Within the first day, Dem established a rhythm for the Sentry force.
He ranged far with the scouts every morning, returning by mid-day for hot food and a light round of spear drills. Before the last of the daylight slipped behind the mountains, he held short leadership meetings—updates, concerns, adjustments.
Nothing wasted or overlooked.
On the second evening, he finally sat down to draft a letter to Isadora.
I hope Bane finds me again, he thought, turning the parchment slowly in his hand.
Isadora,
I don't know what to say, only that I look forward to meeting you. That must sound strange, since we shared the same womb. I've always felt something missing—something just out of reach, like a part of me was taken before I was old enough to remember or strong enough to resist.
I am well and living among the Tribals. A small family in the Swiftwind Clan has taken me in. They are good people, kind people, and they've made me one of their own. We must protect them in the future.
Your life in court… I can't picture it. My upbringing was nothing like it. You said you are older—so by tribal custom you would be my dosu, and I your dasai…
Dem paused there. He folded the letter, slid it into his storage ring. He'd finish it when his thoughts weren't so tangled.
Reyka approached softly, sitting across from him. "I saw you writing. Didn't want to interrupt."
Dem didn't answer that—some conversations weren't meant for company. Instead, he nodded toward her hair. "Your hair is down."
Reyka's pale hair hung loose today, brushing her shoulders, softening her expression. In the firelight, it framed her face like sunrise over snow.
"You noticed." She tucked a strand behind her ear, smiling. "Your archery has improved, by the way. If the Gathering competition were today, you'd make the finals easily."
"Must be the exceptional instruction I'm getting from the Archery Sub-Chief."
"No doubt." Reyka's smile widened. "Rave is one of my cousins. Not sure if you knew."
"I didn't. Are you close?"
Reyka shook her head lightly. "I like her, but we've never spent much time together. I'm closer with Shiara—you met her during the Gathering. Our mothers are twins."
Dem huffed a laugh at the memory of drinking with them both. "She had plenty of stories."
Reyka's eyes sparkled. "I'm sure you do too. Care to share a secret?"
"Wouldn't be much of a secret if I did."
"A small one," she coaxed, leaning a little closer.
Dem drummed his fingers on the table. "Fine. I found your circut during the Gathering and gave it to Yanz."
Reyka blinked. "You… gave mine away?"
Her cheeks colored, a rare slip in her usual composure.
"I already had five," Dem said, entirely unbothered.
Reyka let out a disbelieving laugh. "You could've said something nice. Like 'I traded five for yours.'"
Dem shrugged. "But that didn't happen."
Reyka shook her head, still smiling, still blushing, still sitting on the other side of the table as if she wasn't entirely sure whether she wanted to hit him or laugh harder.
And the fire cracked near them—warm, easy, comfortable.
The third day passed with nothing of note, though the scouts returned at dusk with a freshly killed wild boar. Dem considered returning to Frostridge, then pushed the thought aside. Two more days, and they would leave.
Late afternoon on the fourth day, Dem was ranging the outskirts with Sark when a rider approached from the east.
"It's Umi," Dem said quietly, though the figure was barely more than a moving speck against the horizon.
Sark squinted into the distance. "How can you tell?"
Dem tilted his head. "What do you mean? Does she look like anyone else?"
Sark snorted. "How well can you see her?"
Dem paused, eyes drifting back toward the rider. "She's smiling."
"Bullshit."
Minutes later, Umi reined in beside them, her grin wide and unashamed.
Sark shrugged. "Coincidence. The girl's always smiling."
"True," Dem said flatly.
"Commander!" Umi beamed, as if seeing him alone was reason for celebration. "The trail to Thaigmaal remains clear."
Sark sighed. "Umi. You report to me. Then I relay to the Commander."
She didn't miss a beat. "Sub-Chief, the trail to Thaigmaal remains clear."
Sark pinched the bridge of his nose. "Good. Go eat something and get a few hours' rest."
She nodded vigorously and shot Dem another radiant smile before wheeling her horse and riding off.
A moment passed.
Sark straightened. "Commander," he said solemnly. "The trail to Thaigmaal remains clear."
"Well," Dem replied, deadpan, "that's good news."
A short while later, Dem called the leadership meeting.
"We break camp at first light and return to Frostridge," he said. "When we arrive, I want patrols doubled for the next two days. Anyone wandering into Frostridge territory who doesn't belong there gets turned around. Politely — but firmly."
A pause, then:
"I'm going to Thaigmaal. I made a contact at the Academy. It's time I ask some questions."
Reyka frowned faintly. "You going alone, Commander?"
Dem gave a short, amused breath. "Unless someone here can recommend a companion who doesn't look like they walked out of the plains on a dare."
Telo raised a hand smoothly, cutting off any protests before they could form. "The Commander grew up on the streets of Thaigmaal."
Dem smirked.
Telo folded his arms. "If you're not back in two days…?"
"I'll be back," Dem said. Then, softer: "But if I'm not, return to base camp at the Swiftwind compound."
A moment. Then —
"Understood," Telo said, standing.
And like that, it was settled.
Dem slipped out of camp before first light, folding the last of his gear into his storage ring and leaving without anyone noticing.
He rode hard with the mountain on his left, the land rolling wide and empty ahead of him. He worried about nothing but boredom — stopping only to water his mount and walk her when her breathing grew heavy.
Nearly twenty hours later, the gates of Thaigmaal came into view through the haze.
He dismounted well short of the road and led his horse into a shallow fold of land where he couldn't be seen.
A small fire.
Cold water from his skin bag.
He scrubbed his face and hands clean of what the tribals called plains paint — which, here, would be called dirt. He slicked his wet hair back and changed into city clothes he took from the slavers: muted layers, long sleeves, nothing that invited conversation.
The tattoos vanished beneath cloth.
The easiest way to spot a clansman was how they looked.
The second was how they spoke.
He'd learned their odd lilt and open cadence…
and just as easily learned how to put it down.
When he led his horse through the gates shortly after dawn, it was his first time in Thaigmaal since the rooftop — since the rooftop fight with Matrea — since the night Brim and the Twins betrayed him.
"Approach slowly," a thin woman in leather armor said. A man stood behind her with a crossbow held loose but ready.
Dem stopped, relaxed, and inclined his head politely. "Dem Duscan. I've got business with the Academy."
He wore the shortened echo of his father's name without flinching.
The guards took him in — young, plain, dusty but not wild. The woman's posture softened.
"You carrying any weapons, Dem?"
"No," he said easily. "But if it comes to it… my horse bites."
She barked a laugh and waved him through. "In you go, smartass."
Dem offered a grin and walked into Thaigmaal.
Stepping through the gate, you didn't need sharp senses to find the stable.
Dem followed the reek of hay and horse straight to it and handed off the reins. "I'll be back tomorrow. Take care of her."
"Ten silver in advance," the stablemaster said. Middle-aged, sour with old drink, shirt too small and too dirty to disguise his hanging gut.
Dem took one step closer.
The black blade appeared in his hand without a sound.
"You want to price-jack me like some silk-wrapped idiot?" His voice had gone flat — low and absent of warmth.
The man swallowed loud enough to hear. "I… I misspoke, young man. Two silver. Payable on pick-up. We'll treat her well — best stall, I swear."
Dem nodded once and walked away.
The streets opened around him like they always had.
Same smells. Same noise. Same press of bodies and shouting hawkers.
It fit him like old boots.
He turned down the first alley and ran. Another left sent him onto a muddy strip barely wide enough for shoulders, nothing more than a wound carved between buildings. A maze built by neglect and bad planning.
Minutes later, he stepped onto the boardwalk.
Anyone following him had long since lost the trail.
He pushed open the tailor's door. A bell chimed. Footsteps followed.
"I don't open for another hour," the tailor said, already crossing the floor.
Mickel. Early thirties. Ran the shop with his wife.
In another life, Dem had lifted his pockets half a dozen times. Mickel was good for a few coppers at best.
Dem raised a coin purse from his belt. "I need something decent. Nothing fancy. Just… better."
Mickel smiled, fingers stroking his thin mustache. His trained eye did its work in silence, measuring bone and build. "One moment."
Dem waited until he vanished into the back, then loosened the purse he had taken from the Slaver Commander.
Ten gold.
Five silver.
Not a single copper.
Anyone street rat who caught sight of this would think he was a walking payday.
Mickel returned with folded clothes and a hopeful look.
"Pants. Shirt. Over-jacket. Found you shoes as well — used, but they'll fit."
Dem lifted one of the shoes. Soft leather. Hard sole. Good stitching. "I'll take them."
"I'll throw in socks," Mickel said, already wrapping the bundle. "Six silver."
Dem placed a gold coin on the counter, remembering all the times he targeted the man.
Mickel blinked.
"Keep it."
The tailor froze as if afraid the coin might vanish. "Th-thank you, sir."
Dem nodded once and stepped back out onto the boardwalk.