Iron Hold swallowed them whole.
The fortress city was alive with hammer blows, steam hiss, and echoing market calls. For hours, Ruvan felt like a fish in turbulent rapids, swept along narrow alleys and broad thoroughfares lined with blacksmiths, leatherworkers, herbalists, and scribes. Dwarven runes adorned every stone surface. Heavy metal lanterns glowed with flickering soulfire, casting blue-green light along the underroads.
Kellan led them to a cramped inn carved directly into the cliff wall. Its timber door bore a brass plaque: The Veiled Anvil. Inside, lamplight flickered across soot-stained stone. The air smelled of hot stew and ale.
"We'll take a room," Kellan told the barkeep, a bald woman with ritual scars along her scalp. "Three beds. One night."
She eyed them briefly, counting weapons and coin purses, then nodded. "Second floor. Room with the brass handle."
That night, after a meal of boiled oats, bitter greens, and salted fish, Ruvan lay staring at the dark ceiling beams. Elion sat cross-legged near the shuttered window, polishing his staff in silence. Kellan snored lightly on the other side of the room, dagger still tucked under his palm.
Ruvan turned his head on the thin pillow. Moonlight fell across Elion's golden hair, painting it silver.
"You're not sleeping," he whispered.
Elion didn't look up. "No."
A long silence stretched. Outside, faintly, came the muffled clang of distant forge work, still echoing long past midnight.
Finally, Elion sighed, set aside his staff, and met Ruvan's eyes.
"Do you want to know why I left my order?"
Ruvan swallowed, caught off guard by the sudden rawness in his voice. "Yes."
Elion leaned back against the window frame, staring out at the moonlit city. For a long time he said nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and shaking.
"I was apprenticed at the Dawnspire Sanctuary. My mother took me there when I was seven, after my healing gift awakened. I grew up learning anatomy, energy flow, herbcraft, soulweaving. I was… good. Better than most."
He closed his eyes.
"Two years ago, I was assigned to a plague ward. There was a boy – maybe five years old – skin burning with fever, lungs drowning in fluid. His mother begged me to save him. I… I thought I could."
Ruvan felt his throat tighten. Elion's shoulders trembled.
"I pushed too hard. Tried to purge the infection all at once. His body convulsed. He… he screamed so loud the other healers came running. By the time they dragged me away, his heart had stopped."
Silence pressed heavy between them, broken only by Kellan's quiet snores and the sigh of wind through the shutters.
"I left the next morning," Elion whispered. "Ran before dawn and never looked back."
Ruvan sat up, swinging his legs over the cot. The wooden floor was cold beneath his feet. He crossed to Elion and sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
"He was going to die anyway, wasn't he?" Ruvan said quietly.
Elion turned his face away. "Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is I killed him trying to prove how powerful I was."
For a long time, they sat in silence. Outside, bells tolled somewhere deep in the city. Ruvan could hear his own heartbeat echoing in the stillness.
Finally, he spoke.
"You saved me."
Elion let out a broken laugh. "Barely."
"But you did. And Kellan. You've saved many, haven't you?"
Elion wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "Not enough."
"It never is," Ruvan said softly. "But if you give up, then it's truly nothing."
Elion turned and met his gaze. In the dim room, his golden eyes glowed faintly, reflecting the moonlight.
"Why are you so kind to me?" he asked.
Ruvan shook his head. "Because I've seen enough cruelty."
"Gods above, are you two finished sobbing?" Kellan's voice broke the quiet. They turned to see him sitting up in his cot, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
"Some of us are trying to sleep," he grumbled, though a tired smile tugged at his lips. "Don't mind me. Carry on with your teary declarations of undying love."
Elion chuckled softly, wiping the last tears from his cheeks. "Go back to sleep, Kellan."
The mercenary snorted, rolled over, and was snoring again within seconds.
Ruvan leaned back against the window frame, staring out over Iron Hold's silent rooftops. The moon hung high above, silver and cold.
"Elion."
"Yes?"
"Don't run again."
The healer closed his eyes and nodded. "I won't."
At dawn, they rose to the clang of temple bells echoing through the stone streets. Kellan stretched with a groan, checked his knives, and tossed a coin to the barkeep for watered ale. Elion tied back his hair in a loose braid, his eyes red-rimmed but resolute.
"Today," he said, "we find the Archives."
"And after that?" Ruvan asked.
Elion met his gaze calmly. "We find out if Solrend is a weapon… or a curse."
As they stepped out into the crowded street, Solrend pulsed faintly at Ruvan's hip, as if sensing their purpose. Its whisper slid into his mind like warm oil:
Find me my throne.
Ruvan gritted his teeth and followed his companions into the teeming city.