Eriken’s arm throbbed with every beat of his heart. The gash wasn’t deep but it burned, a constant reminder of claws, teeth, and the howl that still echoed in his skull. His horse plodded beneath him, exhausted. So was he. The weight of what he’d seen pressed down on his shoulders like armor made of lead.
Wolfborn. In Tymeria.
He left his comrades behind. The shame of it sat heavy in his gut, but Bandon had ordered the retreat. Duty demanded he obey.
The road widened as they approached Starkhold. The town sprawled ahead, squat buildings of grey stone and timber crowding together like frightened sheep. Smoke rose from chimneys, but the streets felt wrong. Too quiet, too tense. Guards stood at corners with hands on sword hilts, eyes tracking every passerby.
They passed a tavern just as the door burst open. A figure stumbled out. An elf, hood pulled low to hide his ears. Too late. The tavern owner, a thick-necked man with a stained apron, jabbed a finger at a sign nailed to the doorframe.
HUMANS ONLY.
“Try that again and I’ll break more than your pride,” the man snarled.
The elf scrambled to his feet and fled into a side alley. No one intervened. No one even looked surprised.
Eriken’s hand tightened on the reins. He should say something. Do something. But Bandon rode on, and Eriken followed.
Duty first.
They reached the barracks within minutes. Eriken dismounted, his legs stiff, his arm still burning. Dyna and Samwell remained with the caged prisoner. A healer met them at the door, a thin woman with quick hands and a no-nonsense expression. She ushered Bandon and Eriken inside, sat them down, and began peeling away blood-crusted fabric.
“You first, Captain,” she said, threading a needle.
Bandon nodded, gritting his teeth as she worked. Eriken sat in silence, watching the needle pierce flesh, pull thread, close the wound. His own arm could wait.
By the time the healer finished with Bandon and turned to Eriken, the town's commandant had arrived. The man swept into the room like a storm, grey-haired, sharp-eyed, with the rigid posture of someone who’d spent decades barking orders. His mouth was a thin, disapproving line.
Now, Eriken sat in grim silence while Sir Bandon answered the Commandant’s questions, even as the healer stitched Eriken’s wound.
“You had over twenty men,” the Commandant said, his voice tinged with disbelief.
“Yes, and now I don’t,” Bandon replied, his voice steady despite the pain he’d just endured.
“What you’re saying is absurd. Wolfborn are extinct in these lands.”
“Not anymore, Roven,” Bandon said, his voice firm.
Roven’s fingers drummed against the table in quick, agitated taps. “You and your men drank too much on the road. Those sellswords took advantage of the situation.”
Eriken silently swore and ground his teeth hard enough to make his jaw muscles ache. Of all the ways a man could delude himself, this manner was the most insulting. I watched those men be torn apart! What else killed them?
“Commandant Roven, I’ll not have you insult my Paladins,” Bandon growled, his tone sharp enough to cut. “My men are not the tavern drunks your guardsmen deal with every night.”
“You think my greatest problems are drunks?” Roven hissed. “I have a fucking clan of Zela’ken living right outside my town. And you bring me stories of sellswords slaughtering your men.”
Bandon carefully adjusted his shirt over his freshly stitched wound. “My men were attacked by more than just sellswords.”
“Ah, yes, a wolfborn,” Roven sneered. “Enough of this nonsense.”
Eriken was yelling before he realized it, firing up from his seat despite the aches and the healer’s sharp protest. He stormed toward Roven, his fists clenched. “If you had seen all we’ve seen, you wouldn’t dare question our captain! We were attacked by something massive, something monstrous!”
The Commandant said nothing, doubt melting off his face as Eriken continued.
“It threw a fully armored dead man like he was a chicken egg!” Eriken shouted, mimicking a throwing gesture.
Eriken then felt awkward for a moment but saw Bandon nod supportively.
“It was unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” Eriken said, a shiver in his voice. “It was no overgrown wolf…it was a wolfborn. Exactly like the monsters in those stories.”
Eriken’s chest heaved. Roven stared at him, then glanced at Bandon. “So, it’s true?”
“Yes,” he replied flatly.
Roven’s hand trembled as he rubbed his face. “Fuck. First the Zela’ken, now wolfborn,” he murmured. “What of the sellswords? Were they with the beast? What were they doing there?”
“Four of them were Knightmares,” Eriken answered. He remembered the dark-eyed sellsword with the cocky attitude and twin sabers. “They were trying to free the girl.”
“The Knightmares aren’t a danger to Tymeria anymore,” Bandon said. “They were slaughtered until they became a lot of scared, scattered, beaten fools in hiding. These were nothing but sellswords in costumes. We’ll deal with them.”
“Forgive me, m’lord,” Eriken began, “but we just fought them and lost. Killing our men was sport for them. Their reflexes were almost superhuman. We had them outnumbered, that didn’t help us, and they have a wolfborn. We can’t beat them alone.”
“Regardless,” Roven said, his voice tight, “I cannot have all this trouble piling up on Starkhold. I’m the law around here, and if you want me to help you, then you must do the same for me.”
Eriken guessed easily. “With the Zela’ken?”
“Precisely,” Roven stated fiercely. “These Zela’ken are being led by Xyna’laas.”
“We’re Paladins,” Bandon answered. “We’re loyal to the faithful and to the law. And we’re all human just like you.”
Eriken felt uneasy. “I’ve fought Zela’ken, but who’s Xyna’laas?”
Roven seemed amazed by Eriken’s question. “You’ve not heard? Xyna’laas, also called the Shadowfox, is among the most infamous Zela’ken leaders.”
“How infamous?”
“Very!” Roven shouted, a noticeable tremble in his hand. “She’s torched homes, poisoned wells, and continues to fill my men with arrows on the road. Your duty as Paladins is to protect innocent humans from heretics and monsters like her.”
“So, you won’t help us unless we help you deal with this elf cunt?” Bandon asked.
“I need all the men I have right here in Starkhold,” Roven said. “There may be Zela’ken spies within the reservation. There’re Paladins patrolling there now. You can send pigeons and riders. Call for any available Paladins to come here if you wish. But if you want me to contribute my men to your mission, you’ll need to rid me of Xyna’laas.”
“You want to use us as hired killers?” Eriken accused. “We’re Paladins, not sellswords.”
“Sellswords take coin,” Roven said. “I’m not offering gold, I’m offering support. This is your duty as much as it’s mine, to protect people. The humans and nonhumans will always live in distrust as long as the Shadowfox lives.”
Eriken spotted Roven’s other hand gripping his trembling one. The man wasn’t angry, he was terrified. Eriken sighed disapprovingly. “And how do we find her?”
“We’ll discuss that,” Bandon said as he rose from his seat. “Eriken, go join Dyna and Samwell. Move the prisoner to the dungeons. I’ll discuss this arrangement with Roven in private.”
Eriken bowed, turned to the doorway, and strode outside without question. He could debate with the Commandant, but Bandon was his superior. His orders were absolute, Eriken understood this. Outside, Dyna and Samwell were standing by the wagon, Samwell holding a loaded crossbow.
“Well?” Dyna asked.
“Apparently our duties have gotten more complicated,” Eriken answered as he moved to the end of the wagon, shooting the girl within the cage a deadly glare. Two men dead because of her. Twenty-one more because of the bastards who wanted her free. Too many Paladins had been lost in such a short time. We should’ve finished the Knightmares off long ago.
“Careful, Eriken,” Dyna warned.
He ignored her, gazing over the wrapped bodies in the wagon near the cage. “What were their names?”
Samwell sighed, “Carter and Oliver I believe.”
“Did they have families?” Eriken asked.
“Everyone does,” Dyna answered.
Eriken’s hands turned into trembling fists. “We’ve been ordered to move the wagon to the dungeons. We’ll put her cage in a cell. If she’s truly wolfborn, an extra cage is a good idea.”
Dyna climbed atop the wagon, taking the reins and slapping the horses into motion. Eriken followed carefully with Samwell keeping his crossbow aimed at the silent prisoner. She still hadn’t said a single word to anyone, not even after the attack in the Forest of Crows. Her silence was grating on Eriken’s nerves.
“If those sellswords try to free you again,” Eriken warned, “I’ll have their heads placed in your cage.”
Still, she said nothing.
“Save your breath,” Dyna said, shaking her head in disapproval. “Nobody has gotten her to say anything since we captured her. You said our duties have gotten complicated. How so?”
Eriken sighed, rubbing his temple. “Starkhold’s commandant won’t give us his men to escort the prisoner. Not unless we help him deal with this local elf problem. An elf named Xyna’laas is leading a group of Zela’ken elves, and he wants them dead. Bandon’s coming up with a plan and will call for aid.”
“Aren’t there other Paladins here in Starkhold?” Samwell asked. “Starkhold has been a site of nonhuman attacks for years.”
“According to Commandant Roven, only ten,” Eriken said. “They’re patrolling the nonhuman reservation but, considering twenty-five of us were beaten by those sellswords and the beast, we’ll need more Paladins.”
“Ten?” Samwell’s jaw dropped. “How are there so few?”
“Seems this Xyna’laas may be as dangerous as the wolfborn,” Dyna scoffed. “Perhaps worse.”
What have we walked into?