Chapter 49: The Hunt and the Aurora Heart

The dense northern forest was painted in shades of twilight, a soft mixture of blues and grays creeping between the towering pines. Snow crunched faintly beneath Dorian’s boots as he walked beside Ralnor, the massive knight’s silent presence both comforting and slightly intimidating.

Dorian found it surprisingly difficult to break the silence. He’d never struggled with conversation before—after all, words were his craft, woven effortlessly into stories and songs. But with Ralnor, the usual charm seemed to falter. Maybe it was the knight’s imposing figure, his quiet stoicism, or perhaps just the way his helmet seemed to swallow sound.

But then, defying Dorian’s expectations, it was Ralnor who spoke first.

“Tache is a good man,” he said quietly, his voice low but steady, like distant thunder. “He’s not perfect. But he has his reasons.”

Dorian blinked, momentarily caught off guard. The awkward memory of their earlier conversation about the Twelve Church flickered in his mind. He cleared his throat and managed a sheepish smile. “I guess I’m officially a bard now—my mouth gets me into awkward situations.”

To his surprise, Ralnor’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile.

Dorian’s eyes widened with exaggerated shock. “Ha! You smiled at my joke.”

Ralnor’s face quickly returned to its usual stoic expression. “No, I didn’t.”

“Oh, you did,” Dorian teased, pointing dramatically. “Don’t try to deny it. I’ll compose an entire ballad titled The Knight Who Smiled Once.”

Ralnor rolled his eyes—not that Dorian could see it beneath the helmet—but the soft exhale that might’ve been a laugh betrayed him. Their banter, light and easy, continued as they moved deeper into the woods, the ice slowly thawing between them.

They soon spotted a wild boar, its bristled coat blending with the underbrush. It rooted around the snow-covered ground, oblivious to the hunters stalking it.

Before Ralnor could give any instructions, Dorian leaned in, whispering confidently, “I think I can handle this more efficiently.”

Ralnor arched an unseen brow beneath his helmet. “Do you know how to hunt?”

Dorian grinned, pulling out his lute with the casual flair of a performer stepping onto stage. “Of course.”

Ralnor’s posture stiffened slightly. “What are you doing?”

“Aelwyn gave me inspiration,” Dorian whispered, as if that explained everything.

Ralnor stared. “What are you even talking about?”

“Trust me,” Dorian whispered, adjusting the lute’s strap. “I’ve got this.”

Before Ralnor could protest, Dorian strummed his lute softly, a series of gentle, melodic notes drifting through the crisp air. The effect was immediate and baffling—the boar’s ears perked up, and instead of bolting, it slowly ambled toward the sound, mesmerized.

Ralnor stood motionless, torn between disbelief and begrudging admiration.

As the boar approached within striking distance, Dorian’s expression shifted from playful to focused. With a swift motion, he drew the hunting knife Borr had gifted him, driving it into the boar’s vital point—a clean, efficient strike, just as the hunters of Suntails Hollow had taught him.

The animal collapsed with barely a struggle.

Ralnor approached, his footsteps crunching softly in the snow. He watched silently as Dorian knelt beside the boar, placing a hand gently on its coarse fur.

“Sorry,” Dorian whispered, his voice filled with quiet respect. “And thank you.”

Ralnor tilted his head slightly. “Force of habit?”

Dorian glanced up, offering a sheepish smile. “Yeah. I was taught to give a blessing after every hunt. It feels right, y’know?”

Ralnor nodded slowly. “It’s fine. We’re not mad at believers of the Twelve. We just don’t like the church… or its priests and paladins.”

Dorian chuckled softly, brushing snow from his knees as he stood. “Since I did the hunting, you should carry it.”

Without hesitation, Ralnor reached down and hoisted the boar onto his shoulder with effortless ease, as if lifting nothing more than a sack of flour.

Dorian blinked. “What kind of diet did you have as a kid to get that strong?”

Ralnor answered simply, “Whatever the mine warden gave me.”

Dorian’s steps faltered. “Wait—what?”

Ralnor’s gaze remained forward. “When I was a kid, I was sent to the mines by some noble. My earliest memory is being there.”

Dorian’s brows furrowed. “That young?”

“Yes,” Ralnor replied, his tone flat, as if reciting the weather.

“And you’re okay telling me this?” Dorian asked gently.

Ralnor shrugged, adjusting the boar on his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I have a brother and sister now.”

They walked in silence for a few moments, the weight of Ralnor’s words hanging in the cool air like mist.

Then Ralnor broke the silence again. “You’re cooking.”

Dorian snorted, the heaviness dissipating with the warmth of a smile. “Deal.”

As dusk settled, the sky above the clearing transformed into hues of purple and amber, the last whispers of sunlight fading behind snow-dusted hills. The aroma of roasted boar filled the crisp air, rich with spices that seemed to dance on the breeze.

Selyse leaned in, inhaling deeply, her eyes widening with disbelief. “How… how can boar smell this good?”

Dorian grinned, stirring the pot with theatrical flair. “Ah, a little trick I picked up from Skanival,” he replied smugly, his chest puffing slightly with pride.

“Skaernsvall,” Tache corrected with a chuckle, tossing a small twig into the fire.

“Yeah, yeah—the mystical ghost town,” Dorian waved dismissively, flashing a playful smirk. “Anyway, the masterpiece is ready.”

He distributed portions onto simple wooden plates, handing each one to his companions. The warmth of the food was a stark contrast to the chill of the northern evening, steam rising like whispers of forgotten stories.

They each took their first bite simultaneously, and as the rich, savory flavors exploded across their taste buds, an identical expression of awe spread across their faces. Selyse was the first to lean back, staring at the star-speckled sky with a grin that split her face.

Tache’s laughter followed, low and genuine. “What did you put in this?”

“If I told you,” Dorian quipped between bites, “I’d have to charge you.”

Ralnor, ever the stoic, gave a rare chuckle, chewing thoughtfully as he gazed skyward. The scene mirrored the first time they’d shared the enchanted apples from Skaernsvall—four souls, basking not just in the warmth of food, but in the warmth of company.

If someone had passed through that clearing, they would’ve been bewildered to find four people lying on their backs, grinning at the sky, pieces of meat still in hand, as if the stars themselves had cracked a joke only they could hear.

After the laughter died down, Dorian began his nightly ritual. He drew his lute into his lap, fingers dancing over the strings as soft melodies filled the air. His magic shimmered subtly with each note—a faint glow of wind magic here, a flicker of static there. It wasn’t just practice; it was performance, a show for an audience of three.

Tache leaned back on his elbows, Selyse sat cross-legged, and even Ralnor seemed to relax, his usually rigid posture softening as he watched.

When the music finally faded, the camp grew quiet, save for the occasional crackle from the fire. They settled into their bedrolls, one by one, the steady rhythm of breath blending with the nocturnal chorus of the northern wilds.

But sleep eluded Dorian.

His heart beat with excitement for the morning ahead—the day he’d choose his horse from Aelwyn’s majestic herd. The thought alone was enough to keep his eyes wide open, so he quietly slipped from his bedroll, careful not to disturb the others, and wandered toward a small rise overlooking the clearing.

There, bathed in moonlight, Aelwyn’s herd rested, their pale coats glistening under the clear night sky. It was a vision out of a bard’s tale—serene, timeless, almost otherworldly.

Dorian let out a soft sigh, lost in the beauty of the moment.

A rustle of footsteps behind him made him turn slightly. It was Tache, his silhouette framed by the glow of the dying fire. Without a word, he sat beside Dorian, knees drawn up, his gaze fixed on the same peaceful scene.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tache murmured, his voice softer than usual, as if afraid to shatter the fragile tranquility.

“Yes,” Dorian replied quietly, his heart still racing from the sheer awe of it.

Tache tilted his head back, pointing to the sky. A cascade of shimmering lights rippled across the heavens—ribbons of green, blue, and violet undulating like celestial waves.

“That’s called the Aurora Biorelissis—or something like that,” Tache said, laughing softly and scratching the back of his head. “I can never pronounce it right.”

Dorian chuckled, the warmth of companionship chasing away the night’s chill. They fell into a comfortable silence, watching the lights dance overhead.

Then, after a long pause, Tache broke the quiet.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice carrying a different weight now—not the usual carefree tone, but something raw, honest. “For my reaction… when you brought up the Church.”

Dorian glanced at him, then looked back at the sky. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “I know you have your reasons. Every reaction has a cause—just like fire starts with flint.”

Tache huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You’re not just a bard, huh?”

“Words are easy,” Dorian replied, his gaze distant. “It’s listening that’s hard.”

Tache didn’t respond, but his smile lingered—small, genuine, grateful.

They sat together in silence, two travelers beneath an ancient sky, their unspoken thoughts woven into the tapestry of stars.