The palace was a jagged silhouette against the pre-dawn sky as they rode further into the wilderness. The morning air was biting, smelling of damp earth and woodsmoke. Here, the "roads" were little more than muddy tracks carved by heavy cartwheels and the weary feet of the oppressed.
Asarmose pulled his coarse wool cloak tighter around his shoulders. The mare beneath him was sturdy, but she lacked the smooth gait of the royal steeds he was accustomed to. He looked over at Alistair, who rode with a predatory stillness, his eyes constantly scanning the dense treeline.
"You're brooding," Asarmose noted, his voice a low hum over the sound of the horses' hooves. "Is it the loss of your throne, or the fact that the mud is starting to ruin your boots?"
Alistair didn't turn his head. "I'm wondering which of my 'loyal' subjects is currently selling the iron from my mines to the highest bidder while I'm out here playing traveler with a Prince who thinks this is a research project."
"If it were just a project, I wouldn't be freezing in this gods-forsaken mist," Asarmose countered.
They rounded a bend in the track and came to a sudden halt. In the middle of the path lay the wreckage of a massive wooden cart. One of its heavy, iron-rimmed wheels had been smashed to splinters, and the cargo—crude crates meant for the capital—lay overturned and emptied.
Alistair dismounted in one fluid motion, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the sword hidden beneath his cloak. He knelt by the wheel, his fingers tracing a deep gouge in the wood.
"This wasn't an accident," Alistair muttered, his voice cold. "The axle was sawn halfway through before it even left the district."
Asarmose slid off his horse and approached the crates. He didn't look at the wood; he looked at the ground. There were no bodies, but there were dozens of footprints—some heavy and booted, others bare and frantic.
"The people didn't fight back," Asarmose said, pointing to a set of tracks leading off into the deep forest. "They followed. Look at the stride length. They weren't being dragged; they were walking with purpose."
Alistair stood up, his gaze following the tracks into the dark woods. "They're being led. Someone is intercepted the convoys and taking the workers."
A low whistle echoed from the trees—a birdcall that sounded just a bit too rhythmic to be natural.
Alistair's pheromones shifted, that sharp, intoxicating scent sharpening into something aggressive and protective. He stepped closer to Asarmose, his body shielding the Prince from the direction of the sound.
"Stay behind me," Alistair commanded, his voice a dangerous rasp.Asarmose let out a soft, sharp exhale. "And let you have all the fun? I think not. Remember the bargain, Alistair. You trust me one hundred percent—and right now, my instincts tells me those aren't bandits."
The birdcall hadn't even finished echoing when the shadows between the ancient trees began to move. In a heartbeat, they were surrounded. A dozen figures emerged from the dense undergrowth, their movements ragged but coordinated. They were dressed in mismatched furs and boiled leather, wielding rusted pikes and sharpened farming tools.
In the center of the road, a young woman stepped forward. She looked to be in her twenties, her brown hair pulled back in a hurried, messy bun. She held a wooden crossbow leveled directly at Alistair's chest, her finger steady on the trigger. Her eyes were hard, filled with the kind of alertness that only comes from a life spent being hunted.
"Halt," she commanded, her voice low and sharp. "State your names and your business on this track. This isn't a road for aimless wandering."
Alistair's hand tightened on his hidden blade, his chest heaving with a suppressed roar. He opened his mouth to speak—likely to demand who she thought she was questioning—but Asarmose stepped in front of him. The move was so fluid and calm it momentarily stunned the woman.
"Lower your steel, friend," Asarmose said, his voice smooth and devoid of the prideful weight he usually carried, replaced instead by a tired, traveler's rasp. "I am Aris, and this surly brute is my partner Kael. We're just stone-cutters looking for work in the southern quarries. We heard there was a need for hands, but all we've found so far is mud and silence."
The woman didn't lower the crossbow. Her eyes darted between Asarmose's intelligent face and Alistair's predatory, simmering presence. "Stone-cutters? You have the hands of men who haven't touched a chisel in years."
"We've been on the road a long time," Asarmose countered, not missing a beat. "Hunger has a way of softening the skin while it hardens the spirit."
She remained skeptical, her gaze shifting to the wreckage behind them. "Then why were you checking that wagon? That's crown property. Most 'travelers' would have run the other way to avoid being blamed for the theft."
Asarmose looked back at the splintered wood, then back at her with a knowing, cynical tilt of his head. "We were checking to see if there was any grain left behind. A man can't eat 'crown property' labels, can he? But the axle was sawn. We aren't fools; we know a raid when we see one."
The woman stared at him for a long, heavy moment, searching for a slip in his facade. Slowly, she eased the tension on the crossbow string and lowered the weapon.
"He's right about the axle," she muttered, more to her group than to them. Following her lead, the others lowered their pikes and daggers, though they didn't stop glaring. "I'm Elara. If you're looking for the quarries, you're heading toward a graveyard. The Alphas there are losing their minds because their 'stock' keeps walking away."
Alistair finally spoke, his voice a dangerous grate that he barely kept under control. "And where exactly are they walking to?"
Elara looked at him, her eyes narrowing. "Somewhere the air doesn't smell like incense and blood. If you're really looking for work, follow the river south. But keep your heads down. The King's hounds are out in force, and they don't ask names before they hang 'vagrants' like you."
As the people melted back into the forest as quickly as they had appeared, Alistair turned to Asarmose, his eyes burning with a dark, suppressed fury.
"Aris?" Alistair hissed. "And you called me a 'surly brute'?"
"It fit the costume," Asarmose replied, a small, sassy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he moved back toward his horse. "And it worked, didn't it? She lowered her weapon. If you had spoken, we'd both have swords in our necks right now."
Asarmose didn't immediately remount. He stood in the center of the muddy track, his eyes narrowed as he watched the exact spot where Elara had vanished. A frown tugged at his brow, his clinical mind already deconstructing the interaction.
"Don't you find it odd?" Asarmose asked, his voice low. "They were far too quick to move on. They had us cornered, yet they didn't push for more information. They didn't even check our packs for coin or bread."
Alistair sat tall in his saddle, his hand finally relaxing its grip on the hidden hilt beneath his cloak. He scanned the treeline with the cold, practiced eye of a commander.
"They were in a hurry," Alistair noted, his jaw set in a hard line. "People in that state don't linger for conversation. Either they are being tracked by something they fear, or they are tracking something they intend to retrieve. Either way, we are an obstacle they couldn't afford to waste time on."
Asarmose looked at the footprints again. "If they are being tracked, then the 'Hounds' she mentioned are closer than we thought."
"Then we have lingered here long enough," Alistair said, his voice dropping to a dangerous silk. "Kael and Aris need to find their 'work' before the sun hits its peak. We head for the labor camp."
They rode in a tense, watchful silence, following the curve of the river as the landscape grew bleaker. The lush greenery of the palace outskirts gave way to jagged slate cliffs and scarred earth. Soon, the wind began to carry the heavy, rhythmic thud of hammers against stone and the sharp, metallic tang of the iron forges.
As they crested a final ridge, the Southern Labor Camp—Sector Seven—sprawled out below them like an open wound in the valley.
It was a fortress of misery. High wooden palisades reinforced with rusted iron spikes surrounded a cluster of soot-stained barracks. In the center of the camp, a massive pit had been carved into the earth, where hundreds of figures moved like sluggish ants under the watchful eyes of Alphas stationed on wooden towers.
"There," Alistair whispered, his eyes dark as he surveyed the inefficiency of his own operation. "The source."
Asarmose felt a ripple of genuine unease. Even from this distance, he could see the disorientation Elara had described. The workers didn't move with the coordinated rhythm of a labor force; they stumbled, their lines broken, while the guards seemed to lash out with a desperate, frantic cruelty.
Asarmose watched a guard shove an elderly man into the dirt, laughing as the man scrambled to recover his spilled ore. The Prince's jaw set so hard it looked carved from marble. He turned his head slowly, fixed Alistair with a look of such concentrated, icy disgust that it felt more biting than the mountain wind.
"I am not the one who oversees these parts," Alistair said quickly, his voice tight. He met Asarmose's gaze, his own ego bristling at the silent accusation. "I have governors. I have overseers. A King cannot watch every hand that holds a lash."
"But you are the King," Asarmose countered, his voice low and dangerously calm. "Their cruelty is the shadow of your crown, Alistair. Every blow dealt down there is sanctioned by your silence."
Alistair opened his mouth to argue—to speak of logistics, of the necessity of iron, of the chain of command—but the words died in his throat. He looked from Asarmose's unwavering eyes down to the chaos below, where a young Alpha was currently upending a woman's water ration for sport.
The weight of it hit him—not as a failure of policy, but as a failure of his own absolute order. He let out a long, heavy sigh, his shoulders dropping just a fraction as he conceded the point.
"I am the King," Alistair repeated, the words sounding less like a boast and more like a confession. He looked back at the camp, his eyes turning stone-cold. "And if this is how my authority is being used, then the governors will pray for the lower cells by the time I am through with them. Let's go."
"Remember," Asarmose said, casting a sideways glance at the King. "You are a stone-cutter. If you look at the guards with that 'I-could-have-you-executed' stare, we won't make it past the front gate."
Alistair offered a dry, joyless smile. "And you? Try not to look like a god who took a wrong turn into a pigsty."
With their hoods pulled low to hide their features, they steered their horses down the rocky path toward the main entrance, where a line of desperate men waited to be processed into the pit.