A Shadow at the Threshold

One day later, during the evening

Amaric and his younger sister, Mira, tended the horses in the stables just outside the barracks. The evening air carried the familiar musk of hay and horse sweat, mingled with the earthy scent of freshly watered troughs. Both siblings brushed their favorite mounts—Amaric a destrier named Bloodmane, Mira a spirited chestnut mare called Nightwind. The steady scrape of brush against coat was comforting in the fading light.

A stable boy mucking out the stalls hummed a tune popular among the clan’s youth. Every so often, he stole a glance at Mira, and for no small wonder.

Mira, nineteen summers old, was a vision of strength and beauty. Her figure was lithe, toned, and ample, visible beneath clothing that clung tightly to her form. Her snow-white hair was braided close to her scalp, and her ruby eyes gleamed in the torchlight. With the heat of the summer night and the humidity trapped within the stalls, she had shed her tunic for the moment, wearing only the linen breastband beneath. The choice was practical—meant to grant her skin some relief from the mugginess—not to torment the poor stable boy who could not help but notice the defined muscles of her feminine form.

The gate creaked open and shut, snapping the boy’s attention back to his work. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Osric, father to Amaric and Mira. The familiar scowl sat upon his face, red eyes and white undercut hair betraying where the siblings had inherited their features.

“Good,” he grunted. “You’re both here. Put down the brushes, pack your things, and get some rest while you can.”

“Why?” Amaric asked.

“You’re accompanying Lothar to Thraegel Meadow,” Osric said. “Along with Cragath and his daughter, Kaethe. You leave at first light.”

He went on to explain the rumors of goblin healers and Lothar’s determination to find them.

“If there’s even a chance they can heal our headman, it’s worth the risk,” he finished.

Just then, Lothar entered the stables to check on his own mount—a black stallion named Thunderhoof. Mira’s eyes lit at the sight of him. Amaric caught it immediately, smirking as he cast a glance at their father, who looked quietly pleased.

Amaric nudged his sister. “I’ll start packing. You make sure Bloodmane and Nightwind are ready for tomorrow.”

With a wink, Amaric departed, Osric close behind, leaving Mira alone with Lothar.

She swallowed, the sound barely audible even to herself, as she studied him from a few paces away.

His hair fell wild about his face like an untamed mane. His expression held a controlled intensity—neither cruel nor arrogant, but strong, protective, and steady. Power radiated from him, not merely in his build, but in the way he carried himself. His tunic strained lightly over muscle, sinew shifting with each subtle movement. He stood tall and assured, an anchor amid uncertainty.

Her gaze dipped lower despite herself. The cut of his hide trousers did him dangerous favors, tracing lines that sparked thoughts she would never voice aloud.

She had harbored feelings for Lothar for as long as she could remember. Like Amaric, she had grown up alongside him—trained with him, bled with him, earned her place beside him. With each passing year, those feelings only deepened. That he was human did not deter her; if anything, it set him apart. Not as a novelty or fetish, as some women of the clan viewed him, but as something rare and precious. She admired his looks, yes—but it was his soul that had claimed her: steady, grounded, and kind.

She approached him slowly, hands resting against her forearms, feeling suddenly less like a seasoned huscarl and more like a nervous maiden. When she drew close, she breathed him in. Smoke, faintly. Resin, more strongly.

Realizing how it must look, she cleared her throat.

“How are you holding up?” she asked.

Lothar finished laying out his saddle before turning to her. “As well as can be, all things considered. And you, Mira?”

“I’m well,” she said, catching his gaze flicker downward toward the generous swell of her bosom. He blinked and quickly returned his attention to her eyes, color touching his cheeks.

She suppressed a smirk and slid her hands up her arms to her elbows, her biceps pressing against the curve of her chest, skin glistening with perspiration. Her eyes did the smiling for her when she saw him shift, his composure strained.

“Something the matter?” she asked lightly.

“No,” Lothar replied too quickly. “No—just tired.”

She stepped closer. He did not retreat.

The difference in their height forced him to look down at her, and she felt his breath deepen. The space between them narrowed, eyes half-lidded—

“Achoo!”

They both turned in unison. The stable boy stood frozen, mortified, before rubbing his nose and scurrying away.

Lothar laughed softly and returned to his preparations. “Do you need help with your horses?”

Mira nodded, schooling her expression.

Together they readied Bloodmane and Nightwind—Mira inspecting hooves and tack while Lothar prepared the saddles, checking straps and buckles with practiced care. A comfortable silence settled between them. When they finished, Lothar stretched, groaning quietly.

“Heading home?” he asked.

“Yes. You?”

“I’ve nowhere to be. May I join you?”

Mira’s lips curved. “I’d like that. Let me fetch my shirt.”

Lothar frowned faintly, as if disappointed. She caught it—and smiled.

She retrieved the garment, bending deliberately, feeling rather than seeing his attention follow. When she straightened, he looked away a moment too late.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Mm-hm.”

They stepped out onto the cobbled streets of Leoham, the night air fresh against their skin. Torchlight gleamed off worn stones, and the warmth of hearth fires seeped from doorways. Laughter drifted through the streets, mingled with the scent of roasted meat and honeyed mead.

“The folk seem happy,” Lothar observed.

“When death looms, people cherish small joys,” Mira replied. “The wagons helped, too.”

He nodded, though his gaze remained troubled.

“You’re worried,” she said.

“I am,” he admitted. “Deeply.”

“And what will worrying accomplish?”

“Nothing,” he said with a breathy laugh.

“Exactly,” she smirked. “So enjoy the peace while it lasts.”

She was just gathering the courage to take his arm when a voice rose from a nearby alley.

“Lothar.”

A hooded figure gestured them closer. Both reached instinctively for their blades.

“Who are you?” Lothar demanded.

“Not a friend,” the figure replied, lowering his hood. “But not your enemy—tonight.”

The bowl-cut hair and orange eyes were unmistakable.

“Allowin?” Lothar said. “What is this?”

“Listen to me,” Allowin urged. “You must return to your mother. Now.”

“Why?” Lothar snapped.

“Caerth is already on his way to her,” Allowin said grimly. “And he’s not alone.”

The color drained from Lothar’s face.

“She’s in danger.”

***

Meanwhile, within the keep of Leoham

Karga sang softly beside Baldomar’s bed, her voice a gentle balm in the quiet chamber. His breathing was shallow but steady. He did not wake.

Hope lingered in her heart—the fragile belief that Lothar might yet find healers to save him. She prayed to gods and ancestors alike, fingers entwined with her husband’s hand.

The door creaked open.

She turned, ready to greet her son.

Instead, Caerth stood there, verdant eyes gleaming with ill intent. Fresh blood glistened on his blade—and on those of the two orcs flanking him. The bodies of the sentries lay crumpled beyond the threshold.

“Caerth,” she hissed. “Are you such a coward that you would strike my husband in his sleep?”

He laughed softly as he unfastened his belt.

“Oh, my lady,” he said. “I’m not here for our headman.”

He stepped forward.

“I’m here for you.”