The night sky stretched wide above Dravengarde, its stars dimmed by the flickering torches along the city’s high walls. The capital had settled into an uneasy silence, but Varian knew that in the halls of power, whispers still moved like knives in the dark.
He had no intention of waiting for one to find his back.
Hood drawn low, Varian moved swiftly through the narrow streets, his footsteps careful against the worn cobblestones. Lysara walked beside him, her sword strapped tight against her hip, her sharp gaze flicking to every shadow. Behind them, three of his father’s loyal retainers followed in silence.
The news of Duke Alric’s death still rang in Varian’s ears. The words had not yet settled, perhaps they never would. His father, the man who had ruled Kalandor with unyielding strength, was gone. And now, the men responsible expected Varian to kneel and inherit a throne they had already broken.
They think I will be too grief-stricken to act.
That I will hesitate.
That I will bow.
They were wrong.
A figure stepped from the shadows ahead, one of their scouts, his breath misting in the cold air.
“The city gates are locked down,” he whispered. “Only merchants and their guards are permitted to leave.”
Varian didn’t slow his pace. “Then we leave as merchants.”
Lysara cast him a sidelong glance. “You think they won’t be watching the caravans?”
“They will.” He exhaled slowly. “Which is why we need to be gone before they realize we’re missing.”
His men had already secured their horses in the shadows of a merchant’s stable. The scent of hay and damp wood filled the air as Varian swung onto his mount, his cloak billowing around him.
One of the riders, Ser Rhenard, a seasoned knight who had once trained under his father, gripped the reins of his own horse.
“Dravengarde is crawling with spies, my lord. If they realize you’re missing before we clear the outer villages, they’ll send men after us.”
“They will,” Varian said evenly, glancing toward the city’s distant walls.
Lysara pulled her horse up beside him. “And what exactly is your plan, Varian?”
He turned his gaze eastward. “The trade gate. Merchants are allowed passage at dawn, and coin can buy discretion. We join a departing caravan—slip out before the city stirs.”
Ser Rhenard grunted in approval. “A sound plan, if we move quickly.”
Varian took one last glance toward the citadel looming behind them. He had come to Dravengarde as an emissary, the heir of Kalandor, a player in the game of power.
Now, he was a fugitive.
His hands tightened around the reins.
“Then we ride.”
Varian kept his hood low as they rode through the narrow streets of Dravengarde. The city, though quieter at this late hour, was far from asleep. Torchlight flickered from iron sconces, casting long shadows over the cobblestones. The smell of damp wood, horse sweat, and the faint scent of roasting meat lingered in the air, blending with the unmistakable staleness of a city held in uneasy tension.
Every alleyway, every passing face was a potential threat.
Lysara rode beside him, her gaze sweeping the darkened buildings as they neared the eastern quarter. Behind them, Ser Rhenard and the other two riders kept their pace measured, appearing as nothing more than simple guards escorting their charge.
Ahead, the merchant quarter came into view. Wooden stalls, mostly abandoned for the night, lined the streets, while packhorses and carts were being readied for the morning’s trade routes. The trade gate was not as heavily guarded as the main city gates, but a pair of armored sentries still stood watch, halberds resting in their grips.
A caravan was forming just beyond the archway—six wagons packed with goods, their drivers huddled together in low conversation. A few mercenaries milled about, likely hired swords meant to protect the convoy on its journey.
Varian guided his horse toward them, keeping his voice low.
“Lysara, how much coin do you have on you?”
She arched a brow. “Enough to make a bribe. Not enough to buy a kingdom.”
“That will have to do.”
He pulled his horse to a stop beside the lead wagon, where an older merchant was checking the ropes securing his cargo. The man turned, eyes narrowing at the sight of them—his expression caught between caution and curiosity.
“You don’t look like traders,” he muttered.
“We aren’t,” Varian admitted. “But we need passage.”
The merchant scoffed. “And I need more guards. But men don’t work for free.”
Lysara nudged her horse forward, producing a small pouch and tossing it lightly to the man. He caught it, loosening the strings just enough to peek inside before nodding.
“That’ll do,” he said. He studied them a moment longer. “You’ll ride in the back. Keep your hoods up, don’t speak to the guards, and if we’re stopped—you work for me.”
Varian inclined his head. “Understood.”
As they maneuvered toward the rear of the convoy, Ser Rhenard leaned in.
“If the lords realize you’re gone before we reach the outer villages, they’ll send riders.”
Varian’s gaze hardened. “Then we need to be gone before the city wakes.”
The caravan began to move.
As the great gates of Dravengarde creaked open, Varian took one last look at the towering silhouette of the citadel behind them. He had entered this city as the heir of Kalandor, an emissary in his father’s name.
Now, he was leaving it as a fugitive, with nothing but the weight of vengeance in his chest.
He turned his eyes eastward.
Kalandor is mine now.
And the men who had taken it from him would soon learn what that truly meant.
The road stretched ahead in darkness, the caravan moving at a steady but cautious pace. Wagons creaked beneath their loads, pack animals snorted in the cold air, and the occasional murmur of conversation passed between the merchants. Among Varian’s party, there was only silence.
The eastern trade route was the fastest way out of Dravengarde, but also the most exposed. If the lords discovered his escape too soon, if they sent riders after him, there would be little time to react.
Every step away from the capital was a risk.
Returning was not an option.
“I don’t like this,” Lysara murmured, pulling her horse closer.
“Neither do I,” Varian replied.
“Do you think they know yet?”
“Not yet,” Ser Rhenard said quietly from behind them. “But it won’t be long. Someone will check on you in the citadel. When they find your room empty, they’ll raise the alarm.”
Varian knew he was right.
The caravan pressed on, the distant lights of Dravengarde fading behind them. As the wagons crested a hill, the land opened into the vast plains stretching toward Kalandor’s border. The air smelled of damp earth and autumn leaves, the scent of home.
Kalandor.
His home.
His birthright.
A keep that should have stood strong.
A house that should have endured.
And now…
Now his father was dead. His brother was gone. And the same nobles who had sat across from him at that table had already divided Kalandor among themselves like a prize.
His fingers tightened around the reins.
“You don’t have to be ready for this,” Lysara said softly.
“Ready for what?”
“For all of it. For Kalandor. For what comes next.”
“They didn’t give me a choice,” Varian said.
She didn’t argue.
Because it was true.
The road ahead was no longer about reclaiming a title.
It was no longer about legacy.
It was about vengeance.
And vengeance did not wait for a man to be ready.
The plains stretched wide before them, the last lights of Dravengarde vanishing beyond the hills. The night grew quieter, the rustling wind whispering through tall grass.
They were not safe yet.
A distant thunder of hooves broke the silence.
Varian tensed. Lysara’s hand drifted to her sword.
“Riders,” the merchant cursed.
On the ridge ahead, silhouettes flickered against the moonlight.
Then the horns blew.
Cold. Sharp. Unmistakable.
The caravan lurched forward as merchants whipped reins and guards tightened formation.
“They’ve come for you,” Lysara said.
Varian already knew.
This was no patrol.
This was a hunt.
Ser Rhenard rode up beside him, voice grim. “If we stay with the caravan, we’ll be cut down.”
Varian’s mind raced. They could fight, but they were outnumbered. The wagons were too slow.
There was only one option.
“We split,” Varian said. “Take the others. Ride for Kalandor.”
“And you?”
“I’ll lead them away.”
“That’s suicide.”
“They won’t kill me outright,” Varian replied. “Not yet. They need me alive.”
Lysara’s jaw clenched, but she nodded.
“You heard him,” she told Ser Rhenard. “We ride.”
Within moments, they vanished into the dark.
Varian turned his horse in the opposite direction.
He had no army.
No keep.
No kingdom.
But he still had himself.
And before the night was over, the lords of Dravengarde would learn exactly what that meant.
He spurred his horse forward, toward the riders, toward the storm of fate awaiting him.
Next Chapter Releases
Chapter 4 will release next Sunday as the clean re-release of
The Fall of the Duke continues.
Thank you for following Varian’s descent into the war that reshaped Varestal.
— E.J. Cordoue
Creator of Tales of Varestal
Where kingdoms rise, and crowns shatter.
Leave a Reply