Emberhold clung to the mountainside like a determined barnacle—a settlement born of necessity rather than choice. Originally an outpost for mining expeditions into the mineral-rich peaks, it had gradually evolved into a rough-edged trading hub where ore from the mountains was exchanged for supplies from the lowlands. Stone and timber buildings huddled against the steep terrain, connected by narrow streets that twisted unpredictably up the slope, some so steep that wooden stairs had been built into the cobblestones.
Tom studied the settlement from a ridge overlooking the eastern approach, noting both tactical considerations and possible escape routes. Emberhold's position provided natural defense—a single main road winding up from the valley below, while the rear of the settlement pressed against sheer cliffs that even goats might think twice about scaling.
"Looks busy," he observed, noting the steady traffic of wagons and travelers moving along the road. "Good for anonymity, at least."
"An active trading post offers both advantages and risks," Skaravosk replied. "More potential messengers for our purpose, but also more eyes that might recognize you."
"Recognize a dead man?" Tom chuckled. "Unlikely. Besides, my face is younger now, and I've changed enough that even old friends would probably walk right past me."
They had made good time from the hidden valley, covering the distance to Emberhold in a day and a half rather than the estimated two days. Tom's enhanced capabilities, supplemented by his newly developing self-generated draconic energy, allowed for travel speeds that would have astonished his former military comrades.
"Let's find somewhere to observe before heading in," Tom decided, moving along the ridge to a position with better vantage of the settlement's main gate. "Get a sense of the patrols, local garrison size, general atmosphere."
"A prudent approach," Skaravosk approved. "Though I sense your caution is motivated by more than standard tactical assessment."
Tom smiled slightly. Sometimes having a dragon in your head meant privacy of thought was more aspiration than reality. "Just an old soldier's habits. The longer you survive, the more careful you get."
They spent the next hour studying Emberhold's patterns—the guard rotation at the main gate (minimal and clearly bored), the merchant traffic (steady but not overwhelming), and the general flow of life through the settlement. Tom noted with interest that military presence seemed limited to a small contingent of what appeared to be local militia rather than kingdom regulars.
"No signs of active Heroes or royal forces," he observed with satisfaction. "Looks like a standard mountain trading post, just trying to continue business despite the war."
As the afternoon sun began its descent behind the western peaks, Tom adjusted his cloak—a rough-woven garment acquired during their journey that would help him blend with the local population—and made his final preparations for entering the settlement.
"Remember," Skaravosk cautioned, "minimal enhancements only. We cannot risk drawing attention through unusual capabilities."
"Just enough to stay alert and react if necessary," Tom agreed. "Basic senses, nothing more."
He made his way down to the main road, joining a group of traders leading pack mules laden with bundles of mountain herbs and furs. The guards at the gate barely glanced at the newcomers, waving them through with perfunctory gestures that suggested their attention was more focused on the end of their shift than on security protocols.
Inside Emberhold, the atmosphere was livelier than Tom had expected. Despite the ongoing war that affected much of the kingdom, this remote settlement appeared to be carrying on with something approaching normalcy. The main square bustled with commerce—traders hawking goods from makeshift stalls, locals haggling over prices, children weaving through the crowd on incomprehensible errands of their own.
"We should secure lodging first," Tom muttered under his breath, knowing Skaravosk could hear him regardless of volume. "Then scout potential messengers."
The Miner's Rest—an establishment whose name suggested more aspiration than reality—occupied a prime position near the main square. Its weathered wooden sign depicted a pickaxe crossed with what might have been intended as a tankard but more closely resembled a misshapen boot. Tom was heading toward its entrance when Skaravosk's awareness suddenly sharpened.
"Wait," the dragon cautioned. "Look to your left, near the smithy."
Tom casually turned as if surveying his surroundings, his enhanced vision focusing on the indicated direction. The breath caught in his throat as he recognized a face he hadn't seen since his "death" at Howling Crag—Varn, the archer from his old unit, his once-cheerful features now hardened into the watchful wariness that extended campaigns inevitably produced.
And where Varn was—yes, there she was. Mira stepped out of the smithy, rolling her shoulder as if testing repair work on her armor. Her hair was shorter than Tom remembered, her face thinner, but her alert posture and calculating gaze remained unchanged.
"Well, this complicates things," Tom murmured, stepping back into the shadow of an overhanging balcony.
"Indeed," Skaravosk agreed. "Former companions would be more likely to see through your changed appearance. Their presence suggests military operations in the region, perhaps related to the Heroes' activities."
Tom watched as Mira and Varn conversed briefly before being joined by a third familiar figure—Corliss, the big man's frame unmistakable even at a distance. The trio moved toward what appeared to be a tavern on the far side of the square, The Broken Anvil according to its hanging sign.
"We should find another settlement," Skaravosk suggested. "The risk of recognition is—"
"No," Tom interrupted, surprising both himself and the dragon with his instinctive response. "This is actually perfect."
"Your definition of 'perfect' continues to mystify me," Skaravosk replied dryly. "How exactly does the presence of former comrades who believe you dead improve our situation?"
Tom was already formulating a plan, tactical assessment overriding initial shock. "They're here for a reason. Probably military operations connected to whatever the Heroes are planning. Which means they might have exactly the kind of information we're looking for."
"You propose directly approaching them?" The dragon's mental tone carried clear skepticism. "Revealing yourself after all this time?"
"Not at all," Tom replied, a hint of mischief coloring his voice. "But a bit of careful eavesdropping in a tavern where soldiers typically talk too much? That's just good intelligence gathering."
He felt Skaravosk's hesitation, the dragon evaluating multiple risk factors simultaneously. "This introduces significant variables we hadn't planned for," he finally noted. "Though I acknowledge the potential intelligence value."
"Let's secure lodging first—somewhere other than The Miner's Rest," Tom decided. "Then we can observe from a safe distance and determine the best approach."
They found suitable accommodation at The Crooked Nail, a smaller inn at the upper edge of the settlement whose main clientele appeared to be mountain guides and hunters rather than the traders and miners who dominated the establishments near the main square. Tom's story—a hunter looking for work guiding lowland nobles on trophy expeditions—was accepted without question by the innkeeper, a squat woman with surprisingly delicate hands who seemed more interested in his ability to pay than his personal history.
After securing a small room with a window overlooking the winding main street, Tom spent the remainder of the afternoon in careful preparation. He adjusted his appearance further—pulling his hair forward to partially obscure his face, rubbing dirt into his cloak to dull its color, adopting a slight slouch that altered his characteristic military posture. Small changes individually, but collectively they created a different silhouette, a different impression.
"Even with these precautions, extended proximity remains risky," Skaravosk cautioned as evening approached. "Your former companions were trained observers."
"So we limit exposure," Tom replied, checking his reflection in the small, tarnished mirror mounted on the wall. "One evening of careful observation. If it proves too dangerous, we leave before dawn."
As darkness fell over Emberhold, Tom made his way back down to the main square, now lit by hanging lanterns that cast pools of warm light between stretches of shadow. The Broken Anvil glowed with activity, sounds of conversation and occasional laughter spilling from its open windows. Tom circled the building once, identifying exits and sightlines before selecting his approach.
"Remember, we're just gathering information," he reminded himself as much as Skaravosk. "No contact, no risks, just listening."
"A plan I fully endorse," the dragon replied. "Though your history suggests even simple plans often encounter unexpected complications."
Tom chuckled softly. "Can't argue with that."
The tavern's interior was typical of military waystations throughout the kingdom—a large common room dominated by a central fireplace, tables of varying sizes scattered throughout, and a long bar along one wall where patrons could obtain varying qualities of alcohol depending on their coin and desperation. The air hung heavy with woodsmoke, sweat, and the distinctive yeasty scent of spilled beer soaking into ancient floorboards.
Tom selected a table in a shadowed corner that offered good visibility of the room while keeping his back to a wall—a soldier's instinct regardless of circumstance. His former companions sat across the room near the fireplace, joined now by two more familiar faces—Jenks and a woman Tom didn't immediately recognize but whose insignia identified her as a lieutenant from an adjacent unit.
A serving girl approached, her tired smile suggesting the lateness of her shift. "What'll it be?"
"Ale," Tom replied, pitching his voice slightly higher than normal, another small protection against recognition. "Whatever's local."
As she moved away, Tom settled into the careful observation mode that had served him through countless reconnaissance missions. He didn't stare directly at his former comrades but monitored them through peripheral vision and occasional casual glances, while keeping his head angled downward as if focused on his own thoughts.
The serving girl returned with his ale—a dark, amber liquid topped with thin foam. Tom took a cautious sip, surprised by the quality. Rich and complex, with hints of mountain herbs he couldn't immediately identify.
"Enjoy," the girl said with a genuine smile this time. "Moonrunner Ale. Brewed right here in Emberhold. Only good thing about this place, if you ask me."
Tom nodded his thanks, taking another sip as she moved to other tables. It had been months since he'd tasted proper ale—not since before the disastrous mission to Howling Crag that had ended his life as Tomas Reed. The flavor brought back memories of campaign taverns, of brief moments of camaraderie snatched between battles.
"You seem distracted," Skaravosk observed.
"Just remembering," Tom replied silently. "I haven't had alcohol since getting this younger body back. Used to have quite the tolerance in my old form."
"A skill I'm sure you developed through rigorous practice," the dragon commented with characteristic dryness.
Tom smiled behind his tankard. "Military life. You learn to drink when you can, sleep when you can, and never pass up a chance for either."
He monitored his former companions while maintaining his casual posture. They were engaged in animated conversation, their body language suggesting a mix of professional discussion and the kind of dark humor that inevitably developed among soldiers in extended campaigns. Though he couldn't make out specific words over the tavern's general noise, their expressions and gestures told a story of tension, frustration, and the grim determination of veterans assigned a difficult task.
Another serving girl arrived at their table with a round of drinks, this time including what appeared to be small glasses of something stronger than ale. A toast followed—brief and perfunctory in the manner of soldiers who had long since abandoned ceremony but maintained certain traditions out of superstition or habit.
In the interest of maintaining his cover, Tom continued sipping his ale, noting with satisfaction that his position allowed him to observe without drawing attention. The tavern had grown busier as the evening progressed, local miners and traders mixing with travelers and the occasional uniformed member of the settlement militia. Perfect conditions for unobtrusive intelligence gathering.
An hour passed, then another. Tom nursed his ale, ordered a simple meal of stew and bread to justify his continued presence, and gradually pieced together fragments of information from observed interactions and occasional snippets of conversation that carried across the room. His former companions appeared to be part of a specialized scouting unit, likely operating in coordination with larger forces deployed elsewhere in the region.
As Tom finished his meal, he signaled for another ale, figuring one more would be reasonable cover while he gathered final observations before departing. The serving girl brought it with a friendly wink that suggested she found the quiet, hooded stranger more interesting than the rowdier military group across the room.
"Careful," Skaravosk cautioned, noting Tom's slightly relaxed posture. "The alcohol appears to be affecting you more rapidly than anticipated."
Tom blinked, realizing with surprise that the dragon was right. A pleasant warmth had spread through his body, and his thoughts seemed to flow more easily than usual. "Strange," he replied silently. "I've barely had two ales. Used to drink three times this without noticing."
"Your current body lacks the conditioning and tolerance your previous form developed over decades," Skaravosk reminded him. "Physically, you are essentially eighteen again—including your physiological response to intoxicants."
This realization came too late, as Tom had already begun his second tankard, the rich flavor too tempting to resist after months of deprivation. "I'll compensate," he assured the dragon, straightening his posture slightly. "Just need to focus a bit more."
But focus proved increasingly elusive as the evening progressed. The Moonrunner Ale was stronger than he'd initially assessed, and his younger body's metabolism processed it differently than his veteran form had. What would have been a pleasant buzz for Tomas Reed was becoming something more substantial for Tom's reconstructed physiology.
"Perhaps we should conclude our observation and return to our lodging," Skaravosk suggested with growing concern. "Your control over fine motor functions is demonstrably diminishing."
"Just a little longer," Tom insisted, his internal voice carrying the slight slurring his physical voice would have revealed if he'd spoken aloud. "They're starting to talk more openly now."
Indeed, as the evening had progressed and alcohol had flowed, his former companions had grown louder, their conversation more animated. Tom could now catch fragments of actual dialogue—mentions of patrol routes, supply lines, and most interestingly, references to "special assets" deployed along the northern ridge.
His attention was so focused on gleaning these valuable intelligence fragments that he failed to notice a new arrival to the tavern—a messenger in mud-splattered riding gear who moved directly to the military table, handing Mira a sealed packet before departing as quickly as he had arrived.
The change in the group's demeanor was immediate. Conversations ceased, drinks were set aside, and expressions shifted from relaxed camaraderie to professional focus. They clustered around Mira as she broke the seal and unfolded what appeared to be a map or diagram, their heads bowed together in intense discussion.
Tom leaned forward slightly, attempting to glimpse whatever had caused such a dramatic shift in atmosphere. The motion, normally controlled and subtle, betrayed his inebriated state. His elbow struck his tankard, sending it crashing to the floor with a splash and clatter that momentarily silenced conversations throughout the tavern.
"Apologies!" Tom called out, deliberately pitching his voice higher and adding a slight accent that hadn't been present before. "Clumsy of me."
The serving girl hurried over with a cloth, kneeling to mop up the spilled ale. "No harm done," she assured him. "Happens all the time."
But the damage wasn't in the spilled drink. The commotion had drawn attention from across the room—including brief glances from his former companions. Most returned immediately to their document, but Varn's gaze lingered, a slight furrow appearing between his brows as he studied the hooded figure in the corner.
"We need to leave," Skaravosk urged. "His expression suggests recognition is possible."
Tom nodded slightly, keeping his face angled downward as he placed coins on the table for his meal and drinks. "Just need to do it casually. No sudden movements that would confirm suspicion."
He rose slowly, maintaining his affected slouch, and began making his way toward the door. The tavern had grown crowded enough that navigation required attention, creating a natural reason to focus on his path rather than risk further eye contact with Varn.
He had almost reached the exit when a group of militia members entered, their boisterous arrival forcing patrons to step aside. In the momentary confusion, Tom found himself briefly face-to-face with a patron returning from the privy—Jenks, his former squad-mate, close enough that Tom could count the new scars that hadn't been there before Howling Crag.
"Excuse me," Tom muttered, lowering his voice and turning his face aside.
Too late. Jenks paused, his brow furrowing in the distinctive expression that had always preceded his rare moments of genuine insight. "Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked, head tilting slightly as alcohol-slowed thoughts attempted to make connections.
"Don't think so," Tom replied, adding a slight stammer to his affected accent. "J-just passing through. Hunter and guide."
Jenks continued staring, that puzzled expression deepening. "You really remind me of someone. Someone who—"
"Hey Jenks!" Corliss called from across the room. "Get back here. Lieutenant's asking about the northern approach."
The interruption broke Jenks's concentration. He shrugged, the moment of near-recognition fading. "Sorry, friend. Guess you just have one of those faces."
Tom nodded, forcing a smile that felt wooden. "No problem. Happens all the time."
He slipped past Jenks and through the tavern door, emerging into the cooler night air with a sense of narrowly avoided disaster. The alcohol in his system made the world tilt slightly, buildings seeming to lean at odd angles in the darkness.
"That was entirely too close," Skaravosk observed as Tom made his way up the winding street toward The Crooked Nail. "Continued proximity to your former companions clearly presents unacceptable risk levels."
"Can't argue with that," Tom agreed, his internal voice steadier than his slightly weaving physical progress. "Though we did learn something valuable. Those 'special assets' they mentioned—has to be connected to the Heroes. And that courier bringing a map? Perfect timing."
"Information gained at excessive risk remains problematic," the dragon countered. "Particularly when compromised judgment is involved."
Tom was about to respond when footsteps behind him caused both of them to focus their attention. Three sets of boots, moving with the synchronized rhythm of trained soldiers rather than civilian gait patterns.
"Just keep walking normally," Tom instructed himself, fighting the alcohol's effects to maintain a steady pace. "Probably just militia on patrol."
But the footsteps maintained their distance, neither closing nor falling behind—the classic pattern of surveillance rather than coincidental shared direction. Tom casually glanced back as if checking the weather, confirming his suspicion. Three militia members, moving with the alert posture of men following specific orders rather than conducting routine patrol.
"I don't suppose there's any chance they're following someone else?" Tom asked Skaravosk without much hope.
"Given the absence of other pedestrians on this street, that seems improbable," the dragon replied. "More likely Jenks mentioned his suspicions to your former companions, who then requested militia assistance in tracking a person of interest."
Tom assessed their situation rapidly, options limited by his inebriated state and unfamiliar surroundings. Direct confrontation was unthinkable—these were kingdom forces, not enemies. Running would only confirm suspicion and likely trigger pursuit. And transformation of any kind was too risky within the settlement's confines.
"We need a diversion," he decided, scanning the street ahead for opportunities.
The answer presented itself as they rounded a corner—a delivery wagon parked outside a storehouse, its driver currently engaged in conversation with what appeared to be the night watchman. The wagon's load was covered with heavy cloth, but the distinctive shape of barrels was visible beneath the fabric.
"Simple is best," Tom muttered, adjusting his path to bring him within arm's reach of the wagon as he passed. With a movement too quick for casual observation to catch, he released the securing pin on the wagon's rear gate, then continued walking at the same unhurried pace.
Three more steps, four, five—then came the sudden crack of wood as the gate gave way, followed by the distinctive sound of barrels hitting cobblestones. Shouts erupted behind them as driver and watchman rushed to prevent further damage, while the contents of at least one broken barrel added slick liquid to the already chaotic scene.
The militia members following Tom instantly diverted to assist, professional duty overriding whatever instructions they might have received about following a suspicious stranger. It was the moment Tom had hoped for—a non-violent diversion creating just enough confusion to allow discretion.
"Left here," he instructed himself, slipping into a narrow alley between buildings. "Then second right should lead back toward the inn from a different approach."
They navigated the settlement's confusing layout, Tom's enhanced senses compensating somewhat for the alcohol's effects on his coordination. The sounds of commotion faded behind them as they put distance between themselves and the incident, eventually emerging onto a quiet street that wound up toward The Crooked Nail.
"I believe we've successfully evaded immediate pursuit," Skaravosk noted as they approached the inn. "Though this incident confirms we should depart Emberhold as soon as possible."
"But not before we find our messenger," Tom replied, the close call having sobered him considerably. "We came here with a purpose. Running now just means starting over somewhere else."
"The presence of your former companions significantly increases the risk," Skaravosk pointed out.
"True, but it also means they'll be focused on military matters, not random messengers," Tom argued. "We just need to be more careful. Avoid the taverns, stick to the market areas. Find someone tomorrow morning and be gone by midday."
He entered The Crooked Nail casually, nodding to the innkeeper who barely glanced up from her ledger, and made his way upstairs to their small room. Only when the door was securely latched behind him did Tom allow his tense posture to relax.
"That," he said aloud, keeping his voice barely above a whisper, "was not part of the plan."
"Your capacity for understatement remains remarkable," Skaravosk replied dryly. "As does your propensity for encountering precisely the complications we most wish to avoid."
Tom sank onto the narrow bed, the room spinning slightly as the adrenaline from their escape began to fade, leaving the alcohol's effects dominant once more. "Didn't expect to get drunk off two ales," he admitted. "This younger body has some drawbacks I hadn't considered."
"A lesson in physiological adaptation that, fortunately, resulted in only minor complications," the dragon observed. "Though I would suggest we add 'avoid intoxicants entirely' to our operational protocols going forward."
"No argument here," Tom agreed, closing his eyes as the room's rotation increased. "Remind me of that the next time I'm tempted by surprisingly good mountain ale."
Despite the evening's complications, they had gained valuable intelligence—confirmation of military operations coordinated with "special assets" that almost certainly referred to the Heroes, and the revelation that something significant enough to warrant courier delivery was developing in the region. The near-recognition and subsequent pursuit were concerning, but they had escaped without confirmation of Tom's identity.
"First light, we find our messenger, then we're gone," Tom decided as fatigue began to outweigh even the discomfort of the spinning room. "Quick and clean. No more taverns, no more risks."
"A sound adjustment," Skaravosk agreed. "Though I remain concerned about the inherent risks of remaining in a settlement where recognition is possible."
"Few more hours," Tom mumbled, the combination of alcohol, adrenaline crash, and the day's exertions finally overwhelming even his enhanced resilience. "Almost done. Then gone."
As consciousness faded, one image remained clear in his mind—Varn's puzzled expression, the archer's keen eyes narrowing as something familiar registered despite all Tom's precautions. They had escaped discovery this time, but the encounter underscored a reality they couldn't ignore: the past didn't stay buried simply because one wished it so.
Morning arrived with unwelcome brightness streaming through the room's single window. Tom groaned softly, discovering yet another drawback of his younger physiology—a throbbing headache that pulsed with each heartbeat, accompanied by a mouth that felt as if he'd been chewing sand.
"I believe you're experiencing what is commonly referred to as a 'hangover,'" Skaravosk observed, his mental voice carrying a hint of what might have been amusement. "Another aspect of alcohol consumption your veteran body had adapted to manage more efficiently."
"Thank you for that helpful explanation," Tom muttered, forcing himself upright despite his body's protests. "Any other obvious observations you'd care to share?"
"Your temper appears affected as well," the dragon noted dryly. "Though that at least is consistent across both physiological states."
Tom managed a rueful chuckle as he splashed water from the room's small basin onto his face. "Sorry. You're right. Not at my best this morning."
He dressed quickly, the previous night's close call having embedded a new urgency into their mission. The market would be busiest in early morning, offering the best selection of potential messengers before his former companions might be active in the settlement.
The innkeeper provided a simple breakfast of hard bread and cheese that helped settle Tom's uneasy stomach. By the time he stepped outside into the crisp mountain air, the worst of his hangover had subsided to a dull background discomfort—manageable, if not pleasant.
Emberhold's main market occupied an irregular square halfway down the settlement's winding main street. Even at this early hour, it bustled with activity—farmers from outlying homesteads arranging produce on rough wooden tables, traders unpacking wares from overnight wagons, miners exchanging raw ore for supplies before heading up to the dig sites that pockmarked the surrounding mountains.
"We need someone who regularly travels between settlements," Tom murmured as he moved through the crowd, hood pulled forward to shadow his features without appearing deliberately concealing. "Preferably someone with legitimate business in multiple locations."
"The textile merchant near the eastern corner," Skaravosk suggested, directing Tom's attention to a middle-aged woman organizing bolts of fabric on a colorful cart. "Her wagon bears stamps from at least four different settlement tolls, suggesting regular circuit travel."
Tom approached casually, examining the fabrics with feigned interest while observing the merchant herself. Her weathered face and capable hands spoke of years on trading routes, while the quality of her goods indicated successful commerce rather than desperate peddling. Most importantly, her interaction with customers suggested straightforward dealing—neither suspiciously eager nor dismissively brusque.
"Morning," Tom greeted her after the departure of a customer. "Fine weave on these blues. Lowland cotton?"
The merchant's eyes evaluated him quickly—the automatic assessment of someone who'd spent decades determining what customers could afford and what they actually needed. "Aye, southern fields. Best quality since the eastern routes got disrupted by the war. You have a good eye."
Tom smiled, allowing genuine appreciation into his expression. "Had a friend who worked textiles before the campaigns started. Taught me the difference between quality and pretty colors."
This bit of knowledge earned him a more appraising look. "Not many mountain men know fabric. You trade yourself?"
"Different kinds of goods," Tom replied vaguely. "But I recognize quality work when I see it. You run a regular circuit through these parts?"
The merchant nodded, her hands automatically straightening already-perfect fabric stacks. "Six settlements on a three-week turn. Emberhold, Stonekeep, Red Hill, Tanner's Ford, Oakhollow, and back through High Pass. Been doing it for twenty years, war or no war."
Perfect. A regular route that created legitimate reasons for carrying messages, with enough settlements to obscure the original source of any communication. Tom's expression remained casually interested while his mind rapidly calculated possibilities.
"Any chance you'd consider carrying a message for me? Private matter, nothing illegal or dangerous." He reached into his cloak, producing several silver coins that represented significant but not suspicious payment. "I'm headed the other direction, otherwise I'd deliver it myself."
The merchant eyed the silver, then Tom himself. "Depends what kind of message and who it's for," she said finally. "I don't carry love notes for would-be suitors or threats against honest folks. Bad for business, either way."
"Nothing like that," Tom assured her. "Information exchange regarding certain historical locations. Scholar's business, you might say."
"Scholars," the merchant repeated with the mild skepticism of someone who'd heard many justifications for questionable requests. "These scholars have names?"
"The message is addressed to its recipients," Tom replied smoothly. "You'd just need to leave it with the innkeeper at The Silver Cup in Oakhollow. He knows how to forward it appropriately."
The merchant's eyebrows rose slightly at the mention of Oakhollow. "That's nearly two weeks journey from here, end of my circuit. Message that important, why not hire a dedicated courier?"
"Because dedicated couriers ask too many questions and attract attention," Tom answered with a frankness that seemed to surprise the merchant. "I need discretion, not speed. And you have legitimate business in these settlements that wouldn't raise eyebrows."
His honesty—or at least the appearance of it—seemed to work in his favor. The merchant studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. "Let's see this message then."
Tom produced the carefully wrapped package containing the message they had prepared in the hidden valley. "As I said, nothing illegal or dangerous. Just information that needs to reach specific scholars without drawing undue attention."
The merchant took the package, weighing it briefly in her palm before tucking it into a hidden pocket within her colorful vest. "Five silver now, five more from your contact at Oakhollow when they collect it. I don't open it, don't ask what's inside, don't mention I'm carrying anything unless someone specifically asks—which they won't, because I mind my own business."
"Perfect," Tom agreed, counting out the coins and placing them in her weathered palm. "When do you leave for Oakhollow?"
"Heading to Stonekeep tomorrow, then on through the circuit," she replied, secreting the coins away with practiced efficiency. "Your message reaches Oakhollow in twelve days, give or take weather in the passes."
"That works," Tom said, already calculating how quickly the Heroes might respond once they received the communication. "Thank you for your assistance."
The merchant nodded once more, then turned to a new customer approaching her stall, the transaction completed with the same business-like efficiency that had characterized their entire interaction. Tom moved away, merging smoothly back into the market crowd.
"Mission accomplished," he murmured, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders despite the lingering headache. "Now we just need to make a clean exit from Emberhold."
"A task that remains challenging given the presence of your former companions," Skaravosk reminded him. "Though at least the most pressing objective has been achieved."
Tom was about to reply when movement at the far end of the market caught his attention—the distinctive posture of military personnel moving with purpose rather than casual shopping interest. Mira and Corliss, accompanied by two militia members, their expressions suggesting something more focused than routine patrol.
"Time to go," Tom decided immediately, changing direction to put market stalls between himself and the approaching soldiers. "They might be looking for last night's mysterious stranger."
"A reasonable hypothesis," Skaravosk agreed. "Though their presence in the market might be coincidental."
"Not taking that chance," Tom replied, maintaining a casual pace while creating distance. "We got what we came for. No need to push our luck further."
He wound through the market's busiest sections, using groups of shoppers as visual cover while making his way toward the upper streets that would lead back to The Crooked Nail. Once there, he could gather their few possessions and depart Emberhold by the settlement's less-used southern path—a steeper route that local guides had mentioned during last night's tavern conversations.
Tom had almost reached the market's edge when he heard a voice that stopped him cold.
"Hey! You there, with the gray cloak!"
He didn't need to look back to recognize Jenks's distinctive call—the same voice that had hailed him across countless battlefields and camp sites during their years serving together. For a heartbeat, Tom considered simply ignoring it, continuing his withdrawal without acknowledgment.
But that would only confirm suspicion and potentially trigger pursuit. Better to respond, maintain his disguise, and create another opportunity for clean disengagement.
"You mean me?" Tom asked, turning with carefully calibrated confusion, his voice pitched higher than natural and the slight accent he'd affected last night maintained. His hood remained forward, shadowing his features without seeming deliberately concealing.
Jenks approached, Varn several paces behind him with a cautious expression that suggested professional suspicion rather than friendly curiosity. "Yeah, you," Jenks confirmed, studying Tom with narrowed eyes. "From the tavern last night. Been thinking about where I know you from."
"Like I said, just passing through," Tom replied with a shrug. "Don't believe we've met before last night."
"Thing is," Jenks continued, undeterred, "you remind me of someone. Someone important."
"I have that kind of face," Tom offered with a dismissive gesture. "Common features, nothing distinctive. Now if you'll excuse me, I have preparations to make. Heading out this morning."
He made to turn away, but Jenks moved to intercept—not aggressively, but with the persistence that had always characterized his approach to puzzles he couldn't immediately solve.
"Just a moment," Varn said, his voice carrying the quiet authority that had made him an effective squad leader despite his usual reticence. "The militia reported an incident last night. Suspicious individual matching your description."
"An accident with a wagon?" Tom asked, allowing genuine confusion into his voice. "I heard the commotion but was nowhere near it. Ask the innkeeper at The Crooked Nail—I returned directly after the tavern."
The half-truth might buy credibility, as the innkeeper had indeed seen him enter later in the evening, though not the specific timing relative to the wagon incident.
"Interesting that you knew it was a wagon," Varn noted, his archer's eyes missing nothing. "When no one mentioned what kind of incident."
Tom silently cursed the slip—a rookie mistake he wouldn't have made if not for the lingering effects of last night's alcohol and this morning's headache. "Everyone was talking about it in the market," he improvised. "Spilled ale barrels, from what I heard. Quite the mess."
Varn and Jenks exchanged glances—the silent communication of soldiers who had served together long enough to read subtle cues. Whatever passed between them clearly didn't resolve their suspicions.
"Mind if we see some identification?" Varn asked, the polite phrasing doing nothing to disguise the implicit command. "Travel papers, guild certification, anything official."
A reasonable request under normal circumstances, but potentially disastrous for Tom. Any papers he produced would either be obviously falsified or would contain inconsistencies that trained military personnel would immediately recognize. And refusing would only confirm his suspicious status.
"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" A new voice interrupted the increasingly tense standoff—the textile merchant, approaching with the confident stride of an established local businesswoman. "This gentleman just arranged for me to deliver patterns to his associate in Oakhollow. Is there some reason you're delaying my customer?"
Tom maintained a neutral expression, though inwardly he marveled at the merchant's timely intervention. Whether motivated by the silver in her pocket or genuine irritation at military interference with commerce, her arrival created a perfect disruption to the questioning.
"Military business," Varn replied, his tone respectful but firm. "Shouldn't take but a moment of his time."
"Military business in a trading settlement?" the merchant countered, hands settling on her hips in the universal posture of commercial territorialism. "Last I checked, Emberhold wasn't under martial law. Unless you've got specific charges, maybe let paying customers conduct their business? Some of us have routes to prepare for."
Jenks shifted uncomfortably, clearly recognizing the public relations problem of harassing apparent civilians without clear cause. Varn's expression remained carefully neutral, but Tom—who knew him well from years of service—could read the calculation in his eyes.
"No charges," Varn conceded after a moment. "Just routine verification during heightened security measures." He turned back to Tom. "You said you're leaving this morning?"
"That was my plan," Tom confirmed, seizing the opening. "Though I still need to settle my account at The Crooked Nail."
"We'll escort you," Varn decided, the phrasing making it clear this wasn't a suggestion. "Ensure everything's in order for your departure."
The textile merchant snorted. "Military escort for paying a tavern bill? Times really have changed." She fixed Tom with a significant look. "Don't forget about our arrangement. Oakhollow, twelve days."
"I won't," Tom assured her, subtly slipping three gold coins—far more than their agreed payment—into her palm as he clasped her hand in thanks. "Your assistance today is particularly appreciated."
The merchant's eyebrows rose fractionally at the weight of the coins, but her expression remained professionally neutral as she pocketed them with practiced efficiency. "Safe travels, then. Markets these days are full of... unexpected complications." Her meaningful glance toward Varn and Jenks made it clear she understood exactly why Tom had just overpaid her.
With a final nod, she returned to her stall, leaving Tom to deal with his military escort.
With Varn and Jenks flanking him in what was clearly an escort rather than an arrest, Tom began walking toward The Crooked Nail. His mind raced through options, calculating escape routes and diversion possibilities.
"This is problematic," Skaravosk observed unnecessarily. "Though the message delivery has been secured, our extraction now presents significant challenges."
"They can't hold me without cause," Tom replied silently. "And they don't have proof of anything yet—just suspicions. I just need to maintain the facade long enough to create another opportunity for disengagement."
The walk to the inn proceeded in tense silence, Varn's watchful gaze never leaving Tom even as they navigated the winding streets. Jenks seemed less certain, his expression fluctuating between suspicion and confusion as he continued trying to place the familiar-yet-different face.
At The Crooked Nail, the innkeeper looked up with mild interest as the unusual trio entered. "Checking out earlier than expected?" she asked Tom, apparently unsurprised by the military escort. In a settlement like Emberhold, such sights were likely not unprecedented.
"Change of plans," Tom replied evenly, placing coins on the counter for his stay. "Opportunity further south I need to investigate."
As the innkeeper counted his payment, Tom sensed rather than saw Varn's increasing focus—the archer's instincts clearly unsatisfied by the exchange. "Once you've gathered your belongings," Varn said quietly, "we'll accompany you to the southern gate."
"Is that necessary?" Tom asked, maintaining his affected accent. "I'm quite capable of finding my way."
"Consider it a courtesy," Varn replied, the words belying the intent clearly visible in his stance. "These mountains can be dangerous for solitary travelers."
Tom recognized the implicit message—they weren't done with their investigation, and the southern gate would likely have additional forces waiting. His complications were multiplying rather than resolving.
"I'll just gather my things," he said, heading toward the stairs that led to the small rooms above.
"Jenks, go with him," Varn instructed. "I'll settle matters with the innkeeper."
And there it was—the trap closing from multiple directions. With Jenks accompanying him upstairs, opportunities for unconventional exit became severely limited. And Varn's conversation with the innkeeper would likely involve questions about Tom's behavior, arrival time, and other details that might not align perfectly with his story.
As they reached the room, Tom's mind raced through diminishing options. Direct confrontation remained unthinkable—these were former comrades, not enemies. Transformation would reveal exactly what they suspected, confirming his unusual nature. Running would only trigger pursuit, with his former companions now close enough to maintain visual contact.
"We may need to consider limited disclosure," Skaravosk suggested as Tom collected his few possessions from the small room. "A partial truth that satisfies their suspicions without revealing our full nature."
"What partial truth could possibly explain why a dead man is walking around with a younger face?" Tom countered silently, buckling his travel pack with deliberate slowness to buy thinking time.
"You know, you remind me of someone," Jenks said suddenly, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed. "A soldier. Good man. Saved my life once at Blackwater Bridge when raiders had me pinned down."
Tom froze momentarily, the memory crystal clear in his mind—Jenks separated from the unit, three raiders closing in, Tom creating a diversion that had drawn their attention long enough for Varn's arrows to find their marks. Not heroic, just practical battlefield assistance that any squad mate would have provided.
"Sounds like a routine soldier doing his job," Tom replied carefully, adjusting his pack straps.
"Yeah, maybe," Jenks agreed, watching Tom's movements with uncharacteristic intensity. "Except Reed wasn't just routine. Smartest soldier I ever knew when it came to staying alive. Nothing remarkable about him at first glance—not the strongest, not the fastest, not even the best with a blade. But he survived when better men didn't."
Tom met Jenks's gaze briefly before looking away, uncomfortable with both the praise and the increasing danger of recognition. "Sounds like someone worth knowing."
"He was," Jenks confirmed, a hint of genuine grief coloring his usually light tone. "Died saving the rest of us. Led monsters away so we could complete the mission. Except..." He paused, studying Tom with renewed focus. "Except they never found his body."
The room seemed suddenly smaller, the air heavier with unspoken tension. Tom silently cursed Jenks's unexpected perceptiveness—the same quality that had occasionally yielded battlefield insights when least expected from the otherwise unremarkable soldier.
"Ready," Tom announced, shouldering his pack and moving toward the door where Jenks still blocked the exit. "Shall we rejoin your friend?"
Instead of moving aside, Jenks remained in place, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Just one question before we go down. Simple curiosity, you understand." He uncrossed his arms, standing straighter. "What happened at Howling Crag, Reed? How did you survive?"
The direct question, using his name, landed like a physical blow. Tom froze, the tension in the small room suddenly thick enough to cut with a blade. Jenks watched him with unwavering focus, suspicion transforming into certainty with each passing second of Tom's silence.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Tom finally managed, trying to maintain his accent but feeling the facade crumbling under Jenks's unflinching gaze.
"Save it," Jenks replied, his normally carefree demeanor replaced by something harder, more focused. "I know it's you, Reed. Changed, younger somehow, but it's you. No one else has that look—like you're calculating every possible way something could go wrong." His voice lowered. "We mourned you. Mira still carries your dagger."
Tom's mind raced through diminishing options. Denial was clearly failing. Admission would create complications he couldn't begin to calculate. Varn waited downstairs, likely growing more suspicious with each passing moment.
"Jenks—" he began, though he had no idea what could possibly follow.
The tension in the room was palpable as they stared at each other, seconds stretching like hours. Something flickered in Jenks's eyes—uncertainty mixing with conviction. He wasn't completely sure, but he was close enough that Tom couldn't risk further conversation.
Without warning, Tom pivoted and charged toward the window. With a burst of speed enhanced by both desperation and a surge of draconic energy, he hurled himself shoulder-first through the glass and wooden frame, shattering both in an explosion of splinters and shards.
"What the—!" Jenks's shocked cry followed him as he tumbled through the sudden opening, momentarily airborne above a narrow alley behind the inn.
The impact when he hit the ground would have seriously injured an ordinary human, but Tom's enhanced physiology absorbed the shock, allowing him to roll to his feet and immediately sprint toward the end of the alley. Behind him, Jenks's face appeared at the shattered window, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Varn!" Jenks shouted, his voice carrying clearly in the morning air. "He jumped! Through the window!"
Thundering footsteps echoed from inside as Varn presumably raced up the stairs in response to the commotion. Tom didn't slow, rounding the corner at full speed and disappearing from Jenks's line of sight.
As Tom fled through Emberhold's winding streets, pushing his enhanced body to its limits, a new scene was unfolding back at The Crooked Nail.
Varn burst into the small room, sword half-drawn, only to find Jenks alone standing by a shattered window, staring at the empty space where glass had been moments before.
"What happened?" Varn demanded, quickly scanning the room for threats. "Who jumped?"
Jenks turned slowly, his expression a mixture of shock, confusion, and something harder to define. "The traveler. He just... went through the window. Like it was nothing."
"Through the—" Varn moved to the opening, looking down at the alley below. The drop was easily twenty feet onto stone cobbles. "No one walks away from that fall. There should be a body."
"Well, there isn't," Jenks replied, still staring at the window frame as if it might provide answers. "He hit the ground, rolled, and ran. Didn't even limp."
Varn's eyes narrowed as he studied his companion's face. "You recognized him. I saw it when you called out. Who was he, Jenks?"
Jenks hesitated, internal conflict visible in his expression. "I'm... not sure," he said finally. "He reminded me of someone, but..." He shook his head. "It couldn't be."
"Couldn't be who?" Varn pressed, his archer's eyes missing nothing of Jenks's obvious distress.
"Reed," Jenks admitted quietly. "Something about his movements, the way he assessed the room when we entered. For a moment, I thought..." He trailed off, clearly struggling with the impossibility of what he'd seen.
Varn's expression shifted from urgent questioning to concerned comprehension. "Reed died at Howling Crag, Jenks. We all mourned him."
"I know that," Jenks snapped, uncharacteristic irritation flaring. "But this guy—there was something familiar. I just needed to confirm it wasn't... couldn't be..."
"So you confronted him," Varn surmised. "And his response was to launch himself through a window rather than answer."
"Yes."
Varn turned back to study the alley below. "No ordinary traveler does that. And no ordinary human walks away from that fall." His voice hardened. "We need to organize search parties. Whatever he is, this 'traveler' is clearly more than he appeared."
An hour later, the initial pursuit had been organized into more systematic search patterns, with militia members and Varn's small military unit spreading outward from Emberhold in ever-widening circles. Secured in a private room at The Broken Anvil, the four former members of Tom's squad gathered to assess the increasingly bizarre situation.
"Run it by me again," Mira said, her practical nature asserting itself as she paced the small room. "You thought this traveler might be Reed, confronted him, and he jumped from a second-story window without hesitation?"
Jenks nodded, still visibly shaken by the encounter. "Something about him just... triggered memories. The way he moved, how he always seemed to know where everyone was in the room." He looked up at the others. "But there was something wrong too. He looked younger—much younger than when we last saw Reed."
"Younger?" Corliss rumbled, his massive frame making the room's chair creak as he shifted position. "How is that possible?"
"None of this is possible," Varn interjected, his voice tight with controlled tension. "Reed died at Howling Crag. We all know that."
"Do we?" Mira challenged. "No body was ever recovered."
The room fell silent as this fact—known but rarely discussed—settled over them. The official report had listed Tomas Reed as missing in action, not killed, but they had all assumed death was the only explanation. He had drawn monsters away from their position, disappearing into the depths of Howling Crag. Search parties dispatched after the Heroes sealed the breach had found no trace of him—only his silver dagger, which the Heroes had recovered and returned to the unit. Eventually, practical necessity had required them to move on, accepting his loss as final despite the lack of a body.
"I've heard stories," Corliss said finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "About the dungeons, about what corruption energies can do. Some say they can... remake things. Or people."
Varn's jaw tightened. "You're suggesting it wasn't Reed, but something wearing his form? Some kind of... what, revenant?"
"Not exactly," Corliss replied with the careful consideration that often surprised people who mistook his size for simplicity. "More like... reconstruction. Using the original as a template, but creating something new. Something that might have fragments of memory, physical similarities, but..." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "It would explain why Jenks thought he recognized him, but also why he appeared younger."
"That's... disturbing," Mira said quietly. "The idea that dungeon energies could recreate a dead man, make him younger, stronger..."
"Stronger is right," Jenks added. "No normal human jumps through a window and walks away from that fall. Whatever I saw, it wasn't just a man."
Varn moved to the room's single window, staring out at the search parties still visible in the streets below. "If this is true—if something with Reed's appearance but enhanced capabilities is moving freely through the kingdom—we need to report it. This goes beyond our standard mission parameters."
"Report to who?" Mira asked pointedly. "The Heroes are focused on the southern front. Regular command structure is stretched thin across multiple engagements. And what exactly would we report? That Jenks thinks he maybe saw our dead comrade looking younger and jumping out of windows?"
"It's more than that," Jenks insisted. "He arranged for a message to be delivered to Oakhollow. Something about 'scholar's business' involving historical locations. That textile merchant is carrying whatever he wanted to communicate."
This new information focused the group's attention sharply. "A message?" Varn turned from the window. "To whom?"
"He didn't specify," Jenks replied. "Just said it needed to reach specific scholars without drawing attention."
"Scholars interested in historical locations," Mira repeated thoughtfully. "The Heroes are often seen consulting ancient texts and maps. Could the message be intended for them?"
"Why would a reconstructed Reed need to contact the Heroes?" Corliss wondered aloud. "And why the secrecy?"
No one had an immediate answer, the question hanging in the air like the dust motes visible in the slanting afternoon light through the window.
"We need more information before filing any formal report," Varn decided finally. "Jenks, you and I will ride to Oakhollow, intercept this message or at least discover its intended recipient. Mira, Corliss—continue our original mission here, but keep alert for any further signs of... whatever this is."
"And if we find him?" Corliss asked, the question all of them had been avoiding. "If it really is some version of Reed, what then?"
Varn's expression hardened into the professional mask that had seen them through countless difficult missions. "We assess the threat level and respond accordingly. Just like any other potential hostile."
"But it could be Reed," Jenks protested. "Or something with his memories, at least. We can't just—"
"Reed died at Howling Crag," Varn cut him off firmly. "Whatever this is, it's not our comrade. Keep that clear in your minds. Anything else leads to hesitation, and hesitation gets people killed."
The room fell silent again, each processing the implications of hunting something that wore the face of a man they had served beside for years. A man who had saved each of their lives at various points during their service together.
"Prepare to ride at first light," Varn ordered, his tone allowing no further discussion. "Whatever's happening, we find answers at Oakhollow."
As the group dispersed to their separate duties, Jenks lingered behind, catching Mira's eye with a questioning glance she had no difficulty interpreting.
"You still have it?" he asked quietly once the others had left.
Wordlessly, Mira reached beneath her tunic, pulling out a small object suspended on a leather cord around her neck—a silver dagger with worn leather wrappings on the hilt. Reed's backup blade that she had carried since the Heroes returned it to her after Howling Crag.
"He would want us to be careful," she said, her voice steady despite the emotion visible in her eyes. "Whatever that thing is, it's not Reed. Varn's right about that."
Jenks nodded slowly, though doubt still clouded his expression. "I know. It's just... he looked at me, Mira. And for a second, I could have sworn..."
"Don't," she cut him off, tucking the dagger back beneath her tunic. "That's how these things work—they use familiarity against you. Stay sharp, stay focused." She squeezed his shoulder once, then turned to leave. "First light. Be ready."
Alone in the room, Jenks stared at the window, seeing not the Emberhold streets beyond but the impossible image of a dead man diving through shattered glass and walking away unharmed. Whatever awaited them at Oakhollow, he suspected their understanding of reality would never quite be the same again.
"We have very little time," Skaravosk observed as Tom descended the narrow back stairs. "Even with your former companion's assistance, pursuit will begin shortly."
"Just need enough of a head start to clear the settlement," Tom replied, reaching the bottom of the stairs and finding himself in a small storage area. "After that, we can use terrain to our advantage."
He slipped through the service entrance into a narrow alley behind The Crooked Nail, immediately turning away from the main street and toward the settlement's southern edge. Emberhold's irregular layout worked in his favor now—winding paths between buildings offering multiple routes that would be difficult for pursuers to predict or monitor effectively.
Tom moved quickly but without running, which would only draw attention. His hood remained up, his posture deliberately different from military bearing—the slouch of a tradesman rather than a soldier's upright carriage.
"We accomplished what we came for," he reminded himself as he navigated the increasingly steep paths leading to Emberhold's southern exit. "Message delivered, payment made. The textile merchant will complete her part regardless of our complications."
"A partial success," Skaravosk agreed. "Though with significantly increased risk of broader exposure. Your former companion now has confirmed visual evidence of your survival and unusual capabilities."
"Can't be helped," Tom replied, ducking through a narrow gap between buildings as shouting erupted somewhere behind him—Varn organizing search parties based on Jenks's report. "If I'd tried to talk my way out, it would have just made things worse."
They reached Emberhold's southern edge just as additional warning bells began to sound—the universal signal for settlement-wide alert. Tom didn't look back, focusing instead on the steep path leading down toward the forested valley below. Once among the trees, their chances of evading pursuit would increase dramatically.
"One unexpected benefit of this dramatic exit," Skaravosk noted as they began their rapid descent, "is that it clearly indicates something unusual without revealing our specific nature. Your former companions now have undeniable evidence that you survived, but no information about how or why."
"Small comfort," Tom countered, navigating the treacherous path with enhanced agility. "Now instead of thinking I died heroically, they'll be wondering what kind of monster their old comrade became."
Behind them, Emberhold's warning bells continued their alert, but the sound grew fainter as distance and terrain provided increasing separation. By the time they reached the tree line, Tom could see search parties fanning out from the settlement's gates—but most headed north and east, the more obvious escape routes that connected to established roads.
"Where to now?" Skaravosk asked as they moved deeper into the forest, leaving obvious paths for more challenging terrain that would discourage casual followers.
"West," Tom decided. "Circle around Emberhold's controlled territory, then head north toward the position where we last sensed the Heroes during our far-seeing. Not to make contact, but to be closer when they receive our message."
"A reasonable approach," Skaravosk approved. "Though with additional complications now that your existence has been confirmed by at least one credible witness."
Tom nodded grimly as they continued their withdrawal, the forest's dense canopy providing welcome concealment from potential aerial observation. The encounter with Jenks had changed their strategic situation in ways he was only beginning to calculate—introducing new variables that could either assist or undermine their larger objectives.
"One problem at a time," he reminded himself, focusing on immediate security rather than distant implications. "First, clean extraction. Then, reassessment."
As Emberhold vanished behind them, Tom allowed himself a brief moment of reflection on the encounter. Seeing his former companions—alive, continuing the fight—had affected him more deeply than anticipated. For all his focus on the present and future, the past retained its hold in ways that couldn't be simply dismissed or ignored.
Sooner or later, he would need to confront that past directly. But for now, with their message safely entrusted to the textile merchant and their immediate objective accomplished, survival once again took precedence over sentiment.
The unremarkable soldier and the ancient dragon king continued their journey westward, leaving behind both physical pursuers and the complications of a life once thought ended in a dungeon far to the north.