From Deadbeat noble to Top Rank Swordsman
Chapter 71: A Thorn in the Ash

Chapter 71: A Thorn in the Ash

The eastern wind howled down Caer Durell’s spine like a curse trying to find a mouth. By dawn, snow lashed the lower ramparts, the blue fire guttered to its edges, and every torch along the west-facing corridor burned shorter than it should.

Leon rode before the sun crested the peaks.

No banner. No retinue. Just two riders at his flank—old Gerran, who’d once scouted the Hinterwalls blindfolded, and Naeve, the youngest march-blood still standing after the Vale campaign. Elena had picked them herself. Quiet. Fast. Loyal enough to bleed without needing to be asked.

They took the southern pass first, then veered northwest before the Watch could mark them. The road to Halin’s spine was empty—but not dead. Too many footprints in snow that had fallen only hours before. Hoofprints. Heavy tread.

"Someone’s circling," Gerran muttered. "They want us to know we’re followed."

Leon didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed on the ridge ahead. A thin column of smoke rose behind it—too pale to be a fire, too sharp to be a mistake.

Naeve spotted it next. "Signal fire?"

"No," Leon said. "Old seer powder. Thorn ash."

Naeve blinked. "That’s a royal code."

"It was."

The path narrowed where the rocks turned red. Old volcanic stone, charred and stubborn, broke through the snow like burnt fingers. The cliffs funneled them toward a weathered arch of stone—once a guardway, now half-collapsed. They passed under it, and for a breath, the wind stopped.

Then she appeared.

A figure, sitting calmly at the base of a twisted pine, her back straight, hood drawn low. No sword. No entourage.

Just her.

Leon reined in first. The others held back.

"Elena said you died," he said.

The figure lifted her hood slowly.

Princess Isabel.

Her face was thinner than he remembered—sharper, with windburn across her cheeks and a scar splitting her left brow. But her eyes hadn’t changed. Calm. Cold. Watching everything.

"I did," she said. "Just not in the way that counts."

Leon dismounted, slow. No sudden moves.

"Where’ve you been?"

"Watching." She looked past him at the other two riders. "Does Caer Durell send scouts now instead of arms?"

"They’re not scouts."

"Then they shouldn’t be here."

Leon raised a hand. Gerran and Naeve withdrew behind the ridge without a word.

Alone now, Leon stepped forward.

"Why now?" he asked.

Isabel’s gaze didn’t waver. "Because the wrong side’s writing history again. And they’re doing it with clean hands."

Leon crouched beside her. "You sent the falcon message."

She nodded. "I wanted to see if you’d still read it."

"I did." He paused. "They’re invoking the Fifth."

"I know."

"They’re aiming for the Sixth."

"I know."

"And you’re walking through the teeth of it."

"I was born in its throat." She said with a grim smile.

Leon exhaled. "So why the ash signal?"

Isabel’s voice softened. "Because this time, you’re not burying me again."

She stood slowly. Snow clung to her boots, her cloak, the dagger still strapped to her thigh. "I’m coming with you."

Leon looked down at her hands—gloveless. Cold. Steady.

He nodded.

"Then let the world remember what a thorn can become."—

They moved quickly after that.

No words. No delay. Just a silent understanding carved into frost and old wounds.

By the time they reached the split near Hollow Vale, Isabel had taken Naeve’s horse and slipped into rhythm beside Leon as if she’d never left. Gerran kept his distance, but his eyes never left her. Not suspicion—just the instinct of a man who’d watched too many legends return broken.

Leon handed her a waterskin. She drank without hesitation.

"You’ve changed," he said.

"So have you."

He glanced sideways. "Still carrying the dagger?"

Isabel gave a faint nod. "Still sharp."

"I remember when you couldn’t hold it straight."

"I remember when you couldn’t walk without tripping over your own pride."

That almost made him smile. Almost.

The ridge gave way to a descent path—a narrow vein of jagged trail that spiraled toward the pine barrens. Below, the remnants of an old village slept beneath a blanket of snow, roofs half-caved, fences swallowed by frost. They stopped to scout from above.

"Dust," Gerran murmured. "Someone’s been through."

"Not raiders," Isabel added, squinting. "It’s too clean."

Leon motioned to Naeve. "Circle left. If you see fire, don’t approach—signal once."

She dipped her head and vanished down the slope.

They waited.

Wind caught Isabel’s cloak and pulled it westward like it wanted to take her.

"You knew this would come," Leon said quietly.

"I did."

"You could’ve warned us sooner."

"I did," she said again. "Just not in ways you wanted."

Leon watched her for a moment. Her posture was the same. Measured. Poised. But there was something under the surface now—tense, coiled, like a blade held back only by will.

"What happened at Sennhal?" he asked.

She didn’t answer right away.

When she finally spoke, her voice dropped.

"They broke the treaty. Before dawn. My guards were slaughtered in their sleep. I escaped because the boy assigned to slit my throat hesitated."

Leon stiffened.

"Why?"

"He recognised me."

"From court?"

"No." She looked down at her hands. "From before that. I helped his mother during a border siege. Bandaged her leg. I never asked their name."

Leon said nothing.

"I ran," Isabel continued. "And for weeks, I kept running. I saw what Virell’s doing. How he moves. He doesn’t send armies. He sends fear. Silence. Symbols."

"Like the ring," Leon muttered.

She nodded.

"And the worse part?" Isabel said. "The people let it happen. They don’t resist. Rather they invite it."

Leon stared at the ruined village. "Because it’s easier."

"Because they’re tired of bleeding for thrones that don’t last."

A shrill whistle echoed from the treeline—Naeve’s signal. Once, then twice.

Leon stood. "Trouble."

Gerran had already unsheathed his knife. Isabel adjusted her cloak, dagger at the ready. Together they slid down the ridge, keeping low through the rockline until the barrens opened wide.

Three riders waited at the village outskirts.

Not soldiers. Not scouts.

Messengers. Virell’s.

One held a black staff, etched with rings. Another had his face veiled, but wore old Circle colours—twisted into something unrecognisable. The third, younger, just a boy, stood quietly with a leather pack at his feet.

Leon raised a hand. "Stay behind me."

Isabel ignored him and stepped to his side.

The lead figure approached. "Leon Thorne," he said. "The Ashblade. You’ve come far to hear what you already know."

Leon didn’t blink. "You speak boldly."

"I carry the accord."

"You carry Virell’s leash."

The man smiled behind his hood. "Not a leash. An invitation."

He nodded to the boy, who bent and opened the pack.

Inside was a single item.

A crown.

Not forged of gold or steel—but of broken rings. Melted together. Reshaped.

Leon’s stomach twisted.

"Offer it to the right hand," the messenger said. "And the world will kneel."

Isabel took one step forward. "No."

The man turned to her, surprised. "The Quiet Thorn. I’d heard you were dead."

"I was. And I don’t kneel to thieves."

The veiled man chuckled. "Then die standing."

Leon drew his blade.

The steel caught the last light of the ridge and gleamed silver.

The three messengers didn’t move. They only bowed, slow and mocking.

Then vanished—like dust shaken from memory.

The crown remained on the snow.

Leon didn’t touch it.

"Bury it," he said. "Deep."

Isabel crouched beside it.

"No," she said. "Let it freeze. Let them know we saw it... and left it to rot."

Leon met her eyes.

"Then let the war begin in silence." The snow muffled everything after that.

Even Gerran’s breath came quieter, as if afraid to stir the silence left behind by the vanished messengers. The crown—twisted and wrong—sat untouched. Its jagged silhouette glinted faintly with frost as the wind crept across it.

They didn’t speak again until they’d put a ridge and a half between themselves and the hollow.

Only then did Isabel break the quiet.

"They weren’t real."

Leon didn’t look back. "No."

"Shadow-echoes?"

"Worse," he muttered. "Echoes leave traces. These left none. Just intent."

"They wanted us to carry the crown back."

Leon gave a grim nod. "Virell’s message isn’t for us. It’s for the Watchers."

Gerran glanced sideways. "You mean the ones still sitting silent?"

"No," Leon said. "The ones waiting to see if we’ll bend."

They reached a clearing where the trees thinned into frost-covered stumps, and Leon called a halt. He paced a small circle, hands on hips, blade untouched. A man thinking—dangerous, quiet.

"Do you believe it was real?" Isabel asked.

Leon shook his head. "Doesn’t matter. They believed it was."

Gerran unpacked a thin warding cloth from his saddlebag and set it over the snow, then drove a dagger through its centre. Not for combat—ritual. Symbol.

Leon sat beside him. Isabel stood a pace away, arms folded.

"Word will spread," Gerran muttered. "The Quiet Thorn rides again. The Ashblade turned down a crown."

"Let it," Leon said. "The fewer masks they hide behind, the better."

Naeve returned not long after—scout’s mark smudged across her cheek, eyes sharp.

"Riders behind us," she reported. "Three. Maybe four. They’re good—better than local militia. Could be Circle defectors."

"Could be worse," Gerran added. "Could be Council Shadows."

Leon stood and dusted snow from his cloak. "Then we move. We’re too exposed."

They headed north by dusk, deeper into the Vale trail, shadows falling across the ridge like teeth. The pine trees thickened again, but there were signs now—carved symbols at the roots, old druidic signs, warnings from a generation ago.

Gerran murmured, "I don’t like this path."

Leon agreed silently, but didn’t stop.

Just before nightfall, they came upon a ruined watchtower, half-collapsed but still defensible. Stone ribs jutted from the snow like broken spears. Gerran and Naeve swept it quickly, then gave the signal.

They set no fire. They set no camp. Just silence and watch-rotation. Isabel took first watch beside the tower’s arch.

Leon joined her.

"You remember this place?" she asked.

He nodded once. "We held it for six days during the Burnt Siege. Lost half the ridge to weather alone."

"I was here too. As a courier."

Leon turned to her. "You were ten."

"I wasn’t alone. My brother came with me."

Leon paused.

"I remember," he said.

She didn’t smile, but her voice softened. "He’s gone now. He stayed at Sennhal. Said someone had to hold the gates until the last."

Leon didn’t answer. Just watched her face.

"You blame me," Isabel said after a moment.

"No," Leon said. "I blame myself. I should’ve known Sennhal was never going to hold."

"You knew."

"I didn’t act."

She turned to him. "Then act now."

He studied her for a long breath.

"I will."

In the distance, a faint sound echoed from the trees.

Not wind.

Not snow.

A horn.

Far.

But drawing closer. The horn came again. Three sharp notes this time—signal code. Old, military. Not Council.

Leon straightened. "That’s not Virell’s men."

"Could be scouts," Gerran muttered. "Could be worse."

Naeve was already by the parapet, eyes scanning the frostline. "Two riders. Fast. No cloaks. White bands on their arms."

Leon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the snow. "Durell messengers."

"Or what’s left of them," Isabel added quietly.

He gave a sharp nod. "Let them through."

Minutes passed. Then hooves pounded up the ridge, snow flying in short bursts. The lead rider—a woman with braided hair stiff from cold—swung down first, nearly collapsing as she hit the ground. The second was younger, armour scorched along the left side.

"Report," Leon snapped.

The woman struggled upright. "Caer Durell sent word through the northern hold. Castle Brannach is gone."

"Gone?" Gerran’s eyes narrowed.

"Not razed. Not taken. Emptied. Every guard post. Every hall. Not a drop of blood, not a single scream. Just silence."

Leon’s jaw clenched.

The second messenger stepped forward. "They left something behind. A mirror."

"What kind?"

"Warded. Unbreakable. And bound to the Fifth’s sigil."

Leon turned toward Isabel. "He’s not just moving fast. He’s setting pieces."

Gerran spat into the snow. "He’s laying shrines."

Isabel’s face darkened. "If he’s using mirrors... then it’s not fear he’s spreading."

"It’s belief," Leon finished.

Silence fell again.

Leon turned back to the messengers. "Ride south. There’s a relay post near Black Hollow Ridge. Drop your report and rest. Leave at first light."

"But—"

"That’s an order."

The older woman hesitated, then saluted. The younger did the same, then both mounted and rode out.

Leon faced his group. "We’re not sleeping."

"Where then?" Naeve asked.

Leon pointed to the northern path beyond the ruined tower.

"Elena."

Gerran blinked. "She’s north?"

Leon nodded. "She’ll know what this means. If she’s moved the Circle, they’ll need to see more than a crown of melted rings."

He looked once more to the horizon, where the moon was just starting to rise.

"They’ll need to see us."

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