Orin's Lie

The morning mist still clung to the low shrubs when Estaria found Orin near the front of the caravan, checking the lead wagon’s harnesses. The older man didn’t look up, but Estaria could see the tightness in his jaw, the stiffness in his movements. Something had changed.

“Orin,” Estaria said.

No response. Orin adjusted a buckle, tugged on a strap, moved to the next.

Estaria stepped closer. “I saw you and Silas last night.”

That stopped him. Orin’s fingers paused on the leather strap, then slowly released it. He straightened, but didn’t turn.

“I don’t know what it was about,” Estaria continued, “but it wasn’t nothing.”

Orin turned halfway, his expression unreadable. The morning sun caught the edge of his beard, highlighting the lines worn deep into his face. “Arguments happen, boy. Close quarters. Long roads. People get tired.”

“Sure,” Estaria said. “But that wasn’t tired. That was something else.”

A long silence followed. Orin stared past him, out toward the mountains rising in the west—sharp, dark silhouettes against the brightening sky.

“You’re not one to get loud,” Estaria said. “But you shoved him. You don’t shove people for ‘close quarters and long roads.’”

Orin’s gaze flicked back to him. “Sometimes people need reminding of their place.”

“Is that what it was?” Estaria asked. “Reminding?”

Orin didn’t answer.

The sound of camp waking up pressed in—clinking pots, distant voices, the low grumble of Brannic giving morning orders—but none of it touched the silence between them.

“We’re getting close, aren’t we?” Estaria asked quietly.

Orin’s jaw clenched.

“Everyone’s been different the last couple days,” Estaria said. “Quiet. Nervous. Like we’re heading somewhere no one really wants to go.”

Still, Orin said nothing.

Estaria took a breath. “I just need to know… am I walking into something I don’t understand?”

That finally got a reaction. Orin looked at him, really looked—eyes heavy with something Estaria couldn’t quite name. Regret? Guilt?

“Maybe,” Orin said, voice low. “But I’ll be there.”

Estaria frowned. “That’s not—”

“I’ll be there,” Orin repeated, a little firmer. “And that’s what matters.”

Estaria studied his face for a long moment, then gave a small nod—less in agreement than in acknowledgment. He turned to leave, but Orin’s voice stopped him.

“You’ve handled yourself well, lad. Better than most would’ve. Just remember that.”

Estaria looked back. “That sounds like a goodbye.”

Orin didn’t smile. Didn’t deny it either.

Estaria walked away with a weight in his chest he hadn’t had when he approached. The kind of weight that came from answers that weren’t really answers at all.

The cart wheels groaned against the narrowing trail, each creak echoing through the steepening walls of stone. Wind scraped against the canvas like fingernails, dragging dust and pine needles across the road as if the land itself were bracing for something.

Klindon didn’t notice.

She sat stiff-backed in the covered wagon, her fingers white-knuckled on a folded map. The parchment had gone soft with wear, edges curled from handling. She hadn’t looked up in nearly an hour—not since the last switchback revealed the distant black slash in the mountains that could only be Groveller’s Pass.

Her lips moved soundlessly as she traced lines on the map. Not spells. Not prayers. Just thoughts turned compulsions.

The pass. The forest. The grove. The mark. My mark. And it held.

Held.

Against the divine.

She could still feel that moment—the subtle hush after her sigil had been carved into the festival grove. The way the air felt thinner, smaller. Like the grove had blinked. Flinched. Not recoiled, no, but… recognized her. A human mark holding its own against old gods.

What if Streacresh wasn’t a god at all?

What if it was just power, waiting for the right hands?

The wagon jostled violently as it hit a stone. She barely swayed.

She’d spent decades weaving futures from trade routes and treaties, building empires from orchards and wine. But this—this was something older. She could feel it crawling under her skin, setting every nerve alight. Not fear. Anticipation.

They were getting close.

She didn’t need the map anymore. She knew exactly where they were.

Outside, the air grew thinner, colder. The scent of pine turned sharp, metallic. Somewhere, a bird shrieked and went silent mid-call.

Klindon’s fingers uncurled slowly. Her wrists ached from holding tension too long. She smoothed the edge of her cloak, then reached into the satchel beside her, retrieving the folded letter from Brenda.

She’d read it a dozen times since finding it.

“It marks the farthest east the Streacresh Forest ever reached, before the land changed and the mountains rose.”

She mouthed the words again. Like scripture. Like proof.

The forest had retreated. Not been banished. Not conquered. Just… pushed. A force of nature yielding to stone and time.

But now it stirred again. She felt it. She was meant to feel it.

Outside, hooves clopped beside the wagon, and the flap pulled back.

“Majesty,” said Arven, one of her traveling aides, his breath fogging in the growing chill. “We’ve passed the fork. The scouts say we’ll reach the pass by first light.”

Klindon nodded, but said nothing.

Arven hesitated. “Majesty… may I ask—when we find him, what do you intend to do with Estaria?”

The question sat there like spilled wine on white silk.

Klindon blinked. Her lips parted slightly. Then she looked up, brow faintly furrowed, like waking from a dream.

”…My son?” she asked.

Her voice was soft. Not startled. Not guilty. Just… genuinely confused.

Arven’s expression flickered. “Yes, Majesty. He’s—he’s why we came, isn’t he?”

Klindon didn’t answer.

She looked past him, toward the distant black line in the cliffs. Groveller’s Pass loomed, silent and immense.

Estaria.

The name meant something. She was sure of that. But what?

She drew the flap closed without another word and turned back to the map.

The pass. The forest. The grove. The mark. My mark.

And soon, her name.

A name worthy of a throne no mortal had yet claimed.