Whispers of the forgotten

The night air was thick with the scent of damp stone and parchment. Elara sat on the edge of her cot, heart still racing from her encounter with Keshav in the archives. His words lingered in her mind—"I don't believe in coincidences."

He knew something. Or at the very least, he suspected something.

Elara had barely managed to keep her composure. If Keshav kept pressing, it was only a matter of time before he uncovered the truth—not just about what she was searching for, but about her.

She exhaled slowly, rubbing her temples. The Forgotten Sons. The words from the journal she had found earlier burned in her mind. Who were they? And why did her father's name—Garrick Valerius—appear in a book that should have been buried in history?

She needed answers.

But she wouldn't find them here.

With careful movements, she pulled on her boots and slung a cloak over her shoulders. If the Forgotten Sons had been erased from history, then only those who lived outside the walls of the fortress—those who lived beneath the kingdom's notice—might remember them.

The underground markets.

♢♢♢

Elara kept her hood low as she walked through the winding alleys beyond the fortress walls. The underground market was a place of whispered deals and unspoken agreements, where coin mattered more than honor, and knowledge came at a price.

She moved cautiously, avoiding making eye contact. The scent of roasted meat mixed with the stench of unwashed bodies and damp wood. Merchants called out their wares—"Steel for hire! Finest blades from the eastern isles!"—while gamblers huddled in the corners, dice clattering against stone.

Her target was a man named Matthias. An old informant, known for dealing in forgotten truths.

She found him at his usual spot, tucked in the back of a tavern that smelled of cheap ale and burnt bread. He was hunched over a wooden table, nursing a cup of something dark and strong.

Elara slid into the seat across from him. "Matthias."

He barely looked up. "Elijah. Didn't think a fortress boy like you would come sniffing around these parts."

Elara ignored the jab. "I need information."

Matthias let out a low chuckle, finally glancing up. His eyes, sharp and calculating, studied her with interest. "Information is expensive."

Elara tossed a small pouch of coins onto the table. "I think you'll find I can pay."

Matthias picked up the pouch, weighing it in his hand. "Depends on what you're asking, lad."

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "The Forgotten Sons. What do you know?"

Matthias's smirk faded instantly. His fingers tightened around the pouch, but he didn't speak.

For the first time since sitting down, Elara felt something shift in the air.

A warning.

He's afraid.

Matthias glanced around the tavern, then exhaled through his nose. "You should let this one go, boy."

Elara's pulse quickened. "I can't."

Matthias hesitated, then leaned in. "The Forgotten Sons were a legend—until they weren't." His voice was barely above a whisper. "They were a faction that stood against the crown, warriors who believed in something greater. But the kingdom erased them, buried them. If you're asking about them, you're already in dangerous waters."

Elara kept her face neutral, though inside, her mind reeled. "Why?"

Matthias scoffed. "Because they're not dead."

The words struck like a hammer.

Matthias leaned back, taking a sip of his drink as if to steady himself. "They've been moving in the shadows for years, biding their time. If they've taken an interest in you, then you've got bigger problems than whatever you think you're looking for."

Elara's grip tightened on the table's edge. "Do you know where they are?"

Matthias gave a dry laugh. "If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here drinking piss-poor ale, would I?"

Elara clenched her jaw. She needed more. "Who leads them now?"

Matthias hesitated again, then shook his head. "No one knows for certain. But there's a name." He set his cup down, his expression unreadable. "Valerius."

Elara's breath caught.

Matthias watched her carefully. "If you're smart, boy, you'll forget you ever heard it."

Elara swallowed hard, her mind racing. Valerius. Her father's name. Her name.

Before she could press further, a shadow fell over the table.

A large figure loomed over them—broad shoulders, a heavy cloak. The air around him carried the faint scent of steel and damp leather.

Elara stiffened.

Matthias went pale.

The figure's voice was low and sharp. "It's time you left."

Elara turned slowly, her pulse pounding.

Her breath caught.

Damien.

His expression was unreadable, his gray eyes dark as a brewing storm.

He knew she was here.

And judging by the look in his eyes…

He knew exactly what she was looking for

The tavern air was thick with smoke and the sour tang of spilled ale. Elara's pulse quickened as Damien's shadow loomed over her table. His presence was magnetic, commanding attention even in a room full of shady characters.

"Time to leave," Damien said, his voice low but firm.

Elara forced herself to stay calm, though her mind raced. Why was he here? How much had he seen? Did he overhear her conversation with Matthias?

Matthias shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding Damien's sharp gaze. "Your commander has good timing," he muttered under his breath, his earlier confidence evaporating.

Elara stood slowly, keeping her movements measured. "I can handle myself," she said, her voice steady but laced with defiance.

Damien's eyes narrowed slightly. "Not here, you can't."

She wanted to argue but knew it would only draw more attention. With a curt nod to Matthias, she turned and followed Damien out into the cool night air.

As the tavern doors swung shut behind them, Elara couldn't shake the feeling that Matthias's warning had been more than just a throwaway comment.

(As they walk, Elara's thoughts drift back to her first meeting with Matthias years ago.)

She had been younger then—just a reckless girl sneaking into a soldier's camp, hungry for stories of battles and victories. Matthias had caught her rummaging through supply crates, and instead of turning her in, he had laughed.

"Bold little thing, aren't you?" he had said, tossing her an apple instead of a punishment.

Back then, he had been a low-ranking soldier, barely older than a teenager himself. But he had been kind in a way few men were. Over time, he had taught her little things—how to tell when someone was lying, how to listen when no one thought you were paying attention.

He never treated her like a nuisance. He saw her curiosity as something valuable.

Then, one day, he disappeared from the camp without a word.

Years later, when she had run into him again—this time in the shadows of the market—he had been different. Worn down. Paranoid. And with secrets far deeper than she could have imagined.

Back to the Present

(Elara shakes off the memory as Damien's voice pulls her back to the present.)

"What were you doing in there?"

Elara hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "I needed information."

"About what?"

She glanced at him from beneath her hood, meeting his piercing gray eyes. "The strangers we encountered in the woods," she said truthfully—at least partially. "I thought someone in the market might know who they were."

Damien studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "And did you find anything?"

Elara shook her head. "No. Just rumors and dead ends."

It wasn't a complete lie—Matthias hadn't given her anything concrete beyond the name The Forgotten Sons. But she wasn't ready to share that part yet—not with Damien.

"Next time," Damien said finally, his voice cold, "you come to me first."

She bristled at his tone but kept her expression neutral. "Understood."

But she knew that wasn't an option. Not when the truth of her past was becoming more dangerous by the day.