Twelve years later.

  Ryan sat on the wagon bench and stared down into the valley of his ancestors. The Twin Peaks still stood like silent sentinels watching over the valley, but the village nestled in their shadow was no longer the home he remembered. It had been over a decade since he, his mother, and Yami had fled through the mountain’s veins while their world burned behind them.

  He remembered the smoke most of all. Yami had told them that the raiders didn't know the secret of the crawlspace, but they had to move fast before the fire consumed the air in the storehouse. Ryan, who was much smaller then, had been sent with the other boys to scavenge what they could from the smoldering crates while the adults prepared the wounded. They had made three frantic trips into the haze of the smoke filled cave, eyes stinging and lungs burning, before Yami’s voice had cracked through the opening: “No more. It’s too dangerous.”

  They had emerged on the far side of the peaks with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a handful of dried grain, a sack or two of fruit, and some dried meats. Seventy-two survivors—mostly women and children—at the mercy of the Creator.

  Yami was bleeding through his bandages and grey with exhaustion, but he managed to to lead them toward the dwarven settlement to the north. The trek across the open plains had been a slow death march against the biting autumn winds. After three days on foot, they had stumbled upon a small, nameless hamlet by a river where Yami managed to haggle for a few moth-eaten blankets and some preserved fruits from winter's past.

  By the time the magnificent, stone-carved gates of Fjalls-r?tr appeared, they were close to death.

  King Orn had taken them in, but the news that followed was of a second slaughter. The dwarven scouts found the site of a Great Battle near the village. Most of Johan’s fifty riders had been put to the sword. Chief Johan himself was not among the survivors.

  In the years that followed, Yami became Ryan’s shadow. He taught the boy to move like a hunter and strike like a soldier. He told him stories of Johan—how he was brave, noble, and fair. Ryan grew into the image of the father he barely could remember, but his heart remained anchored to the valley they had lost.

  "That was ages ago," Ryan thought, snapping back to the present.

  Most of the original villagers had drifted away from the dwarven halls over the years, seeking new lives. Only a few remained: Ryan, Celeste, Yami, and Aunt Gerty were among them. They watched from afar as the raiders who had stolen their home turned the valley into a fortress of filth, pillaging the surrounding lands until only a few isolated hollows remained.

  The rhythmic thud of hoofbeats pulled him from his reverie. Four men on horseback were escorting a heavy wagon up the trail. Seeing Ryan’s lone cart, they pulled their reins, their steel sliding from scabbards with a distinctive, threatening hiss.

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  “Name yourself, traveler,” the lead rider barked.

  “I am nobody in particular,” Ryan replied, keeping his voice steady as Yami had taught him. “I come by way of Fjalls-r?tr en route back to West Town. I wish to trade.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Yorryn, of West Town,” Ryan lied.

  “You’re a long way from home. What’s your business here, boy?”

  Ryan’s jaw tightened at the slur. “It’s Yorryn. Not boy. I’ve been trading with the dwarves in the Crescent Mountains and heard the people of Twin Peaks had a greater need for my wares.”

  “What’s in the wagon?”

  “Skins, furs, dry goods,” Ryan said. “Winter is coming. I was hoping for a fair price before I head back west.”

  “Move aside,” the guard ordered, gesturing with his blade. “You can follow us down. They’ll check your wagon at the gate—don’t be hiding nothing.”

  Ryan pulled his small cart to the side to let them pass. As the larger wagon creaked past, he saw the cage.

  Two women sat inside, huddled together. Despite the filth and their matted hair, their elegance was undeniable—fair-skinned and slender, one blonde, one brunette. They were in heavy iron chains that rattled rhythmically with the wagon’s movement. Ryan stared, trying to catch their eyes, but they kept their gaze fixed on the floorboards in silent despair.

  He fell in line behind the caravan, his pulse quickening as they reached the familiar stone walls of his childhood.

  “I thought you were only bringing the one,” the gate guard called out, leaning off the ramparts.

  “Caught the second one trying to free the first,” the rider laughed.

  “Gorr will be pleased,” the guard chuckled. “New she-elves for the harem.”

  Ryan had never seen an elf. He couldn't help himself. “Did you say elves?”

  The guard waved the slave wagon through before looking down at Ryan. “I did. Is it any of your business?”

  “No,” Ryan said quickly. “Just curious. I have goods to trade before I return to West Town.”

  “West Town, eh? And you traded with the dwarves?” The guard signaled for a search. “Step down from the bench, traveler. Our law says only townsfolk drive through the gate. All others enter on foot.”

  The guard pointed toward the ramparts. Ryan followed the gesture and saw four archers with notched arrows trained directly on his chest.

  He hesitated, a cold calculation running through his mind, before laying the reins on the seat and climbing down. As one guard took the driver’s seat of his wagon, another approached him on foot, his hand resting on the hilt of a notched broadsword.

  “Come with me,” the man said, grabbing Ryan by the arm.

  They passed under the shadow of the gatehouse, where six more guards waited with drawn steel. They formed a tight circle around him.

  “Remove the sword belt,” the lead guard ordered. “Drop it.”

  Ryan unbuckled the belt and let his blade thud into the dirt.

  “What should we do with this one?” one of the men asked.

  “Put him with the elves for now. Let the Lord decide his fate.”

  The guards moved in, pinning Ryan’s arms and snapping heavy iron shackles around his wrists. He didn't fight; he knew he couldn't take six of them—not yet. They led him past the ruined shells of houses toward the old barracks. What had once been a storeroom was now a cell, reinforced with crude iron bars.

  The guard unlocked the door and shoved him inside. “In you go, boy. Seems those dwarves didn't like you much if they sent you here.”

  The door slammed shut with a final, metallic ring. Ryan stumbled, his head striking the hard stone wall of the cell. The world spun briefly before fading into darkness.