The morning bit like steel. Frost clung to the grass in brittle webs, and the breath of every man turned to ghost-smoke in the chill. No birdsong dared break the silence.
Callan was already awake, long before the others stirred. He dropped to the frozen earth with a grunt, fingers digging into the hard ground as he began to push. One. Two. Three—his breath hissed in rhythm, white against the air. The ground was like stone beneath him, but he welcomed the ache in his arms and chest, letting it burn the sleep out of his bones.
After a thirty push-ups, he moved to squats, boots thudding against the earth with each repetition, muscles screaming against the cold. Then came the run—circling the perimeter of their camp again and again until his lungs seared and his legs numbed from thigh to shin.
When he finally slowed to a stop, steam rose off his back like mist from a battle-warm blade. The others were stirring now, rustling in bedrolls, cursing the cold. Galar stood waiting by the trees, arms crossed, two practice blades already set into the ground at his feet.
Callan didn't ask. He simply walked to him, picked up a blade, and squared his stance.
The air cracked with their first clash. Again, and again. Callan was faster than yesterday, heavier in his strikes, no wasted movement. He was becoming something. Galar saw it too—his eyes narrowed as he pressed harder, began testing him in new ways.
From a short distance, Rhenar sat with his back to a tree, a book open in his hands. He wasn't reading, though. Not really. His eyes were on them, watching the rhythm of the fight with an unreadable expression, as if he were measuring something silently behind that mask of calm.
Callan didn't notice. Or he didn't care.
The cold wind swept through the clearing like a warning.
By the time they finished, Callan was breathing hard—Galar had the sharp expression of a teacher who'd seen improvement, Callan had the stoic silence of someone who expected to improve.
The others had kindled a fire that hissed in the damp morning air. Smoke drifted low across the camp, curling around boots and cloaks like a wary animal. Callan sat down near it, the warmth a faint balm on his chilled skin. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, steam still curling from his shoulders. No one offered a comment. Rhenar turned a page in his book with the same lazy precision he always had, but now and then his eyes flicked toward Callan like a hawk watching something not quite prey.
Someone handed him a crust of bread and a strip of salted meat—tough and cold. He ate it without complaint, chewing steadily as the silence of the morning settled over them.
For a long moment, there was only the crackle of fire and the quiet sounds of men waking up to another day of endless walking and frozen wind.
Then Callan asked, voice low and even, "Where are we going?"
Galar glanced up from sharpening his blade, the whetstone rasping to a stop.
"And what's the mission?"
There was a pause. A long one.
Galar looked at him, the usual bluntness in his features smoothed by thought. He didn't answer right away. Just leaned back on one hand, the whetstone dangling from his fingers, gaze distant as if pulling the answer from somewhere far away.
Galar ran a cloth down the length of his blade, slow, deliberate.
"At the edge of the mountains of Akaros," he said, his voice pitched low so only Callan and a few nearby could hear, "there's a castle. Belongs to the bride's father—the minor lord Klint with old money and older blood."
He glanced toward the horizon as if he could see the peaks from here.
"About a week ago, her brother—some half-witted scavenger with more ambition than sense—found something in the high passes in a hunting trip. Something that should belong to the Sons. Not the hands of nobility."
Callan stayed still, but his fingers curled slightly around the crust of bread in his hand.
Galar's gaze sharpened. "The fool's planning to sell it. During the wedding, while all the eyes are watching the vows and the wine. And the buyers?" He snorted once, cold and humorless. "They're worse than thieves. They're enemies of the Church. Which makes them our enemies."
He leaned forward, blade resting across his knees again, meeting Callan's eyes.
"That thing he found... it's a threat. Not just to us. But to order of the Kingdom. And you're going to help us take it back."
Callan sat silent for a while, the fire crackling beside him, the weight of Galar's words settling in like the cold on his shoulders.
He looked down at his hands—scarred, raw from sword work, calloused with effort—and then up at Galar and Rhenar. One a blade honed by years of bloodshed. The other a mind sharpened like a scalpel.
"What do you need me for?" he asked finally, voice low but steady. "You've got Rhenar. You've got you. What difference can I make?"
Rhenar didn't look up from his book this time, but Callan could feel his attention sharpen.
Galar regarded him for a long moment. No mockery. No scorn.
Just that unreadable, glacier-hard calm.
Galar's jaw flexed as he stared into the fire, as if weighing what should be said next. Then he spoke.
"It's Elven."
The word hung in the cold like a curse.
"The artifact the brother found—it's of Elven make. Old. Before the kingdoms. Before the Church. Before we started pretending we understood the world we were given."
Callan blinked. "Elves? But they're—"
"Gone?" Galar cut in. "They disappeared. Doesn't mean they're gone. They were secretive before, now they're myths walking in mist. But the Guild—the ones buying the artifact? They've got one in their ranks."
He said it like an accusation.
"A real one. Quiet, hooded, always in shadow. But she's real. And if she's after it, then it's not just a bauble. It's power. Power that shouldn't be in any man's hands. Or elf's."
Callan's brow furrowed. "What does it do?"
"No one knows for sure," Galar muttered. "That's the problem. The only thing we do know is it can only be used by an Elf—or, as the Church hopes, someone carrying an Elven artifact of their own."
His eyes flicked sideways, just briefly.
Callan felt something cold settle in his gut.
Callan's fingers instinctively touched the ring—the cold metal ever present against his skin, like it was watching.
He glanced at Galar, then at Rhenar, who still hadn't looked up.
"Why not give it to you?" Callan asked, quiet but sharp. "Or to him?" He jerked his chin toward Rhenar. "Why put something like this on me?"
Galar didn't move. Didn't blink.
"Because only Brewyn knew about the ring."
That answer hit like a dull blade. Not cruel, just true.
"And it was his choice to make," Galar continued, shrugging one shoulder like it meant nothing. "Not mine. Not Rhenar's. You want to know why he chose you?"
He looked Callan dead in the eye, no warmth in it.
"Ask him."
Galar gave a low, almost cynical laugh, shaking his head.
"My guess?" He looked at Callan, his eyes hard and unreadable. "Brewyn didn't know if the ring would even accept a human. Elves, sure, but humans… we're a different breed."
He took a long breath, as if the idea was more a fact than a theory.
"So he picked you. A little capable, in case it works. But disposable, if it doesn't. That way, no real loss."
Callan's breath caught, the weight of the words sinking deep into his chest. It was hard to ignore the cold sting that came with them, and for a brief moment, he felt small—like the ring was the only thing truly worth anything.
"Disposable," Callan repeated under his breath, just loud enough for Galar to hear.
Galar's face softened, but only a little. "Doesn't mean you are disposable," he said, voice rougher now, almost a warning. "But you're not the first man Brewyn's thrown into the fire to see if he burns."
Rhenar's eyes flicked over the top of his book, and for a split second, there was something like understanding between them, unspoken but clear.
Callan stared at his hands for a moment, feeling the weight of the ring pressing his skin, its cold presence a constant reminder of the choice that had been made for him.
"Why did it accept me?" His voice was quieter now, edged with frustration as he looked up at Galar, as if the answer could somehow make sense of it all.
Galar's shoulders gave a slight shrug, his eyes flicking to Callan before returning to the fire.
"Hell if I know," he muttered, voice rough and uninterested. "Maybe it just likes you. Maybe it's fate. Or maybe Brewyn was right all along—you're just the right kind of disposable."
He paused, then added, as if it mattered little, "Whatever the reason, it's yours now."
Rhenar finally closed his book with a deliberate snap, the sound slicing through the tension of the conversation. His eyes flicked up to meet Callan's, sharp and calculating.
"You're asking the wrong question," he said, his voice smooth but laced with an almost academic curiosity.
Callan turned his gaze toward him, still feeling the weight of Galar's shrug in the air.
"What do you mean?"
Rhenar leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping the spine of the book in his lap. "The ring. It's not like other Elven artifacts. Not made with magic or runesmithing like the rest." His lips twitched, as if the thought amused him, but he didn't smile. "No, this one is crafted from emotion. It feeds on something darker. A curse, perhaps. A bond to something more primal."
Callan's brow furrowed. "Emotion? A curse?"
Rhenar's gaze sharpened. "Yes. The Elves were never just about magic—they understood the world through feeling, through power that wasn't always measured in runes or glyphs. They used emotion as a force, something dangerous, something bound by curse. And this ring?" He tilted his head slightly, as if considering it carefully. "It may very well be the only Elven artifact that can accept anyone—not just an Elf. It's not made of the same rules of magic. It's something more… chaotic. It draws from the soul, not the mind."
He sat back, letting the weight of his words settle. "Perhaps that's why it accepted you, boy."
Callan fell silent, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place in his mind. His eyes flicked down to the ring again, its cold weight pressing through his skin, and the truth felt heavier than it ever had before.
It feeds on the soul.
For a moment, he let the thought settle in his chest, as cold and sharp as the mountain wind. Then, slowly, it dawned on him.
That was why Brewyn had chosen him. Not because he was the most skilled, or the most trusted. Not because he had the strength to wield it. But because he was disposable. Because the ring took from the soul, and Callan… Callan had little enough to lose.
The others? They were valuable. Too valuable for something like this.
Galar. Rhenar. Even Brewyn himself.
They couldn't be sacrificed—not like this.
His chest tightened, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he nodded to himself, as if the conclusion was inevitable.
I'm expendable.
Callan's thoughts continued to churn, a storm of realization swirling in his mind. Another question bubbled up, sharp and insistent.
"How do you know all this? About the mission, the lord's son—about the artifact?"
Galar looked up from the fire, his eyes distant for a moment, as if he was deciding how much to say.
"Brewyn acquired the information," he said flatly, voice low. "The mission, the artifact, the lord's son—he's the one who knew it all."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle between them, then added, "Only he knows. The rest of us? We're just following orders."
Callan's brow furrowed, the questions spilling out almost before he could stop them. The weight of everything pressing on him made the need for answers sharper, more urgent.
"Who are you two?" he asked, his voice carrying that edge of frustration and confusion. "Where do you come from? How did you end up here?"
Callan's brow furrowed, the questions spilling out almost before he could stop them. The weight of everything pressing on him made the need for answers sharper, more urgent.
"Who are you two?" he asked, his voice carrying that edge of frustration and confusion. "Where do you come from? How did you end up here?"
Galar's eyes narrowed slightly, studying him for a long, quiet moment. Then, after a moment's thought, he leaned forward, his gaze steady.
"Groups of people, soldiers, mercenaries… they often perform better when there's trust," he said, his voice low but firm.
He sat back, letting the silence settle for a heartbeat before continuing.
"We're Inquisitors of the Church. We serve the Church, but we're also soldiers of the Sons. Footsoldiers. We handle the dirty work—the things the high powers won't touch, the things that can be solved with blades or prayers."
Galar's gaze flicked to Rhenar, who gave a barely perceptible nod in agreement.
"We fight, we spy, we kill—whatever the mission requires. But the power's never truly in our hands. We're expendable. Just like you."
Callan's expression darkened, his curiosity growing as he processed everything he'd just heard. The idea that Galar and Rhenar would choose this life, knowing they were expendable, gnawed at him.
"If you're so capable," Callan asked, his voice lower now, "why do you agree to be expendable? Why choose to live like this, doing jobs for the Church, when you could be free—relaxed, living better in the world?"
His gaze shifted between the two men, the questions raw and curious. "You don't have to be trapped in this. You're capable. Why stay?"
Galar's eyes narrowed sharply at Callan's question, and his voice cut through the air like a knife, colder than the mountain winds.
"You speak like someone who hasn't seen the world," he said, his tone biting, like he was talking to a naive child. "You think freedom's some kind of luxury, don't you? That life's just about comfort, about being relaxed."
He leaned forward, his gaze hard and unwavering.
"Let me tell you something." His voice dropped to a near whisper, but the weight of it carried like thunder. "She is real. But the world out there? The one you're so eager to escape to? It's as real as the damn blade you'll find in your back the first "free" night you live."
He stood up abruptly, his frame towering over Callan as he let the words sink in.
Galar's eyes burned with a bitter understanding as he stood over Callan. His voice, low and cutting, held a weight that was impossible to ignore.
"You don't know her yet," Galar said, his gaze piercing. "You've never been desperate enough, helpless enough for her to see you."
He let the silence hang for a moment, as if the words themselves were meant to burn into Callan's soul. Then, with a quick, sharp movement, Galar turned away, leaving the young man to process what had just been said.
For a second, Callan stood there, the weight of Galar's words pressing on him like an unseen force. His mind briefly flashed to Moar, the idea of her, the world beyond the ring.
After a moment of deep thought, he spoke—his voice quieter than usual, almost tentative, as if testing the air around him.
"Don't be so sure," he said, his tone a little more timid than he intended.
He wasn't sure if it was defiance or doubt that had driven the words, but the sting of Galar's harshness lingered in his chest, and for a brief moment, Callan wanted to believe something else. That maybe there was another way.
Galar stopped in his tracks, his hand halfway to the leather straps of his gear. The anger in his eyes flickered, replaced by something far more unsettling: interest.
He turned slowly to face Callan, his gaze sharpening as though he were suddenly seeing him in a new light. There was no humor in his expression, no warmth—only a sharp, calculating curiosity.
Rhenar, who had been quietly observing from his seat, looked up from his book. His eyes narrowed slightly, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. It wasn't the smile of someone amused, but rather one of a man who saw something unexpected, something worthy of attention.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension.
Galar held Callan's gaze for a moment longer, the air thick with the shift in the dynamic between them. Finally, he straightened up, his posture firm and commanding once more. His expression softened just enough to be unreadable, but the intensity remained in his eyes.
"We ride now," he said, his voice clipped and final.
Without waiting for a response, he turned and made his way toward the horses, signaling to Rhenar to follow. The silence lingered just a moment longer before Rhenar closed his book and stood, his quiet footsteps echoing in the stillness as they moved to prepare for the journey ahead.