A wild boar is a beast of pure malice and muscle. Ranging from ninety to two hundred kilograms, with a low center of gravity and skin caked in dried pine resin that acts as a natural coat of mail, it is a nightmare of the brush. Its tusks are serrated razors, and a wounded boar does not flee; it retaliates with a frantic, bone-shattering rage. This was a truth King Robert Baratheon held in high regard—and a truth the entire Seven Kingdoms recognized. Noblemen hunted them with packs of hounds, bows, and specialized spears, yet even then, the beast often took a man or a dog with it to the Grave.
Caden Storm had squired for a knight of House Grandison during a great hunt in the Stormlands. He had seen a young boar, bristling with arrows, tear through a line of professional men-at-arms and disembowel a prized hound before finally succumbing to the spear.
The boar facing Caden now made that memory look like a piglet. It was a mountain of black bristle and yellowed tusk. On the human side, there was only Caden with his shield and longsword.
Neither man nor beast wished for a duel to the death. They locked eyes for several long breaths, a tense standoff in the silver moonlight. Finally, the boar seemed to decide the grain was more interesting than the steel and turned to leave.
But at that moment, Rolf and Jasmine stumbled out of the watch-hut. Someone—perhaps the boy—knocked over a stack of firewood leaning against the door. The clatter-thump of the logs tore through the silence.
The boar didn't hesitate. It interpreted the noise as an attack. With a guttural grunt, it lowered its head and charged. Caden barely had time to plant his feet behind his shield. The beast hit like a falling boulder, its tusk hooking upward in a savage arc. The ivory tore through Caden's leather breeches and deep into the meat of his thigh before the boar spun away, vanishing into the darkness of the wheat field.
Caden hit the dirt with a cry of agony. Blood—dark and hot—began to geyser from the wound, soaking into the dry earth.
Jasmine dived to his side, pressing his small hands against the jagged tear. "Ser! Why didn't you wait for us!?"
Caden's face went ash-pale in the moonlight. "Artery... I'm bleeding out, boy," he wheezed. "Take my purse... go home. Open a shop like your father. Kill a few pigs for me... call it vengeance..."
"Master, I only know how to kill tame pigs!" Jasmine sobbed. "I can't kill a monster like that!"
"Doesn't matter..." Caden's voice was fading. "Tie a tame one in the woods... eventually... she'll have wild ones..."
Rolf stepped over, dropping his walking staff. He knelt beside the dying knight and looked at the wound. "Move aside, Jasmine. Let me see."
"Septon, can you save him?" Jasmine cried.
"Bleeding out..." Caden muttered, his eyes rolling back. "Can't be fixed. I've seen men die from less. My head... it's spinning..."
A pool of crimson had already formed beneath Caden's leg. Rolf looked at the carnage with a detached, almost bored expression. "Oh, an arterial spray. A minor problem."
Caden's eyes snapped open in a final spark of indignation. He watched as Rolf raised his hands toward the night sky, whispering a prayer in a tongue that sounded like the crackle of a summer fire.
Suddenly, a blinding golden light erupted from Rolf's palms. Caden felt a spike of pain so intense it eclipsed the boar's tusk—a searing, white-hot itch that seemed to reach into his very marrow. Between the blood loss and the shock of the magic, Caden finally slipped into the dark.
When Caden woke, he was back inside the hut, tucked under his own wool blanket. Rolf and Jasmine were nowhere to be seen, though their packs remained. He lay still, staring at the thatch.
As a sellsword, Caden was no stranger to the cost of steel. He knew that wounds weren't the real killers; it was the "wound-fever" and the rot that followed. Many a brave man had died from a nick received while carving a steak because the blade was foul. He had expected to die the moment the boar struck the "red-river" of his inner thigh.
He reached under the blanket, his fingers trembling as he searched for the jagged hole.
His skin was smooth. Not a scar, not a scab. The hair on his leg was missing in a patch, but the flesh was as healthy as a babe's. He pulled his hand out and stared at the dried, black blood beneath his fingernails.
The door creaked open. Rolf entered, carrying a wooden bowl of steaming porridge. They shared a silent look before Rolf backed out, pulling the door shut. "I'll tell Jasmine to give you a moment," the monk said knowingly.
"No! Wait!" Caden shouted, scrambling to sit up. "Come in! Get in here right now!"
A few minutes later, the three of them sat around a small cooking fire. They had hot grain porridge, a boiled potato each, and a strip of dried meat of uncertain origin.
"If we'd taken that boar," Caden sighed, looking at the meager meat strip, "we'd be eating like kings for a fortnight."
"Aye," Jasmine added, swallowing a mouthful of mash. "We could have sold the hide in the next town for a silver moon at least."
Rolf snorted. "Forget the silver. If a lord caught you selling wild boar, he'd hang you for a poacher. You're lucky it ran."
Caden rubbed the spot where his life had almost drained away. "If the wound were still there, I could have claimed self-defense. Gifted the lord half the meat, and he'd have looked the other way."
The mention of the wound brought a heavy, awkward silence to the hut.
"Septon Rolf," Caden said eventually, his voice thick with confusion. "You are a brother of the Seven, yes?"
Rolf chewed his potato slowly, swallowed, and nodded. "I know the question. I healed you last night. That power is the Grace of the Seven—or rather, the Grace of their source."
"I have never seen a Septon do such a thing," Caden said. "I've never even heard of it in the songs."
"Of course not," Rolf explained. "The corrupt High Septons hide the truth to keep their gold and their soft beds. They've forgotten the Sun, and so the Light has forgotten them. Only those who recognize the Solar Core—the true origin of the Father and the Mother—can call upon the Grace."
Rolf spent the next hour explaining the basics of the "True Faith." He left out the parts about overthowing the lords and church-states, unsure of Caden's loyalties. But for a mercenary, the utility of the magic was enough of an argument. A man with that power at his back is a man who never loses a fair fight, Caden thought.
"How do I get it?" Caden asked bluntly. "How do I become a Sunwalker?"
"You must be a true believer in Anshe," Rolf replied. "And you must live the path. Faith is not a cloak you put on for the cold; it is the skin you wear."
"If I swear my sword to you... if I guard you, can I have the Light?"
Rolf shook his head. "Do not swear to me. Swear to the cause. Men die; the Sun does not. The path is long, Caden. If you wish to learn, I will teach you as we walk. Perhaps one day, you will be a comrade."
Caden nodded, though he felt a pang of discouragement. He remembered his eight years as a squire—cleaning mail, sharpening swords, and hauling water for Ser Nelson just to learn the basics of the blade. If the Light required another eight years of service, he wasn't sure he had enough life left in him.
Two days later, they reached a village of charred stones and thick moss. They took shelter in a gray stone stable, its roof half-gone but sturdier than the other ruins.
"Did the Lannisters do this?" Jasmine asked, brushing Caden's horse.
Rolf pointed to a tree growing through a collapsed wall. "Look at the lichen, boy. No one has lived here for years. This place was put to the torch long ago."
"Who did it?" Caden asked.
"Lord Hoster Tully," Rolf said. He had passed this way before and knew the ghosts of the place. "This was a village of House Goodbrook. When Riverrun declared for Robert Baratheon, old Lord Goodbrook stayed loyal to the Targaryens. Lord Tully brought fire and steel. The war ended, and the new Lord Goodbrook made his peace with the King, but the dead don't care for treaties. The Riverlands are full of these tombs—ruins built by lords who followed the wrong master or just happened to be in the way of a marching host."
The three men fell silent. The rain began to drizzle outside, turning the world gray and damp.
"Let's light a fire," Rolf announced. "The night is dark and full of wet. Very, very wet."
They used old fence posts for wood and dry straw for tinder. Soon, the stable was warm. They boiled a pot of corn bought from a farmer in the last hamlet. As the aroma filled the air, they sat down to eat.
Halfway through the meal, Caden heard a rustle behind them. He stiffened. Another boar?
He grabbed his shield and sword, rushing toward the sound. With a Sunwalker at his back, his courage was a roaring flame. He shoved aside a patch of tall weeds, ready to strike, but stopped dead.
A boy, no older than eight or nine, lay huddled on the ground. He was barefoot, filthy, and staring up at Caden with eyes wide with primal terror.
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