Chapter Text
The stone walls of the castle felt colder than usual. Not cold in temperature, but cold in that distant way that told Rian he didn’t belong there anymore. He walked slowly down the corridor, his boots striking against the smooth floor, the echo of each step bouncing off pillars and through open doorways that once felt familiar.
He passed guards who nodded politely. Servants who averted their eyes. All of them saw him, but none of them truly looked. He had gone from hero to ghost in the space of a year.
Still, when the High Council summoned, Rian came.
The great chamber was full of muted conversation when he entered. A hush rippled through the room as he stepped inside, every Gelfling eye swiveling toward him. He stood straighter despite himself, drawing a breath that tasted faintly of old moss and smoke. The banner of the Seven Clans hung behind the council table—weathered, mended. Like all of Thra.
“Rian of Stonewood,” said Maudra Leesha, voice solemn. “Thank you for coming.”
Rian gave a shallow bow. “You summoned me. I’m here.”
Maudra Vala of the Vapra nodded. “We are grateful. Sit. We have much to discuss.”
Rian approached the table, heart already pounding. Something about this gathering felt different. Tense. Measured. Like the air before lightning strikes.
He didn’t sit. Not yet. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve reached an impasse,” Vala said crisply. “With the Drenchen.”
Of course. Rian’s shoulders sank slightly. “Let me guess. They won’t agree to the new guard structure. Again.”
“It’s more than that,” said Leesha. “They question the sincerity of the Council. They believe the other clans still see them as... brutes. Weapons. Not allies.”
Rian couldn’t say they were wrong. He’d heard the whispers.
“They want representation,” Vala continued. “A presence among them. One of our own. A peace offering.”
Rian frowned. “So send a diplomat.”
“We are,” said Leesha. “You.”
Silence fell. Rian’s lips parted, but no sound came out at first.
“…Me?”
“You are trusted by all clans. You’re a warrior, but more importantly, you’re bonded to a Drenchen already. You’ve walked with them in war. That gives you a unique position.”
“Gurjin and I are friends,” Rian said carefully, unsure how he felt about how pointedly the word “bonded” had been used. “That doesn’t mean I can represent an entire clan I don’t belong to.”
“You won’t be representing them,” said Maudra Onica, the Sifa elder who rarely spoke unless it mattered. “You will live among them. Observe. Listen. Learn. Help us build something real. That’s all they’re asking.”
Rian’s mouth felt dry. “And if I say no?”
“Then we may lose the Drenchen,” said Leesha. “They’ll pull their forces. Their resources. Perhaps even close their borders again. We cannot afford another division. Not now.”
And there it was. The real reason. Not a gesture of faith—desperation. Fear.
He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing toward the window. The castle overlooked a wide stretch of land, but far off to the south, the trees grew darker. Wetter. The swamp waited.
“Gurjin knows about this?” he asked quietly.
“He does,” Vala replied. “He… didn’t object.”
That was not the same as approval. Not by a long shot.
---
By nightfall, Rian stood outside the castle gates, a satchel slung over one shoulder and a thick cloak wrapped tightly around him. The guards offered him a map he didn’t need and a polite nod he didn’t want.
He didn’t say goodbye. There wasn’t anyone left to say it to.
The journey south took two days. On the first, the terrain was familiar: winding forest paths, open glades, stretches of quiet moss and brittle leaves. He slept in a half-burnt watchtower that smelled of soot and wind. He dreamed of fire and wings.
On the second day, the ground began to squelch beneath his boots. The air grew heavy, wet, rich with the scent of decay and life tangled together. Frogs chirped. Birds wheeled high above. He nearly lost his footing three times, swearing with every splash of swamp water that crept over his ankles.
By midday, the sky had turned a moody shade of gray. A drizzle began, soft at first, then steadier. Rian yanked his cloak tighter and kept going.
The Drenchen village appeared without warning—mist curling through massive tree trunks, their roots twisted like sleeping beasts. Platforms were suspended by thick ropes above dark water. Lanterns glowed green and gold, casting ghostly reflections.
He felt eyes watching him from every shadow.
And then, Gurjin stepped forward.
The sight of him made Rian stop in his tracks.
Broad-shouldered, taller than most Gelfling, Gurjin stood bare-armed despite the rain, his dark skin glistening with moisture. His dreadlocks were pulled back into a loose tie, and his mouth was set in a firm, unreadable line.
Rian let out a breath. “Hey.”
Gurjin raised a brow. “You look like a wet leaf.”
“Well, you look like you’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not.”
Rian rolled his eyes. “Charming as always.”
Gurjin didn’t smile. He stepped closer, boots silent on the wooden walkway. “You came.”
“They gave me a choice, technically. But no.”
A faint twitch at the corner of Gurjin’s mouth. Not quite amusement. “Then welcome to the swamp, Ambassador.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Too late.”
Rian hesitated. “Are you… okay with this?”
A pause. Gurjin’s golden eyes met his, steady and impossible to read. “Doesn’t matter if I am. You’re here now.”
The words stung more than Rian expected. But before he could reply, Gurjin turned on his heel.
“Follow me.”
Rian obeyed, stepping up onto the slick wood platform. They crossed winding bridges and narrow planks strung between trees, the swamp rising and falling below. Creatures moved in the water. Rian tried not to look too hard.
The deeper they went, the more the village revealed itself: clusters of huts carved into bark, woven netting strung like hammocks, herbs drying under overhangs. Everywhere, the scent of wet leaves and something spiced.
Drenchen of all ages stopped what they were doing to watch. Rian felt their stares like cold fingers on the back of his neck. None smiled. None spoke.
“They’re not used to outsiders,” Gurjin said over his shoulder. “Especially pale ones.”
“Thanks for the warm welcome.”
“You want warm? Should’ve stayed in the castle.”
Rian frowned. “Didn’t know you were still angry.”
“I’m not,” Gurjin said shortly. “I’m cautious.”
He stopped outside a hut built into the side of a massive tree. “This is yours. For now.”
Rian looked up at the tangle of vines, the damp steps, the slatted door made of woven reeds. It was charming in a rugged way, but he couldn’t help but sigh.
“Smells like mushrooms.”
Gurjin snorted. “That’s because it is mushrooms. Don’t touch the blue ones. They bite.”
Before Rian could tell if he was joking, Gurjin turned to leave.
“Wait,” Rian called after him. “I… I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
Gurjin paused.
“I don’t mean politically,” Rian went on. “I mean with you. With all of this. I don’t know how to fix anything. Or even if I can.”
Gurjin looked back at him. Rain slid down his face like tears, though his expression didn’t waver.
“Then start by listening,” he said. “Not speaking.”
And with that, he disappeared into the mist.
Rian stood on the threshold of his new home, utterly soaked, utterly uncertain, and completely alone.
He took a breath.
Then he stepped inside.