Chapter 10: Blades Bonds Beginnings (2)

"We're heading out," Ethan said. "You can join us, but you'll have to keep up. We leave at first light tomorrow."

The boy nodded quickly, the faintest flicker of gratitude in his eyes. His mouth trembled, but no words came.

The first light of dawn was soft on the hills surrounding Riverrun, the first rays catching the dew on the rolling fields and painting the horizon in hues of gold. The city itself still held a mysterious aura, its great stone walls rising like an ancient fortress, guarding all who passed through. The Riverlands were in full bloom—spring was spreading its reach across the land, making the once-dark earth seem alive with color.

Ethan could feel it now: the true weight of Riverrun's presence. The city was more than just a stronghold of power; it was a hub of trade, culture, and military strength. The Riverlands, and Riverrun in particular, seemed to breathe history. As they walked out into the city, the murmur of the streets mixed with the sound of steel being hammered and carts clattering down cobbled roads. The air smelled of wet stone and fresh bread from the bakeries nearby.

Ethan had to admit, despite his unease at being surrounded by so many people, Riverrun was a city of wonder. Markets teemed with traders from every corner of the continent. The streets seemed to pulse with life, a blend of aristocrats, merchants, soldiers, and beggars. High stone buildings cast long shadows over narrow alleyways, where ragged beggars huddled against the cold morning air. It was a reminder of the stark contrast that existed between the rich and the poor, even in a city so grand.

As they made their way through the city, Bjorn kept close to Ethan, his expression cautious as he led the way toward a blacksmith's shop on the outskirts of the city. The faint clang of hammers on steel and the smell of burning coal grew louder as they approached the forge.

Riverrun's blacksmiths were known for their fine craftsmanship, supplying armor and weapons not just for the Tully family, but also for travelers and soldiers passing through. This shop, in particular, was a well-known establishment. The front of the forge was a large wooden structure, the roof thick with smoke from the fires within. The walls were adorned with shields, swords, and tools of all sorts, their edges gleaming brightly in the morning sun.

Bjorn stepped forward and greeted the blacksmith—a tall, muscular man named Garret, whose broad frame and calloused hands spoke of years spent shaping steel. "Garret, good morning. We've come for some new gear."

The blacksmith gave them a curt nod, wiping his hands on his apron. His voice was rough, like gravel grinding beneath boots. "Aye, what do you need?"

"We need something better for our trip," Bjorn said, glancing at Ethan. "Some swords, shields, and light armor. We're traveling with a couple of delicate passengers, so we'll need to be ready for trouble."

Garret's eyes flickered over them, assessing their size and build before turning to the racks of weapons lining the wall behind him. "I've got some fine blades, well balanced. No better for defense on the roads."

Ethan's fingers grazed the hilt of a long sword as he stepped closer to inspect the selection. He could feel the weight of the steel in his grip, a reminder of the strength he now commanded. There were many choices, each of them crafted with the skill of a master, but Ethan knew that picking the right weapon was more than just about cutting through enemies—it was about feeling the weight, understanding its balance. The sword should become an extension of the body.

"You're lucky," Garret said, noting Ethan's thoughtful expression. "Just finished a batch of custom-made short swords. Lighter than most, but still sharp enough to gut a man."

Ethan nodded, handing the sword back to the blacksmith. "I'll take one. Make sure it's well-balanced. And I'll need a shield as well."

Bjorn glanced around. "I'll take a spear, something with reach."

As Garret moved to fetch their new weapons, Ethan's eyes were drawn to a corner of the shop, where a young boy, no older than sixteen, sat huddled against the cold stone wall. His clothes were ragged, and his face was thin, drawn from hunger. His eyes flickered nervously between the blacksmith and the patrons who came in and out of the shop.

Ethan watched the boy for a moment, his mind working. The lad had the look of someone who didn't belong—someone who had been cast aside. He had the haunted eyes of someone who had seen too much, too soon.

"What's his story?" Ethan asked, his voice quieter than usual.

Bjorn's gaze followed Ethan's. He frowned. "A stray. He's been coming around the forge for a while. Probably an orphan. Garret's too kind-hearted to turn him away."

Ethan narrowed his eyes, an idea forming in his mind. The boy was small, yes, but there was something in his demeanor that made Ethan think of himself back when he had first been thrown into this world—out of place, fighting for survival. Ethan understood the importance of having allies, even unexpected ones. The boy might not be much, but he could be useful—more importantly, he might need a chance.

"Garret," Ethan called, turning to the blacksmith as he returned with their new weapons, "I'll take the sword and shield, but I'll also take that boy with us. He looks like he could use a purpose."

Bjorn raised an eyebrow. "Ethan, are you sure?"

Ethan met his gaze. "Sometimes, giving someone a chance is the most useful thing we can do. He might surprise us."

Garret grunted, clearly unsure. "You'd be better off without him. The boy's got no skills."

Ethan gave the boy a final glance, then turned back to Garret. "I'm not looking for skills. I'm looking for someone who can learn. And I think he's got potential."

Garret eyed the boy warily but eventually nodded. "I'll make sure he's fed before he goes. No one should travel empty."

With that, the boy stood, his movements slow and cautious. Garret handed him a loaf of bread and some dried meats, and the boy took them hesitantly. Ethan placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind.

"We're heading out," Ethan said. "You can join us, but you'll have to keep up. We leave at first light tomorrow."

The boy nodded quickly, the faintest flicker of gratitude in his eyes. His mouth trembled, but no words came.

The next morning, the caravan packed up and set out for the road. Caelan and Alina were mounted on horses, their faces set with an uneasy resolve. The boy—whose name, they had learned, was Kieran—rode beside them, eyes wide as he took in the new world around him. Ethan had given him a spare knife and a bit of food for the road, a gesture that had earned him a wordless nod of thanks.

As they left the city's protective walls behind, the road began to wind through open plains and wooded areas. The trees grew thick with green, and the scent of wildflowers and damp earth filled the air. The river that ran through the heart of the city was still visible in the distance, its surface shimmering like liquid silver under the rising sun.

The caravan moved steadily forward, the rhythm of the journey taking hold. Bjorn stayed close to Ethan, the two of them discussing the best route and keeping a watchful eye on their new charge. Caelan and Alina stayed near the center of the group, occasionally glancing over at the road ahead. Rowan, despite his silence, was quick to stay in step with the others, his eyes constantly scanning the woods around them, a sign of someone who had learned to be cautious.

The road was not dangerous yet, but both Ethan and Bjorn knew that trouble often came without warning. The quiet of the morning seemed to stretch on forever, the only sounds the crunch of the horses' hooves on gravel and the soft murmurs of the caravan members.

But Ethan's senses were alert. The shadows in the trees, the stillness of the woods—something felt off. The further they traveled, the more he sensed the watchful eyes of unseen figures in the woods. Somewhere, out there, trouble was waiting to find them.