Chapter 10: The Gate of No Return

The north gate loomed ahead, its stone arch scarred by time and battle, the air thick with the bite of frost and the faint tang of blood from a recent skirmish.

Torren Vale trudged through the pre-dawn gloom, his breath puffing white, his body a map of aches from the Salty Gull brawl. The iron ingots, stashed on the River Wren, weighed on his mind heavier than his damp cloak.

Elara's order to deliver them to Corwyn's men by sunrise had him on edge—north gate was Aldric's turf, crawling with guards, and that gray-cloaked shadow had been too close last night. He wasn't sure if he was sealing a deal or digging his grave, but retreat wasn't his style.

Mira and Kaelin flanked him, their steps crunching on the frozen ground. Mira's broad shoulders strained under a crate, her sword clanking at her hip, while Kaelin carried a smaller load, her scar catching the weak light.

Rhea trailed behind, her red hair tucked under a hood, a broom-turned-club in hand—she'd insisted on coming, claiming she was "bored of stables." Torren had tried to talk her out of it, but her stubborn grin won. "You lot are my shield today," he muttered, forcing a grin. "Let's hope Elara's worth the trouble."

"Trouble's your middle name, Fox," Mira grunted, shifting the crate. "Just don't get us killed."

Kaelin smirked, adjusting her grip. "If we die, I'm haunting you first, Vale. Keep that silver tongue ready."

Torren chuckled, wincing as his arm twinged. "Haunt me with a kiss, then. You've got the fire for it." Kaelin rolled her eyes, but a flicker of amusement softened her glare. He turned to Rhea, nudging her. "And you, little spark—stay close, eh? Don't want to lose that spirit to a guard's blade."

Rhea stuck out her tongue, gripping her broom. "I'll bash 'em first, Torren. You just watch." Her cheeky defiance warmed him, and he filed it away—still number eight, but growing on him.

They reached the gate as the first light crept over the walls. Two men waited, cloaked in Corwyn's boar sigils, their faces hard. "The iron," one barked, eyeing the crates. "Where's Elara?"

"Busy," Torren lied smoothly, stepping forward. "I'm her courier. Goods are here—let's trade." He kept his tone light, but his hand hovered near his dagger, sensing trouble.

The men exchanged a glance, then the taller one nodded. "Unload it. But we check first." They moved to the crates, and Torren signaled Mira and Kaelin to comply. As the lids creaked open, a shout rang out—Aldric's guards, a dozen strong, spilling from the gatehouse, swords drawn.

"Ambush!" Mira roared, dropping her crate and drawing her blade. The Corwyn men drew steel too, turning on the guards, and chaos erupted. Torren ducked a swing, his bad arm slowing him as he parried with his dagger. "Not again!" he cursed, stumbling back.

Kaelin slashed at a guard, her sword clumsy but fierce. "Told you to think, Vale!" she snapped, blocking a thrust. Torren grinned, dodging another blow. "Thinking's overrated—your swing's prettier than your scowl!"

A guard lunged at Rhea, and she swung her broom, catching him off-balance with a wild crack. "Take that!" she yelled, her voice high with adrenaline. Torren rushed to her side, shoving her behind him as he took a glancing blow to the shoulder. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth, stabbing the guard's thigh.

Mira was a whirlwind, her sword felling two guards, but a third pinned her against a wall. Torren grabbed a fallen shield, charging in to bash the man off her. "My lady's too tough for you!" he quipped, earning a glare from Mira.

"Shut it, Fox," she growled, recovering. "Focus!"

The fight turned bloody—iron crates toppled, blood stained the frost, and shouts mingled with steel. Torren spotted the scarred captain leading the charge, his sword aimed at him. He sidestepped, tripping over a crate, and the captain's blade grazed his leg. "Damn it!" he hissed, rolling away.

A new figure darted in—a woman, lithe and dark-haired, her cloak swirling as she felled a guard with a precise thrust. Her face was sharp, her brown eyes fierce, and a short sword danced in her hand. "Move, Vale!" she barked, pulling him up. "I'm Lira—Elara sent me. You're a mess."

Torren blinked, catching his breath. "Lira, eh? A mess with style, thanks to you. That thrust was poetry—care to teach me?" He flashed a grin, ignoring the blood trickling down his leg.

She snorted, parrying a guard. "Flirt later. Fight now." Her moves were fluid, and she covered his flank, driving back the captain. The Corwyn men rallied, and slowly, the guards retreated, leaving bodies and broken crates behind.

As the dust settled, Lira sheathed her sword, eyeing him. "Elara's impressed. Deliver the rest tomorrow, or she'll rethink this. I'll watch you." Her tone was curt, but her gaze lingered, a challenge in it.

Torren leaned on a crate, panting. "Watch all you like, Lira. You've got a fighter's grace—makes a man want to keep up." She raised an eyebrow, half-smiling, and he marked her—number nine, a warrior with bite.

Mira clapped his back, nearly knocking him over. "You're a lunatic, Vale. But we're alive."

Kaelin wiped her blade, scowling. "Barely. Next time, plan better."

Rhea hugged his arm, grinning. "That was fun! You're stuck with me now, Torren."

Torren laughed, wincing. "Stuck with the best, then. Lira, ladies—let's celebrate with ale, not blood next time." His wink drew a mix of laughs and groans, but the bond tightened.

They limped back, the iron half-delivered, the gray-cloaked figure watching from a tower, sword dull. A shadow lingered near the gate, dagger glinting, its intent unclear. Torren's game was a bloody tangle, his charm netting allies—and desires—against his will.