CHAPTER 82: WHISPERS IN NORTHAVEN (1)

The city gates of Northaven loomed ahead, their iron-banded wood thrown wide in welcome for heroes who no longer existed.

Soren’s gelding limped beneath him, each step a fresh reminder of their defeat as the battered column approached the city walls.

Ahead, the cobblestone streets filled with commoners pressed shoulder to shoulder, their faces bright with anticipation, craning for the first glimpse of returning champions.

Children perched on parents’ shoulders, merchants abandoned stalls, laborers paused mid-task, all gathered to witness glory that would never arrive.

’They expect a parade,’ Soren thought, bile rising in his throat. ’They’re about to get a funeral procession.’

The shard pulsed cold against his chest as Valenna stirred. ’Watch their faces,’ she murmured. ’Watch how quickly adoration turns to fear.’

Lord Ashgard rode at the column’s head, spine rigid as a blade, his steel-gray eyes fixed forward as if staring down an enemy rather than returning home. Behind him, the remnants of what had been a proud hunting party formed a ragged line, bandaged, bloodied, haunted by memories they hadn’t yet learned to bury.

No horns announced their arrival. No banners unfurled in triumph. The nobles who had departed with such pomp now hunched in their saddles, house colors deliberately obscured beneath travel cloaks.

The first spectators spotted them, their cheers dying mid-throat as comprehension dawned. Expressions shifted from excitement to confusion, then to dawning horror as they counted the riders, less than half the number that had departed.

"Where are the banners?" someone called out, voice cutting through the sudden hush. "Where are the trophies?"

A woman pushed to the front of the crowd, eyes frantically scanning the column. "Where is Ser Callan?" she demanded, voice rising with each word. "Where is my son?"

No one answered. No one looked at her. The riders kept their eyes fixed ahead or down, unable to face the questions they couldn’t answer.

Understanding rippled through the crowd like a stone dropped in still water. Whispers grew into murmurs, murmurs into a low, collective sound of grief and disbelief. A man fell to his knees, recognition and denial warring across his features as he searched in vain for a face that would never return.

"Lord Ashgard!" someone shouted from the crowd. "What happened to our men?"

Ashgard didn’t respond, didn’t even glance toward the voice. His focus remained unwaveringly forward, leading his shattered command through streets that had expected victory and received only its hollow shell.

Kaelor’s litter drew particular attention as it passed between the rows of onlookers. The Swordmaster lay motionless, his scarred face pale as death, bandages visible beneath the thin blanket covering him. Women made warding signs. Men whispered behind raised hands.

"The Swordmaster lives," Soren heard someone mutter. "When better men died."

"A miracle," countered another voice. "Or a curse."

Soren kept his gaze fixed between his gelding’s ears, feeling the weight of stares pressing against him from all sides. The whispers that had begun among the survivors now found fresh life in the city streets, spreading from soldier to commoner with the speed of flame through dry tinder.

"—marked by the killer—"

"—returned unharmed while knights fell—"

"—something unnatural—"

The column continued its grim progress through streets that grew quieter with each passing moment. What had begun as a festival atmosphere now carried the solemn weight of collective mourning. Women clutched children closer. Men removed caps in belated respect. The air itself seemed to thicken with unasked questions and unwelcome answers.

At the crossroads before the noble quarter, a woman broke through the crowd, throwing herself toward Lord Lanther’s horse. Her fine dress marked her as gentry, her wild eyes as someone beyond caring about propriety.

"My son!" she cried, clutching at Lanther’s stirrup. "Where is my Edric?"

Lanther looked down at her, his face a mask of grief hardened into something unrecognizable. "Dead," he said flatly. "While Dravien’s men fled."

The woman’s wail cut through the hushed street like a physical blow. She collapsed to the cobblestones, the sound of her grief echoing between the stone buildings that lined the way. No one moved to help her. No one knew how.

The nobles rode on, leaving sorrow in their wake like a tide of dark water. Soren felt each stare, each whispered accusation, each moment of horrified recognition as the city absorbed the magnitude of their failure. The weight of it pressed down on his shoulders until he felt he might collapse beneath it.

They reached the noble quarter without ceremony, the great houses’ gates opening to receive their diminished sons. One by one, the survivors peeled away from the main column, Trescan knights disappearing behind crimson-painted doors, Karvath riders vanishing into their compound without a backward glance.

Only Ashgard’s contingent, Soren, and the unconscious Kaelor continued to the lord’s manor at the quarter’s heart. The massive iron gates swung open at their approach, then closed with finality behind them, shutting out the city’s grief and questions.

The courtyard stood empty save for a few grim-faced servants who moved forward to take reins and help wounded from saddles. No family waited in welcome. No steward stood ready with congratulations. Only silence and the efficient movements of those who had anticipated disaster.

Soren dismounted stiffly, every muscle protesting the movement after days in the saddle. His gelding stood with head hanging low, sides heaving with exhaustion. A stablehand approached to take the reins, eyes carefully averted from Soren’s face.

"See to his legs first," Soren said, patting the horse’s sweat-darkened neck. "He’s carried me farther than he should have."

The boy nodded without speaking, leading the exhausted animal away with gentle hands. Soren turned to find Lord Ashgard watching him, those steel-gray eyes revealing nothing of his thoughts.

"The healers are preparing chambers for the Swordmaster," Ashgard said, his voice pitched for Soren’s ears alone. "You will attend me in one hour. My study." He paused, gaze flicking toward the closed gates. "Say nothing of what occurred. To anyone. The story must be contained until I decide otherwise."

Before Soren could respond, the lord turned away, already issuing commands to his waiting captains. Servants moved with practiced efficiency, helping wounded to the infirmary, carrying supplies inside, erasing all visible evidence of failure from public view.