***Nyra***

Nyra rubbed her temples. A rare morning headache blossomed at the back of her head. She glanced at Doren, the man sitting at the table across from her. Shallow crow's feet extended from his eyes, and the hint of jowls interrupted his once chiselled jawline.

Each of his features stood out in the sharp, dim light of the candles. She glanced down at the table, rhythmically tapped her fingers on the ancient wood. Steam rose from her cup.

Doren wasn't looking at her. He sipped his tea upsent-mindedly. "Border town historian, eh?" he finally said. Nyra didn't respond. She mixed her tea with a wooden spoon. "That sounds promising," Doren scoffed.

"Don't start with me," she said, still not looking at him. He's the source of my headache, she thought.

A wry smile crossed his face, "I'm just saying," Doren added.

"What? What are you just saying?" she dropped the spoon and sipped on her tea. It was still too hot, and Nyra burned her throat when she swallowed. She didn't break eye contact with Doren.

"You hear things, you know? Here and there," he said in an even droning tone. He glanced at her cup, no doubt seeing the steam rise from it.

She shook her head at the man. Always with the horse manure, she thought.

Arn's father walked into the room; he gave the two of them a questioning glance then sat down beside Nyra. Atrel picked up the teapot and poured himself a cup of tea. He glanced up at the two a couple of times.

"Well, don't stop on my account," he finally said.

"Ask your husband then," Doren told Nyra, nodding at Atrel.

"Ask me what?"

"I have nothing to ask. You started this whole thing," Nyra replied to Doren.

Doren shook his head and sighed. "Did you finally hear where they're sending him?" he spoke to Atrel.

Arn's father frowned and examined the cup in his hands.

"Doren," Nyra said, "don't bring this up when Arn comes down." Doren raised his hands in surrender. "I'm not kidding! You promise me right now!" Nyra raised her voice and pointed her spoon at the man.

"Oh, Elar'Saga save us," Doren groaned, "I promise, I promise."

"They're tight-lipped about the summons these days," Atrel said.

"What aren't they tight-lipped about?" Doren scoffed.

Atrel and Nyra exchanged glances, and then both looked at Doren. "What?" he said and glared back at each of them.

Atrel flashed his brows and set down the cup of tea, still full and steaming. "It will be fine. I have to go," he told Nyra.

"So early?" she asked.

"Yes," Atrel replied and stood up. "I will meet the two of you at the coach house," he said, leaned down to kiss her, then left the room.

Nyra stared at Doren, who raised his eyebrows and smiled. She didn't respond. Doren sighed, shook his head, and returned to his tea. They heard steps from the stairs.

"Not a word," Nyra said.

***Arn***

Arn and his mother left the Stonefather clan house and entered the small streets of the residential quarter of Nysaros. Each of the clan houses had a small yard and a stone wall surrounding it. The spaces between them created maze-like passages that led to the main city roads, which in turn led to the city's center. The walls were meticulously maintained and often bore historical reliefs and paintings. Arn watched a grey-haired man tie up vines to keep them from obscuring the depiction of a large snow leopard. The man must have performed this task for years, and his father would have done it before him.

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"Hurry up, Arn," his mother said, "I want to meet your father ahead of time."

"Why?" Arn asked, eyes still on the man who now moved to another section of wall.

"Why? Because I need to, that's why. Come on."

Arn groaned and adjusted his backpack. "Alright," he said and hurried after his mother.

"Aren't you even a little excited?" she asked after glancing at his expression.

"I don't know," Arn mused, "I feel..." he trailed off, "I feel strange." After a concerned look from his mother, he added, "pent up excitement, probably."

His answer didn't seem to appease her. Nyra shook her head but let the matter drop.

The two of them passed several inner squares with statues and fountains before they reached the Curved Road, which encircled the entire center of Nysaros. The road served as a border between the residential quarters and the municipal buildings. Where the clan houses huddled close and created small, narrow streets, the city's center was spacious and spread out. Each building commanded a generous portion of land, with gardens and plazas abound.

Arn grunted. He spotted a short, plump woman across the road. She had already seen them and was waving enthusiastically at his mother. Senal Frosthill was nosy and judgmental, and he could have done without seeing her today of all days.

A quick glance at his mother let him know that despite her own misgivings, she would observe decorum.

"Blessings upon you, Nyra," Senal said in her nasal voice as they approached.

"May his guidance find you," Arn's mother replied and bowed lightly.

Arn marvelled at the calm air his mother radiated mere minutes after their tense exchange.

"How are things at the Stonefather clan house?" Senal asked.

"Not too cold, nor windy, Elar'Saga be praised," Nyra responded with the customary greeting.

"That is well, praised be he," Senal answered in kind and smiled. "Where are the two of you headed so early in the day, hmm?" she asked, her eyes darting from Arn to his mother.

"To the coach house -" his mother started.

A glint of curiosity flashed across Senal's face, but a moment later, her expression turned to sympathy, "another summons, is it? Mine are all past that now, thank Elar'Saga," she said.

"The law is the law," Nyra replied pleasantly, but her jaw tightened.

Senal nodded, "have you heard about Kenon - not your nephew, but Kenon Grandrock? Sent westward, they say. What times we live in." She shook her head, then glanced at Arn.

"I haven't heard, no," Nyra said.

"Really? Hmm," Senal nodded to herself, "I'll have to ask his mother to speak to you."

"Please don't," Arn's mother protested.

"Anyway, it caused quite a commotion when his family learned of it - the west bit, that is. Dangerous land, no place for -" she pursed her lips and lightly shook her head. "I'm sure it will be just fine - the Inspectorate knows best, as they say."

"Mom, we need to go," Arn said and put a hand on her back.

Nyra's smile never reached her eyes, "may he guide your path," she said to Senal and hurried away without waiting for a response.

"She was trying to rile you up; you know that, right?" Arn said after a few minutes of silence.

"What if she's right?"

"I don't know. What if she isn't?" Arn shot back.

"I don't know."

Arn wondered why the western border towns were such a terrifying prospect. The Inspectorate wouldn't let any part of the country fall into lawlessness, so why was everyone so afraid? Were he to go to the west, he'd tell them all how safe it was upon returning.

The scent of horses permeated the air, and he knew that they were getting close. A two-story structure appeared in the distance. Carriages came and went, some stopping idly by the roadside. Arn's father stood across the road from the coach house, a concerned expression on his face. When he saw the two of them, Atrel hurried over. He smiled, though it never reached the man's eyes.

"They're sending him to Kalarhan," he said.

"Kalarhan!" Arn's mother whispered, her eyes widening.

"Nothing I tried made a difference," his father said.

"What is Kalarhan?" Arn asked.

"It's a border town southwest of here," his father replied.

"He can't go there, Atrel. He just can't!" Arn's mother pleaded.

"You know that's not how it works." Atrel took a deep breath. "I looked into it, and he's not the first - a few were already sent westward, and some are now returning. They're all fine. It should all be fine."

"How is it fine for them to send a boy -" she said, her voice trembling.

"Hey!" Arn protested.

"Just be careful," his father told him. "Don't use your Tjoreal if you can help it, perhaps keep it out of sight."

"Why? We all have it. What can possibly be wrong about using it?"

Before his father could answer, a tall man in a brown parka approached them. He had long, thick moustaches that reached all the way down to his stubble-covered chin. The man twitched his dark brows upon seeing them and cleared his throat loudly.

"Stonefather?" he said in a deep, gruff voice.

"Yes," Arn's mother replied.

"I am here for Arnyrath - him, I assume?" he nodded at Arn.

"It's just Arn," Arn said.

"So be it," the man replied with a barely perceptible nod, "you may call me Ossagar."

Arn was taken aback by the man's intensity, but his mother didn't share the sentiment.

"Isn't there something we can do?" she pleaded.

"Do?" he repeated, drawing out the word.

"Nyra," Arn's father started, but Arn's mother shushed him and carried on.

"Yes, about where he's headed, about Kala-" she began.

"Apologies," Ossagar growled, his tone in no way matching the sentiment. He cleared his throat and took a step towards the three of them, then continued in a lower voice, "I shouldn't have to ask you to be quiet."

Arn and his parents looked at each other, but before they had a chance to respond, Ossagar turned to Atrel.

"I was under the impression that law-abiding councilmen run this town," he said. Arn's father nodded; the hand he put on Nyra's shoulders tightened.

Ossagar took a deep breath and straightened out. He was about the height of Arn's father but seemed to tower over the lot of them.

He raised his eyebrows and attempted a smile, "there is no cause for concern," he said, "Oshaaland is the safest province of our country, east, west, north, or south - it matters little."

"But the west -" Arn's mother interjected.

"Nyra!" Atrel barked.

Ossagar's face darkened once more. Arn had the impression that maintaining a neutral disposition took a lot of the man.

"Do you question the Inspectorate's word?" He asked Nyra, then looked at Atrel, "or perhaps our ability to govern our own borders?"

"We question no such thing," his father said through gritted teeth.

Ossagar compressed his lips and nodded, "very well," he said. Then to Arn, "it is high time we were on our way."

"Remember what I told you," Atrel said to Arn, who furrowed his brows but nodded assent.

Nyra sighed and looked at Arn, "be safe, ok? Assume that everything is suspicious and dangerous," she said. The tall man shook his head.

They hugged, and his parents watched him enter one of the carriages. It looked like what he'd imagined the absolute average carriage in the province of Oshaaland must look. Dark brown with a small window and black curtains. The wheels were worn but sturdy, and the leather must have seen more than its share of journeys. It creaked as he climbed in, but the insides were rather unexpectedly accommodating: a soft bench on one side and clean, thick fabric that covered each wall and the ceiling.

Arn sat down and took off his backpack. He pulled the curtain aside and waved at his parents as the coach started to move.