Kellan walked ahead, weaving easily through the crowded street as if born to Iron Hold's bustling chaos. Ruvan followed in silence, his thoughts heavy with the pulsing whisper of Solrend in his mind. Elion kept close, eyes flicking warily from merchant to guard to ragged child darting between stalls.
They passed under a high archway into a quieter street lined with shuttered shops and dim-lit taverns. Faded banners bearing the flame hammer sigil fluttered weakly above doorways. Somewhere, a smith's hammer rang in steady rhythm, echoing off iron-clad walls.
Kellan slowed, glancing back at them with an unreadable expression. "This way," he muttered, turning down a narrow alley half-choked with discarded crates.
Ruvan frowned but followed. The alley opened into a small courtyard paved with cracked stone. A rusted fountain stood dry at its centre, iron fish frozen in mid-leap. Here the noise of Iron Hold faded, muffled by the surrounding buildings. Only the distant wail of wind between towers disturbed the quiet.
Kellan sat heavily on the fountain's edge and gestured for them to do the same. Elion hesitated, glancing around the deserted courtyard, but finally lowered himself onto a broken crate. Ruvan remained standing, eyes narrowed at their mercenary companion.
"You're acting strange," Ruvan said.
Kellan snorted. "Strange? Lad, I've been strange since the day I was born." He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, fingers lingering at the scar hidden beneath his fringe. "But you're right. There's something you should know."
Elion tensed, gripping his staff. "What is it?"
Kellan sighed, eyes fixed on the cracked paving stones. "You asked why I know these streets so well. Why I can walk into Iron Hold without flinching. Why I know which guards to bribe, which alleys lead to the archives."
He lifted his gaze to meet theirs, and for the first time since Ruvan met him, the roguish smile was gone completely. Only a hard, bitter weariness remained.
"It's because I marched through these streets as a soldier under Lord Maeven's banners."
Silence fell, heavy and sharp as a blade.
"You served Maeven?" Ruvan's voice was low, shaking with restrained fury.
"Aye." Kellan didn't flinch from his glare. "Five years in his iron legions. I was just a boy when recruiters came to our village. Promised coin, honour, a chance to see the world beyond barley fields and pig pens."
He laughed humourlessly. "And I saw it. Gods, I saw too much of it."
Elion spoke softly. "Then why are you here now, hunted by his men?"
Kellan's eyes darkened. "Because I deserted. Left in the dead of night with nothing but a rusted dagger and my half-frozen boots. Because I saw what Maeven truly was."
He drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders, as if warding off memories colder than the wind.
"There was a village… Emberwood. Just a scattering of huts around an old shrine. They refused to pay Maeven's tribute. Said they had no coin left, that winter took their crops, wolves took their sheep. We were ordered to make an example."
Ruvan felt his stomach twist.
"They lined the villagers up by the shrine. Men, women, children. Maeven's enforcers poured lamp oil over them. I… I can still smell it. Burning hair. Burning flesh. The screaming didn't stop, even when their throats burned away."
He fell silent, staring into nothing, eyes hollow.
"I held my blade at my side and watched. Because if I moved, if I spoke, I'd be next. The captain saw my tears. Called me a coward. Said we were purifying filth that defied their rightful king."
Elion's voice shook. "Gods…"
"That night," Kellan continued, his voice barely a whisper, "I waited until the others slept off their victory wine. I took my pay pouch and I ran. I ran until my feet bled. Until Maeven's banners were just smoke on the horizon."
Ruvan clenched his fists. Part of him burned with rage at Kellan's confession. Another part saw only a broken man carrying ghosts no one should bear alone.
"Why tell us this now?" Ruvan asked quietly.
"Because," Kellan said, looking up at him with fierce, haunted eyes, "if you mean to stand against Maeven… if you mean to wield that blade against him… you need to know what he truly is. What he'll do to you, to anyone who defies him."
He stood abruptly, wiping a hand across his face as if to scrub away the memory. "We should go. The archives close soon."
Ruvan reached out and grasped his arm. Kellan froze, meeting his gaze.
"You're not the coward they called you," Ruvan said firmly. "You're still here. Still fighting."
Kellan let out a ragged breath and managed a ghost of his old smirk. "Don't go making me sentimental, lad. I've a reputation to maintain."
He pulled free gently and started towards the alley mouth. Elion rose and followed, his face pale with grief for horrors he couldn't heal.
Ruvan lingered a moment, feeling Solrend's weight at his back, its silent pulse matching the rage simmering in his chest.
Maeven…
The blade whispered darkly, its voice curling through his mind like coals stirred to life.
Let me burn him. Let me devour.
Ruvan's grip tightened until his knuckles ached. Not yet.
He turned away from the fountain's silent iron fish and followed his companions into the narrowing shadows, towards the archives, towards answers – and the storm gathering beyond Iron Hold's walls.