By dusk, we reached the borders of Raventhorn.
The towering trees thinned into ragged hills, their tops crowned with crumbling stone watchtowers and broken black flags.
The scent of iron filled the air — old blood and old wars.
A grim welcome.
Ahead, the road split around a massive gate carved into the side of the hills.
Guards waited there.
Not the casual patrols of lesser kingdoms.
These men wore heavy black armor, swords sheathed but loose in their belts, crossbows slung across their backs.
They stood in formation — six across — blocking the gate entirely.
A message.
I pulled my horse to a slow halt as we approached, lifting my hood carefully to shade my face.
Lucas did the same, the lazy curve of his mouth the only thing hinting at his usual cocky calm.
The lead guard stepped forward, a burly man with graying hair and sharp, suspicious eyes.
"State your name and business," he barked.
Lucas didn't hesitate.
