Throne of Ash and Blood

Chapter 10 Echoes of the Dead

The fire in the grand hearth popped, sending embers spiraling upward toward the carved rafters of Norwic’s throne room. King Malric sat slouched in his chair, a goblet of deep red wine resting lazily in one hand, the other drumming against the armrest in a slow, measured rhythm.

The double doors creaked open, letting in a draft of sea-chilled air. A cloaked figure stepped forward, bowing low before approaching the dais.

“Sire,” the messenger began, his voice tight, “there are whispers… troubling whispers from the Delvor continent.”

Malric’s eyes narrowed. “What whispers?”

The man swallowed. “A mage. One who… doesn’t require a conduit and can wield... All five elements.”

Malric’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That is not possible,” he said sharply. The words carried weight, like a verdict.

The messenger hesitated, glancing to the shadowed corner of the room where a figure leaned casually against the wall — Malric’s personal assassin. She stepped forward without being summoned, her boots whispering against the marble floor.

She was a mirror and a nightmare all at once — the same sharp features as Emiko, the same fox-like grace, but her fur was black as pitch, her hair falling like ink around her face. One crimson eye glowed like a dying ember; the other was a swirling void, black with a faint silver ring, marked by a scar that carved jaggedly from brow to cheek.

“I killed the whelp,” she said flatly, her voice devoid of anything resembling humanity. “Plunged my dagger into his chest and watched him tumble into the ocean. The waves swallowed him whole. No one could have survived that.”

The messenger glanced between them, his tone careful. “And yet… the mage was described to me in detail — light brown hair… bright blue eyes… strong features. A striking resemblance to…” He hesitated, then finished quietly, “...to her.”

Malric’s fingers tightened around the goblet until his knuckles whitened. His mind flashed to the woman he had once loved — the woman who was given to his brother instead. That face, those eyes… he had spent years burying their memory beneath ambition and blood.

He took in a slow, deliberate breath. “Send a few of the Dragon Guard,” he ordered finally, his voice low but edged with steel.

The messenger blinked. “The Dragon Guard, sire? Are you certain?”

Malric’s eyes locked on him. “If the rumors are true… take him out. I will not have a ghost from the past walking the earth.”

The assassin’s lips curved in something that might have been the shadow of a smirk.

The fire in the hearth crackled again, and the sound was almost drowned out by the distant roll of thunder over the sea.

---

The midday sun over Soilus hung low and hazy, bleeding gold light over the dusty trade square. Alphonse stood with his group just outside the crooked awning of a merchant’s stall, the scent of salt and fish drifting in from the nearby docks.

The man who had flagged them down seemed unremarkable — middle height, thinning hair, sun-darkened skin, and clothes worn from long travel. He offered a polite nod, his voice plain as he explained,

“I need two large carts transported. Guarded. All the way across the Barron.”

Alphonse glanced over his shoulder toward the edge of the square, where two massive, one canvas-covered. The other covered in metal and magic runes. Even from here, their sheer bulk was impressive. He took a slow step forward, scanning them, then turned back to the man.

“What’s inside them?” he asked, his tone steady but sharp enough to press for an honest answer.

The man hesitated — just long enough for it to be noticeable — then said, “One… is barrels of water.”

Alphonse’s brows rose at that. Water. Of all the jobs… Transporting water across the Barron wasn’t just risky — it was practically a death sentence. Bandits, raiders, and thieves would kill for it, and that was before the wild beasts of the Barron caught its scent. No wonder the job paid more than anything posted in weeks. And no wonder no one had taken it yet.

“And the second one?” Alphonse asked.

The man shifted, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “I… can’t say.”

Alphonse studied him for a moment, reading the nervous weight behind those words. “Why not?”

“Orders,” the man replied, eyes darting away. “Strict orders. I’m not allowed to disclose it.”

Alphonse let out a slow breath, then turned to his companions. “Thoughts?”

Thomme was the first to speak, his thick arms crossed over his chest. “Something doesn’t feel right about this. A job like this draws too much heat — and that’s without knowing what’s in the second cart.”

Salish shrugged, but there was a glint in her eyes. “It’s a big payout. Big enough to get you home, Alphonse. Maybe even with enough left to buy half the ship.”

Throkreat grunted, “Don’t care what’s in it. Coin’s coin. I’m in.”

Alphonse looked between them, weighing their words. Yes, it felt wrong. Too many unknowns, too much danger. But on the other hand… he was classified as one of the strongest people on the Delvor continent now. His training at the Spheres, his control of all five elements — he had faced worse. And this was too much money to walk away from.

He glanced back at the man. “We’ll take the job.”

The man exhaled in relief, though his shoulders didn’t fully lose their tension.

Somewhere beyond the horizon, the Barron waited.

By late afternoon, preparations for the journey were underway. The two massive wagons had been pulled from the edge of the square to a quieter loading yard near the old wall, where the man’s hired drivers hitched them to thick, muscle-bound draft beasts.

Alphonse stood with his arms folded, watching as supplies were lashed to the sides — tarps, ropes, and reinforced crossbows for the drivers. The air smelled faintly of dust and hot iron, the scent of the Barron creeping in from the east like a warning.

The man approached, his voice low but firm. “Strict orders — and I mean strict. No one is to look inside the second cart. Not even a peek. If something happens, you save that cart over the water.”

That caught everyone’s attention. Even Throkreat’s lazy posture shifted as his small, dark eyes narrowed.

“More important than water?” Salish asked, her tone edged with disbelief. “You do know what that means out there, don’t you?”

The man didn’t flinch. “I do. And my orders stand. If the choice is one cart or the other, you let the water go.”

Alphonse tilted his head slightly, studying the stranger’s face. The man was careful, almost too careful, to keep his expression blank — but there was tension in the corners of his mouth, and a faint tremor in his hands.

When the man walked away to check the harnesses, Salish muttered, “What in the hells could be worth more than water in the Barron?”

“Whatever it is,” Thomme said grimly, “it’s the kind of thing you don’t tell people about if you want to live.”

Throkreat smirked faintly. “Could be treasure. Could be a weapon. Could be something alive.”

That last suggestion made the group exchange uneasy glances.

Alphonse kept his thoughts to himself. The order was suspicious — dangerous, even — but the job was theirs now. Whatever was inside that second cart, someone thought it was worth more than dozens of lives. And before the Barron was done with them, they might just find out why.

The sun was already bleeding toward the horizon, and the desert wind whispered through the narrow alleys like a warning they couldn’t quite hear.

Tomorrow, they’d venture into the most unforgiving stretch of land on the continent — with something in their care that someone, somewhere, clearly valued more than water itself.

The caravan rolled out at dawn, the streets of the small trade town still quiet except for the clatter of wagon wheels and the rhythmic hoofbeats of the beasts pulling them.

They weren’t ordinary draft animals. Each one was a towering hybrid of horse and scaled beast, with powerful haunches, heavy chests, and thick necks corded with muscle. Their eyes glimmered with an unsettling intelligence, and their broad hooves struck sparks on the stone as they moved. They could travel for days without real rest, their endurance matched only by their bad tempers.

The air grew drier with each passing mile. Within hours, the green of the outskirts had thinned into brittle grass, then into cracked soil and wind-scoured rock. Ahead, the Barron stretched into an endless expanse of ochre sand and jagged ridges, shimmering in the heat like a living thing.

No one spoke much. The first day was always the quietest — the weight of the journey settling in, each person measuring the miles ahead.

Thomme kept glancing toward the second cart, his brow furrowed. “I don’t like guarding something I know nothing about,” he muttered under his breath.

Throkreat lounged on the rear bench of the second cart, his Warhammer laid across his lap. “Let them come. Coin will be earned the bloody way.”

By midday, the sun hammered down like a physical weight, the wind hot and sharp enough to sting. They stopped only long enough to water the beasts and take quick gulps from their own skins before pressing on. The order from the man still hung over them like a shadow — save the second cart at all costs.

As the light began to fade on the first day, the Barron revealed its true nature. Shapes moved on the horizon — too far to identify, but not far enough to ignore. The drivers didn’t speak of it, but their hands stayed close to their weapons, and their eyes flicked nervously to the dunes.

Four days of this, Alphonse thought grimly. Four days with limited stops, little sleep, and the constant threat of heat, hunger, and whatever prowled just beyond the edge of sight.

And that was assuming they weren’t hunted by something worse.