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We continue toward the central square where the river divides the town. Three stone bridges span the water, connecting the older western quarter to the new, rigidly laid eastern sector, where the Authority’s hand is visible in every line of stone and symmetry of structure.

The Crossroads Inn stands at the intersection of the main trading routes, a three-story structure that has clearly been expanded over the years. Its central location makes it a natural gathering place for people. A place where information will move easily, carried on the current of coin and conversation.

“What now?” Ellie asks when we dismount in front of the inn.

“We go inside, listen more than we speak, and watch to see who takes interest in our arrival.” I scan the square, noting positions where people might watch undetected. “Information was always Ravencross’s most valuable commodity. If any of my former connections survived, we’ll know soon enough.”

She follows my gaze across the busy marketplace, her expression thoughtful. “And if they didn’t?”

“Then we forge new ones.” I lead our sandstriders toward the inn’s stable. “It wouldn't be the first time.”

What I don’t let her see is the uncertainty that gnaws beneath my purposely calm exterior. My fingers tighten imperceptibly around the sandstrider’s reins, the only outward sign of the unrest beneath my skin. The tower and the binding shaped me for years, constants I despised but understood. Now, freedom stretches ahead, all possibility and risk.

I don’t know if the rules we once followed have changed, or if they’ve vanished altogether.

The world has moved on without me. Alliances will have shifted. Names lost. Those who remembered me may be dead, or worse, silent. I am arriving into something I no longer recognize. I am a relic from another time. A legend returning to a place that may no longer have room for me.

Finding my place in this changed landscape will require careful navigation, and a humility I’m not accustomed to. Rage is a poor compass, but it still burns. Patience will be required. Something that won’t come easily when control over my life has only just been regained.

And beside me rides a woman who should not exist at all. She’s another unknown in a landscape full of them.

Ravencross will hold answers—about the network I left behind, about the Authority’s reach, and about why the old stories rise again. Perhaps it will also hold some about Ellie herself, and why she alone could respond to my summons.

Being here is the first step. And once I have what I came for, then my real work will begin.

Chapter Thirteen

ELLIE

“Even dust remembers the hands that shaped it.”

Sayings of the Earthvein Sages

A stable boyemerges from the shadowed doorway, his eyes widening at our sandstriders. He approaches with hesitant steps, gaze locked on the beasts as though they might vanish if he blinks. Around us, passersby give the scaled creatures a comically wide berth, murmuring low phrases or sketching quick symbols in the air—protective gestures, maybe. Superstition? Respect? I can’t tell.

“Shaverik nul’ma?” The boy points to the animals, voice pitched high with wonder.

Sacha replies, pressing a small coin into the boy’s palm. His dirt-smudged cheeks split into a grin so wide it looks like it might crack him open. He takes the reins of both mounts with the reverence of someone handling ancient relics rather than desert-bred mounts.

“Our sandstriders will be well cared for.” Sacha adjusts his hood to keep his face hidden. “The boy seems quite fascinated by them. He’s never seen desert mounts before.”

“I guess they’re unusual here.” I watch the stable boy lead them away, his small frame swaggering with newfound importance.Something twists in my chest. I know what it is. The feeling of being watched and not understood. “Just like me.”

Sacha’s head turns, eyes finding mine. “Which is why we need to remain inconspicuous.” His fingers brush my elbow, light as breath, but warm, startling. A guide. A warning. Maybe both. “Come. We’ll secure food and lodging. And try not to be quite so …” His gaze sweeps over me. “Noticeable.”

The inn’s interior is dim after the bright sunlight, shadows clinging to the corners like cobwebs. The air is thick with noise and warmth—laughter, clinking tankards, the low thrum of conversations in a language I don’t understand. The scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and spices I can’t name wraps around me. I inhale deeply, drawn in by the unfamiliar comfort of it all.

It’s not Chicago. But it’s civilization … of a sort.

A large common room stretches before us, dominated by a wide stone hearth where flames dance high despite the spring warmth. Heavy beams cross the ceiling, blackened by years of smoke and burnished smooth by time. Stairs hug one wall, winding up past a long bar where servers hustle between patrons.

The room teams with life—a shock after days of empty landscapes and hushed conversations. Tables crowd with people in clothing ranging from simple homespun to fabrics dyed in colors so vibrant they hurt my eyes. Two women with elaborately braided hair, adorned with tiny silver beads that catch the light, share a pitcher of something amber colored. At the bar, three men drink in silence, their bodies tense as coiled springs.

The room presses in. My nerves hum like a live wire.

I almost step closer to Sacha.Almost. His presence pulls at me. Not because I trust it, but because it’s familiar. And right now, Ineedsomething familiar.

An older woman appears from behind the counter, her face creased with smile lines, hands calloused from years of work. There’s something grounded about her. She reminds me of the kind of person who knows every secret this building has ever held. Her eyes sparkle with warmth as she greets us.