Rowan Steele's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Rowan Steele knelt in the mud where the village had burned. Twelve homes, all ash now. He had come to find one thing: which noble house sent the killers. His faith in the throne died here a year ago, when soldiers wearing no crest cut down these people. Now the broken royal crest welded over his chest weighed on him like a grave marker. He would name the lord who ordered it, or he would die trying. But he could not name a house he could not prove. Accuse the wrong lord, and every guard in the land would hunt him by dawn. He needed one true fact. He pulled the dark cloak tight over his chest, hiding the shattered crest, and walked to the old watchtower on the hill. Ex-soldiers drank there now. Men who once wore many banners. If any place held the truth, it was among men who had marched under it. Inside, the ruined tower had become a rough tavern. Lanterns swung from cracked beams. Grey veterans hunched over tables and cheap ale. Talk stopped when Rowan entered. They knew that walk. They knew that armor. A one-eyed man near the fire waved him over. He had lost the eye to a spear, and he laughed like he had lost more. "Sit, ghost," he said. "You reek of dead villages." Rowan sat. "I need the house behind the burning down south. A year gone. Killers in plain armor." The old soldier drank slow. "Costs you," he said. Rowan set his last coins on the wood. The man swept them up. "Blackmoor," he whispered. "House Blackmoor paid my old company. Not me, thank the roots. But I saw the pay chest. Their raven sigil on the seal." Rowan gripped the table. Blackmoor. A name at last. "You would swear it?" The man snorted. "I swear nothing. But I saw it true." A shadow crossed the doorway. Two small winged creatures darted in first, a scaled little dragon and a fluffy flying dog, circling the beams. Then a woman entered beneath them, hood back, a raven brooch pinned at her throat. The room went still again. The old soldier's face drained white. "That is a Blackmoor rider," he breathed. "They keep those beasts. They track deserters." She scanned the tables. Her eyes stopped on Rowan's cloaked chest, then on the coins still glinting in the old man's hand. She had heard the name spoken. Rowan saw her mark him. He stood. The cloak slipped, showing the broken crest beneath. The winged creatures snarled. The rider stepped back through the door and was gone, running for horses. Rowan had his answer. He also had a witness who would tell House Blackmoor exactly who was hunting them. His question was solved. Now Blackmoor was hunting him.