Sylric hated letters.
He hated writing them. Hated reading them. Hated carrying them. Hated when people gave them meaning they didn't deserve.
But he liked being alive.
So he wrote three anyway.
One for a broker in Virecross, coin-heavy and discreet. Another for a smuggler contact who knew how to whisper near the Lorienya border. The third he folded twice, didn't sign, and burned the edges on purpose.
That one would go to a man Sylric hadn't seen in four years.
And hadn't missed once.
He pressed his thumb to the wax seal and let the flame singe just enough to carry scent.
Not perfume. Not magic.
Blood. Real. Dried. Ground into ash.
He stood from the flat stone he'd used as a desk, shoved the notes into a tight-wrap case, and stepped out into the wind.
Ashwing circled above again, wings slow, almost lazy. A child's pet, some said. Sylric knew better. That thing wasn't a mount. It was a promise with claws.
Below, the others were still sleeping or pretending to. Lindarion hadn't moved from the edge of the ledge.
The kid didn't know how to sit still anymore.
He had weight in his shoulders now. Power behind the eyes. Sylric had seen too many mages with strong cores and no control. Lindarion had both.
What he didn't have was people.
And Sylric couldn't teach that.
But he could borrow some.
He left camp before the sun rose.
Didn't need a goodbye.
Didn't expect one when he came back, either.
The first ride was ash-colored and dull, rented from a caravan post half-dead from winter rot. The next was better, sleek and quiet, run by a Velmora family whose crest he recognized but didn't question.
Third was on foot, because no animal would cross the ridge that marked the kill-zone west of Eldenholm's shadow.
That's where the real problems started.
Because that's where Erebus was.
Or, where he'd be if the world was still cruel.
Sylric made the climb by dusk.
And found him exactly where he'd expected.
Which was not a good thing.
The man stood at the edge of a broken watchtower, back turned, sharpening a knife he probably didn't need. No campfire. No bedroll.
Just four dead animals around the perimeter, spaced evenly, like they'd wandered in on accident and regretted it instantly.
Sylric didn't speak right away.
Eventually, Erebus spoke.
His voice hadn't changed. Still cool, clean, emotionless. Like someone talking to a mirror that owed him money.
"You brought the scent."
Sylric didn't pretend he didn't know what he meant.
"You remember what it means?"
"I remember everything," Erebus said. He turned slowly. Black leathers. Long coat. Pale skin. Hair short and choppy like it had been cut with a knife, not scissors. His eyes were green, but not soft. Not alive.
"Still working?" Sylric asked.
"When I feel like it."
"You feel like it now?"
"Why the prince's dog is sniffing for old company."
Sylric smiled once. Sharp. "You think I'd ride three days to warn you?"
Erebus didn't smile back.
Sylric pulled the half-burned letter from his coat.
Erebus caught it without looking.
Just tapped the edge.
"No," Sylric said. "It's a problem."
"I don't solve problems."
Erebus studied him for a second longer. Then turned back toward the edge of the cliff, sharpening his knife again.
Sylric didn't ask why.
Didn't ask how he knew.
Because you don't whistle for dogs like Erebus.
And move out of the way.
By the next day, the others had gathered.
A second squad arrived from the old mercenary route at Dagger's End. Three fighters. Not elegant. But all functional. All survivors.
Sylric didn't ask names.
He just gave them maps.
"Your role is perimeter hold. If something moves that doesn't belong—don't ask. Just act."
One of them, a woman with broken teeth and no eyebrows, nodded once and pulled a vial from her belt.
"This gonna be one of those missions?"
"Worse," Sylric said. "It's mine."
It took two more days to return to the outpost.
By then, Erebus had already killed something.
Sylric didn't ask what.
He saw Lindarion standing at the ridge, coat flared in the updraft, hands behind his back.
Sylric dismounted and walked up beside him.
Lindarion didn't look at him.
"People I owe. One I regret."
Lindarion nodded. "Good."
Later that night, Erebus stepped into the firelight for the first time.
Lira twitched, not surprise. Readiness.
Only Luneth froze completely.
Her eyes locked on Erebus like a long answer to a short question.
Lindarion stood slowly.
Nothing in his expression changed.
But something shifted in the air between them.
Erebus tilted his head.
"Didn't expect to see you here."
Lindarion's voice was low.
Then looked between them.
"Well," he muttered. "Shit."
Lindarion found him outside the camp perimeter, seated on a slab of stone like nothing had changed in the years since.
The others had left him alone. Smart. No one approached Erebus casually. Not unless they wanted a scar or a reason to justify the ones they already had.
The man hadn't aged. Still looked like he'd been carved out of old stone and habit. Black coat. Sleeves tucked. Boots polished in a way that didn't belong to someone who lived in mud and murder.
Erebus didn't look up when Lindarion approached.
"You're taller," he said.
Lindarion didn't answer. He walked until they were just a few feet apart.
Close enough to strike.
Far enough to think about it first.
Erebus finally turned his head. Green eyes. Cold. Precise. Still unreadable. Still the same eyes Lindarion had seen staring down at him years ago.
From a bloodied boot.
"You didn't flinch when you saw me."
"I don't flinch anymore."
A small, crooked smile.
Still didn't reach his eyes.
Silence stretched between them. Not awkward. Just heavy.