Arn was awed by the sheer scale of the structure before him - nearly four hundred feet across and taller than any building he'd seen, taller even than the Scholar's Shack Inn and its pointy pole. Dark grey stone marked the ancient remains of the original fort, while cracks and jagged edges betrayed its age.

A lone turret survived on the eastern side. It rose above the other structures and watched over the valley, just as it did for a thousand years. Arn imagined all the people that must have gazed up at the turret in centuries past and wondered what thoughts crossed their minds. He realized that some of them would likely have sought refuge from battles and wars. Arn looked back towards Nysaros - there aren't wars anymore in Nedreal, he thought.

From the old ruins rose new structures. They clung to the massive grey stones with wood and metal. The smaller building sprouted like mushrooms upon an old stump; their pointy roofs peaked above the walls.

Arn saw at least three gates. The Hillside Way that they followed led to the southernmost gate. New construction patched holes in the original walls of the fort, some made of wood while others of smaller and more uniform bricks.

The sun had touched the horizon some time ago, and the dim evening sky glittered with stars. A myriad of narrow windows shown with a warm yellow light all across the fort. He heard sounds reminiscent of a city, or a large inn, rather, for that is what the Old Fort reminded him of. It's literally called 'The Old Fort Inn,' he reminded himself.

They weren't the only arrivals. Arn saw a handful of travellers pass into the fort through the gates to which other roads led.

"How is it up close?" his father asked as they passed through the southern gate.

"The Looking Hill doesn't do it justice," Arn replied.

"Indeed it does not."

The road they followed led to the center of the inner court and to a five-way intersection with an ornamented signpost at its heart. Arn realized that the fort was, in truth, a collection of individual inns and taverns. The inner court spanned nearly two hundred feet and housed a stable and a small coach house. There was also what Arn took to be a market, for he'd only heard descriptions of such a place before then.

"We're not here for that," his father remarked impatiently, following Arn's gaze, and nudged him away.

Arn glanced at the market one last time. It still bustled with activity and people that moved from one stall to the next, inspecting items he couldn't quite make out from that far away. Maybe later, he thought.

The two approached one of the better-looking inns, with clean walls and a solid ornamented door. 'The Dancing Dragon' he read above it. The shape of a twisting serpent with six legs was wrought in metal all around the sign.

They were let in after a man inspected his father's token. There were no pelts to be seen, and the structure looked little like anything in Nysaros. They were let into a small hallway with wooden walls and a staircase on one side, while the other side opened into a large hall.

"Come on," his father said and lead Arn to the hall. They entered the tavern portion of the inn, though it was much fancier than any he'd seen before. It made him think of a tavern made for a town council if such things existed.

His father talked to a long-nosed fellow at the counter, who kept glancing at Arn throughout. The man looked like a twin of the secretary at Kalarhan and the one in the Nysaros Small Council hall. Were they related? Atrel turned and motioned Arn forward.

"This is my son, Arn. He is to be let into the Dancing Dragon. Make a note of that."

"Certainly, sir," the man said. "Your token, sir," he added, looking at Arn.

"Here," Arn said and gave the man his scholar's token, a new one he'd received when declaring his plans to the Nysaros council. The man placed it in a device that resembled the one Arn saw in Kalarhan at the office of the old councilwoman.

"All set, he'll be let through. Anything else, sir?"

"Just a key for our room."

"Yes, of course, sir," he said and gave Arn's father two keys.

They climbed two flights of stairs, then proceeded through a wide hallway to one of the farther doors. Atrel unlocked it, and they went in. The room was much larger than what Arn had in Kalarhan, he didn't know what token his father carried, but it must have been one of a high rank.

A large bed stood on either side of the room, there was a door leading to a private bathroom, and a desk stood in the center. One of the slit windows looked out into the wilderness. Arn wished it would have been the court. It was by far the most exciting place he'd seen.

"Arn, you need to remember that this isn't Nysaros," his father told him as they unpacked.

"I know it isn't Nysaros."

"You haven't seen the world yet -"

"Oh, haven't I?" Arn raised his voice.

"Kalarhan," Atrel deflated as the word passed his lips, "that's not what I meant. You've been through a lot."

"How is it not what you meant?"

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"I know what you've been through, but there is much outside -"

"You know what I've been through?" Arn stopped unpacking and looked at his father. "How do you know that?" he saw the pained expression on Atrel's face.

"The outside - outside of Oshaaland, it's not something you've known."

"Is it worse than getting imprisoned in a dark cell for days on end?" Arn said. His stomach lurched when he realized that this was the first time he spoke of what he went through. Pain and sorrow rose in him, clutching at his anger-filled belly, threatening to overwhelm the fire which drove him. He knows nothing, Arn tried to convince himself.

"Just be careful," his father finally said and looked away.

Arn stood for a long moment and watched his father's bent shape and stooped shoulders as he unpacked their supplies. It irked Arn that his father let the conversation go - why'd he have to just stop there? He fumed. He needs to hear me. Arn clenched his fists and readied himself to go on. What would he say? Arn didn't want to risk talking about Rana or De'al.

The silence stretched out and sapped his fire. Arn focused on the sounds of items going into drawers, the leather of the backpack that creaked as it emptied. He felt emptied too, and instead of anger, there was only sadness. Arn hated that feeling. Once he reached the Capital, he was going to take up Ossagar on his offer. The Inspectorate has power. They don't fear that which lies beyond Oshaaland. He wouldn't be like his father.

They went down to the tavern in silence. Arn looked away as they sat at one of the booths, waiting for their meals. I should have gone alone, he thought; I'd have made it to the Capital. I survived Kalarhan - this is just a trek across the fields. How hard would it have been?

"Atrel dar Stonefather?" a serving girl asked.

"Yes?" his father replied.

"You are needed at the council chamber. It shouldn't take long, but please hurry," she said.

"The council chamber? I just arrived, and we're only passing through," he replied and frowned.

"I am sorry for the inconvenience, but I only deliver the message. They did say it is urgent," she said and glanced away, then back at Arn's father. "Please, sir, I will get into trou -"

"Fine," he said and got up. Then looked Arn in the eyes, with that same pained expression. "Be careful," he said, then left.

Arn watched his father walk up to the barkeep, who seemed apologetic, though the noise prevented him from hearing any of their talk. Unable to avoid the summons, Atrel had finally left the tavern - though not before a last glance at Arn.

Arn took a deep breath and sank into his seat. He looked up at the ceiling. It was high. Thick wooden beams crossed it at even intervals. The light of the candles flickered upon the wood and mesmerized him. Just then, a man slid into the booth and sat across from him. Arn panicked and sat upright, looked at the man, then all around. No one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.

The stranger was young, only a few years older than Arn. He wore a dark jerkin with a thick shirt underneath. He hadn't shaved in some time, but his hair was neatly trimmed. What struck Arn the most was the glassy stare, as though a pale curtain hung before the man's eyes.

"You are Arn, are you not?" the man said. He looked at Arn for a moment, then away.

"Why?"

The man snorted and returned his gaze to Arn. "I am Thoard, Warden of the Inspectorate," his voice was raspy, as though he recently screamed or perhaps was a smoker.

"Like the Black Warden?" Arn said in a low voice. He'd never heard of wardens before, aside from the Black Warden - who he didn't think was with the Inspectorate.

Thoard chuckled and glanced about them. "That isn't something you should say out loud, or you'll draw attention you're not looking for," he said.

Arn's heart beat faster, and a chill went up his spine. We're they already on his trail about the archives?

"I am here on behalf of a mutual acquaintance of ours," the man said.

"Who?" Arn asked.

"He has great hopes for you, and so he will help you on your path," Thorad replied.

"Who are you talking about?" Arn insisted.

The man sighed and placed a token on the table. Caravaneer's union, this one with just one star. Ossagar, Arn thought. How'd he find me? And why?

"Take it," Thorad said. "You'll need the token when you get to the Capital."

"Why would I go there?"

"Take the token, Arn," Thorad insisted. Arn locked eyes with the man, but the glassy stare shook his resolve. It was blank, devoid of - he wasn't sure of what, but emptiness was clearly there. It scared Arn, and he took the token. "Good," the man smiled.

"What does he know of my path?"

"He is a captain in the Inspectorate. He knows much."

A captain? Why would the Inspectorate send a captain to escort me to my first mission - why didn't they send this man, he wondered.

"Trouble follows you," Thoard said suddenly.

"What are you talking about? What trouble?"

"Your town caught the attention of one of whom we spoke earlier," he said. "Just as you returned, too. Isn't that interesting?" he added after a pause.

The Black Warden, Arn realized. He suddenly wished that his father returned soon. The shame of the thought was overwhelmed by the discomfort he felt.

"I don't know anything about it, why would -"

"Calm yourself," Thoard interrupted him, "the world is wide, and many wills compete upon it - yours isn't the only one, nor is it of great significance."

What is that supposed to mean, Arn thought to himself.

"Not yet, at least," the man smiled again. "Accept the help once you reach the Capital. It isn't easy to secure the particular path you're on. But, he will help, for he has great hopes for you."

"Why? Why does he have great hopes for me?"

"That you'll need to ask him yourself. I am here to deliver his voice." Thoard leaned in and whispered some words Arn didn't recognize, though as he heard them, a sense of meaning echoed in his mind. It was faint and vague, and even while he didn't understand nor recognized the words, he remembered them.

"What was that?" he whispered.

"A passcode," Thoard said.

"A passcode?"

"To meet Ossagar at the Capital. Say it back to me."

Arn repeated the words. Speaking them was a peculiar experience, for he knew not what he said even as the words sounded familiar and their meaning echoed faintly in his mind, just beyond reach. The man smiled and nodded.

"Good. With the passcode and the token, he will find you when the time comes."

"What do you mean he'll find me?"

"Use the token at the capital and wait," the man said.

Arn frowned. "Why didn't he just come here?"

Thoard laughed softly, and a spark of clarity shone in his eyes. It was gone in a blink, replaced by his glassy stare. "Your father will return shortly. If you wish, you may tell him of this, but you cannot share the passcode or the token. Those are a secret for you alone."

"He'll return soon, will he? Is it because no one actually called for him?" Arn said and frowned.

Thoard shrugged. "I wouldn't know. The council of this place doesn't update me on their business. I would imagine that he doesn't have much interest to keep you here alone, to prevent people like me talking to you."

"Why would he be concerned that an inspectorate warden spoke to me?"

"An Inspectorate warden," the man repeated and scoffed. "You haven't been outside of Nysaros much?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I wouldn't be too open about chatting with a warden," Thoard said, "either one, really," he added and chuckled.

"Either what - oh."

"You may have seen constables, but you haven't seen wardens."

Arn caught on. How would he explain this to his father then? He was sure that he wouldn't be able to keep Rana or the Tjoreal secret in such a talk.

"We have an understanding," Thoard said and smiled knowingly.

"I understand - that I shouldn't speak of this at all."

"That is your choice entirely. We only ask you to keep silent about the passcode and the token."

"Oh, is that what you ask?" Arm mocked him.

The man smiled, and that flash in his eyes returned briefly. "Tell me the passcode once more, to be sure you hadn't forgotten."

Arn narrowed his eyes but whispered the words nevertheless. They came as they did the first time, with naught but an echo of meaning. The man smiled.

"Don't forget the token," he said.

When Thoard left, Arn repeated the words a few more times, trying to figure out where they are from. They were familiar, and he had a vague idea of meaning, but he had no clue how he knew them. Unfortunately, his father took longer than Arn expected and only returned quite late.

It turned out that there was a matter for him to manage and that Thoard had nothing to do with it - probably. They finished eating and retired to their room. However, the tension between them remained. Arn felt exhausted. The day's journey took much out of him, and as soon as he laid his head on the pillow, he was out cold.

Arn felt a breeze. It washed him over, though it wasn't cold, nor was it warm. He opened his eyes to the familiar grey forest. The sky above was dark and filled with stars. It snowed as it always did. The trees extended in all directions. This time it was quiet. He felt an urge to walk, and so he did. Looking back, he left no footsteps. He swerved away from a branch, but it no longer hung before him.

Arn heard the croak of a raven once again. He heard distant wing flaps but saw no signs of the birds. He kept on walking for a time. Ambient light emanated from all around him, and no shadows fell. The light dimmed, just enough to notice.

He looked for the sun but found none. Then, far in the distance, he heard the footsteps on the snow, as before, he felt them more than heard.

He froze. A distant fear grew within him; it scratched at his consciousness. He looked about, but the trees obscured his vision, and the light grew dimmer in the far distance. Then, a loud croaking caught his attention, and Arn turned his head just as a large black raven flapped its massive wings merely two feet from him.