She had hoped to arrive in Bosfyrd by the morning, but that hadn’t happened. Summer was here, and the nights were nowhere near the length that Kiera preferred. The Pilgrim’s Road, too, had been busier than she had expected - and with every rumor for a dozen miles being bloodier than the last, she’d decided to resort to paths other than the ancient stone road. Broken ground, twisting roots and soaked ground were, of course, no obstacle to one of Brand’s wards, but the plain fact remained that, on foot, roads would always be faster. She glanced at the sky behind her, brightening from purple-black towards the blue and pink of morning, and sighed. At least the sun would be behind her - somehow the day’s heat always seemed more bearable that way.

An hour later and the sun was fully in the sky, already promising a hot day. Kiera came closer to the town and saw fields opening up, the green heads of early-season wheat thrashing in a quickening breeze. At least on this side of Bosfyrd, her options would be to return to the road, or try to sneak through grain no higher than her knees, and that was no choice at all. Gliding over the last of the deep woods, Kiera came back to the ancient path, stones rutted from the iron-bound wheels of innumerable carts, and blinked against morning light unfiltered by the forest canopy. She pulled in a long, slow breath, smelled horses and dust and the smoke from ovens. She turned her head, pulled her cloak hood down further, and started following the road toward Bosfyrd.

The light, of course, didn’t hurt her eyes. In fact, it couldn’t - but the hood could keep people from looking too closely, and right now Kiera wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Brand of the Nightwood was dead, and, if rumor were to be believed, killed by agents of an increasingly irrational King. There were places near the Nightwood  that had relied on Brand - and, after a fashion, his wards - and part of her knew that without the old man, those places would be left vulnerable. She hadn’t left on good terms with the old ranger, and indeed hadn’t seen him for ten long winters, but Kiera knew that without him, those places would be vulnerable to the mad monarch. They had fought, yes, and Kiera had said things about which she would always feel shame, but the old ranger’s lessons were still strong in her mind. The people who had relied on Brand didn’t deserve to be left to a mad King’s whim. Someone had to help them - Kiera only hoped she wouldn’t be the only one of her…family that thought so.

The road passed into Bosfyrd on a straight and dusty track, good to keep carts moving and equally useful to see anyone approaching the town for some distance. Already a small line of carts and laden animals were passing slowly down that road while men that could only be guards stood watch. Even at a casual glance, Kiera knew these were none of the Baron’s guard, or anyone deputized by one of Brand’s adoptive children. They stood tall and arrogant, and the world twisted and spun between them, an ugly cloud of barely-restrained violence. In her strange perception, Kiera almost believed she could see flickering moments of these men murdering townsfolk, looting the traders, or worse - simply because they could. A young woman passed by with a donkey-cart of eggs, and the impressions Kiera saw there were things she found all too easy to believe.

There were ways to get around the guards, of course - deep shadow still stretched across the road from the early morning, but Kiera’s walk had been long and she was more than a little tired. She needed to get into the town, but perhaps through a less thrilling path than dancing over low stone walls and launching herself from trees. Ahead, she made out a man - a young man, younger than she would have expected - in a long brown cloak leading a heavily-loaded horse to the gates. Kiera quickened her steps, coming alongside the laden animal and cast her eyes over the goods and packages - if she were to guess, this looked like a pack animal for the local tavern, loaded with bottles, fruit, dishes. And…Kiera smirked, an idea flickering through her mind.

Her hands moved with lightning quickness, one of her daggers parting the string holding something in place without not even a whisper. She turned a little and reached into the bags and bundles without a sound, pulling a pair of items off the cart. The fabric of her cloak hid much of her movement and she was glad she hadn’t taken it off, even in the growing warmth of the day. Her task complete, Kiera stayed near the horse for another few moments, stepping away only when another animal coming the opposite direction swayed close and offered her no option but to move or be squashed between a pair of saddlebags. Stepping into the long shadow of an oak tree, she looked down at her hands - an apple, and the long, slightly curved handle of a small cider press. She grinned, then rammed the apple onto the smaller end of the cider press’ handle. A handkerchief wrapped around the apple and tied in a ragged knot, and from any reasonable distance, she had a walking stick. 

Kiera stooped down, rounding her back and bending her knees, leaning theatrically on the stick. Almost perfect, but good enough for now. She shuffled out of the shadow toward the town gate and the guards, her hood pulled so low that seeing her face would be a considerable task. The pack animal she’d pilfered wandered past the guards, who cast a suspicious eye over them but let the animal and the young man leading it pass. Kiera hoped it was going where she thought - she’d have to return these props. A cider press without a handle would only be very expensive decoration, after all. Behind another animal, she saw the perfect completion to her “costume” - a reed and wicker basket with a hole stomped through it by an ox, left behind another cart filled with fruit and root vegetables. Kiera scooped it up, crooked it under her arm, and slumped toward the town entrance.

She turned her head inside her cloak as she made her slow, apparently painful way into town, and she marveled at the utter indifference of the guards. Obviously, an old woman scraping through a dusty road with a broken basket would have nothing to threaten the King, no valuables, and nothing for their more…prurient interests. They didn’t give Kiera a second look. She grinned to herself, and coughed theatrically in their direction, a deep-chested, phlegmy cough, the kind that promises plagues. The nearest guard looked over, and a sense of disgust rolled over him so strong that Kiera needed no mystic sight to feel it. She grinned and managed to turn her chuckle into a spit to the side of the road, shuffling around a corner and out of the guards’ view.

She straightened, then blew out a long breath of relief in the shade of a squat building. Then she tossed the basket aside, and pulled apart her makeshift props, settling the press handle over one shoulder like a bindle stick and tossing the apple into the air then catching it with her other hand. She walked into the sunlight and took a bite of the apple, still with her hood up but walking with a purpose. She turned her head, taking in the town of Bosfyrd and memories came flooding in from years long gone and far from lost. She remembered this town’s tavern - the Scuffed Boots, a name that Kiera had always thought was silly but with an owner who was anything but. Slowly unrolling recollection took her down first one side street then another to the familiar sign, now cracked and sun-faded, one hinge crusted with dark orange rust. Kiera pushed open the door, and part of her was disappointed that the familiar two-tone creak she had such strong memories of seemed no longer to be present - new hinges, perhaps.

Familiar smells and familiar sounds filled the air - some even more familiar than she expected. Kiera turned, one pale eyebrow arched, and lowered her hood. Laughing voices from across the years, sounds she never thought she’d hear again. Four people near the back of the room, and each one a brilliant splinter in her perceptions, a swirl of memory and will and familiarity. Slowly, with careful grace, Kiera made her way to those people, her throat going dry. Would they remember how she left? Had Brand told them why? Would they hate her? The years were long, but she knew, some feelings would burn like the stars.

Kiera stepped up to the four, taking the cider press handle off her shoulder and setting one end on the floor, holding it like a gentleman's walking stick. Her hair caught the light, her skin almost seemed to drink it in. She looked at Loden, so much more than the boy she’d left behind with Brand, and at Ashira, grown up in more ways than one. The pair of them were so familiar, but at the same time such a gulf of time separated them. Kiera swallowed, opened her mouth to speak, but something else caught her attention. The man whose horse she'd borrowed the handle from sat not far away - and with a sharp pang, she recognized him as Beren, another of Brand's wards. She cleared her throat and turned back to Loden.

"Loden Grimm," Kiera said, her accent still precise and unplaceable in equal amounts, "It's been a...long time." Her eyes flickered to the others in the room, a faint, sad smile touching her lips.

"So many of us here, hm?" She said and gestured to Beren with the tip of the press handle, "And the guards on the road aren't any he would have let within ten strides of that kind of authority. The stories must be true, then."


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