Anemoi 6 – Aparchi 31, Imperial Year 1645
The Eastern Road – Verdon to Luminara
Seventy‑five days. That was what the map promised. Seventy‑five days from Verdon to Luminara, if the weather held and the horse did not lame itself and the bandits stayed in their holes. Bastien had made the journey twice before. He did not look forward to it.
He left at dawn. The sky was grey, the same grey as his scarf. The blonde strands of his hood hung still. He wore his flat gold armor, the crimson tabard, the wolf fur cloak. The longsword hung at his hip. A sack of provisions was tied behind the saddle. A waterskin. A bedroll. A purse with enough silver for the road.
Lord Armand had not come to see him off. He had only said, "Luminara is not Verdon. Watch yourself."
Bastien had nodded. He did not ask what Armand meant. He knew.
Anemoi 6 – Anemoi 15
The first ten days were uneventful. The road was well‑kept, lined with oak and ash. Farmers waved as he passed. Children stared at his armor. He did not wave back. The villages smelled of woodsmoke and manure, of fresh bread and old sweat.
He stopped at inns each night. The innkeepers asked no questions. They took his silver and brought him bread and stew. He ate alone, his helm on the bench beside him, his longsword propped against the wall. The other travelers glanced at him, then looked away.
On the third night, a merchant tried to strike up a conversation.
"That's real gold?" the merchant asked, nodding at the armor.
"No."
"What is it, then?"
"None of your concern."
The merchant laughed nervously and moved to another table. Bastien finished his stew and went to his room. He did not sleep well. He never slept well on the road.
On the seventh night, the innkeeper's daughter brought him his meal. She was young, maybe sixteen, with dark hair and quick hands. She set the bowl down and lingered.
"Are you a knight?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Have you killed anyone?"
Bastien looked at her. "Yes."
She did not flinch. "Did they deserve it?"
"That is not for me to say."
She frowned, then left. Bastien ate his stew. He did not think about her question.
Anemoi 16 – Anemoi 25
By the second ten‑day, the road had narrowed. The villages were smaller, farther apart. The forest pressed closer. The air smelled of pine and damp earth. The blonde strands of his hood brushed against the helmet's ceramic surface with each step of the horse.
On the fourteenth day, he passed a cart broken on the roadside. A family stood beside it—a father, a mother, two young children. The father was trying to fix the wheel. The mother was trying to calm the children. The younger child, a boy of perhaps four, was crying.
Bastien stopped. The horse stamped.
"Do you need help?"
The father looked up, startled. His eyes moved to the gold armor, the helmet, the longsword. He swallowed.
"We… the axle cracked. We have no spare."
Bastien dismounted. He examined the axle. The crack ran deep. It would not hold.
"There is a village two miles back. They have a smith."
"We can't leave the cart."
"I will watch it."
The father hesitated. The mother put a hand on his arm. "He's a knight," she whispered. "He won't steal from us."
The father nodded. He took the children and walked back down the road. The mother stayed. She sat on a rock, her hands folded in her lap. Bastien sat on another rock. He did not speak. The mother did not either. The only sounds were the wind and the crying of the boy, fading into the distance.
After a while, the mother spoke. "Why do you wear that armor?"
"It protects me."
"The gold?"
"It reminds people that I am expensive."
She almost smiled. "Are you?"
"I am not for sale."
The father returned an hour later with a new axle. He fitted it while Bastien held the cart steady. Sweat dripped from the father's forehead. His hands were calloused, trembling.
When it was done, the father tried to press a few coins into Bastien's hand.
"Keep them," Bastien said.
"But you helped us."
"The road is long. You will need them."
He mounted his horse and rode on. Behind him, the mother called out, "Thank you, sir!" He did not turn.
Anemoi 26 – Anemoi 35
By the third ten‑day, the road had joined a larger trade route. The traffic increased: merchants, pilgrims, soldiers, beggars. The inns were crowded, noisy, smelly. The air was thick with the shouts of hagglers and the lowing of cattle.
Bastien found a corner table at a place called the Crossroads Rest. He ate his stew in silence. The blonde strands of his hood pooled on the bench beside him. The stew was thin, the bread stale, but it was hot.
A woman sat down across from him. She was old, grey‑haired, dressed in the robes of a pilgrim. Her staff was gnarled, her leather satchel worn smooth. She smelled of incense and road dust.
"You're the Golden Knight," she said.
Bastien did not look up.
"I've heard of you. Verdon's guardian. They say you never lose a contract."
"They say many things."
"They say you refuse payment when children are involved."
Bastien's spoon paused. Then he continued eating.
"Is it true?" she asked.
"I do not discuss my contracts."
The woman smiled. It was a tired smile, the smile of someone who had seen too much. "You don't have to. I've seen your kind before. The ones who carry too much. The ones who think they can save everyone."
Bastien set down his spoon. "I do not think that."
"Then why do you refuse payment?"
He looked at her. His face was bare. His eyes were grey, cold, the colour of the river in winter.
"Because the payment is not for me. It is for them."
The woman nodded slowly. She reached across the table and touched his hand. Her fingers were dry, papery.
"You are a strange knight, Bastien of Verdon."
"I am a knight. That is enough."
He finished his stew, paid, and left. The woman watched him go. He did not look back.
Anemoi 36 – Anemoi 45
By the fourth ten‑day, the weather turned. Rain fell for five days straight. The road turned to mud. The horse struggled, its hooves sinking with each step. Bastien's cloak was soaked, the wolf fur heavy and sodden. The blonde strands of his hood clung to his helmet, dripping water down his chest. He did not stop.
On the thirty‑ninth day, he reached a river that had overflowed its banks. The bridge was still standing, but the water lapped at its arches. The current was fast, brown, angry. The sound of it was a low roar that swallowed all other noise.
A group of travelers was gathered on the near side. A merchant with two wagons. A farmer with a cart. A young couple with a baby. The baby was crying. The mother was trying to soothe it, her voice thin and tired.
"We can't cross," the merchant said. "The water is too high."
"The bridge will hold," the farmer argued.
"The bridge will hold. The wagons won't."
Bastien dismounted. He walked to the edge of the water. The current was strong, but the bridge was old stone, well‑built. He had crossed worse.
He turned to the travelers. "I will go first. If I make it, you follow. One at a time. Keep your weight low."
He mounted his horse and rode onto the bridge. The water splashed over the stones, soaking his boots. The horse shied, but he held it steady. Halfway across, a log slammed into the side of the bridge. The impact jarred his teeth. The horse reared. He leaned forward, spoke low to it, and it settled.
He reached the other side. He dismounted and tied his horse to a tree. Then he walked back across the bridge to the travelers.
"The horse will be scared," he told them. "But it will not bolt. Lead it, don't ride. Keep your eyes on the far side."
One by one, they crossed. The merchant's wagons were too heavy; he had to leave one behind. The farmer's cart made it, though the water rose to the axles. The young couple crossed with the baby wrapped in their arms. The baby had stopped crying. It stared at Bastien with wide eyes.
When the last of them was across, Bastien retrieved his horse and rode on. No one thanked him. He did not expect it.
Anemoi 46 – Anemoi 50
By the fifth ten‑day, the road had become dangerous. Bastien heard rumors at an inn: bandits had been stopping travelers at a narrow pass, demanding tolls. Those who refused were beaten. Those who fought were killed. The innkeeper spoke in a low voice, glancing at the door.
"They're bold," he said. "Six of them, maybe seven. Armed with crossbows."
Bastien ate his stew. He did not ask questions.
He reached the pass on the forty‑eighth day. The road narrowed between two steep hills. Trees pressed close. The light was dim. The air smelled of pine and something else—old blood, perhaps, or fear.
Two men blocked the road. They wore leather armor and carried rusty swords. A third man stood behind them, crossbow in hand. The crossbow was aimed at Bastien's chest.
"Toll," said the first bandit. "Ten silver."
Bastien did not stop. He rode toward them.
"I said toll!"
He drew his longsword. The bandit lunged. Bastien parried, reversed his grip, and struck the man's wrist with the pommel. Bone cracked. The sword clattered to the ground. The bandit screamed.
The second bandit charged. Bastien sidestepped, drove the pommel into his temple. He fell without a sound.
The crossbowman fired. Bastien raised his left arm. The bolt struck his vambrace and skidded off the flat gold. The impact jarred his shoulder, but the armor held.
He spurred his horse forward, closed the distance, and pressed the point of his sword against the crossbowman's throat.
"Drop it."
The crossbowman dropped it. His hands were shaking.
Bastien dismounted. He bound the three bandits with their own belts and left them by the side of the road.
"The next travelers will find you," he said. "If you are gone when I return, I will hunt you."
He rode on. He did not look back.
Aparchi 1 – Aparchi 10
By the sixth ten‑day, the road widened. The forest gave way to farmland. The farms gave way to villages. The villages gave way to the outskirts of the city. The smell changed: pine and damp earth became smoke and sewage and baking bread.
He passed a field where a farmer was ploughing. The farmer raised a hand. Bastien nodded. He did not stop.
He passed a roadside shrine to Dike, goddess of justice. The statue was weathered, its face worn smooth. Someone had left a small offering of wildflowers at its feet. Bastien did not pray. He simply looked at the flowers, then rode on.
On the fifty‑fifth day, he came upon a dog lying in the middle of the road. It was old, thin, its ribs showing through patchy fur. Its leg was caught in a trap, the iron teeth deep in the flesh. The dog whimpered.
Bastien dismounted. He knelt. The dog growled, but it did not bite. He worked the trap open with his gloved hands. The dog yelped, then fell silent.
He examined the leg. The bone was not broken, but the wound was deep. He tore a strip from his cloak—the inside, where the fur would not be missed—and bound the leg. The dog licked his hand.
"You will live," he said.
He left it by the side of the road with a piece of bread and a small bowl of water. He did not look back.
Aparchi 11 – Aparchi 20
By the seventh ten‑day, the road was crowded. He passed a wedding procession—a young couple on a cart decorated with flowers, musicians playing pipes and drums. The bride threw petals at the passersby. A few landed on Bastien's cloak. He brushed them off.
He passed a funeral. A group of mourners carried a bier on their shoulders. The body was wrapped in white linen. A woman wept. Bastien dismounted and stood at the side of the road until the procession passed. He did not bow. He simply stood.
He passed a man selling roasted chestnuts. The man offered him a handful. Bastien took one. He ate it while riding.
Aparchi 21 – Aparchi 30
On the seventy‑first day, he saw the walls of Luminara in the distance. They were tall, grey, and old. The sun was setting behind them, painting the stone in shades of orange and blood.
He camped that night outside the city, in a grove of birch trees. He did not light a fire. He sat with his back to a tree, his longsword across his knees, and listened to the sounds of the city: distant shouts, a dog barking, the rumble of wagons on cobblestones.
He thought of the old pilgrim. You are a strange knight. He thought of the family with the broken cart. Thank you, sir. He thought of the baby with the wide eyes. He thought of the dog licking his hand.
He did not sleep well.
Aparchi 31 – The Gates of Luminara
On the seventy‑fifth day, he entered Luminara.
The gates were crowded. Guards checked wagons, questioned travelers, waved others through. The lines were long. Bastien waited in silence. The sun was high. The blonde strands of his hood swayed in the wind.
A guard approached him. "State your business."
"I am a knight. I seek work."
The guard looked at the armor, the helmet, the longsword. "You're not from here."
"No."
"What's your name?"
"Bastien of Verdon."
The guard wrote it down. "The Hunters' Hall is on the east side of the main square. You'll find contracts there."
Bastien nodded. He rode through the gate.
The streets were crowded. Merchants shouted. Children ran. The smell of bread and smoke and sweat filled the air. He had been here before, but never for long.
He found the Hunters' Hall. It was a narrow building squeezed between a tannery and a clothier's shop. Its sign was a simple iron wolf's head, weathered by rain. The tannery smelled of chemicals and rotting flesh. The clothier's shop smelled of wool and lavender. The air in between was a strange mix of both.
He dismounted, tied his horse to a post, and walked to the door.
He paused. His hand rested on the pommel of his longsword.
Then he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
End of Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One