ONE: THE NEWCOMER

The boy came out of the lowlands in autumn, when the Aldreach grass turned the color of old copper and the wind cut through wool like it had a personal grievance. He was tall for fifteen, underfed, and walking with the particular stubbornness of someone who had been told not to do what he was doing.

His name was Mael.

He found the band on the third day, which meant they had let him find them. Cael spotted him on the first morning, a lone figure moving north through the foothills with a pack that hung wrong on his shoulders and boots that were already coming apart. The tracker had circled back to camp at midday and reported what he'd seen with the same tone he used for weather.

"Lowlander. Boy. Heading this way. No weapon worth mentioning."

Ossian said nothing. He was sharpening his blade by the fire, long strokes that never changed rhythm, and the sound of it was the only answer Cael needed. The band would wait. The boy would arrive or he wouldn't.

He arrived on the third evening, stumbling into the ring of firelight with his hands open and visible. Smart. Someone had taught him that much.

The camp was spare. Six bedrolls arranged in a loose circle around the fire. Packs stacked neatly against a rock face that broke the wind from the north. Weapons within reach but not brandished. A pot of stew hung from an iron tripod that had been carried through more miles than Mael had walked in his life. Everything functional. Nothing wasted. The camp of people who had learned to carry only what mattered and to make what mattered last.