Kaelen reached the bottom of the ridge and stepped onto the worn, dirt track that led directly to Aethelgard’s southern gate. The sentries spotted him immediately—two men he had known since childhood, their faces etched with the lines of hard labor and recent, lingering terror. As they realized who was emerging from the darkening tree line, their spears lowered, their knuckles turning white as they gripped the wood.
"It’s him," one of the sentries choked out, his voice a ragged whisper that cut through the evening air. "Kaelen. The boy from the Crags."
Kaelen did not stop. He maintained his pace, his movements measured, his posture devoid of any aggressive intent. He wore his cloak loosely, his hands visible and empty, a silent demonstration of peace. He felt the ripple of their fear—a c
