The Frontier Refuge

By the time the triple moons reached their peak, the party was entirely spent. Shierra’s shoulder was heavily bruised from a close-range deflection, Dashiel was wheezing under the weight of his salvaged archival packs, and Morohtar’s dark leather armor was slick with a mix of swamp mud and mercenary blood. Though Reis marched on like an iron golem, the tight set of his jaw betrayed the exhaustion eating at his muscles.

Just before dawn broke, the dense treeline finally gave way to a secluded, small farmstead tucked into a rolling valley. An elderly frontier farmer and his wife, terrified but sympathetic to the sight of a bleeding Knight of the Realm, ushered the battered party into their barn.

Inside the quiet sanctuary of the hayloft, the party finally found a moment to breathe, eat, and tend to their raw injuries. The farmwife had provided them with wooden bowls of hot, salted oat porridge and clean strips of linen.

Shierra winced as she pressed a damp cloth against her bruised shoulder, her eyes tracking the empty space where Reis had been standing just moments before. The knight had quietly slipped out of the barn the moment their wounds were bandaged, leaving Sabre hitched near the water trough.

As the sun rises, the sharp clip-clop of hooves on the dirt floor below shattered the silence.

Shierra leaned over the loft railing, her breath catching. Reis had returned, but he wasn't alone. Walking behind his heavy destrier were two stout, sturdy frontier riding horses, fully saddled and equipped with rugged leather reins.

Morohtar glided down the wooden ladder without making a sound, his silver eyes narrowing as he inspected the new mounts. He slid a calculating glance toward Reis, a sharp, cynical edge to his whisper.

“Tell me, Sir Knight,” the rogue murmured, running a slender hand down the flank of the nearest chestnut mare. 

“Did you have to kill the stable master, or did you simply leave the owner of these beasts bleeding out in his own pasture?”

Reis stopped mid-stride. He shot Morohtar a glare so dark and unyielding it could have frozen a summer creek. His hand tightened over Sabre’s lead, his lips pressed into a hard, defensive line, utterly refusing to dignify the rogue's accusation with an answer.

From the top of the ladder, Dashiel let out a low, breathless chuckle, adjusting his brass spectacles as he climbed down. 

“Oh, leave him be, Mehr. I barely know our solemn giant here, but judging by his rigid demeanor and that terrifyingly clean conscience of his, I think it’s pretty safe to assume he bought these horses entirely legally. Probably paid double their worth in capital gold, too.”

Morohtar’s mouth twitched, his deadpan expression giving way to a slow, amused smirk as he leaned against the wooden beam, entirely enjoying the brief banter with the stiff knight. 

“Well... you are lucky I am a cutthroat, Reis, not a cutpurse. I suppose I can tolerate a legitimate transaction if it means I don’t have to walk all the way to the capital.”

* * * *

Beside them, Shierra stood entirely still, her eyes fixed on the broad, armored shoulders of the knight. Coming from the pristine, isolated perfection of her Elven village, her view of humans had always been shaped by stories of greed, chaos, and volatile emotion. Yet here was Reis - a man from the border skirmishes, fleeing for his life, carrying the immense grief of Fieri's destruction, who still took the time and the coin to fairly compensate a poor frontier farmer rather than simply stealing what he needed by force of arms.

A profound, quiet amazement rippled through her. His honor wasn't a show for the high courts, it was a fundamental law of his existence.

“We mount up immediately. Nadaran is not far.” Reis commanded, his deep voice cutting through the banter, though the crimson flush on his neck showed he was still annoyed by the rogue’s teasing. He adjusted the stirrups on the first horse. 

“Master Dashiel, your frame is too small to handle the mountain trails alone at this pace. You will ride with Shierra. Morohtar, the chestnut is yours.”

“Suits me,” Morohtar murmured, seamlessly fluid as he vaulted into his saddle. 

“Let's see if these farm beasts can outrun dragonhide.”

With Shierra guiding their shared mount and Dashiel holding tightly to her waist with his archival ledgers packed securely, the party moved out of the farmyard at a brisk pace. As they passed the perimeter fence, the old farmer bowed deeply, with profound gratitude for the heavy purse Reis had left behind.

“Safe travels, m'lord! May the Light guide your path!”