Chapter 51: Hooves, Strings, and Echoes of the Past

As Dorian returned to camp, leading his newly bonded horse, the reactions were instant.

Tache whistled low, his eyes gleaming with admiration. “Oh my, that’s one beauty right there. Look at his feathering—it’s like silk kissed by northern snow.”

Ralnor, ever the man of few words, simply nodded. “Great steed.”

Dorian couldn’t help but grin, patting Regis’s sleek neck. The horse snorted softly, its breath misting in the crisp morning air as if acknowledging the compliment.

Selyse emerged from her morning preparations, her sharp gaze drawn immediately to the majestic horse. “That’s a great choice,” she remarked, stepping closer to inspect Regis’s proud stance. “What’s his name?”

Dorian straightened with a smile, brushing back a stray lock of his crimson hair. “His name is Regis.”

“Regis,” Selyse repeated thoughtfully. “A name fit for a king.”

Tache clapped his hands together. “Well then, now we’re ready for the Northern Duchy.”

As they packed their belongings, Dorian’s excitement was hard to miss. His eyes gleamed with the thrill of adventure, the novelty of his first horse adding an extra spark to his spirit.

Tache raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Are you sure you can ride Regis without a saddle?”

Dorian waved off the concern with a confident grin. “It’s okay. As I said before, I was raised in a farm hollow, y’know. Bareback riding is practically a rite of passage.”

Mounting Regis with practiced ease, Dorian leaned down to whisper, “This is where our poetry begins, Regis.”

The horse responded with a spirited toss of its mane and a playful stomp, as if eager to start the next chapter of their journey. Dorian chuckled and gave him an affectionate pat.

As they rode through the sprawling northern landscapes, Dorian strummed his lute, the familiar rhythm weaving into the cadence of hooves against snow-dusted paths. His wind magic played alongside him, coaxing soft melodies from the flute strapped to his side—a harmonious duet between man and magic.

Selyse glanced over, her brow arching. “Are you really okay using your magic just to play the flute like that?”

Dorian flashed his signature grin. “Of course! I’m a bard, y’know. I need to practice my craft—not just with my hands, but with my heart. Music isn’t just sound; it’s the pulse of the soul. If I can’t inspire myself, how can I inspire others?”

Tache chuckled. “You’re an odd one, Bard. It’s rare, you know. People with magic veins usually become mages, knights… anything other than a wandering minstrel.”

Dorian shrugged, his fingers never missing a beat on the strings. “I get it. But the first time I saw a bard in Silverhill, it felt… right. Like my heart had been waiting for that moment all along. I want to do this for the rest of my life.”

His hand drifted to the pendant around his neck, the red gemstone glinting faintly in the afternoon light. “Plus,” he added with a softer smile, “he gave me this. It feels like… an obligation to fulfill my dream.”

Tache’s eyes narrowed slightly, leaning closer for a better look at the pendant. “Hey, Selyse… doesn’t that look familiar?”

Selyse urged her horse closer, her sharp gaze fixing on the pendant. Recognition flickered in her eyes, followed by a frown. “Ah… I remember. The Archmage’s Pendant.”

Dorian instinctively tucked the pendant back beneath his shirt. “What?”

Selyse continued, her voice thoughtful. “Several years ago, there was a strange quest—a bounty, really. Not just for mercenaries like us, but adventurers all across the Viscount’s eastern territories. They were searching for that pendant… though the gemstone was dark blue, not red.”

Tache nodded, his expression darkening slightly. “It was an emergency quest, marked with the highest priority. Word spread fast.”

Dorian’s curiosity flared. “Did you ever find it? Or—did someone?”

Selyse’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Rumor has it, the pendant was found… in the bedroom of the Viscount’s eldest son.”

Tache added, “They say the Archmage herself retrieved it. Some claim she burned the boy alive with her fire magic.”

“Others,” Selyse interjected, her voice low, “whisper that he was frozen solid—shattered into a million pieces.”

Ralnor finally spoke, his deep voice cutting through the tension. “Rumors. Nothing more.”

“Maybe,” Tache muttered. “But we never saw the Viscount’s son again after that.”

Dorian sat in silence for a moment, his hand resting over the pendant hidden beneath his shirt. The weight of their words settled over him like a thin layer of frost. But he shook it off with a forced chuckle.

“Well,” he said lightly, “it’s probably just a coincidence. Plenty of pendants out there, right?”

The group didn’t press further, sensing Dorian’s unease. Instead, they let the conversation drift back to lighter topics, the rhythm of hooves carrying them onward.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of crimson and violet, they set up camp once more. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across their faces as they sat around the warmth.

Dorian broke the silence. “How many towns will we pass through before we reach the Northern Duchy?”

Selyse poked at the fire with a stick. “About four, maybe five.”

Tache stretched out with a yawn. “I think tomorrow we’ll hit the first one. So, rest up, Bard. Can’t have you falling off Regis mid-song.”

Dorian chuckled softly, leaning back against a tree, Regis grazing nearby.

As sleep crept over them, Dorian’s fingers idly traced the shape of the pendant beneath his shirt.

The road ahead held more than just songs and stories.

It held secrets.

And Dorian was ready to uncover them—one note at a time.

…

The towering gates of Vareth’s Crossing loomed ahead, flanked by two guards clad in mismatched armor, each gripping a halberd with the casual indifference of men who had likely spent more time standing than fighting. Dorian, mounted proudly on Regis, rode beside the three knights, his cloak billowing slightly with the crisp northern breeze.

As they approached, the guards straightened, their previously relaxed demeanor shifting into exaggerated authority. Their eyes gleamed, not with suspicion, but recognition—fixed squarely on Tache and his band.

One of the guards stepped forward, puffing out his chest. “Halt! State your entry reason!”

Tache, with a sly grin, nudged Dorian lightly with his elbow. “Go on, Bard. Impress them.”

Dorian cleared his throat dramatically, sitting a bit straighter in his saddle. “We seek shelter for the night, a warm meal, and perhaps,” he added with a playful glint in his eye, “a saddle for my noble steed. Riding bareback is starting to make me reconsider my life choices.”

Tache burst into laughter. “Ha! Told you you'd need a saddle.”

But before they could proceed, the guard raised his hand sharply. “Not so fast! Before you enter, you must answer our riddle.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow. “A… riddle?”

“Yes,” the guard declared proudly, gesturing between himself and his companion. “One of us always tells the truth, and the other always lies. You must figure out which is which.”

Dorian glanced sideways at Tache, Selyse, and Ralnor, expecting some form of protest or at least mild outrage. Instead, the three knights remained completely still, their faces betraying nothing but faint amusement—clearly familiar with the guards’ antics.

“Go on, Bard,” Selyse teased, resting her elbow on the pommel of her saddle. “Solve the great mystery.”

Dorian rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his mind racing through every logical scenario he’d ever heard about such riddles. He squinted at the guards, both of whom were trying (and failing) to maintain stern expressions.

Then, with an exaggerated snap of his fingers, he pointed dramatically at the guard who had spoken first. “Aha! It’s you.”

The guard blinked, clearly caught off guard. “You—you don’t even want to ask us any questions?”

Dorian grinned. “No need. You established the premise of the riddle, which means you had to tell the truth to set it up correctly. After all, you can’t explain the rules without being truthful about them.”

The guard’s face twisted into an exaggerated scowl. “Ugh! This isn’t fun anymore. I told you we should’ve let Burg explain the riddle!”

His companion burst out laughing, lowering his halberd. “Welcome back, Tache. How’ve you been?”

Tache, utterly unfazed, waved a casual hand. “Doing fine, Garrick. Still wasting time with riddles, I see.”

Selyse leaned over to Dorian, her voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Congratulations. You’ve bested the formidable Gate Guardians of Vareth’s Crossing.”

Dorian chuckled, shaking his head. “Truly, my greatest achievement.”

As they passed through the gates, the bustling streets of Vareth’s Crossing unfolded before them. Unlike the military rigidity of Svalen, this town pulsed with a vibrant mix of merchants, travelers, and locals going about their daily lives. The cobblestone streets were lined with colorful stalls selling everything from spices to intricate trinkets. The faint melody of a street musician’s lute drifted through the air, mingling with the scents of freshly baked bread and roasted meats.

Dorian’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Now this feels like a place with stories.”

Tache pointed ahead. “There’s an inn we know—The Frosted Tankard. It’s got good ale, better food, and an owner who owes me a drink.”

Selyse smirked. “Owes you a drink? You mean because you still haven’t paid your last tab.”

Tache grinned without denying it. “Details.”

They reached the inn, a sturdy building with frost-kissed windows and the comforting glow of hearth fires seeping through the cracks. The sign, painted with a frothy mug half-buried in snow, swung gently in the breeze.

Inside, warmth wrapped around them like a blanket. The innkeeper, a broad-shouldered woman with sharp eyes named Mira, greeted them with a grin.

“Well, well—Tache and his Silver Wolves. Thought you’d finally drunk yourselves into an early grave.”

Tache threw his arms wide. “Mira, darling! I’m too charming to die.”

“Or too stubborn,” she shot back, waving them toward a table.

They settled in, ordering food and drink. Dorian pulled out his lute, fingers dancing over the strings with casual ease. The inn filled with music, drawing the attention of patrons who began tapping their feet or humming along.

After a lively tune, Dorian leaned back, sipping his drink. “So,” he asked, glancing at the three knights, “what’s next after Vareth’s Crossing?”

Tache smiled lazily. “North. Always north.”