Chương 133: The Warden Captain

Rogan stood at the edge of the Ironbark Training Yard and counted mistakes. That was what most people failed to understand about watching fighters train. A blade's flash could be beautiful, a staff swing could look strong, and green light flaring around a profession skill could make even an awkward strike seem impressive. Rogan's eye moved past all of that. He counted the small things that could become graves when left alone. A shield raised a breath too late or a counter thrown before the body had time to settle.

A young fighter trusting a skill to save them when distance, timing, and patience would have served them better. Twelve wardens drilled under Maude's command, churning the packed earth into dust and old leaf mulch as they moved through the yard in tight, repeated patterns. Sweat darkened collars. Leather creaked against Hearthguard Harness straps. Practice weapons cracked together in uneven bursts, followed by the heavy thud of shields catching blows a heartbeat too late or just in time.

Rogan watched the green cloaks swing behind shoulders as bodies turned, braced, and struck, the faint sharpness of Hearthroot's magic threading through the harsher smells of the training yard. Maude barked the rhythm of the drill, daring anyone to disobey her.

"Hold. Block. Counter." A line of green light flared across the yard. Six fighters received strikes on shield, staff, or blade. Their feet dug into the earth. Hearthroot's magic rose through them in a sudden pulse, green and bright along weapon edges and shield rims. Then they answered. Their counterstrikes hit with more force than muscle had any right to give, driving partners back a step, sometimes two. Greenward Strike.

Rogan had watched the skill appear in every Warden of Hearthroot after the profession unlocked. After blocking, guarding, or holding ground, the next counterstrike gained force. It was practical magic, village magic, the kind of ability that made sense for people sworn to defend its people. It was beautiful. It also made the younger ones overconfident.

"Again," Maude snapped. Her upgraded staff spun through her hands, metal-capped ends catching the morning light.

"If your feet slide, your strike belongs to the mud. Hold first. Then answer." The wardens reset. Rogan's gaze moved across them. Heath held his shield better than last week. His shoulders still climbed too high whenever Maude looked his way, but the flinch had faded. He took the next blow, braced properly, and his counter came late by half a beat, yet steady. Weak green light ran along his practice sword. Stable green light. Rogan appreciated that more than any flashy strike. Steady progress kept people alive.

Tember stood three pairs down, sword in hand, face set in a focus Rogan still struggled to connect with the boy he knew. Tember had appeared in the training yard one morning and declared he would become a warden. Rogan had nearly sent him to muck pens until the mood passed. Tember was Tember. Finni's twin. The squirrel-chaser. The boy who spent half his free time searching for his infamous mount and the other half making people groan at jokes he seemed to invent specifically to wound patience.

He laughed too easily, wandered too often, and had a gift for turning simple errands into stories people repeated while shaking their heads. Then he kept coming. First to arrive. Last to leave when Maude allowed it. Sword in hand, jaw tight, eyes focused. The mischief still lived somewhere in him, because boys like Tember did not become solemn by decision alone, but in the yard he burned with a hard, sharp need. Whenever Finni passed with the animals, Tember struck faster.

Whenever Aelthirra walked near the yard on some errand from Selathi or Irla, Tember attacked with enough force to make his partner curse. Rogan wanted to say something to him. He wanted to tell him that trying to cut worth into himself with a sword would leave scars no healer could find. He wanted to tell him that being seen by one person meant little if he became someone he could barely stand to live with. He wanted to tell him many things. Some might have helped. Some might have been foolish.

All of them felt too heavy for a training yard. Words had never been Rogan's strongest weapon. He sighed quietly. At the edge of his vision, a small light flickered. Rogan turned his head. Only the training yard post stood there, a glowstone tied beneath the awning and dimmed by daylight. Or perhaps a mana butterfly had drifted past. Or perhaps James's impossible familiar was spying again. Rogan stared for a heartbeat longer, then returned his attention to the drill. Forty-one wardens.

That was the number Rogan had found himself muttering under his breath lately. Forty-one fighters who lived and breathed training, without counting hunters, builders with axes, farmers who could hold spears in a crisis, or Marla's cooks, who would certainly murder a man with a kettle if cornered. Forty-one people who wanted to become stronger and had accepted the weight of guarding Hearthroot's sleep. It should have felt like a victory. Rogan could feel the village stretching in every direction at once.

The mine needed guards to the east. The mountain needed a rotation day and night to the south. The farmlands stretched north, newly swollen by magic and full of food that would draw hungry things as surely as blood drew flies. The western patrols still watched for goblins. The walls needed night watches. The gates needed trained hands. The new people needed eyes on them until trust had time to grow.

And at the center of all of it stood James, continuing to find new and inventive places where danger and miracles could shake hands, which meant someone had to be nearby when his lord decided to build the next impossible thing. Rogan felt a headache settle behind his eyes just from thinking through all of it. The wardens were better than they had been. Rogan saw it in the way they moved, in the tighter lines, the quicker recoveries, the hands that reached for shields before fear had time to spread.

Levels and skills helped, of course, but discipline had started doing the harder work beneath them. They trained through rain, cold, and mud, and day by day, they were becoming a force. Rogan had reached the limits of what he could teach. That truth had been sitting in him for days, heavy and sour. Rogan could harden them with drills. He could teach them lines, shields, corners, and the small forest sounds that meant danger.

He could show them how a spear broke a charge, and how quickly a tired fighter died when his stance failed. He could make them warriors. Hearthroot needed more than that. It needed formations large enough to hold more than one path at a time. Scouts who knew how to feed warnings back to shield lines. Archers who could work with the walls instead of simply standing on them. Rogan needed people he could trust enough to carry orders when he could not be everywhere at once. Hearthroot needed the beginning of an army.

He had seen James watching the yard. His lord had tried to hide the concern. James often tried to hide concern beneath questions, jokes, or that thoughtful look he got when a building or a problem began drawing itself behind his eyes. Rogan had seen him counting. Seen him follow the missed footwork, the lack of depth. James had realized what Rogan had suspected for a while. They needed to get better. Neither of them knew how quickly enough. Beyond the yard, movement caught his eye.

Maerelith Thornbloom walked toward the fairy grove with several of her children. Rogan's thoughts stumbled. The fairy queen moved with a grace that made the morning around her seem rough by comparison. Metallic golden hair spilled down her back. Copper skin held warm light. Golden wings drifted behind her, slow and almost lazy, each movement leaving a faint dusting of shimmer in the air. Some of her new Heartroot children walked beside her in Imperial Form, tall and strange and beautiful.

Others flew in a loose arc above her shoulders. A few of the old Thornbloom children darted around the group with the chaotic energy of falling leaves caught in a playful wind. Maerelith looked toward the training yard. Toward him. Rogan turned his eyes aside so quickly his neck stiffened. Heat rose into his cheeks. He was a grown man, a trainer of fighters, a man who had carried wounded villagers through blood and rain. One look from the fairy queen, and he behaved like a boy caught stealing honey cakes.

Maude's voice saved him by cutting through the yard.

"Tember, lower shoulder. You are offering him your ribs." Tember adjusted with a grimace. Rogan looked past him and spotted Perrin behind a tree. His nephew was half hidden, badly. Marla's son crouched near the edge of the yard, staring at a wooden practice sword left beside a rack. His small hand twitched as if he could feel the grip already. The look on his face was pure hunger, and the belief that holding the sword would make him bigger than his years. Rogan's voice snapped across the yard.

"Perrin. Back to Hadda and the other children." Perrin froze. Then he bolted, little legs carrying him down the path with the speed of guilt. Rogan watched him go. A soft smile came despite the ache. For a moment, he saw his brother. The same quick feet. The same way of looking at danger as if it were a puzzle one could master by finding the right stick, or simply by putting up a brave face. Grief rose suddenly, sharp enough to steal his breath. Rogan let it pass through him behind a still face.

Training yards gave no room for ghosts, but they always found their way in. What happened to his brother could be avoided. That belief had become part of Rogan's bones. He could prepare the living with steadier hands, sharper habits, and a better chance when danger came for them. It was the only offering he knew how to make to the dead, so he made it every day in the training yard.

"Oy!" Rogan turned. Thrain stood at the yard entrance with an axe over one shoulder, wearing one of Varn's Hearthguard Harnesses. The former dwarven king looked as if he had argued with himself the entire way here and lost. Stoneheart charms hung in his beard. His jaw was set in a way that told Rogan that the dwarf was ready for war. Rogan crossed his arms.

"What are you doing here?"

"Getting experience," Thrain said.

"And levels."

"The mine team left this morning. Too late to send another east."

"James said I could join."

"James did not tell me this morning." Thrain's face tightened.

"He must have forgotten me with those new stonekin. Took all seven to the mountain before the sun rose. He is so enamored with them he is ready to hand over his underpants if they ask." Rogan kept his face still through sheer discipline. The image was unfortunate. And funny.

"We can plan something for tomorrow," Rogan said. Thrain shook his head so sharply that the stoneheart charms rattled. Rogan noted, with a private flicker of amusement, that James had adopted that particular dwarven habit with the small leaf charm in his own beard. Hearthroot changed people in strange ways. Even lords.

"You do not understand," Thrain said. He stepped closer. The anger in him had begun to crack, and desperation showed through the seams.

"I need to help with this keep. I have to. My class is powerful, aye, but without mana it is a song trapped in a closed throat. I cannot shape enough. I cannot hold enough. I stand there while others carve, and I know what should be done, I feel what should be done, and my body cannot answer." Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. His hand tightened around the axe haft until his knuckles paled.

"I need to prove…" Thrain stopped, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath through his nose. When he opened them again, the fire had changed into something quieter and worse.

"I need to prove to myself that I am still someone. I am no king now. I know that. I chose that and I am fine with that decision. But I can still offer something to my people. To this village. I cannot do that unless someone helps me grow enough to use what I am." Rogan looked at him for a long moment. He knew that look too. A man asking for danger because safety felt like uselessness. Without looking away from Thrain, Rogan called across the yard.

"Garrick. Tember. Lathen. Get ready. We are going on patrol." The yard paused for a breath. Maude turned her head. Tember straightened, surprise flashing across his face before eagerness swallowed it. Garrick looked up from a water skin near the shade awning. Lathen, the elven warden with bow and Emberforge sword, simply nodded in answer. Then movement resumed. The three fighters headed into the training yard building and began gathering travel essentials from the shelves and wall hooks.

Field wraps went into packs, followed by waterskins, rope, food, glowstones, and a careful handful of potions. Maude watched them go, then looked at Rogan. He gave her a small nod, and she returned to the drill without question. Rogan looked at Thrain.

"Go with them." Thrain's gratitude showed only as a stiff nod. It was enough. Rogan already knew where they would go. Hunters had reported a possible lair near the northern border of the domain, close to a patch of glowing mushrooms that had sprouted after Maerelith returned and the fairy grove bloomed into strength. Close enough to manage in a day. Dangerous enough to test them. Unknown enough to need clearing.

He could take a small group, draw beasts as needed, let Thrain gain experience, and intervene if the work turned dangerous. Before he could follow Thrain inside, four halflings entered the yard. Three men and one woman. Dust had been brushed from their clothes since last night, though road-wear still clung to every seam. Tovin Greenstep led them. Rogan recognized the broad shoulders, pointed ears, and guarded eyes.

The halfling's companions spread slightly behind him, casual in the way fighters and travelers pretended to be casual while measuring every face. Rogan felt them measuring him too. Tovin's gaze moved across the training yard, over Maude, the paired wardens, the racks, the practice weapons, the harnesses.

"Are you the guards of the village?" Tovin asked. Rogan crossed his arms.

"Wardens." Tovin glanced at his people. A small smirk touched his mouth.

"Mind if we join for a spar?" Rogan looked at the training pairs. These were the greenest recruits, most of the experienced wardens already out on assignment, but they were Hearthroot's. Young and rough, but steadily improving. Better than they had been. Good enough to teach a lesson or learn one. He shrugged, then turned his head.

"Maude. We have visitors. They want to see if they measure up against our warriors." Maude's eyes focused on the halflings. The air changed. Rogan added, "Entertain them. When Inna returns from her post, let her loose on them." Maude smiled. Teeth showed. Tovin's smirk wavered just enough to satisfy Rogan. He left them to it. Inside the training yard building, Garrick was tying potion vials into a belt pouch. Tember was checking a sword with too much eagerness.

Lathen had already strung his bow and was inspecting arrowheads. Thrain stood near the gear rack, glaring at a shield as if it had insulted his ancestors.

"I do not need this," Thrain said. Rogan took the shield from the rack and handed it to him.

"You do."

"I have an axe."

"Good. One hand understands danger. The other can hold a shield." Tember coughed into his fist. Thrain looked ready to argue, then saw Rogan's face and took the shield. They left through the west gate under pale morning light. The new doors stood solid behind them, and Rogan felt a brief satisfaction at the sight of them. He would feel better once the gatehouses rose. Better still with towers. Better again with trained archers and alarm signals. Peace was made of layers, and there were never enough of them.

They descended from the plateau and entered the forest. Rogan wished they had the dragon horses, as James called them when he forgot their proper name or chose to ignore it. The Cold Mistdrake Runners would have carried them farther and faster. Unfortunately, the creatures had opinions about riders. Once one accepted a person, it tolerated others only under careful circumstances, and most refused to be treated like common mounts. Finni could coax them. James had his mist-breathing beast.

Doanne understood their moods. Rogan had the growing certainty that cavalry remained a distant dream. So they walked. Hours passed beneath trees. The forest north of Hearthroot had changed since the fertility surge. Moss grew thicker. New shoots brightened underfoot. Some trees had leaves despite the season's chill, while others carried mana-bright veins in their bark. The air smelled of damp earth, and the faint sweetness that followed Hearthroot's influence at the edge of its domain.

The deeper they walked, the more the forest's old nature pressed against that warmth. Rogan used Heartcall carefully. Whenever they found a worthy prey, he planted his feet and triggered Heartcall. Mana pulsed from him in a short, sharp wave. The nearest enemies snapped their attention toward him, drawn by the skill's challenge. The first beasts were small. Moss-horn rabbits with sharp little antlers and red eyes came from a thicket in a bounding rush.

Thrain met them with too much force and nearly buried his axe in the dirt. Lathen shot one cleanly through the shoulder, wounding without taking the kill. Rogan drew two toward himself, shielded their lunges, then struck each hard enough to stagger. Thrain finished them, breathing hard and looking faintly embarrassed at earning experience from rabbits with horns.

"Everything counts," Rogan said. Thrain grunted. Later came a thornback lupine, small but vicious, bark-like bristles raised along its spine. Garrick singed its flank with a flick of fire from his off-hand, and Tember drove it toward Thrain with a shout. Thrain took the charge on his shield, slid back half a step, then hacked down with his axe. The lupine fell. Thrain's eyes unfocused briefly. A level. He tried to hide the smile, but Rogan saw it. They moved on.

A pair of glow-eyed ferrets tried to flank them from roots above a dry streambed. Lathen spotted them before they sprang. Garrick's fire frightened one into breaking early. Tember caught the other with a brutal slash that split fur and mana-bright bone. He looked surprised at his own success, then quickly arranged his face into confidence when Rogan glanced his way. By noon, Thrain had gained two levels. Level five, if Rogan's count was right.

The dwarf walked taller, though he pretended the axe rested on his shoulder only because it was comfortable. The larger fight came near a misty hollow. The cat emerged without sound. Large as a hound, lean and pale grey, with long whiskers and eyes like wet slate. Mist crawled along the ground wherever her paws touched. She moved through it as if the world had become water for her alone. One heartbeat she faced Thrain. The next she slid past his shield, claws flashing toward his thigh.

Tember intercepted with a reckless step. His blade caught fur, and the cat twisted away, leaving only a shallow line of blood along its flank. Garrick's off-hand flicked, sending a small ball of fire into the mist at its paws. The flame hissed and flared, startling her. Lathen's arrow followed, nicking her ear as she sprang aside. Rogan used Heartcall. The cat's head snapped toward him. He braced. She came fast, too fast for Thrain's current level.

Rogan took the impact on the shield, angled the force, and struck her shoulder with the rim hard enough to tumble her sideways without breaking her. Garrick moved in with his sword as fire leapt along the blade, bright and controlled. Tember drove from the other side, all offense, all sharp intent. Together they hemmed the cat long enough for Thrain to plant his feet.

"Now," Rogan said. Thrain swung. The axe caught the cat across the ribs and drove her down. The mist faded from her paws. Thrain stood over the body, breathing hard, then looked at Rogan as if expecting correction. Rogan nodded once. The dwarf's grin appeared before he could stop it. By mid-afternoon, they reached the hunters' mark. The patch of forest looked wrong in a beautiful way. Glowing mushrooms grew in clusters around roots, fallen logs, and shaded stones. Green-blue caps shone with soft inner light.

Spores drifted through the air like dust caught in a sunbeam, though the canopy above allowed only narrow slivers of daylight through. Moss glimmered faintly and vines hung low between trees. Hearthroot's domain brushed this place, but lightly, as if the village's warmth had reached out and found old forest waiting. Rogan lifted a hand. The patrol halted. He scanned the trees, the ground, the vines, the shadows between mushroom clusters.

"Hunters saw signs of a lair near here," he said quietly.

"Unknown creatures. Our task is to find it and clear it. Stay together. No chasing into trees. Lathen watches the canopy. Garrick, flame ready, controlled. Tember, Garrick's left. Thrain with me until I say otherwise." Tember gave a solemn nod. Garrick's grip tightened on his sword. Lathen's face went still in the elven way, his eyes already moving branch to branch.

"The forest is too quiet." At the edge of Rogan's vision, a small light flickered. He turned. A glowing mushroom shone near a root, round and blue-green. Rogan frowned. Then the canopy fell. The first howler dropped without a sound until the last instant, vines wrapped around one elongated arm and venomous claws stretched toward Garrick's neck. Lathen shouted. Garrick ducked too late. The creature landed on his back, all wiry limbs and grey-brown fur, its mouth opening in a shriek that tore the stillness apart.

Tember slammed into it. They went down together, rolling through mushrooms that burst in glowing spores. More shapes dropped from above. Canopy Howlers. Monkey-like beasts with too-long arms, narrow bodies, sharp muzzles, and claws dark with venom. They moved through vines with horrible ease, swinging, vanishing behind leaves, then striking from another angle. Their levels flashed in Rogan's mind when he caught glimpses through the chaos. Five. Seven. Nine. Six. Many.

Too many for carelessness, low enough that this patrol needed to learn from them.

"Back to back," Rogan roared.

"Eyes up." Heartcall pulsed from him. Three howlers turned mid-scramble, their attention snapping to Rogan. Good. Better him than Garrick's exposed back. Lathen fired upward. An arrow punched through a howler's shoulder, pinning it briefly to a hanging vine. It screamed and tore free, dropping badly. Thrain swung at it with too much anger and clipped its leg. Rogan stepped in, shielded a second howler's claws, struck its jaw with the hilt of his weapon, and sent it stumbling toward Thrain.

"Finish." Thrain did. Garrick came to his feet with a snarl. Fire ran along his sword, bright orange-red over Emberforge steel. He kept it close, controlled, just as Rogan had ordered. With his off-hand, he flung a small fireball into the branches. The flame struck leaves near a howler's face, singeing fur and making it shriek. It lost its grip and dropped toward Tember. Tember met it with a vicious upward cut. The blow opened its belly. He was brutal, that boy. Too much attack, too much hunger in every swing.

Garrick, to his credit, already understood Tember's fighting style. Where Tember drove forward, Garrick measured. Where Tember overextended, Garrick's fire or blade filled the gap. Together they moved better than Rogan expected, one fierce, one steady, both rough enough to worry him and promising enough to make that worry worth having.

"Tember, Garrick's left," Rogan called.

"I'm on it," Tember shouted. A vine whipped down around Tember's forearm. The howler above hauled. Tember's boots left the ground. Garrick's off-hand flashed. A small fireball struck the vine, burning through fibers with a harsh snap. Tember fell, hit the moss, rolled, and came up swinging before sense could catch him. A howler's claw raked his shoulder, cutting through leather and drawing blood. He laughed once, sharp and breathless. Rogan didn't like how careless Tember was, how he faced danger with laughter.

"Pain means check your guard," he barked. Tember's smile vanished. His sword came up properly. Better. A howler landed on Thrain's shield, all claws and teeth. Venom dripped from the hooked tips, smoking faintly where it struck leather. Thrain roared and staggered beneath the weight. The dwarf tried to shake it off, but the creature's long fingers hooked over the shield rim and pulled itself closer to his face. Rogan moved. He slammed the howler from the side, using enough force to daze without stealing the kill.

The beast hit a tree root and bounced. Thrain's axe came down a heartbeat later, splitting its chest. Another level flicker crossed the dwarf's face. He had no time to enjoy it. More howlers came. The fight became rhythm. Rogan held himself back with a discipline that hurt more than the scratches across his forearm. He could have stepped in, struck hard, and cleared the trees before the young ones truly understood what had threatened them. His body wanted that. His heart wanted it worse.

Thrain had asked for danger without really understanding what he asked for. Tember needed the lesson without the kind of wound that stayed in the mind. Garrick carried fire in a forest, and Lathen kept drifting too close to angles where branches could become claws. If Rogan did everything, they gained nothing. So he fought like a wall with doors. He opened chances. He closed deaths. Lathen moved with calm precision, bow singing until the howlers came too close.

Then his Emberforge sword came free, its edge catching light as he cut a vine and dropped a howler directly in front of Thrain.

"Yours," the elf said. Thrain's axe answered. Garrick drove three howlers back with a sweep of his flaming blade, then threw sparks into the canopy, enough to frighten without catching. Tember darted through the opening and cut one down before it could leap. He took another shallow claw across the ribs for it. His face tightened, but he stayed on his feet. Rogan saw venom on the claws and marked the wound in his mind.

The remaining howlers began to break after Lathen shot one through the throat while it hung upside down from a vine. Garrick raised his fire higher, a bright flare that painted the mushroom patch orange and sent shadows racing through the branches. The beasts shrieked, scrambled, and fled into the canopy, leaving leaves shaking in their wake.

"Hold," Rogan called. Tember took one step after them.

"Hold." The word cracked harder. Tember froze. Silence returned slowly. Breathing filled it first, hard and ragged. Then the drip of venom from a dead claw. Then the soft glow of disturbed mushrooms settling into steady light again. Rogan counted his people. Garrick upright. Tember bleeding but standing. Lathen with a shallow cut along one cheek. Thrain gripping his shield, chest heaving, blood on his thigh and venom-dark scratches on one arm. All alive. Good. Only then did he let himself breathe fully.

"Wounds," he said. They obeyed with the shaky speed of fighters who had nearly learned too much. Field wraps came out. Antidote salve went on Tember's shoulder and Thrain's arm. Garrick drank water and swore under his breath when he discovered claw marks across the back of his harness. Lathen cleaned his cheek without complaint. Rogan checked every wound himself because trust did not replace inspection. Notifications came in pieces. Tember reached Level 10.

He tried to act casual, then ruined it by grinning at Garrick. Garrick gained two levels and reached Level 11. He stared at the notification with a dazed look, like he had expected progress and still felt surprised when it came. Thrain gained four levels from the lair fight. Level nine by Rogan's count. The former king stood very still after the last one settled. His hand rested on his axe. His shoulders rose and fell. Then, slowly, he straightened. The change was small. A little more breath.

A little more weight in his stance. A man given proof that effort could still answer him. Rogan pretended not to see the joy he failed to hide.

"Pack the howlers," Rogan said.

"Venom glands separate. Claws wrapped. Hides if worth taking. Meat only after Irla or Ilyndra checks it. Vines from the lair too if they cut clean." Tember looked at one of the dead beasts.

"Monkey stew?" Garrick turned toward him with horror.

"Never say those words near Marla." Lathen, already cutting a vine, said dryly, "Or Ilyndra. She may consider it." That earned tired laughter. They found the lair a short distance away, a messy canopy nest woven from vines and bones. The sour stink of howler musk clung to everything, thick enough that Rogan saw Tember wrinkle his nose before forcing himself closer. Rogan had them check it piece by piece. Every hollow checked. Every tangle cut open. Every shadow under the nest searched before anyone relaxed.

The mushroom-choked pockets where a young beast might have hidden. Only when he was certain did he let Garrick burn the foulest parts under Lathen's careful eye, while Thrain chopped through the support vines and brought the rest down. They returned as the sun sank. The walk back felt longer, but lighter in the strange way of successful danger. The patrol carried bundled howlers, wrapped claws, sealed glands, and enough fatigue to quiet even Tember for long stretches. Thrain limped and refused help.

Tember tried to walk as if his shoulder did not hurt and failed whenever the path dipped. Garrick smelled faintly of smoke and singed fur. Lathen watched the trees long after they left the mushroom patch behind. Rogan felt quiet satisfaction settle in him. The patrol had worked. The younger fighters gained experience. Thrain gained levels. No one died. That was victory. Hearthroot came into view under sunset light, its walls glowing faintly, the Heartroot Tree bright on the hill. Smoke rose from the Hearth Hall.

For a few breaths, Rogan let himself imagine walking in, handing the kills to the proper people, sending Thrain to Irla before the dwarf argued, and sleeping for at least four hours before the next problem found him. Then he saw the gathering near the village center. Maerelith stood with Kerrin, Maude, and Marla. The fairy queen's composure was gone. Her golden wings trembled. Several fairy children hovered nearby, crying or clinging to one another. Kerrin's face was hard, already shaped around orders.

Maude stood rigid, her upgraded staff held in both hands. Marla had one hand on Maerelith's shoulder, her mouth set in the way it became when fear had to wait behind action. Rogan's satisfaction vanished. Maerelith saw him. She came straight toward him. For one foolish heartbeat, Rogan remembered the morning and the way he had looked away from her gaze with heat in his cheeks. Then she reached him and fell into his arms, small and shaking and far too real for any embarrassment to survive.

"My child is missing," she said. Rogan's arms closed around her carefully. The fairy queen's voice broke against his chest.

"Buzzydew is nowhere to be found."