The Journey, Book 3: Chapter 4 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 5: Travellers
Nekira stepped out from the burnt forest, the last curls of smoke rising behind him like ghosts. The air ahead was clearer, the scent of sap and soil replacing the bitter sting of ash. Across the road stretched a caravan — wagons, carts, oxen, and weary feet all winding down the dirt path like a living river.
He looked left, where the line began near the distant trees, then right, where it vanished into the horizon.
A woman driving an ox-drawn carriage caught his gaze. Her posture was steady, her face lined but kind.
“Where you headed, young’en?” she called out over the clatter of hooves.
“Knebworth!” Nekira replied.
“Then you’ll want to pass through Colkeeth first,” she said. “That’s where we’re bound. You can ride along, if you don’t mind keepin’ pace with slow folk.”
Nekira smiled faintly and nudged Myrtle forward, falling in beside her wagon. The wolves padded along his left, their movements fluid, their eyes sharp.
After a few moments, he asked, “Where are you all from?”
The woman chuckled softly. “Everywhere, I suppose. Humans, humarfs, dwarves, elves strong — a patchwork of wanderers. We’ve made our own kind of home on the road. Safer than standing still these days.”
“A rare sight,” Nekira said. “Especially when the ones in power seem set on turning us against one another.”
She nodded. “Jealousy’s a poison that never stops spreading. But it wasn’t always this way. Back in the times of Braiden and Zeindaryss, things were different. Folk say those were the Golden Years.”
Nekira’s grip on Myrtle’s reins tightened ever so slightly. He knew those names as one knows an old prayer. Braiden — the first of the riders, the elf who had bridged the space between dragon and mortal. And Zeindaryss — the purple-scaled peacekeeper, whose wings had once cast shade over burning cities to calm the fighting below.
He’d learned the tales from elves who remembered, and from dwarves who had forged the armour Braiden wore. But hearing the name spoken here, by an old woman guiding an ox cart down a dusty road, carried a weight the songs never did.
“What were they like to you?” he asked. “Those Golden Years?”
Her expression softened, her eyes distant but clear. “They were years of quiet courage, from what I was told. You could see Zeindaryss flyin’ above the valleys sometimes — folk said his shadow brought calm, that even beasts would settle when he passed. Braiden was the kind who’d stop in a village burned to cinders and help rebuild it stone by stone. He didn’t command peace; he lived it. And people followed that.”
Nekira’s throat tightened. He had read those same deeds carved into wood in Caa Alora, but the way she spoke of them — plain, reverent, human — stripped away the grandeur and left only truth.
He thought of his own dragon, of the weight of the bond they shared. The endless expectation that came with carrying such a legacy. The dragons called Braiden the Bridge Between Hearts — a title no rider since had truly earned.
“It sounds like a world worth remembering,” he murmured.
“Aye,” she said. “But memory’s not enough, is it? We have to build what we miss, even if it’s smaller than before.”
Nekira nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon. For the first time in many days, he felt a flicker of warmth amid the ash — not from fire, but from something far older: hope.
The caravan rolled on, and the setting sun turned the road to gold.
Elara’s gaze flicked toward Nekira, sharp even beneath her calm. The hood of his cloak cast his face in shadow, and the wolves at his side drew wary glances from those nearest the wagon. Their paws made no sound on the road, but their presence carried weight.
“What of you, Wolf-friend?” Elara asked at last, her tone more curious than suspicious. “If you don’t mind me askin’, what race claims you?”
Nekira smiled faintly beneath the hood. “Me? I’m human… and elf,” he said simply.
Elara raised a brow, the corner of her mouth turning up just a little. “A rare pairing, that. You’d be welcome among this caravan — we’ve room for all who keep peace at their side.”
Nekira inclined his head in quiet thanks, the ghost of a smile still playing on his lips.
The road curved ahead, and through the thinning trees rose the stone walls of Colkeeth — tall and grey against the copper sky. The portcullis hung half-drawn, and soldiers stood at the gate, spears crossed like teeth. The hum of the caravan faded to murmurs. People began slowing their pace, exchanging uneasy glances.
Elara pulled gently on the reins, bringing her oxen to a stop. “Trouble at the gate,” she muttered, climbing down from her seat with surprising ease for someone her age. Her cloak brushed the dust from her boots as she turned to Nekira.
“My name is Elara,” she said quietly. “If the soldiers ask, you’re my grandson. They don’t ask as many questions of families.”
Nekira nodded once, pulling back his hood just enough to let a lock of dark hair catch the light. “Understood.”
He dismounted from Myrtle and walked beside Elara toward the front of the caravan. The wolves followed close, low to the ground, their eyes scanning the soldiers ahead. The clang of the gate echoed through the valley as they approached, the smell of oil and iron heavy on the air.
The guards watched the approaching caravan with narrowed eyes — not hostile yet, but cautious, the kind of caution that came from orders rather than instinct.
Elara’s hand brushed his arm, a small but deliberate gesture. “Let me do the talkin’,” she murmured.
Nekira nodded again, silently measuring the distance between himself, the soldiers, and the walls. The wind carried faint voices from within Colkeeth — shouts, orders, something that sounded like fear. Whatever waited beyond the gate, peace did not live there tonight.
His hand rested on his newly carved staff. He let a limp creep into his step, the kind that made him look more like a weary traveller than a warrior.
Elara noticed, of course. Her eyes missed little. But she said nothing — only gave the smallest nod, the kind shared between those who’ve learned to survive by pretending not to be what they are.
The caravan slowed as the walls of Colkeeth rose before them, grey stone and timber towers lit by the dull glow of watch fires. The portcullis hung halfway down, its teeth glinting like a trap’s edge. At the gate, two soldiers stood with spears crossed, faces set in that careful blankness born of fear and duty.
“State your business,” the older of the two barked.
Elara stepped forward, voice calm but clear. “Travellers from the southern road. We’ve come seeking rest, trade, and food for our beasts. Nothing more.”
The guard’s gaze swept the caravan, lingering on the wolves padding silently near Nekira, then flicking back to Elara. “You’ll wait here until inspection. Orders from King Thomaz’s office. No outsiders admitted without clearance.”
Her brow creased slightly. “Since when does Colkeeth turn away travellers? I’ve come through this port a dozen times these past years.”
“Since dragons started circling the northern ridges,” the soldier replied. “And since the elves and dwarves started stirring trouble. There’ve been sightings — strange wings in the clouds, foreign banners in the woods.” His voice hardened. “Thomaz says they mean to strike at the coast.”
Nekira’s stomach tightened. Lies. Thomaz’s kind always ruled through them — twist the truth, sow fear, and watch good men become tools.
While Elara reasoned gently with the guard, Nekira let his gaze wander, careful not to seem too curious. The city’s walls bore hastily mortared repairs, fresh stakes planted beyond the ditch. Oil pots lined the ramparts, and archers paced above like caged hawks. Colkeeth wasn’t preparing for an invasion; it was bracing against a phantom, one the tyrant himself had conjured.
“King Thomaz looks to protect his people,” the younger guard said, almost as if convincing himself. “You’ll understand we can’t risk letting the wrong sort through.”
Elara’s tone never wavered. “We’ve no quarrel with the crown or the coast, lad. Just families lookin’ for a night’s peace and a dry bed. You’d turn a grandmother and her grandson away?”
The younger one hesitated. The older scowled, but his grip faltered just enough.
Nekira shifted his staff, bowing his head as though tired. “We’ll submit to inspection,” he murmured softly, his accent carefully muted. “We’ve nothing to hide.”
Elara glanced at him — the smallest flicker of approval in her eyes — then turned back to the guards. “My name’s Elara,” she said, “and this here’s my grandson. He’s not well on his feet. You can search us, but I’ll not have him waitin’ in the cold while you check every cart.”
The older guard exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. “Fine. You two may pass with the first wagon. The rest’ll be examined in turn.”
As the portcullis creaked upward, Nekira and Elara stepped forward. The chains clattered overhead like a warning. Beyond the gate, he could see torchlight flickering against banners marked with Thomaz’s crest — the black crown over red flame.
Elara leaned toward him, her voice low and steady. “Keep that limp, lad,” she whispered. “Folk here’ve been taught to fear what they don’t know. You show too much of yourself, they’ll call you enemy before you can draw breath.”
Nekira gave a small nod, eyes scanning the battlements as they crossed beneath the gate. The city beyond smelled of salt and smoke — and the kind of silence that lives under watchful eyes.
Whatever waited in Colkeeth, it wasn’t safety. It was the shadow of Thomaz’s lie, alive and whispering behind every shuttered window.
The portcullis groaned as it rose, each rattle of the chains echoing down the narrow road. The oxen snorted, uneasy at the metallic noise. As Nekira and Elara stepped through the archway, a chill washed over him, the kind that had nothing to do with the wind.
The guards on the wall watched their every step. Archers stood ready, bows half-drawn — not in open threat, but out of habit. Fear had become routine here.
Colkeeth’s main street stretched before them, stone-paved and uneven, lined with tall houses of timber and plaster. Their shutters were closed though the hour was still early; chimneys smoked, but no one lingered in the doorways. The usual port-town chaos — hawkers, beggars, music from taverns — was gone. Only the sound of boots and the faint creak of wagons broke the air.
The rest of the caravan waited outside while the guards began their inspection. One by one, the wagons rolled forward under the scrutiny of Thomaz’s men. Barrels were opened, crates pried apart, even bundles of clothing prodded with spear tips. A young elf girl tried to peek over a cart’s side, and a soldier barked for her to sit down. Her mother pulled her close, eyes downcast.
“Searchin’ for dragons in the bedding, are they?” Elara muttered dryly under her breath.
Nekira hid a smirk behind his hood, but his eyes were restless. He could feel the tension — the way conversations dropped when soldiers passed, how even the dogs kept to the shadows. This wasn’t a city defending itself; it was one policing its own heartbeat.
They walked slowly toward the square where the caravan would be directed to unload. Banners bearing the black crown and red flame of Thomaz fluttered from the rooftops, their fabric stiff with salt and grime. The crest had replaced the old sigil of Colkeeth — a silver wave beneath a rising sun — now defaced and painted over.
Nekira’s gaze lingered on it. Even the light’s been claimed.
As they reached the square, Elara stopped to steady him, keeping up their ruse. “Lean heavier,” she murmured. “They’ll believe the limp if it looks painful.”
He obeyed, shifting more weight onto the staff. The act drew a sympathetic look from a nearby merchant woman — brief, furtive — before she turned away quickly, pretending to adjust her stall.
The guards continued their inspections down the line. One of them overturned a crate of produce, spilling apples into the dirt. Another demanded papers from a dwarven trader, his tone sharp enough to draw murmurs from those waiting. Nekira’s jaw tightened, but Elara’s hand found his arm — a silent warning to hold his peace.
“They’re lookin’ for enemies, not goods,” she whispered. “Thomaz’s words have poisoned the wind itself. Folk here believe elves plot rebellion, dwarves hoard weapons, dragons spy from the skies. None dare say otherwise.”
Nekira’s eyes lifted instinctively to the horizon beyond the walls. The sky was streaked with fading red — no dragons, no wings, only the long dark of coming night. Still, he could sense the faint pulse of something out there. Not dragons, not yet — but watchers. Tyrants always had watchers.
“Fear’s the easiest spell to cast,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Elara gave him a sideways glance. “And the hardest to break.”
At that moment, a shout went up from the gate. One of the guards had found something in a wagon farther back — a carved amulet, elven-made. The soldiers’ voices rose, harsh and accusing. The air in the square thickened; people tensed, some clutching children close.
Elara’s face tightened. “Stay close, lad,” she said quietly, her tone still calm but her eyes sharp. “Whatever happens, remember — you’re just my grandson. A limp and a tired smile, nothin’ more.”
Nekira nodded, his fingers brushing the smooth ashwood of his staff. But beneath the facade, his pulse had shifted — slow, deliberate, waiting.
The wolves, sensing his tension, sat at his sides, ears pricked toward the commotion at the gate.
The square had gone still but for the murmuring of the guards. The amulet hung from a mailed hand, swinging in the light.
“Elf craft,” said one soldier, his voice full of suspicion. “Banned by order of Thomaz.”
The wagon driver, a squat dwarf with calloused hands, tried to speak, but his voice broke under the weight of the stares. The amulet gleamed harmlessly, its silver etching catching the sun.
Elara’s brow furrowed. “A trinket of safe passage,” she muttered under her breath. “Nothing more than an old custom.”
Nekira stood still beside her, the wolves flanking him like quiet shadows. He reached out sending a single thread of awareness toward the amulet.
The air hummed faintly as his mind brushed the metal. No magic. No life. Just worn silver, charged only with memory.
He let the thread recoil silently. They’ll destroy him over a charm.
The captain of the guard appeared next, tall and red-faced, his armour oiled to a shine that didn’t fit the grime of Colkeeth’s streets. He snatched the amulet and inspected it with a sneer.
“Elvish make,” he said. “Contraband. Confiscate it. Detain the owner.”
The crowd’s collective breath tightened. Elara’s hand twitched at her side, but Nekira was already scanning beyond the man, eyes rising to the ramparts.
Clay pots of pitch lined the wall. Two soldiers wrestled one across a beam, its surface glossy and heavy. Nekira’s attention settled on one pot near the corner — he could see it clearly from where he stood, and through it, a flaw. A thin crack spidering across its base.
He whispered a few words under his breath, quiet as wind brushing grass — syllables from a language that no human ear had heard in centuries. Even Elara, standing within arm’s reach, heard nothing but the faint creak of wagon wheels.
The crack deepened.
A heartbeat later, the pot gave way.
Pitch exploded over the ramparts in a sticky rain, dark and reeking, soldiers shouting and cursing as it splattered across the stones.
The captain spun around, roaring. “For the gods’ sake! Do I have to teach you how to carry a pot?”
The moment stretched — guards distracted, eyes pulled upward.
Elara didn’t miss a beat. She folded her arms, voice smooth and steady. “Seems the gods have better things to inspect than a few harmless travellers.”
The captain turned, lip curling. He shoved the amulet into his belt. “Confiscated,” he barked. “Now piss off before I change my mind.”
He stalked away, shouting orders up the wall, the echo of his curses fading into the noise of the ramparts.
The line began to move again. Elara stepped forward with the oxen, her chin lifted, her expression calm but tight. Nekira followed at her side, leaning on his staff as though the limp was his only burden.
She glanced at him once as they passed beneath the gate, her look half gratitude, half suspicion. Whatever she thought she’d seen, she said nothing.
Behind them, the soldiers were still trying to mop the pitch from the wall, muttering about bad luck and omens.
Nekira’s mouth twitched faintly beneath his hood. Let them blame the gods, he thought. They’ll never think to blame a whisper.
The caravan began its slow crawl through Colkeeth’s streets. The buildings were tall and close, their shutters tightly closed. Even those doors left slightly ajar revealed only cautious eyes, peering from shadow. Whispers passed along the rooftops as children pressed their faces to the gaps. Dogs barked nervously behind barred gates. Every glance from a window or doorway carried fear, suspicion, the faint edge of rumour.
Elara guided the oxen with calm efficiency, speaking softly to each driver and traveller. “Keep steady,” she murmured, “and don’t draw attention. Walk like you belong, not like you’re escaping.”
Nekira followed, staff in hand, the limp in his gait convincing. The wolves stayed close at his left side, their steps silent, their ears flicking at every unusual sound. He felt the city’s pulse — not just fear, but a tangle of obedience and superstition woven through every cobblestone. Thomaz had planted terror so deep that even a small, ordinary wagon could be mistaken for an army.
A merchant tried to step out with a basket of fruit. The nearest guard barked sharply, and the man ducked back into the shadow of his doorway, cheeks burning. A child dropped a wooden toy as the caravan rumbled past. Nekira noticed every movement, every nervous glance, his own calm a mask over the tension coiling in his chest.
They reached a small courtyard where the caravan could rest and unload. Elara guided the wagons to a quiet corner, away from the main square. The oxen were tethered, and supplies stacked carefully, all while eyes still darted toward the streets and rooftops.
Once the immediate crowd and guards were at a safe distance, Elara finally leaned against the side of her wagon and let herself exhale. “Not so bad,” she murmured, though her shoulders were still tense. “For Colkeeth, at least. The rest of them are still frightened of shadows.”
Nekira sank to a low squat beside the wolves, letting the staff rest across his knees. “Fear is thicker than smoke here,” he said quietly. “Thomaz has planted it like weeds. It’ll take more than kindness to pull it out.”
Elara’s eyes softened, and she glanced at him under the rim of his hood. “You see things, don’t you?” she asked gently.
He inclined his head slightly. “I notice patterns,” he said, careful. “The guards, the people… they’re all afraid of the wrong enemy. They’ve been told what to fear.”
She nodded slowly. “Aye. They’ll tell themselves stories to keep from seeing the truth. And it keeps Thomaz safe in his tower, doesn’t it?”
Nekira’s gaze fell to his staff. “Yes. Safe, for now. But fear like this is fragile — and easily misdirected. One wrong spark, one mistake, and it can burn the city from within.”
Elara’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “You… you’re not like the rest of us, are you? Not just a traveller. I can see it in your eyes — you carry more than a staff or a limp.”
Nekira allowed a shadow of a smile beneath his hood. “I carry what’s necessary,” he said simply, letting the words hang. “Nothing more, nothing less. People here only need to believe what they see.”
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, almost reluctantly, she gave a nod of approval. “Aye. Then keep it that way. You’ve done enough today. If Thomaz’s soldiers had seen the truth of you…” She let the thought trail off, her meaning clear.
He leaned back, letting the wolves circle him like living shadows, watching. “Better they blame the gods than me,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Elara finally allowed herself a small smile. “And yet, if you keep them alive, perhaps one day they’ll remember the truth. One day, maybe Colkeeth will remember the world as it should be.”
Nekira’s hood fell slightly forward as he looked up at the sky above the rooftops, streaked with twilight. “Perhaps,” he said, voice soft. “But one step at a time.”
The courtyard was quiet then, save for the faint shuffle of feet and the low rumble of the oxen. Outside, the city remained tense, watching shadows and whispers — but within, for a fleeting moment, two travellers could breathe.
The caravan had settled into the courtyard, but the city’s tension had not lifted. Merchants and travellers alike tried to hawk their goods, but every time someone approached, the guards seemed to appear out of nowhere, questioning weights, inspecting wares, or simply glaring until the buyer slunk back into the shadows. Coins stayed tucked in pockets, and faces remained downcast, eyes darting nervously toward the walls.
Elara’s hands tightened on her cloak. “Fools,” she muttered. “They’d rather starve than spend a coin in Thomaz’s port.”
Nekira leaned on his staff, watching the scene with a half-smile under his hood. Then, as if on impulse, he straightened, adjusted the limp slightly for effect, and gave a dramatic groan, pretending to stumble. He lifted a small basket of apples with exaggerated care, shifting it from hand to hand.
“Ah! Careful now, careful,” he muttered loudly, giving the impression of a man battling both the street and his own body. The crowd paused, curious, peeking from shutters and doorways.
A traveller tossed him a spoon; a child handed him an orange. Another merchant rolled a small bowl his way. Nekira caught each object with clumsy grace, pretending the limp made him struggle, spinning around, hopping on one foot, and juggling all of it at once. Apples bounced off his head, the spoon twirled perilously, and the bowl teetered before he “saved” it in a flourish.
“Careful, careful! Don’t want to break the fruit, or the spoons!” he called, voice rising with mock panic. He lurched toward the guards, arms flailing, as if he might topple over any moment.
The citizens laughed — hesitant at first, then louder, the sound spilling into the narrow street. Children giggled, pointing at the “clumsy cripple,” and adults leaned from windows to catch the next misstep. Even some of the merchant travellers began tossing random items toward him, shouting encouragement, clapping as he caught and tossed them back with exaggerated flair.
Meanwhile, Nekira’s eyes never stopped moving. He took in the guards’ positions, noting which ones were flustered, which had their spears too close to the wagons, which were distracted by the rising laughter. He mentally traced their patrol routes, their blind spots, and the angles from which the archers might fire — storing it all away for later.
“Ah! Aha! The fruit’s revolting!” he cried, pretending an apple had “attacked” his staff, spinning in a mock duel with the orange. “No! Not the bowl! The bowl is my mother’s favourite!”
The crowd erupted, laughter rolling from shutters, doorways, and rooftops alike. Even the wolves at his side seemed to perk up, sensing the lighter energy in the square.
Elara leaned against her wagon, watching with a mix of amusement and quiet admiration. She whispered to herself, “Never thought I’d see a man turn a limp and a basket into a weapon against fear.”
Nekira dipped in a final, theatrical bow, sending a spoon spinning into the air. He caught it with a wink, limping toward a pile of crates, bowing once more, the laughter swelling like a wave. Then he stepped back, letting the crowd’s attention linger on him instead of the caravan’s wares.
A few coins clinked into waiting hands. A baker dared to pass a loaf of bread to a nearby child. Small gestures of normalcy began to spread.
Nekira straightened slightly, still limping for effect, and whispered under his breath, noting every twitch of a guard’s hand, every glance toward a shadowed alley, every distracted arch of a brow. Good. This was exactly the moment he needed: attention on him, eyes off the travellers, and the city’s fear softened into amusement — just enough to breathe without danger.
He gave the crowd a final, exaggerated stumble and wink. “And that, dear friends, is why you always watch where you step!”
The laughter carried on as the caravan moved slightly deeper into the courtyard, goods beginning to sell at last, while Nekira’s mind quietly catalogued the city, its people, and the tyranny that had caged them.
From the edge of the square, a guard’s eyes narrowed. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, but his gaze was on Nekira — on the way the crowd had shifted, drawn like moths to the chaos he created.
The laughter was growing bold. Too bold, Nekira realised. The guard started pushing through the crowd, moving toward him with heavy, measured steps. The fun needed a new twist, and fast.
As Nekira “stumbled,” he let his limp carry him forward, pretending to lose balance. The guard, frowning, reached down toward the staff in his hands, attempting to knock it away.
Nekira’s eyes flicked up at him. In one fluid motion, he hopped on his good leg, spinning the staff across his body. It twirled like a baton, then — with a deliberately theatrical flop — tapped the guard gently on the head. The staff made a soft bonk, and Nekira fell back in mock surprise, clutching his chest.
The crowd erupted. Children shrieked with laughter, adults chuckled, and even some of the nearby merchants doubled over. The guard froze, blinking in shock, then swatted at the staff as if it were alive. Nekira hopped again, twirling it like a top, sending it bouncing harmlessly between him and the guard, each “strike” exaggerated for comedic effect.
“Elbows, knees, and careful hands!” he cried dramatically. “Always respect your weapons, friends, even when they rebel against you!”
The guard finally stomped back, red-faced, hand on his helmet, muttering curses under his breath, embarrassed by the spectacle. The crowd cheered even louder at Nekira’s antics, and the laughter became a shield, hiding the caravan from scrutiny for the moment.
Nekira used the brief pause to glance around, taking mental notes of guard positions, reactions, and blind spots. Each tilt of a head, each distracted glance, was a map forming in his mind.
Elara, leaning against her wagon, whispered under her breath, “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were a trained jester.”
Nekira gave a small bow, winking beneath his hood. “Sometimes, the best weapon is a smile,” he murmured, and the crowd roared again.
Coins jingled into waiting hands. Apples, oranges, and small bowls were exchanged, bartered, and even gifted to children who clapped in delight. The caravan’s goods began to sell — not as much as hoped, but enough to lighten spirits, and more importantly, enough to keep the guards’ attention fixed on the spectacle rather than the travellers.
Nekira straightened, resting on his staff with a final exaggerated limp, letting the laughter settle like a protective blanket over the courtyard. The guard muttered something about “reckless fools” and backed toward the gate, eyes wary, while Nekira silently catalogued every movement, storing it all for later.
The city remained tense, but for a few fleeting minutes, the fear had lifted — replaced with laughter, chaos, and the subtle knowledge that someone had outwitted the guards without spilling a drop of blood.
Nekira gently motioned for Elara to follow him, moving to the shadowed side of the courtyard where the laughter and chatter from the market seemed distant, muted. He leaned close, voice a whisper meant for her alone.
“Elara Nottingham.”
Her eyes widened, a flicker of disbelief crossing her face. She hadn’t spoken her full name aloud to anyone in nearly forty years.
Nekira’s gaze was steady, calm, but beneath it lay a sharp intensity. “Thank you for letting me travel with you, thank you for your hospitality… but this is where I take my leave.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Elara’s lips, but there was a shadow behind it. “You remind me of someone,” she murmured, voice low. “Julia… She was under Thomaz’s command. He’d force her to entertain male guests — in the most disgusting and demoralising ways — yet she somehow… remained positive. A breath of fresh air. Last I heard, she was pregnant. No one knew who the father was, and then… she disappeared.”
Nekira’s chest tightened. He knew exactly who Elara spoke of, and it gave him another, darker reason to hate Thomaz. He lifted a finger to his lips, a quiet signal. Elara went silent, her eyes searching his.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice even further. “Shhh… Julia… was my mother.”
For a heartbeat, time seemed to stretch. Their eyes locked, and the weight of the words hung between them. Recognition, shock, and an unspoken connection passed in that shared silence. Elara’s hand twitched slightly, as though reaching to touch something she hadn’t realised she’d lost.
Nekira whistled softly. Myrtle trotted up beside him, gently taking the reins with practiced care. The wolves flanked him like shadows, silent and attentive.
He moved first, deliberately, cautiously, slipping into the narrow alleyways that wound between the buildings. The shadows embraced them, hiding their departure from the market and the eyes of the guards.
Elara watched, as he disappeared into the shadows of the alley’s… She’d just met the son of her best friend, without even knowing until the last second.
Step by careful step, they advanced through the alleys, the sounds of Colkeeth fading behind them. Each corner turned, each shadow crossed, bringing them closer to the southwest exit of the city.
Chapter 5: Travellers
Nekira stepped out from the burnt forest, the last curls of smoke rising behind him like ghosts. The air ahead was clearer, the scent of sap and soil replacing the bitter sting of ash. Across the road stretched a caravan — wagons, carts, oxen, and weary feet all winding down the dirt path like a living river.
He looked left, where the line began near the distant trees, then right, where it vanished into the horizon.
A woman driving an ox-drawn carriage caught his gaze. Her posture was steady, her face lined but kind.
“Where you headed, young’en?” she called out over the clatter of hooves.
“Knebworth!” Nekira replied.
“Then you’ll want to pass through Colkeeth first,” she said. “That’s where we’re bound. You can ride along, if you don’t mind keepin’ pace with slow folk.”
Nekira smiled faintly and nudged Myrtle forward, falling in beside her wagon. The wolves padded along his left, their movements fluid, their eyes sharp.
After a few moments, he asked, “Where are you all from?”
The woman chuckled softly. “Everywhere, I suppose. Humans, humarfs, dwarves, elves strong — a patchwork of wanderers. We’ve made our own kind of home on the road. Safer than standing still these days.”
“A rare sight,” Nekira said. “Especially when the ones in power seem set on turning us against one another.”
She nodded. “Jealousy’s a poison that never stops spreading. But it wasn’t always this way. Back in the times of Braiden and Zeindaryss, things were different. Folk say those were the Golden Years.”
Nekira’s grip on Myrtle’s reins tightened ever so slightly. He knew those names as one knows an old prayer. Braiden — the first of the riders, the elf who had bridged the space between dragon and mortal. And Zeindaryss — the purple-scaled peacekeeper, whose wings had once cast shade over burning cities to calm the fighting below.
He’d learned the tales from elves who remembered, and from dwarves who had forged the armour Braiden wore. But hearing the name spoken here, by an old woman guiding an ox cart down a dusty road, carried a weight the songs never did.
“What were they like to you?” he asked. “Those Golden Years?”
Her expression softened, her eyes distant but clear. “They were years of quiet courage, from what I was told. You could see Zeindaryss flyin’ above the valleys sometimes — folk said his shadow brought calm, that even beasts would settle when he passed. Braiden was the kind who’d stop in a village burned to cinders and help rebuild it stone by stone. He didn’t command peace; he lived it. And people followed that.”
Nekira’s throat tightened. He had read those same deeds carved into wood in Caa Alora, but the way she spoke of them — plain, reverent, human — stripped away the grandeur and left only truth.
He thought of his own dragon, of the weight of the bond they shared. The endless expectation that came with carrying such a legacy. The dragons called Braiden the Bridge Between Hearts — a title no rider since had truly earned.
“It sounds like a world worth remembering,” he murmured.
“Aye,” she said. “But memory’s not enough, is it? We have to build what we miss, even if it’s smaller than before.”
Nekira nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon. For the first time in many days, he felt a flicker of warmth amid the ash — not from fire, but from something far older: hope.
The caravan rolled on, and the setting sun turned the road to gold.
Elara’s gaze flicked toward Nekira, sharp even beneath her calm. The hood of his cloak cast his face in shadow, and the wolves at his side drew wary glances from those nearest the wagon. Their paws made no sound on the road, but their presence carried weight.
“What of you, Wolf-friend?” Elara asked at last, her tone more curious than suspicious. “If you don’t mind me askin’, what race claims you?”
Nekira smiled faintly beneath the hood. “Me? I’m human… and elf,” he said simply.
Elara raised a brow, the corner of her mouth turning up just a little. “A rare pairing, that. You’d be welcome among this caravan — we’ve room for all who keep peace at their side.”
Nekira inclined his head in quiet thanks, the ghost of a smile still playing on his lips.
The road curved ahead, and through the thinning trees rose the stone walls of Colkeeth — tall and grey against the copper sky. The portcullis hung half-drawn, and soldiers stood at the gate, spears crossed like teeth. The hum of the caravan faded to murmurs. People began slowing their pace, exchanging uneasy glances.
Elara pulled gently on the reins, bringing her oxen to a stop. “Trouble at the gate,” she muttered, climbing down from her seat with surprising ease for someone her age. Her cloak brushed the dust from her boots as she turned to Nekira.
“My name is Elara,” she said quietly. “If the soldiers ask, you’re my grandson. They don’t ask as many questions of families.”
Nekira nodded once, pulling back his hood just enough to let a lock of dark hair catch the light. “Understood.”
He dismounted from Myrtle and walked beside Elara toward the front of the caravan. The wolves followed close, low to the ground, their eyes scanning the soldiers ahead. The clang of the gate echoed through the valley as they approached, the smell of oil and iron heavy on the air.
The guards watched the approaching caravan with narrowed eyes — not hostile yet, but cautious, the kind of caution that came from orders rather than instinct.
Elara’s hand brushed his arm, a small but deliberate gesture. “Let me do the talkin’,” she murmured.
Nekira nodded again, silently measuring the distance between himself, the soldiers, and the walls. The wind carried faint voices from within Colkeeth — shouts, orders, something that sounded like fear. Whatever waited beyond the gate, peace did not live there tonight.
His hand rested on his newly carved staff. He let a limp creep into his step, the kind that made him look more like a weary traveller than a warrior.
Elara noticed, of course. Her eyes missed little. But she said nothing — only gave the smallest nod, the kind shared between those who’ve learned to survive by pretending not to be what they are.
The caravan slowed as the walls of Colkeeth rose before them, grey stone and timber towers lit by the dull glow of watch fires. The portcullis hung halfway down, its teeth glinting like a trap’s edge. At the gate, two soldiers stood with spears crossed, faces set in that careful blankness born of fear and duty.
“State your business,” the older of the two barked.
Elara stepped forward, voice calm but clear. “Travellers from the southern road. We’ve come seeking rest, trade, and food for our beasts. Nothing more.”
The guard’s gaze swept the caravan, lingering on the wolves padding silently near Nekira, then flicking back to Elara. “You’ll wait here until inspection. Orders from King Thomaz’s office. No outsiders admitted without clearance.”
Her brow creased slightly. “Since when does Colkeeth turn away travellers? I’ve come through this port a dozen times these past years.”
“Since dragons started circling the northern ridges,” the soldier replied. “And since the elves and dwarves started stirring trouble. There’ve been sightings — strange wings in the clouds, foreign banners in the woods.” His voice hardened. “Thomaz says they mean to strike at the coast.”
Nekira’s stomach tightened. Lies. Thomaz’s kind always ruled through them — twist the truth, sow fear, and watch good men become tools.
While Elara reasoned gently with the guard, Nekira let his gaze wander, careful not to seem too curious. The city’s walls bore hastily mortared repairs, fresh stakes planted beyond the ditch. Oil pots lined the ramparts, and archers paced above like caged hawks. Colkeeth wasn’t preparing for an invasion; it was bracing against a phantom, one the tyrant himself had conjured.
“King Thomaz looks to protect his people,” the younger guard said, almost as if convincing himself. “You’ll understand we can’t risk letting the wrong sort through.”
Elara’s tone never wavered. “We’ve no quarrel with the crown or the coast, lad. Just families lookin’ for a night’s peace and a dry bed. You’d turn a grandmother and her grandson away?”
The younger one hesitated. The older scowled, but his grip faltered just enough.
Nekira shifted his staff, bowing his head as though tired. “We’ll submit to inspection,” he murmured softly, his accent carefully muted. “We’ve nothing to hide.”
Elara glanced at him — the smallest flicker of approval in her eyes — then turned back to the guards. “My name’s Elara,” she said, “and this here’s my grandson. He’s not well on his feet. You can search us, but I’ll not have him waitin’ in the cold while you check every cart.”
The older guard exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. “Fine. You two may pass with the first wagon. The rest’ll be examined in turn.”
As the portcullis creaked upward, Nekira and Elara stepped forward. The chains clattered overhead like a warning. Beyond the gate, he could see torchlight flickering against banners marked with Thomaz’s crest — the black crown over red flame.
Elara leaned toward him, her voice low and steady. “Keep that limp, lad,” she whispered. “Folk here’ve been taught to fear what they don’t know. You show too much of yourself, they’ll call you enemy before you can draw breath.”
Nekira gave a small nod, eyes scanning the battlements as they crossed beneath the gate. The city beyond smelled of salt and smoke — and the kind of silence that lives under watchful eyes.
Whatever waited in Colkeeth, it wasn’t safety. It was the shadow of Thomaz’s lie, alive and whispering behind every shuttered window.
The portcullis groaned as it rose, each rattle of the chains echoing down the narrow road. The oxen snorted, uneasy at the metallic noise. As Nekira and Elara stepped through the archway, a chill washed over him, the kind that had nothing to do with the wind.
The guards on the wall watched their every step. Archers stood ready, bows half-drawn — not in open threat, but out of habit. Fear had become routine here.
Colkeeth’s main street stretched before them, stone-paved and uneven, lined with tall houses of timber and plaster. Their shutters were closed though the hour was still early; chimneys smoked, but no one lingered in the doorways. The usual port-town chaos — hawkers, beggars, music from taverns — was gone. Only the sound of boots and the faint creak of wagons broke the air.
The rest of the caravan waited outside while the guards began their inspection. One by one, the wagons rolled forward under the scrutiny of Thomaz’s men. Barrels were opened, crates pried apart, even bundles of clothing prodded with spear tips. A young elf girl tried to peek over a cart’s side, and a soldier barked for her to sit down. Her mother pulled her close, eyes downcast.
“Searchin’ for dragons in the bedding, are they?” Elara muttered dryly under her breath.
Nekira hid a smirk behind his hood, but his eyes were restless. He could feel the tension — the way conversations dropped when soldiers passed, how even the dogs kept to the shadows. This wasn’t a city defending itself; it was one policing its own heartbeat.
They walked slowly toward the square where the caravan would be directed to unload. Banners bearing the black crown and red flame of Thomaz fluttered from the rooftops, their fabric stiff with salt and grime. The crest had replaced the old sigil of Colkeeth — a silver wave beneath a rising sun — now defaced and painted over.
Nekira’s gaze lingered on it. Even the light’s been claimed.
As they reached the square, Elara stopped to steady him, keeping up their ruse. “Lean heavier,” she murmured. “They’ll believe the limp if it looks painful.”
He obeyed, shifting more weight onto the staff. The act drew a sympathetic look from a nearby merchant woman — brief, furtive — before she turned away quickly, pretending to adjust her stall.
The guards continued their inspections down the line. One of them overturned a crate of produce, spilling apples into the dirt. Another demanded papers from a dwarven trader, his tone sharp enough to draw murmurs from those waiting. Nekira’s jaw tightened, but Elara’s hand found his arm — a silent warning to hold his peace.
“They’re lookin’ for enemies, not goods,” she whispered. “Thomaz’s words have poisoned the wind itself. Folk here believe elves plot rebellion, dwarves hoard weapons, dragons spy from the skies. None dare say otherwise.”
Nekira’s eyes lifted instinctively to the horizon beyond the walls. The sky was streaked with fading red — no dragons, no wings, only the long dark of coming night. Still, he could sense the faint pulse of something out there. Not dragons, not yet — but watchers. Tyrants always had watchers.
“Fear’s the easiest spell to cast,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Elara gave him a sideways glance. “And the hardest to break.”
At that moment, a shout went up from the gate. One of the guards had found something in a wagon farther back — a carved amulet, elven-made. The soldiers’ voices rose, harsh and accusing. The air in the square thickened; people tensed, some clutching children close.
Elara’s face tightened. “Stay close, lad,” she said quietly, her tone still calm but her eyes sharp. “Whatever happens, remember — you’re just my grandson. A limp and a tired smile, nothin’ more.”
Nekira nodded, his fingers brushing the smooth ashwood of his staff. But beneath the facade, his pulse had shifted — slow, deliberate, waiting.
The wolves, sensing his tension, sat at his sides, ears pricked toward the commotion at the gate.
The square had gone still but for the murmuring of the guards. The amulet hung from a mailed hand, swinging in the light.
“Elf craft,” said one soldier, his voice full of suspicion. “Banned by order of Thomaz.”
The wagon driver, a squat dwarf with calloused hands, tried to speak, but his voice broke under the weight of the stares. The amulet gleamed harmlessly, its silver etching catching the sun.
Elara’s brow furrowed. “A trinket of safe passage,” she muttered under her breath. “Nothing more than an old custom.”
Nekira stood still beside her, the wolves flanking him like quiet shadows. He reached out sending a single thread of awareness toward the amulet.
The air hummed faintly as his mind brushed the metal. No magic. No life. Just worn silver, charged only with memory.
He let the thread recoil silently. They’ll destroy him over a charm.
The captain of the guard appeared next, tall and red-faced, his armour oiled to a shine that didn’t fit the grime of Colkeeth’s streets. He snatched the amulet and inspected it with a sneer.
“Elvish make,” he said. “Contraband. Confiscate it. Detain the owner.”
The crowd’s collective breath tightened. Elara’s hand twitched at her side, but Nekira was already scanning beyond the man, eyes rising to the ramparts.
Clay pots of pitch lined the wall. Two soldiers wrestled one across a beam, its surface glossy and heavy. Nekira’s attention settled on one pot near the corner — he could see it clearly from where he stood, and through it, a flaw. A thin crack spidering across its base.
He whispered a few words under his breath, quiet as wind brushing grass — syllables from a language that no human ear had heard in centuries. Even Elara, standing within arm’s reach, heard nothing but the faint creak of wagon wheels.
The crack deepened.
A heartbeat later, the pot gave way.
Pitch exploded over the ramparts in a sticky rain, dark and reeking, soldiers shouting and cursing as it splattered across the stones.
The captain spun around, roaring. “For the gods’ sake! Do I have to teach you how to carry a pot?”
The moment stretched — guards distracted, eyes pulled upward.
Elara didn’t miss a beat. She folded her arms, voice smooth and steady. “Seems the gods have better things to inspect than a few harmless travellers.”
The captain turned, lip curling. He shoved the amulet into his belt. “Confiscated,” he barked. “Now piss off before I change my mind.”
He stalked away, shouting orders up the wall, the echo of his curses fading into the noise of the ramparts.
The line began to move again. Elara stepped forward with the oxen, her chin lifted, her expression calm but tight. Nekira followed at her side, leaning on his staff as though the limp was his only burden.
She glanced at him once as they passed beneath the gate, her look half gratitude, half suspicion. Whatever she thought she’d seen, she said nothing.
Behind them, the soldiers were still trying to mop the pitch from the wall, muttering about bad luck and omens.
Nekira’s mouth twitched faintly beneath his hood. Let them blame the gods, he thought. They’ll never think to blame a whisper.
The caravan began its slow crawl through Colkeeth’s streets. The buildings were tall and close, their shutters tightly closed. Even those doors left slightly ajar revealed only cautious eyes, peering from shadow. Whispers passed along the rooftops as children pressed their faces to the gaps. Dogs barked nervously behind barred gates. Every glance from a window or doorway carried fear, suspicion, the faint edge of rumour.
Elara guided the oxen with calm efficiency, speaking softly to each driver and traveller. “Keep steady,” she murmured, “and don’t draw attention. Walk like you belong, not like you’re escaping.”
Nekira followed, staff in hand, the limp in his gait convincing. The wolves stayed close at his left side, their steps silent, their ears flicking at every unusual sound. He felt the city’s pulse — not just fear, but a tangle of obedience and superstition woven through every cobblestone. Thomaz had planted terror so deep that even a small, ordinary wagon could be mistaken for an army.
A merchant tried to step out with a basket of fruit. The nearest guard barked sharply, and the man ducked back into the shadow of his doorway, cheeks burning. A child dropped a wooden toy as the caravan rumbled past. Nekira noticed every movement, every nervous glance, his own calm a mask over the tension coiling in his chest.
They reached a small courtyard where the caravan could rest and unload. Elara guided the wagons to a quiet corner, away from the main square. The oxen were tethered, and supplies stacked carefully, all while eyes still darted toward the streets and rooftops.
Once the immediate crowd and guards were at a safe distance, Elara finally leaned against the side of her wagon and let herself exhale. “Not so bad,” she murmured, though her shoulders were still tense. “For Colkeeth, at least. The rest of them are still frightened of shadows.”
Nekira sank to a low squat beside the wolves, letting the staff rest across his knees. “Fear is thicker than smoke here,” he said quietly. “Thomaz has planted it like weeds. It’ll take more than kindness to pull it out.”
Elara’s eyes softened, and she glanced at him under the rim of his hood. “You see things, don’t you?” she asked gently.
He inclined his head slightly. “I notice patterns,” he said, careful. “The guards, the people… they’re all afraid of the wrong enemy. They’ve been told what to fear.”
She nodded slowly. “Aye. They’ll tell themselves stories to keep from seeing the truth. And it keeps Thomaz safe in his tower, doesn’t it?”
Nekira’s gaze fell to his staff. “Yes. Safe, for now. But fear like this is fragile — and easily misdirected. One wrong spark, one mistake, and it can burn the city from within.”
Elara’s voice dropped, almost a whisper. “You… you’re not like the rest of us, are you? Not just a traveller. I can see it in your eyes — you carry more than a staff or a limp.”
Nekira allowed a shadow of a smile beneath his hood. “I carry what’s necessary,” he said simply, letting the words hang. “Nothing more, nothing less. People here only need to believe what they see.”
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, almost reluctantly, she gave a nod of approval. “Aye. Then keep it that way. You’ve done enough today. If Thomaz’s soldiers had seen the truth of you…” She let the thought trail off, her meaning clear.
He leaned back, letting the wolves circle him like living shadows, watching. “Better they blame the gods than me,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Elara finally allowed herself a small smile. “And yet, if you keep them alive, perhaps one day they’ll remember the truth. One day, maybe Colkeeth will remember the world as it should be.”
Nekira’s hood fell slightly forward as he looked up at the sky above the rooftops, streaked with twilight. “Perhaps,” he said, voice soft. “But one step at a time.”
The courtyard was quiet then, save for the faint shuffle of feet and the low rumble of the oxen. Outside, the city remained tense, watching shadows and whispers — but within, for a fleeting moment, two travellers could breathe.
The caravan had settled into the courtyard, but the city’s tension had not lifted. Merchants and travellers alike tried to hawk their goods, but every time someone approached, the guards seemed to appear out of nowhere, questioning weights, inspecting wares, or simply glaring until the buyer slunk back into the shadows. Coins stayed tucked in pockets, and faces remained downcast, eyes darting nervously toward the walls.
Elara’s hands tightened on her cloak. “Fools,” she muttered. “They’d rather starve than spend a coin in Thomaz’s port.”
Nekira leaned on his staff, watching the scene with a half-smile under his hood. Then, as if on impulse, he straightened, adjusted the limp slightly for effect, and gave a dramatic groan, pretending to stumble. He lifted a small basket of apples with exaggerated care, shifting it from hand to hand.
“Ah! Careful now, careful,” he muttered loudly, giving the impression of a man battling both the street and his own body. The crowd paused, curious, peeking from shutters and doorways.
A traveller tossed him a spoon; a child handed him an orange. Another merchant rolled a small bowl his way. Nekira caught each object with clumsy grace, pretending the limp made him struggle, spinning around, hopping on one foot, and juggling all of it at once. Apples bounced off his head, the spoon twirled perilously, and the bowl teetered before he “saved” it in a flourish.
“Careful, careful! Don’t want to break the fruit, or the spoons!” he called, voice rising with mock panic. He lurched toward the guards, arms flailing, as if he might topple over any moment.
The citizens laughed — hesitant at first, then louder, the sound spilling into the narrow street. Children giggled, pointing at the “clumsy cripple,” and adults leaned from windows to catch the next misstep. Even some of the merchant travellers began tossing random items toward him, shouting encouragement, clapping as he caught and tossed them back with exaggerated flair.
Meanwhile, Nekira’s eyes never stopped moving. He took in the guards’ positions, noting which ones were flustered, which had their spears too close to the wagons, which were distracted by the rising laughter. He mentally traced their patrol routes, their blind spots, and the angles from which the archers might fire — storing it all away for later.
“Ah! Aha! The fruit’s revolting!” he cried, pretending an apple had “attacked” his staff, spinning in a mock duel with the orange. “No! Not the bowl! The bowl is my mother’s favourite!”
The crowd erupted, laughter rolling from shutters, doorways, and rooftops alike. Even the wolves at his side seemed to perk up, sensing the lighter energy in the square.
Elara leaned against her wagon, watching with a mix of amusement and quiet admiration. She whispered to herself, “Never thought I’d see a man turn a limp and a basket into a weapon against fear.”
Nekira dipped in a final, theatrical bow, sending a spoon spinning into the air. He caught it with a wink, limping toward a pile of crates, bowing once more, the laughter swelling like a wave. Then he stepped back, letting the crowd’s attention linger on him instead of the caravan’s wares.
A few coins clinked into waiting hands. A baker dared to pass a loaf of bread to a nearby child. Small gestures of normalcy began to spread.
Nekira straightened slightly, still limping for effect, and whispered under his breath, noting every twitch of a guard’s hand, every glance toward a shadowed alley, every distracted arch of a brow. Good. This was exactly the moment he needed: attention on him, eyes off the travellers, and the city’s fear softened into amusement — just enough to breathe without danger.
He gave the crowd a final, exaggerated stumble and wink. “And that, dear friends, is why you always watch where you step!”
The laughter carried on as the caravan moved slightly deeper into the courtyard, goods beginning to sell at last, while Nekira’s mind quietly catalogued the city, its people, and the tyranny that had caged them.
From the edge of the square, a guard’s eyes narrowed. His hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, but his gaze was on Nekira — on the way the crowd had shifted, drawn like moths to the chaos he created.
The laughter was growing bold. Too bold, Nekira realised. The guard started pushing through the crowd, moving toward him with heavy, measured steps. The fun needed a new twist, and fast.
As Nekira “stumbled,” he let his limp carry him forward, pretending to lose balance. The guard, frowning, reached down toward the staff in his hands, attempting to knock it away.
Nekira’s eyes flicked up at him. In one fluid motion, he hopped on his good leg, spinning the staff across his body. It twirled like a baton, then — with a deliberately theatrical flop — tapped the guard gently on the head. The staff made a soft bonk, and Nekira fell back in mock surprise, clutching his chest.
The crowd erupted. Children shrieked with laughter, adults chuckled, and even some of the nearby merchants doubled over. The guard froze, blinking in shock, then swatted at the staff as if it were alive. Nekira hopped again, twirling it like a top, sending it bouncing harmlessly between him and the guard, each “strike” exaggerated for comedic effect.
“Elbows, knees, and careful hands!” he cried dramatically. “Always respect your weapons, friends, even when they rebel against you!”
The guard finally stomped back, red-faced, hand on his helmet, muttering curses under his breath, embarrassed by the spectacle. The crowd cheered even louder at Nekira’s antics, and the laughter became a shield, hiding the caravan from scrutiny for the moment.
Nekira used the brief pause to glance around, taking mental notes of guard positions, reactions, and blind spots. Each tilt of a head, each distracted glance, was a map forming in his mind.
Elara, leaning against her wagon, whispered under her breath, “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were a trained jester.”
Nekira gave a small bow, winking beneath his hood. “Sometimes, the best weapon is a smile,” he murmured, and the crowd roared again.
Coins jingled into waiting hands. Apples, oranges, and small bowls were exchanged, bartered, and even gifted to children who clapped in delight. The caravan’s goods began to sell — not as much as hoped, but enough to lighten spirits, and more importantly, enough to keep the guards’ attention fixed on the spectacle rather than the travellers.
Nekira straightened, resting on his staff with a final exaggerated limp, letting the laughter settle like a protective blanket over the courtyard. The guard muttered something about “reckless fools” and backed toward the gate, eyes wary, while Nekira silently catalogued every movement, storing it all for later.
The city remained tense, but for a few fleeting minutes, the fear had lifted — replaced with laughter, chaos, and the subtle knowledge that someone had outwitted the guards without spilling a drop of blood.
Nekira gently motioned for Elara to follow him, moving to the shadowed side of the courtyard where the laughter and chatter from the market seemed distant, muted. He leaned close, voice a whisper meant for her alone.
“Elara Nottingham.”
Her eyes widened, a flicker of disbelief crossing her face. She hadn’t spoken her full name aloud to anyone in nearly forty years.
Nekira’s gaze was steady, calm, but beneath it lay a sharp intensity. “Thank you for letting me travel with you, thank you for your hospitality… but this is where I take my leave.”
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Elara’s lips, but there was a shadow behind it. “You remind me of someone,” she murmured, voice low. “Julia… She was under Thomaz’s command. He’d force her to entertain male guests — in the most disgusting and demoralising ways — yet she somehow… remained positive. A breath of fresh air. Last I heard, she was pregnant. No one knew who the father was, and then… she disappeared.”
Nekira’s chest tightened. He knew exactly who Elara spoke of, and it gave him another, darker reason to hate Thomaz. He lifted a finger to his lips, a quiet signal. Elara went silent, her eyes searching his.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice even further. “Shhh… Julia… was my mother.”
For a heartbeat, time seemed to stretch. Their eyes locked, and the weight of the words hung between them. Recognition, shock, and an unspoken connection passed in that shared silence. Elara’s hand twitched slightly, as though reaching to touch something she hadn’t realised she’d lost.
Nekira whistled softly. Myrtle trotted up beside him, gently taking the reins with practiced care. The wolves flanked him like shadows, silent and attentive.
He moved first, deliberately, cautiously, slipping into the narrow alleyways that wound between the buildings. The shadows embraced them, hiding their departure from the market and the eyes of the guards.
Elara watched, as he disappeared into the shadows of the alley’s… She’d just met the son of her best friend, without even knowing until the last second.
Step by careful step, they advanced through the alleys, the sounds of Colkeeth fading behind them. Each corner turned, each shadow crossed, bringing them closer to the southwest exit of the city.
The Journey, Book 3: Chapter 6
Chapter 6: Unseen. The southwest road from Colkeeth wound like a lazy serpent through the valley, dust rising in golden clouds beneath Myrtle’s hooves. Nekira had been riding since dawn; the day’s heat now slipped away as the sun began its slow descent behind the dark hills. The sky burned with...
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