Riverbend

The journey to Riverbend was not one Elara had expected to take so soon, but time was no longer on her side. If she was going to find Garrick before someone else did—before Damien or even worse, the Forgotten Sons—she had to act quickly.

Lilian's connections had paid off. A traveling merchant passing through the Fortress had mentioned a blacksmith in Riverbend matching Garrick's description. It was a small town, just a day's ride away. Close enough to reach without raising suspicion, far enough that slipping away unnoticed would be tricky.

But Elara was done waiting.

She had expected to go alone. But Keshav had other plans.

"I'm coming with you," he'd said when she had tried to slip away unnoticed.

"No, you're not."

Keshav had only raised an eyebrow. "Then I suppose I'll have to alert Damien."

Elara had glared at him, knowing she had no real choice. If she refused, Keshav would make sure she never left the Fortress. And so, here they were—riding through the quiet stretch of land under the cover of night, the distant sound of rushing water guiding them toward Riverbend.

"I still don't know why you care so much," Elara muttered as they neared the town's outskirts.

Keshav, who had been unusually silent for most of the ride, finally spoke. "You're reckless. Someone has to keep you from getting yourself killed."

Elara huffed but didn't argue. She didn't trust Keshav completely, but she wasn't foolish enough to dismiss his skills. If something went wrong, having him there might actually be an advantage.

Riverbend was quieter than she expected. A sleepy town tucked near the river's edge, its streets mostly empty save for a few lantern-lit shops still open. The scent of fresh bread and iron filled the air, but Elara barely noticed.

"The forge should be close," she said, scanning the row of buildings.

Keshav gestured to a shop with a heavy wooden sign hanging above it—a blacksmith's hammer etched into the worn surface. "There."

Elara felt her pulse quicken as she slid off her horse. "Stay here."

Keshav gave her an unimpressed look. "Not a chance."

She didn't have the energy to argue. Together, they stepped inside.

The glow of the furnace cast flickering light against the walls, illuminating a figure hunched over an anvil. He was broad-shouldered, hair streaked with silver, arms dusted with soot.

Elara's throat tightened.

"Father."

Garrick stilled. Slowly, he turned to face her, his eyes narrowing first in confusion, then recognition. But what struck her most was not relief or warmth—it was something else. Something cautious.

"Elara."

Not Elijah. Just Elara.

Beside her, Keshav tensed slightly, as if taking note of the shift in Garrick's demeanor.

Garrick wiped his hands on a rag, his expression unreadable. "You shouldn't be here."

Elara stepped forward. "I didn't have a choice."

Garrick's gaze flickered to Keshav, then back to her. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "If they know who you are—if they even suspect—you're in more danger than you realize."

Elara clenched her fists. "Then tell me what I need to know."

A long silence stretched between them before Garrick finally sighed and motioned toward the back room.

"Lock the door," he said.

Elara obeyed, dread curling in her stomach.

She had come for answers. But something in her father's face told her she might not like what she was about to hear.