Darrian’s POV
The stranger came wrapped in fog.
He stood at the northern border where the trees grew gnarled and the stones wept with moss. The first scout who saw him had said nothing—just ran straight to the fortress, pale and wide-eyed. When Ronan and I arrived, we found the man already waiting.
Tall. Still. His cloak hung black and stiff with dried blood, and a single blade was strapped to his back—not silver, not steel, but something older, carved with runes I didn’t recognize.
He didn’t flinch as we approached. He simply nodded once, slow and respectful, as if he'd expected us.
“I’m not here to fight,” he said. His voice was deep, smooth, and tired. Not weak—tired like someone who hadn’t slept in years. “Only to ask for sanctuary.”
“And why should I grant that?” I asked.
His e
