten refuse was poured and left to cool into glassy stone. The heat shimmered faintly, giving the place an uneasy stillness.
The forgemaster was already there, his broad figure outlined by the faint orange of the slag pools. He looked up as they approached, and his voice was roughened by both smoke and secrecy.
“You came,” he said simply.
Tara stepped closer, the light catching the faint silver thread at her temple — a mark of her dragon bond. “You said you had more to tell.”
“Aye.” He glanced around the empty tunnels, then lowered his tone. “It started small. A few crates here and there, materials that didn’t match any of the guild orders. Then the counts started slipping — a missing chain, a few steel bars, nothing worth trouble.”
Borin frowned slightly, making a note in his mind, not on parchment. The forgemaster continued, voice taut. “But last week, I checked the ledgers myself. We’re missing more than iron or chain stock. Entire batches of arrowheads and shafts have vanished from the lower stores.”
Tarasque’s brow knit. “How many?”
“Enough to arm a small company,” the forgemaster said. “They’re not the sort of thing miners misplace, and no one reported the orders. Someone’s been moving them out quietly, marking the logs as waste or scrap.”
Borin’s jaw tightened. “That’s no accident. Every scrap in these forges is accounted for. If the numbers don’t add up, someone’s changing them on purpose.”
“Aye,” the forgemaster agreed. “And whoever it is, they know how to move unseen. The tunnels run deep — far deeper than most remember. There are old paths that don’t appear on any current maps. Places sealed after the wars, when the Garricksons still had holdings here.”
Tara folded her arms, her mind already working through the implications. “Then it isn’t just theft. It’s preparation. Someone’s gathering weapons.”
The forgemaster nodded grimly. “And if they’re doing it in silence, it’s not for the king’s army.”
The heat from the pits pulsed around them, making the shadows waver like smoke. Borin finally spoke, voice low. “Do you think it’s the Garricksons?”
The forgemaster’s mouth twitched. “If I knew for certain, I’d have told the king myself. But there’s a name that’s been muttered among the loaders — ‘Verrick.’ Not a name from our halls, but it carries a Dwarvish ring twisted wrong. If anyone’s behind this, they’re using old loyalties to hide new treachery.”
Tarasque let the name sit between them, tasting it like a spark on the tongue. Verrick. A whisper with weight.
She looked to Borin. “We’ll need to see those ledgers. And I want to know where these ‘sealed tunnels’ begin.”
Borin nodded, though his eyes had darkened. “That won’t be easy. The king ordered many of them closed for a reason.”
“Then we open them carefully,” Tarasque said. “If the Garricksons’ ghosts are stirring, we can’t afford to wait for them to show themselves.”
The forgemaster exhaled, long and heavy. “You’ll find the first seals beyond the lower quarries. But tread lightly. Those tunnels remember the last war — and they’re not fond of trespassers.”
Tarasque inclined her head. “Then we’ll go where the mountain remembers.”
As she turned to leave, the dragon’s voice murmured faintly at the edge of her thoughts — a flicker of ancient instinct. ‘Be wary, little redhead. The forge is not the only place that burns.’
She didn’t answer aloud, but her grip on the torch tightened.
The investigation had truly begun.
The sealed tunnels stretched into silence, each step echoing like a heartbeat in stone. Tarasque’s torchlight licked the walls, revealing long-forgotten carvings dulled by centuries of soot and dust. The air grew heavy, old as buried secrets.
Borin kept close, his lamp steady in his calloused hand. “These tunnels haven’t been walked in generations,” he murmured. “Only scribes and masons know they’re still here.”
“Someone’s been here,” Tarasque said quietly. She crouched, her sharp eyes tracing the floor. The thick dust that blanketed the ground had been disturbed — faint depressions where boots had pressed down and lifted again. “There,” she pointed. “Six distinct sets. Different sizes, different gait patterns. One’s limping.”
Borin knelt beside her, frowning. “Dwarves, most of them. Heavy-footed, but not clumsy. And this one—” he gestured toward a longer print with shallower depth “—human, or close enough.”
They followed the trail deeper into the mountain until the tunnel widened into a chamber long abandoned. The stale air smelled faintly of burnt resin and metal. At the center stood a broken forge, its hearth cold and dead, the anvil rusted with age. Tarasque lifted her torch higher, the light glinting on something scattered across the stone floor.
Arrowheads — some warped, others cleanly forged. Charred shafts lay among them, and near the workbench, a handful of thin yellow feathers dyed by hand. She picked one up, rolling it between her fingers.
“Feathers like these,” Borin said softly, “aren’t from our hunting stock. They’re imported. And costly.”
Tarquase’s eyes narrowed. “Someone went to trouble to make these distinct. Marked arrows, perhaps. Identification in battle or assassination.”
She moved to the center of the smithy, closing her eyes for a moment. Beneath her breath, words slipped free — low, rhythmic, ancient. The air shivered in response, motes of dust swirling like embers caught in an unseen current. The stone around them began to hum softly, and then — light.
A shimmer rippled across the chamber, painting the air with translucent gold. Ghostly figures coalesced — six of them — shadows of the past caught in a magical echo.
The dwarves worked the forge in silence at first: hammering, quenching, fletching. The scene grew clearer, their faces caught in half-light. Garrickson himself stood over the anvil, his two sons beside him. Two other dwarves passed materials wordlessly, their faces anxious.
And then another figure stepped from the corner — a man in the armour of the royal guard. His insignia glinted with the unmistakable seal of King Althor’s household.
Borin’s hand tightened around his lamp. “By the Forge-Father…”
Then the glow stuttered. Garrickson turned his head, as if sensing something beyond the veil of time. His spectral eyes seemed to meet Tarasque’s own — not truly seeing, but aware of being seen. A chill rippled through the room, and with a final shimmer, the vision dissolved into silence.
The forge was dead again. Only the torch crackled softly.
Tarquase released a slow breath. “Garrickson and his sons. Two dwarves. And one of the king’s own guard.”
Borin’s face had gone pale beneath his soot. “If this is true, then it isn’t just betrayal. It’s conspiracy within the crown itself.”
Tarasque’s gaze lingered on the blackened forge. “And it began here — in the dark, beneath the mountain. We need to tell Althor what we’ve seen… but not before I find out how deep this runs.”
She knelt once more, brushing her fingers through the dust where the visions had stood. The footprints were still there, fresh. Whoever had been here last wasn’t working from memory — they were continuing the same plan.
“The past,” she murmured, “isn’t done forging its weapons.”
Tara crouched, picking through the remnants with practised care — fragments of blackened shafts, shards of metal, the yellow-dyed feathers that caught faint glints of torchlight. Each one was deliberate, nothing left by accident. She slipped them into a small leather pouch and handed it to Borin.
“Keep these safe,” she said quietly. “They’ll be proof enough if we need it.”
Borin nodded solemnly, tucking the pouch into his satchel. “Aye. Let’s get back before the tunnels decide they’ve had enough of visitors.”
They turned from the ruined forge, their footsteps echoing up the stone corridor. The air felt colder now — not dead, but expectant. Tara’s mind replayed the vision in fragments: Garrickson’s hammer falling in rhythm with betrayal, the royal guard’s insignia flashing in spectral light.
Halfway back, Tara slowed and glanced up a side tunnel where the darkness seemed to breathe. “What’s up in that direction, Borin?”
Borin followed her gaze, frowning. “That way? The Sable Exit, I think. No one’s used it in decades. It leads to an old outcropping — overlooks the grazing fields where the stags and deer wander. Was sealed years ago after a collapse.”
Tara’s eyes narrowed. “Then whoever moved those arrowheads may have used it. I’d like to have a look.”
Borin sighed, but he knew better than to argue. “If the mountain swallows us, I’ll blame you in the next life.”
“Fair,” Tara murmured, already moving.
The climb was steep, the tunnel narrower than before. Dust and grit fell from the ceiling with each step, and the air smelled faintly of earth and wind — a sign they were nearing the surface. When they reached the final chamber, Borin froze.
The massive stone door that once sealed the Sable Exit had been shoved aside — not carefully dismantled, but heaved out of its frame, gouging deep scars into the walls. Cold night air poured in through the opening, carrying the scent of grass and distant rain.
“The door’s been forced,” Borin whispered. “Whoever did this had strength — or help.”
Tara stepped closer, scanning the rough stone. Her dragon bond prickled — a low, familiar hum in her veins. A shadow fell across the entrance, and a moment later, a massive golden eye blinked into view.
‘Elqiana.’
The dragon’s voice resonated softly in Tara’s mind, ancient and patient as the mountains themselves.
‘Use the seeing spell, little one. The air remembers.’
Tara nodded, heart hammering. She closed her eyes and spoke the words of the ancient language, her voice low and deliberate. The air shimmered, thickening like water, until the space before the shattered door rippled with light.
Two figures appeared in ghostly hues: Garrickson — broad, stern, his beard braided in gold — and opposite him, a man Tara knew instantly. The grey aura. Rubian.
The man who had murdered her father.
Their words were fragments through the spell’s veil, but not enough to reach her.
The rest dissolved into a hiss of wind. The vision faded, leaving the mountain silent once more.
Tara staggered back, the colour draining from her face. The torch trembled in her hand.
Borin caught her shoulder. “Tara? What did you see?”
She stared at the empty air where Rubian’s shadow had stood, her voice low and unsteady. “Garrickson… and Rubian. Together.” She looked up sharply, fire in her eyes. “We need to speak to Althor. Now.”
Borin didn’t argue. He only adjusted his grip on the satchel and glanced toward the tunnel leading homeward.
The dragon’s eye lingered one moment longer before withdrawing into the darkness, her voice a fading whisper in Tara’s thoughts.
‘The truth burns, little one. Be sure your king is ready to face it.’
Tara drew in a long breath, steadying herself. “He’ll have no choice.”
And with that, they plunged back into the tunnels, the mountain seeming to close behind them like a throat swallowing secrets.
The royal hall was a crucible of fire and silence. Stone pillars rose like sentinels around the gathering, their runes glowing faintly in the torchlight. The banners of the clans hung unmoving, the weight of the mountain pressing down on every soul within.
Tara stood beside Borin before the dais, the evidence spread out across the council table — blackened arrowheads, charred shafts, and those unmistakable yellow feathers.
King Althor’s voice cut through the murmur like a blade through ore. “You’ve seen the proof. You’ve heard the witnesses. Garrickson, what say you to the charges?”
Garrickson rose, proud even in disgrace, his thick hands clenched into fists. “I say the word of a stranger and her trickery mean nothing! You’d trust her over your own blood? This is a lie woven in foreign tongues!”
A low rumble of discontent moved through the clans. The elder mages exchanged glances. Then one stepped forward, staff tapping against stone. His voice was low and steady, carrying the gravity of ages. “The truth is not bound by blood, Garrickson. The stones remember.”
He raised his staff, runes blazing. Ancient words filled the hall, echoing off the pillars, and light began to shimmer in the air. Before the gathered clans, the vision unfolded — Garrickson and his sons, two dwarves, and a royal guard working in secret, forging the arrows that had been fired at Elqiana.
When the vision faded, not even the torches dared to flicker.
King Althor rose from his throne, eyes hard as tempered steel. “The evidence is irrefutable. The mages’ seeing, the word of Borin the Scribe, and the witness of Tarasque White-flame. You have betrayed your king, your kin, and the stones that bore you. The clans will decide your fate.”
He turned to the assembled leaders. “Raise your hands for banishment.”
Hands went up — every one. No hesitation. No debate. The air trembled with the finality of it.
“So it is done,” Althor said, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. “Garrickson, your sons, your accomplices, and the traitor of my guard — you are banished. Your names shall be struck from our records, your clan-marks shattered, your halls sealed. From this day, you are no longer of the mountain.”
Garrickson’s fury broke. “You’ll regret this, Althor!” he roared, ripping a dagger from his belt and charging toward the throne.
Tara’s words came like a gust before thought — the ancient language spilling from her lips. The air in the hall roared to life, swirling with raw power. A violent burst of wind hurled Garrickson backward, slamming him into his sons with a crash that shook the very floor.
The hall went deathly still.
Then, one by one, every dwarf present — the clan leaders, their attendants, the mages, even Borin — turned their backs on the fallen traitors. It was a slow, deliberate movement, unified and silent. The guards alone remained facing forward, eyes lowered to the floor, refusing even to look upon those who had been unmade.
In dwarven law, it was the oldest punishment — the gesture that made banishment complete. Those the mountain turned from were not simply exiled; they were erased.
Garrickson’s furious breathing echoed in the silence, but no one met his gaze. No one spoke his name. His existence, in that moment, was gone.
Althor stood upon the dais, his voice calm and terrible. “Take them. Escort them to the outer gates. When the doors close behind them, let no dwarf ever again speak their names beneath these mountains.”
The guards moved wordlessly, their faces stone. As the disgraced dwarves were led away, Tara felt the faint stirring of wind still whispering around her.
Borin leaned in slightly. “It’s done. They no longer exist to us.”
Tara’s eyes lingered on the empty space where Garrickson had fallen. “They may not exist to the dwarves,” she murmured, “but their betrayal still walks the earth. And it has my father’s killer beside it.”
When the last of the clan leaders had left the hall and the echo of the great doors faded into silence, only four figures remained: King Althor, Queen Genevieve, Borin, and Tarasque. The torches burned low, their flames thin and blue in the cooling air.
Althor sat heavily upon his throne, elbows on his knees, his great hands clenched together. For a long while, he said nothing. Then, in a voice roughened by fury, he asked, “You’re certain of what you saw?”
Tara nodded once. “I am. Garrickson met with Rubian — the man who killed my father. The seeing spell showed them together at the Sable Exit. They were planning something…”
“It’s true, Your Majesty. She wouldn’t mistake that face. The man’s aura and bearing were clear even through the vision.”
For a heartbeat, the king was utterly still. Then he exploded from his seat, voice echoing against the stone. “Rubian! That thrice-damned snake of a man!”
He began to pace before the dais, muttering curses in the tongue of men — sharp, guttural words that made even Borin raise an eyebrow. Genevieve stood at his side, arms folded, watching him with the calm of someone who had weathered this storm before.
“By the Forge-Father and every god below,” Althor growled, “If he’s meddling with Garrickson’s line, it’s not mere politics — it’s war brewing under our very feet!”
Genevieve reached out and placed a steadying hand on his arm. “My love, fury will not sharpen your judgement. We’ll send word to the outposts and seal the outer tunnels. But you must tread carefully — Rubian may still have allies above ground.”
Althor exhaled through his beard, muttering another curse in the human tongue. “Aye, I’ll tread carefully, right after I’ve put my fist through his skull.”
Tara allowed herself the faintest flicker of a smile — the first since the seeing spell had shown her father’s killer. “I’d rather you leave him to me, Your Majesty. He owes me a debt of blood.”
Before any of them could speak further, the chamber doors creaked open. A young attendant hurried in, bowing nervously. “Your Majesty… there’s, ah, a man from the farmlands here. He’s seeking compensation for the carrots destroyed.”
Althor stared at him for a long moment, then dragged a hand down his face. “Bloody carrots and Rubian…” He lifted both hands to the ceiling in exasperation. “One minute it’s treason and ghosts, the next it’s a farmer’s vegetables!”
Genevieve covered her mouth to hide a laugh. “Justice must be thorough, my king.”
Tara couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at her lips. “Perhaps start with the carrots. They’ll be easier to deal with than Rubian.”
Althor shot her a look that hovered somewhere between amusement and despair. “Aye, well. Let’s hope the carrots aren’t plotting rebellion too.”
Chapter 4: Banished.
Althor was angrier than anyone had ever seen him. He stormed from the farmlands back toward the mountains, boots grinding furrows in the earth, his cloak whipping behind him like a shadow made of flame.
Genevieve quickened her pace until she was beside him, skirts brushing the stone, breath visible in the cold mountain air. “You cannot meet fire with fire, Althor,” she said. “You know what happened the last time our house sought vengeance without thought.”
He rounded on her, eyes wild and glinting like embers under his brow. “And what would you have me do, Genevieve? Sit idle while they trespass again? While they touch what’s ours?”
Her hand caught his arm — not a queen’s command, but a wife’s plea. “I would have you be wiser than they expect. The Garricksons thrive on chaos. Every time one of them drags you into anger, their ghosts win another battle.”
Althor’s jaw clenched. He looked away toward the peaks, their tips wreathed in mist. “You speak as if I am still that boy in the forge,” he muttered, voice low. “As if I haven’t learned restraint.”
“You’ve learned it,” she said softly, “but anger still knows your name.”
Donal shifted awkwardly nearby but said nothing; even he knew better than to step between them when the queen’s tone turned like that — quiet, cutting, true.
After a long silence, Althor exhaled hard, the air whistling between his teeth. “If I let this pass, they’ll think me weak.”
Genevieve’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then show them strength in patience. Let them wonder what you’re planning instead of showing them your rage.”
That was when Donal finally spoke, voice steady but cautious. “Her Majesty the Queen is right. This needs to be dealt with carefully. Your family’s history with the Garricksons is well known.”
Althor’s head snapped toward him — and then came that thunderous Dwarvish curse that split the mountain air before Tarasque’s approach broke the silence.
The echo of Althor’s curse still trembled through the cavern when Tarasque appeared at the mouth of the passage. The torchlight caught the embroidery on her cloak — a quiet reminder of the dragon with whom she shared her bond. Her presence alone seemed to cool the air.
“King Althor,” she said, her voice calm but commanding. “Elqi has reassured me she is safe. She’ll remain in the farmlands until this is settled. But if you truly wish to find who’s behind this — and why — I may be able to help.”
Althor turned slowly, still seething. “You may be able to help?” he repeated. “You don’t know the weight of our history, Tarasque. You don’t know how deep the Garricksons’ treachery runs.”
“I know enough,” she replied, unfazed. “But I also stand outside your old grudges. That makes me useful. There are things people will tell me that they’d never say to their king. And dragons,” she added quietly, “have ways of learning what even whispers fear to speak aloud.”
Genevieve stepped forward then — the firelight tracing the fine braids in her dark hair. “She speaks truth, my love,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “Tarasque is honoured among our kin. The miners trust her. The forgemasters respect her counsel. She could reach places your crown cannot.”
Donal nodded. “If anyone can pry secrets from the tunnels, it’s her. No one lies easily to a woman bonded to a dragon.”
Althor’s glare softened, though his anger still burned beneath the surface. “You’d risk yourself for this?”
Tarasque’s eyes flickered — something sharp, almost amused. “You call it risk. I call it purpose. Someone has stirred trouble in your lands, and I intend to know who — and why. Elqi’s safety depends on it, as does your peace.”
The king’s hand clenched into a fist. He looked between his queen, his friend, and the dragon-bonded outsider who now offered her aid. The mountain wind sighed through the stone, as if urging him toward reason.
At last, Althor exhaled. “Very well. If the dwarves revere you as they say, then let that reverence open doors I cannot. But heed me, Tarasque — if this is a trap, if any harm comes to her or mine, I will not be stayed by friendship or honour.”
Tarasque inclined her head, her tone a whisper of iron. “Then I will make sure it never comes to that, Your Majesty.”
The chamber fell quiet again, filled only by the faint hum of the forge-fires below — the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
The wind had barely settled when Genevieve stepped closer to Tarasque, her voice steady and persuasive. “If you’re to uncover who’s behind this, you’ll need someone who understands our laws, our protocols. Not just the mines and tunnels, but the customs, the limits of what can and cannot be done.”
Althor’s scowl softened — just slightly — as he said, “She is right. I will not allow my guest to be endangered by kin from a misunderstanding, by mine honour. You will have guidance. And I insist it.”
Tarquase’s sharp gaze met his, her pride flickering in the torchlight. “I can handle Dwarves. I don’t need—”
Donal stepped forward before the conversation could spiral. “With respect, Lady Tara, you may know people and lands, but the Dwarves’ tunnels are a labyrinth. Laws and traditions are as important as passageways themselves. Ignoring them could get you turned away—or worse. You need someone who knows the rules.”
Tara’s eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a line, but after a long moment she gave a small nod. “Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll take your scribe, if it keeps me from getting trapped in bureaucracy—or a mine collapse.”
Althor’s frown cracked into something resembling a grin. “Good. Then let me introduce you to Borin.”
A Dwarf emerged from the shadows, carrying a bundle of scrolls neatly tied with leather cords. His round spectacles reflected the torchlight, and his beard was threaded with silver. “Borin, at your service,” he said with a slight bow. “I was the one who translated the ancient laws from Old Dwarvish to the Common Dwarvish we all speak now. Every nuance, every precedent, I know it as well as I know the mines themselves.”
Tara tilted her head, studying him. “So, you are the one who turns rules into… words that even a dragon-bonded outsider might follow?”
Borin gave a small chuckle. “I prefer to think of it as ensuring you do not step where you should not, or speak where you ought to remain silent. The tunnels are not forgiving, and neither are our customs.”
Genevieve smiled faintly, resting a hand on Althor’s arm. “You’ll find he is thorough, patient, and indispensable. And he is… well, less likely to curse you in Dwarvish than the king, at least.”
Tarquase allowed herself a wry smirk. “Then let’s hope his patience matches mine. Lead the way, Borin.”
Borin’s eyes twinkled. “Very well, Lady Tarasque. Follow closely, and do not speak out of turn. The tunnels listen more than you think.”
Althor watched them with a mix of pride and lingering suspicion. “Remember,” he said, voice low but firm, “our people are watching. Do not give them reason to doubt your respect for the laws—or for me.”
Tara inclined her head once, a silent acknowledgement of the warning. Then, with Borin at her side, she stepped toward the shadows of the endless tunnels, the faint hiss of dragon-bonded power brushing against her skin like a promise and a warning all at once.
She inclined her head. “Yes. Take me to the forges first. If there are answers to be found, they’ll start where the metal breathes.”
They descended through the tunnels, Borin leading the way with the easy gait of one born beneath stone. The air thickened with heat and the rhythmic thunder of hammers. The forges glowed ahead — a sea of molten light and labour, sparks dancing like fireflies caught in smoke.
Borin gestured quietly. “The forges are where tongues loosen, but only for those who earn respect. Speak wisely, and they may speak freely.”
Tarasque nodded, scanning the chamber. Workers moved in practised unison; each clang of hammer against steel was part of an unending song. Near the back, a thick-armed forgemaster shaped a chain link with meticulous precision, his hammer striking in a rhythm that spoke of decades of skill.
She approached and watched him work in silence until the pause between strikes. “That’s fine work,” she said. “Chain rings that clean don’t come from strength alone.”
The forgemaster grunted without looking up. “Strength helps.”
“May I watch?”
He gave her a side-eye glance — an outsider in a foreign cloak. “You may, though it won’t be thrilling unless you like monotony.”
Tara smiled faintly. “Repetition reveals mastery. Could you show me?”
Borin’s brows rose, but he gave her a subtle nod. The forgemaster hesitated, then shrugged. “As you like.”
He picked up a glowing ring from the coals and demonstrated three clean blows: one to shape, one to curve, one to seal. When he finished, Tarasque studied the pattern, then lifted a new rod herself.
The smith’s mouth twitched in amusement — until her first strike. Her rhythm was awkward at first, but she adjusted, finding the pulse of the metal. By the third ring her blows were sure, deliberate, guided more by instinct than practice. When she quenched the link, it hissed steam and gleamed almost perfect.
The forgemaster examined it, brow furrowed. “Not bad,” he said grudgingly. “Where’d you learn patience like that?”
“From a dragon,” she answered simply. “They’re terrible teachers, but excellent examples.”
The smith barked a laugh. A few others nearby chuckled, and the atmosphere softened. “You’ve got a decent arm, outsider. What brings you down here?”
“Questions,” Tarasque said, setting the hammer aside. “I’m trying to learn who’s been moving things through the tunnels that shouldn’t be moved — and why. The farmlands are uneasy.”
The forgemaster’s expression darkened. “You might be chasing ghosts. Still… there’s been talk. Strangers hauling crates through the side shafts at night. Not from any guild I know.”
“Who oversees those tunnels?” she asked quietly.
He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “Not me. But I can tell you who does. And if you’re wise, you’ll visit when the fires burn low. Some truths hate the sound of hammers.”
Borin’s quill hovered over his parchment, eyes glinting. “That sounds worth noting.”
The forgemaster shot him a look. “No writing until I’ve spoken plain. Meet me by the slag pits when the night’s quiet. Bring no guards — and no king’s eyes.”
Tarasque nodded once. “Understood.”
As she turned away, Borin murmured, “You handled that well.”
She smiled, faintly but with satisfaction. “Dwarves respect craft, not crowns. I only gave them something worth respecting.”
The forges quieted as the night deepened, their glow sinking into the stone like dying embers. The rhythmic clang of hammers faded, replaced by the slow hiss of cooling metal and the murmur of low conversation. Tarasque moved through the tunnels with Borin at her side, the air still hot but heavy now, as if the mountain itself was holding its breath.
The slag pits lay beyond the main chambers — wide, black basins where molten refuse was poured and left to cool into glassy stone. The heat shimmered faintly, giving the place an uneasy stillness.
The forgemaster was already there, his broad figure outlined by the faint orange of the slag pools. He looked up as they approached, and his voice was roughened by both smoke and secrecy.
“You came,” he said simply.
Tara stepped closer, the light catching the faint silver thread at her temple — a mark of her dragon bond. “You said you had more to tell.”
“Aye.” He glanced around the empty tunnels, then lowered his tone. “It started small. A few crates here and there, materials that didn’t match any of the guild orders. Then the counts started slipping — a missing chain, a few steel bars, nothing worth trouble.”
Borin frowned slightly, making a note in his mind, not on parchment. The forgemaster continued, voice taut. “But last week, I checked the ledgers myself. We’re missing more than iron or chain stock. Entire batches of arrowheads and shafts have vanished from the lower stores.”
Tarasque’s brow knit. “How many?”
“Enough to arm a small company,” the forgemaster said. “They’re not the sort of thing miners misplace, and no one reported the orders. Someone’s been moving them out quietly, marking the logs as waste or scrap.”
Borin’s jaw tightened. “That’s no accident. Every scrap in these forges is accounted for. If the numbers don’t add up, someone’s changing them on purpose.”
“Aye,” the forgemaster agreed. “And whoever it is, they know how to move unseen. The tunnels run deep — far deeper than most remember. There are old paths that don’t appear on any current maps. Places sealed after the wars, when the Garricksons still had holdings here.”
Tara folded her arms, her mind already working through the implications. “Then it isn’t just theft. It’s preparation. Someone’s gathering weapons.”
The forgemaster nodded grimly. “And if they’re doing it in silence, it’s not for the king’s army.”
The heat from the pits pulsed around them, making the shadows waver like smoke. Borin finally spoke, voice low. “Do you think it’s the Garricksons?”
The forgemaster’s mouth twitched. “If I knew for certain, I’d have told the king myself. But there’s a name that’s been muttered among the loaders — ‘Verrick.’ Not a name from our halls, but it carries a Dwarvish ring twisted wrong. If anyone’s behind this, they’re using old loyalties to hide new treachery.”
Tarasque let the name sit between them, tasting it like a spark on the tongue. Verrick. A whisper with weight.
She looked to Borin. “We’ll need to see those ledgers. And I want to know where these ‘sealed tunnels’ begin.”
Borin nodded, though his eyes had darkened. “That won’t be easy. The king ordered many of them closed for a reason.”
“Then we open them carefully,” Tarasque said. “If the Garricksons’ ghosts are stirring, we can’t afford to wait for them to show themselves.”
The forgemaster exhaled, long and heavy. “You’ll find the first seals beyond the lower quarries. But tread lightly. Those tunnels remember the last war — and they’re not fond of trespassers.”
Tarasque inclined her head. “Then we’ll go where the mountain remembers.”
As she turned to leave, the dragon’s voice murmured faintly at the edge of her thoughts — a flicker of ancient instinct. ‘Be wary, little redhead. The forge is not the only place that burns.’
She didn’t answer aloud, but her grip on the torch tightened.
The investigation had truly begun.
The sealed tunnels stretched into silence, each step echoing like a heartbeat in stone. Tarasque’s torchlight licked the walls, revealing long-forgotten carvings dulled by centuries of soot and dust. The air grew heavy, old as buried secrets.
Borin kept close, his lamp steady in his calloused hand. “These tunnels haven’t been walked in generations,” he murmured. “Only scribes and masons know they’re still here.”
“Someone’s been here,” Tarasque said quietly. She crouched, her sharp eyes tracing the floor. The thick dust that blanketed the ground had been disturbed — faint depressions where boots had pressed down and lifted again. “There,” she pointed. “Six distinct sets. Different sizes, different gait patterns. One’s limping.”
Borin knelt beside her, frowning. “Dwarves, most of them. Heavy-footed, but not clumsy. And this one—” he gestured toward a longer print with shallower depth “—human, or close enough.”
They followed the trail deeper into the mountain until the tunnel widened into a chamber long abandoned. The stale air smelled faintly of burnt resin and metal. At the center stood a broken forge, its hearth cold and dead, the anvil rusted with age. Tarasque lifted her torch higher, the light glinting on something scattered across the stone floor.
Arrowheads — some warped, others cleanly forged. Charred shafts lay among them, and near the workbench, a handful of thin yellow feathers dyed by hand. She picked one up, rolling it between her fingers.
“Feathers like these,” Borin said softly, “aren’t from our hunting stock. They’re imported. And costly.”
Tarquase’s eyes narrowed. “Someone went to trouble to make these distinct. Marked arrows, perhaps. Identification in battle or assassination.”
She moved to the center of the smithy, closing her eyes for a moment. Beneath her breath, words slipped free — low, rhythmic, ancient. The air shivered in response, motes of dust swirling like embers caught in an unseen current. The stone around them began to hum softly, and then — light.
A shimmer rippled across the chamber, painting the air with translucent gold. Ghostly figures coalesced — six of them — shadows of the past caught in a magical echo.
The dwarves worked the forge in silence at first: hammering, quenching, fletching. The scene grew clearer, their faces caught in half-light. Garrickson himself stood over the anvil, his two sons beside him. Two other dwarves passed materials wordlessly, their faces anxious.
And then another figure stepped from the corner — a man in the armour of the royal guard. His insignia glinted with the unmistakable seal of King Althor’s household.
Borin’s hand tightened around his lamp. “By the Forge-Father…”
Then the glow stuttered. Garrickson turned his head, as if sensing something beyond the veil of time. His spectral eyes seemed to meet Tarasque’s own — not truly seeing, but aware of being seen. A chill rippled through the room, and with a final shimmer, the vision dissolved into silence.
The forge was dead again. Only the torch crackled softly.
Tarquase released a slow breath. “Garrickson and his sons. Two dwarves. And one of the king’s own guard.”
Borin’s face had gone pale beneath his soot. “If this is true, then it isn’t just betrayal. It’s conspiracy within the crown itself.”
Tarasque’s gaze lingered on the blackened forge. “And it began here — in the dark, beneath the mountain. We need to tell Althor what we’ve seen… but not before I find out how deep this runs.”
She knelt once more, brushing her fingers through the dust where the visions had stood. The footprints were still there, fresh. Whoever had been here last wasn’t working from memory — they were continuing the same plan.
“The past,” she murmured, “isn’t done forging its weapons.”
Tara crouched, picking through the remnants with practised care — fragments of blackened shafts, shards of metal, the yellow-dyed feathers that caught faint glints of torchlight. Each one was deliberate, nothing left by accident. She slipped them into a small leather pouch and handed it to Borin.
“Keep these safe,” she said quietly. “They’ll be proof enough if we need it.”
Borin nodded solemnly, tucking the pouch into his satchel. “Aye. Let’s get back before the tunnels decide they’ve had enough of visitors.”
They turned from the ruined forge, their footsteps echoing up the stone corridor. The air felt colder now — not dead, but expectant. Tara’s mind replayed the vision in fragments: Garrickson’s hammer falling in rhythm with betrayal, the royal guard’s insignia flashing in spectral light.
Halfway back, Tara slowed and glanced up a side tunnel where the darkness seemed to breathe. “What’s up in that direction, Borin?”
Borin followed her gaze, frowning. “That way? The Sable Exit, I think. No one’s used it in decades. It leads to an old outcropping — overlooks the grazing fields where the stags and deer wander. Was sealed years ago after a collapse.”
Tara’s eyes narrowed. “Then whoever moved those arrowheads may have used it. I’d like to have a look.”
Borin sighed, but he knew better than to argue. “If the mountain swallows us, I’ll blame you in the next life.”
“Fair,” Tara murmured, already moving.
The climb was steep, the tunnel narrower than before. Dust and grit fell from the ceiling with each step, and the air smelled faintly of earth and wind — a sign they were nearing the surface. When they reached the final chamber, Borin froze.
The massive stone door that once sealed the Sable Exit had been shoved aside — not carefully dismantled, but heaved out of its frame, gouging deep scars into the walls. Cold night air poured in through the opening, carrying the scent of grass and distant rain.
“The door’s been forced,” Borin whispered. “Whoever did this had strength — or help.”
Tara stepped closer, scanning the rough stone. Her dragon bond prickled — a low, familiar hum in her veins. A shadow fell across the entrance, and a moment later, a massive golden eye blinked into view.
‘Elqiana.’
The dragon’s voice resonated softly in Tara’s mind, ancient and patient as the mountains themselves.
‘Use the seeing spell, little one. The air remembers.’
Tara nodded, heart hammering. She closed her eyes and spoke the words of the ancient language, her voice low and deliberate. The air shimmered, thickening like water, until the space before the shattered door rippled with light.
Two figures appeared in ghostly hues: Garrickson — broad, stern, his beard braided in gold — and opposite him, a man Tara knew instantly. The grey aura. Rubian.
The man who had murdered her father.
Their words were fragments through the spell’s veil, but not enough to reach her.
The rest dissolved into a hiss of wind. The vision faded, leaving the mountain silent once more.
Tara staggered back, the colour draining from her face. The torch trembled in her hand.
Borin caught her shoulder. “Tara? What did you see?”
She stared at the empty air where Rubian’s shadow had stood, her voice low and unsteady. “Garrickson… and Rubian. Together.” She looked up sharply, fire in her eyes. “We need to speak to Althor. Now.”
Borin didn’t argue. He only adjusted his grip on the satchel and glanced toward the tunnel leading homeward.
The dragon’s eye lingered one moment longer before withdrawing into the darkness, her voice a fading whisper in Tara’s thoughts.
‘The truth burns, little one. Be sure your king is ready to face it.’
Tara drew in a long breath, steadying herself. “He’ll have no choice.”
And with that, they plunged back into the tunnels, the mountain seeming to close behind them like a throat swallowing secrets.
The royal hall was a crucible of fire and silence. Stone pillars rose like sentinels around the gathering, their runes glowing faintly in the torchlight. The banners of the clans hung unmoving, the weight of the mountain pressing down on every soul within.
Tara stood beside Borin before the dais, the evidence spread out across the council table — blackened arrowheads, charred shafts, and those unmistakable yellow feathers.
King Althor’s voice cut through the murmur like a blade through ore. “You’ve seen the proof. You’ve heard the witnesses. Garrickson, what say you to the charges?”
Garrickson rose, proud even in disgrace, his thick hands clenched into fists. “I say the word of a stranger and her trickery mean nothing! You’d trust her over your own blood? This is a lie woven in foreign tongues!”
A low rumble of discontent moved through the clans. The elder mages exchanged glances. Then one stepped forward, staff tapping against stone. His voice was low and steady, carrying the gravity of ages. “The truth is not bound by blood, Garrickson. The stones remember.”
He raised his staff, runes blazing. Ancient words filled the hall, echoing off the pillars, and light began to shimmer in the air. Before the gathered clans, the vision unfolded — Garrickson and his sons, two dwarves, and a royal guard working in secret, forging the arrows that had been fired at Elqiana.
When the vision faded, not even the torches dared to flicker.
King Althor rose from his throne, eyes hard as tempered steel. “The evidence is irrefutable. The mages’ seeing, the word of Borin the Scribe, and the witness of Tarasque White-flame. You have betrayed your king, your kin, and the stones that bore you. The clans will decide your fate.”
He turned to the assembled leaders. “Raise your hands for banishment.”
Hands went up — every one. No hesitation. No debate. The air trembled with the finality of it.
“So it is done,” Althor said, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. “Garrickson, your sons, your accomplices, and the traitor of my guard — you are banished. Your names shall be struck from our records, your clan-marks shattered, your halls sealed. From this day, you are no longer of the mountain.”
Garrickson’s fury broke. “You’ll regret this, Althor!” he roared, ripping a dagger from his belt and charging toward the throne.
Tara’s words came like a gust before thought — the ancient language spilling from her lips. The air in the hall roared to life, swirling with raw power. A violent burst of wind hurled Garrickson backward, slamming him into his sons with a crash that shook the very floor.
The hall went deathly still.
Then, one by one, every dwarf present — the clan leaders, their attendants, the mages, even Borin — turned their backs on the fallen traitors. It was a slow, deliberate movement, unified and silent. The guards alone remained facing forward, eyes lowered to the floor, refusing even to look upon those who had been unmade.
In dwarven law, it was the oldest punishment — the gesture that made banishment complete. Those the mountain turned from were not simply exiled; they were erased.
Garrickson’s furious breathing echoed in the silence, but no one met his gaze. No one spoke his name. His existence, in that moment, was gone.
Althor stood upon the dais, his voice calm and terrible. “Take them. Escort them to the outer gates. When the doors close behind them, let no dwarf ever again speak their names beneath these mountains.”
The guards moved wordlessly, their faces stone. As the disgraced dwarves were led away, Tara felt the faint stirring of wind still whispering around her.
Borin leaned in slightly. “It’s done. They no longer exist to us.”
Tara’s eyes lingered on the empty space where Garrickson had fallen. “They may not exist to the dwarves,” she murmured, “but their betrayal still walks the earth. And it has my father’s killer beside it.”
When the last of the clan leaders had left the hall and the echo of the great doors faded into silence, only four figures remained: King Althor, Queen Genevieve, Borin, and Tarasque. The torches burned low, their flames thin and blue in the cooling air.
Althor sat heavily upon his throne, elbows on his knees, his great hands clenched together. For a long while, he said nothing. Then, in a voice roughened by fury, he asked, “You’re certain of what you saw?”
Tara nodded once. “I am. Garrickson met with Rubian — the man who killed my father. The seeing spell showed them together at the Sable Exit. They were planning something…”
“It’s true, Your Majesty. She wouldn’t mistake that face. The man’s aura and bearing were clear even through the vision.”
For a heartbeat, the king was utterly still. Then he exploded from his seat, voice echoing against the stone. “Rubian! That thrice-damned snake of a man!”
He began to pace before the dais, muttering curses in the tongue of men — sharp, guttural words that made even Borin raise an eyebrow. Genevieve stood at his side, arms folded, watching him with the calm of someone who had weathered this storm before.
“By the Forge-Father and every god below,” Althor growled, “If he’s meddling with Garrickson’s line, it’s not mere politics — it’s war brewing under our very feet!”
Genevieve reached out and placed a steadying hand on his arm. “My love, fury will not sharpen your judgement. We’ll send word to the outposts and seal the outer tunnels. But you must tread carefully — Rubian may still have allies above ground.”
Althor exhaled through his beard, muttering another curse in the human tongue. “Aye, I’ll tread carefully, right after I’ve put my fist through his skull.”
Tara allowed herself the faintest flicker of a smile — the first since the seeing spell had shown her father’s killer. “I’d rather you leave him to me, Your Majesty. He owes me a debt of blood.”
Before any of them could speak further, the chamber doors creaked open. A young attendant hurried in, bowing nervously. “Your Majesty… there’s, ah, a man from the farmlands here. He’s seeking compensation for the carrots destroyed.”
Althor stared at him for a long moment, then dragged a hand down his face. “Bloody carrots and Rubian…” He lifted both hands to the ceiling in exasperation. “One minute it’s treason and ghosts, the next it’s a farmer’s vegetables!”
Genevieve covered her mouth to hide a laugh. “Justice must be thorough, my king.”
Tara couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at her lips. “Perhaps start with the carrots. They’ll be easier to deal with than Rubian.”
Althor shot her a look that hovered somewhere between amusement and despair. “Aye, well. Let’s hope the carrots aren’t plotting rebellion too.”