Chapter 72 Back in

  Val did not spend much time preparing. For a mission requiring discretion and speed, excess baggage was a liability. He said a few parting words to his family.a firm handshake with Zion, a gentle promise to Flora that he’d return for the party and headed not for the capital, but for Tartiib. It was the nearest major hub with the kind of discreet, long range messengers who asked no questions, provided the coin was good.

  His transport was not a conventional steed. Standing in the Cloustar stable was Ovin, a creature of the deep Tyas Forest. The horse was a masterpiece of primal grace. A coat the color of midnight smoke, powerful haunches that promised explosive speed, and eyes that held fragments of starlight. Forest horses were already legends in the outside world. They were fearless, preternaturally strong and faster than the wind…no literally some were faster than the winds.

  An ordinary horse might spook at a shadow or balk at an odd scent,these beasts did not know the meaning of fear.

  Taming them, however, was a near mythical feat. There were two methods, though only one was commonly known. The first, a secret buried in absurdity, was to sing a specific, nonsensical refrain to them three times

  (Happy birthday x3. This is gift from the author to you who has traveled into this novel)

  The second, the practical method, was to wrestle the beast into submission, forcing it to acknowledge your strength as greater than its own. Simple in theory. In practice, an adult forest horse was a blur of muscle and the born babies were at least Myr level power. The adults were rarely seen long enough to attempt a challenge. The only feasible time was in their youth.

  Ovin had come to Val not through a challenge but through crisis. Month ago, Val had been surveying the forest’s edge when he heard a sound of raw panic a young horse, its leg tangled in a nest of barbed, spiked roots known as Dire Grip.The foal, already the size of a large external steed, was thrashing wildly, its mouth bleeding as it tried to bite through the woody thorns. Seeing the stranger, it redoubled its efforts, risking grievous injury.

  Val hadn’t hesitated. He’d rushed in, ignoring the slashing barbs, and wrapped his arms around the creature’s neck, pinning its head to his chest to stop its self mutilation. The young horse fought with the terrifying strength of its kind, but Val pushed to his limit and held on. He poured not just physical strength but a calming, desperate intent into his grip.

  Be still. I am trying to help.

  Minutes that felt like hours passed until, with a final shudder, the foal went limp, exhausted. Val carefully worked its leg free, the thorny roots tearing his own sleeves to ribbons.

  When the horse awoke, free and standing on shaky legs, it did not bolt. It nudged Val’s bleeding arm with its nose, then simply stood beside him. Whether it recognized his strength, his kindness, or a combination, no one could say.

  Val named him Ovin. Ovin was a loyal companion, his starry eyes the only obvious mark of his extraordinary origin.

  Their journey to Tartiib was swift and peaceful, the world blurring into a green and brown streak beneath Ovin’s effortless stride. They arrived at the city’s western gate as the afternoon sun cast long shadows. The gate was a heavy, iron banded affair, manned by two guards in the drab colors of the city watch. Their eyes, bored and acquisitive, scanned Val ,a well dressed man on a fine with unusually dark horse.

  “State your business and identity,” one guard droned, hand outstretched more for a bribe than any paperwork.

  Val understood . With a smooth, practiced motion, he flicked two golden coins through the air. One to each guard. The ching of gold on palm was a more persuasive sound than any official seal.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The guards shared a silent, greedy look. The first gave a curt nod. “Move along.”

  Val urged Ovin forward. At that moment, a voice cried out, “Wait!”

  A young girl was running toward the gate, her thin legs pumping. She was maybe twelve, dressed in ragged, homespun clothes smudged with dirt. Her face, though streaked with grime, was sharp with desperation. In her arms, she clutched a small, tightly woven basket against her chest.

  “I am with him!” she gasped, pointing a shaky finger at Val. “Let me in!”

  The guards scowled. Her poverty was as plain as the dust on her feet. “Back off, streetgirl” one barked, stepping toward her. “No beggars at this gate.”

  Val paused. He looked at the girl, at her wide, terrified eyes fixed on him with a hope so fragile it was painful. He sighed inwardly. Complications.

  “She is indeed with me,” Val said, his voice carrying the quiet authority of a noble used to being obeyed. “Come along, child.”

  The guards hesitated, but the weight of the gold in their palms outweighed their duty. With a disgusted grunt, they waved her through, turning their backs as if the transaction had suddenly become distasteful.

  Val dismounted, leading Ovin by the reins as the girl scurried to his side. They passed through the gate into the cacophony of Tartiib. The city had a worn, pragmatic charm.

  Once inside, Val stopped and turned to her. “Hopefully, that was assistance enough, young lady.”

  The girl stared up at him. She had shouted on a wild impulse, never truly believing a stranger would uphold her lie. Something seemed to break within her. A tremor passed over her face, and then tears, clear and silent, began tracing paths through the dirt on her cheeks.

  “Child? What’s wrong?” Val asked, his stern demeanor softening.

  “Th-thank you,” she sobbed, the words hiccupping out. “Thank you for helping me.”

  Val placed a steadying hand on her thin shoulder, letting her cry. After a moment, her tears subsided into shaky breaths. “Now,” Val said gently, “can you tell me what is truly wrong?”

  The story spilled out between sniffs. Her name was Laila.

  Her mother was sick with the Sea disease that slowly petrified the lungs. Her father, a struggling tinker, had spent their last coins on a healer’s consultation. The diagnosis was grim, but not hopeless. A medicine could slow the disease, perhaps even reverse it. But one ingredient, the Five Fold floreli Bloom the 3F ss apothecaries called it,was prohibitively rare and expensive. It grew at random in high, rocky places, blooming once every few years.

  The healer had been kind but firm, he could not front the cost. So Elara, driven by a daughter’s love, had spent every daylight hour for as long as she remembers scouring the rocky hills outside the city walls.

  And by some miracle, she had found a single, perfect bloom tucked in a sunlit crevice. Overjoyed, she rushed back to the city, only to be confronted by the gate guards. She had no identification papers, no money for a bribe, and no adult to vouch for her. Of all days,she had forgotten her identification steel when she got what she wanted the most. Just as desperation was creeping in. Someone came in the late evening .

  Seeing Val, a well off stranger, had been her final, desperate gamble.

  She opened her basket just a crack. Inside, nestled on a bed of soft moss, was a flower of stunning beauty. Five petals, each a different shifting hue of blue and silver, swirled around a golden stamen. It pulsed with a faint, magical luminescence. It was a small fortune in her hands.

  Val looked from the flower to Elara’s hopeful, exhausted face. He was on a critical mission for his leader,Moon. A kingdom’s stability might hang in the balance. Every minute counted.

  But before him was a kingdom’s failing,a child forced to become this desperate , turned away at a gate by men his own gold had easily bribed. The rot Moon spoke of wasn’t just for the higher ups.

  —-

  “Where is your home, Elara?” Val asked, his decision made.

  Her eyes widened. “In the Lantern Lane district, by the old tannery, sir.”

  “Lead the way,” he said, swinging back onto Ovin. “We will see your mother gets her medicine.”

  “But… your business, sir?” Elara stammered, overwhelmed.

  “This,” Val said, his gaze sweeping over the crowded, unequal streets of Tartiib, “is also my business.”

  As Elara guided him through the winding lanes, a shadow detached itself from the high arch of the city gate and followed at a discreet distance.

  Amilios, having shadowed Val’s journey from the air as per Moon’s orders, watched the interaction. His expression, usually one of regal detachment, softened imperceptibly. He would ensure Val’s detour remained safe. Amilios descended into a buildings roof as he mumbled to himself.

  The message to the capital was urgent, but some messages about the nature of a clan’s heart were just as vital.The warning could wait little more