Borin wiped down the bar with a worn cloth, the rhythmic motion a comfort against the unease gnawing at his gut. The tavern was quiet, too quiet for a Tithe day. Usually, there was a buzz of nervous energy as farmers came in to steady their nerves before handing over a season's labor to the King's man. Today, the air was thick and still, like before a storm.
Kaelen's face, pale and strained from his dream, flashed in his mind. The Echo. The boy didn't know Borin understood. But Borin had been there the day the storm died and the silence that followed was more terrifying than any thunder. He had seen the silver-threaded swaddling cloth that no weaver in the Five Realms could replicate. He had made a promise to a dying woman with eyes like fractured sky—to hide him, to keep him safe, to let him be nobody.
The thunder of hooves shattered the silence. Not the clip-clop of a single collector's horse, but the organized rumble of a military column. Borin's blood went cold. He dropped the cloth and moved to the window, his old soldier's instincts screaming.
A dozen riders in the crimson and gold of Lysterium filled the muddy street, their armor gleaming dully under the sun. But it was the man at their head who made Borin's heart clench. He was tall, gaunt, and wore the ornate robes of a royal clerk over a suit of fine mail. Tithe-Collector Valus. But it was the three figures flanking him that were wrong. They wore the same mail, but their cloaks were a darker, almost black crimson, and they sat their horses with an unnatural stillness. Their eyes scanned the village not with bureaucratic indifference, but with the predatory focus of hawks.
Umbral. Lyra had been right. The word was a stone in his stomach.
The door to the tavern swung open and Valus stepped in, his pinched face attempting a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Borin. Always a pleasure. The King's Tithe awaits."
"The coin is in the strongbox," Borin said, his voice carefully neutral. "I'll fetch it."
"Ah, in a moment," Valus waved a dismissive hand. "First, a small matter. We are seeking a boy. Kaelen, I believe is his name. There are questions he must answer regarding... disturbances in the Aetherial currents."
Borin felt the eyes of the three dark-cloaked men on him. The Sniffer, a man with a face like a weasel, had his head tilted, his nostrils flared as if scenting the air. The other two were pure muscle, their hands resting on their sword hilts.
"Kaelen is out on the south pasture," Borin lied smoothly, the way he'd lied for twenty years. "Counting sheep. He's a good boy. Knows nothing of currents or Aether."
The Sniffer took a step forward, his gaze drifting around the room, lingering on the stairs that led to the upper floor. "He has been here. Recently. The air... sings of him. A peculiar song." His voice was a dry rustle.
Valus's false smile tightened. "Be that as it may, we will see him. Now. Fetch him."
"He could be gone hours," Borin said, crossing his arms over his broad chest, a gesture of finality. "You're welcome to wait. First round is on the house."
The Sniffer ignored him, gliding towards the stairs. "He is not in the fields. The trail is fresh. It leads... up."
Borin moved, placing his bulk between the man and the staircase. "That's my private quarters. No one goes up there."
The air in the tavern froze. The two bruisers behind Valus drew their swords in a single, fluid motion. The few other patrons, old men who remembered the last war, shrank back into their corners.
Valus sighed, a sound of profound annoyance. "Borin, do not be a fool. This is beyond you. The boy is a commodity of the Crown. Stand aside."
"A commodity?" Borin's voice was low and dangerous. "He's my son."
The Sniffer was now mere feet away, his dead eyes locked on Borin's. The nauseating sensation of silence began to emanate from him, a void that made the tavern's familiar sounds—the crackling fire, the creaking timbers—seem distant and faint.
"You are harboring a Resonant," the Sniffer whispered, the words only for Borin. "That is treason. The punishment is death."
Borin's mind was clear. This was it. The promise he had kept for two decades was about to come due. He would not let them have Kaelen. He would not let this silence touch his boy.
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod to Old Man Hemmet, who was nursing an ale by the fire. Hemmet's eyes widened, then hardened with understanding. He gave a curt nod back.
"Last chance, tavern-keeper," Valus said.
Borin's answer was not in words. In one swift motion, he grabbed the heavy iron poker from beside the hearth and swung it in a wide, brutal arc. It connected with the Sniffer's head with a sickening crunch. The man crumpled without a sound, the oppressive silence snapping instantly.
Chaos erupted.
The two bruisers lunged. Borin, the retired sergeant of the Sun-King's army, met them with a roar that shook the rafters. He was no Channeler, but he was a veteran of a hundred battles, and the Grinning Griffin was his fortress. He parried a sword thrust with the poker, the impact jarring his arm, and drove his shoulder into the man's chest, sending him stumbling back into a table.
The second soldier came in low. Borin sidestepped and brought the heavy end of the poker down on the man's wrist. Bone snapped. The soldier screamed, his sword clattering to the floor.
"Run, you old fools!" Borin bellowed at his patrons. They didn't need telling twice, scrambling out the back door into the alley.
Valus was shrieking orders from the doorway. "Take him! Kill him! Find the boy!"
More soldiers dismounted and began to pour into the tavern. Borin knew the numbers were impossible. But he didn't need to win. He only needed to buy time.
He fought with the desperate strength of a cornered bear. He used the bar, the tables, the very structure of the building as his allies. He threw a tankard of ale into one man's face, blinded him, and then knocked him cold with the poker. He overturned a heavy oak table, using it as a shield against a flurry of sword thrusts.
But he was one man. A blade sliced deep into his thigh. He grunted, stumbling, but stayed upright. A pommel struck the back of his head, and his vision swam. He swung the poker blindly, feeling it connect with something solid.
Through a haze of blood and pain, he saw a soldier break away and head for the stairs.
No.
With a final, guttural cry, Borin threw the poker like a javelin. It took the soldier in the back, sending him sprawling on the steps. It was his last act.
A sword point entered his back, just below the ribs. The pain was sharp and cold. He fell to his knees, his big hands slapping against the sawdust-covered floor. He coughed, and blood speckled the wood.
Valus walked over, his face a mask of disgust. "A pointless end for a pointless man." He leaned down. "Where is the boy?"
Borin looked up, a bloody grin spreading across his face. He had held the line. The trail would be cold. Lyra would have him deep in the Whisperwood by now.
"He's gone," Borin rasped, his voice thick with blood and triumph. "You're too late. He's beyond your reach."
Valus's lip curled. He straightened up and nodded to the soldier standing over Borin. "Finish it."
Borin didn't see the sword that ended him. His eyes were fixed on the south pasture, on the image of a boy with his head in the clouds, counting sheep under a sun that no longer felt warm. He had kept his promise.
Be safe, son.
The world went dark, and the last thing he heard was not the Echo, but the profound, loving silence of a duty fulfilled.