The Imperial patrol did not linger in the mud. The captain barked a series of sharp, clipped orders, splitting his detachment.
He took five of his cavalrymen and rode out toward the timber reserves to scout the deep woods. The remaining five soldiers, the handlers with their exotic beasts, and the sul'dam with her leashed channeler remained behind. The massive torm and the warhorses were led into the wide, high-roofed bays of Kael's forge, which had been hastily converted into a makeshift garrison.
The soldiers and the sul'dam commandeered the village inn, a sprawling, heavy-timbered building at the center of Vaelen.
Aran did not return to Kael's house. He slipped into the inn alongside the nervous locals, pulling the high collar of his strange, pale coat up to shadow his face. He found a small table in the darkest corner of the common room, pressing his back against the solid timber wall.
His eyes were locked onto the damane. She knelt on the floor beside the sul'dam's high-backed chair, staring blankly at the floorboards. Aran's mind—the mind of a High Age tactician—ran through a dozen scenarios in the span of a single heartbeat. With his enhanced physical strength, the Atherion's matrix, and centuries of blademaster training, he could clear the distance to the sul'dam in five seconds. He could sever her head, take the bracelet, and shatter the silver collar before the guards could even draw their steel.
But then what?
He would have freed one woman, but doomed the entire village. From what he had learned of the Empire, more would come. Kael and Lira would be flayed for harboring him, and Miri would likely be sold as da'covale. A warrior did not strike blindly; an artificer did not act without understanding the entire mechanism. He needed information.
So, Aran did what any seasoned scout in hostile territory would do. He observed.
As the afternoon dragged on, the inn remained busy, filled with villagers trying desperately to appear useful and unobtrusive to the occupying soldiers. Aran nursed a mug of bitter ale and listened. He traded low, careful murmurs with the locals passing his table, piecing together the geographic reality of this new world.
He learned that the soldiers hailed from Imfaral, a massive provincial capital roughly a week's hard ride to the south. Imfaral was the sixth-largest city in the Empire of Seanchan, a port city located on the central peninsula of the northern landmass, right on the dividing channel. It held immense historical weight; it had been captured during the early days of the Conquest and used as a primary base of operations by Luthair Paendrag Mondwin's forces until they secured Seandar later in the war. Today, it was famed as the location of the Towers of Midnight, a sprawling, imposing fortress complex. It was the seat of High Lord Turon, a heavily militarized hub teeming with Imperial legions, exotic beasts, and kennels full of leashed channelers.
To march against them now, as a lone man wielding a sword connected to a tainted source of power, would be literal suicide. He had to bide his time.
By evening, the atmosphere in the inn had settled into a tense, suffocating quiet.
The sul'dam sat by the roaring hearth, sipping spiced wine from a silver cup the innkeeper had frantically polished. A village musician sat in the corner, nervously plucking a stringed instrument, playing a slow, haunting melody to entertain the Imperial guest.
The damane remained perfectly still on the hearthstone. She did not sit like a human being; she crouched like a domesticated animal. When the sul'dam absentmindedly tossed a piece of spiced meat onto the stones, the woman in gray scrambled forward to eat it without using her hands, chewing methodically before resting her chin near the sul'dam's boots. It was a display of conditioned training that made Aran's stomach turn.
The heavy wooden doors of the inn suddenly banged open.
The captain strode into the common room, accompanied by his five scouts. They were covered in freezing mud and exhausted, their lacquered insectoid armor slick with the wet mist of the deep woods. The innkeeper rushed forward with a towel and hot ale, but the captain waved him off, marching directly to the sul'dam.
"Report, Captain," the sul'dam said, not looking up from her wine.
"The Headman's intelligence was accurate," the captain said, his muffled voice ringing clearly through the suddenly silent room. "We found the tracks. The earth was heavily churned. But we could not follow them deep. The prints indicate a pack—at least three, perhaps four adult grolm. Without a torm or a damane to break their charge, pressing into the dense brush would be a waste of Imperial lives."
The sul'dam frowned, lowering her cup. "A pack. Someone has been careless with the Empress's property, may she live forever. We will send to Imfaral and bring a full hunting cadence to scour the woods."
"There is something else," the captain said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a note of genuine unease. "We found the beast that attacked the child."
"Dead?"
"Yes," the captain said. He reached into his belt and tossed a massive, bloody talon onto the table. "But it is how it died that concerns me."
Every eye in the inn turned toward the officers. In his dark corner, Aran did not move a muscle, but his hand drifted imperceptibly closer to the heron-mark on his hilt.
"I have served in the Exotic Corps for ten years," the captain continued. "I have seen grolm take a crossbow bolt to the skull and keep charging. Their hide turns standard steel. But this beast... it was cleaved in half. A single, upward diagonal strike. It sheared through the leathery hide, the dense muscle, and severed the spinal column completely. The cut was so clean, so impossibly smooth, the bone looked as though it had been polished."
The sul'dam finally looked up, her eyes narrowing. "A single strike?"
"No peasant's axe or hunting spear could make that wound," the captain stated flatly. He turned, his armored gaze sweeping the terrified villagers in the common room. "Headman Torin. Step forward."
Torin, pale and shaking, shuffled out from behind a table, bowing deeply.
"Who killed the beast?" the captain demanded.
Torin swallowed hard, his eyes darting frantically. The villagers began to murmur, shrinking back. A few pointed nervous glances toward the shadowed corner where Aran sat.
Before Torin could formulate a lie to protect their guest, Kael's voice cut through the tension. He stepped out of the crowd, pulling Miri behind his leg.
"My Lord Captain," Kael said, bowing low. "It was the stranger. The man who brought my daughter back."
The captain stepped toward Kael, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Explain."
Miri peeked out from behind her father's soot-stained trousers. She looked at the terrifying armored soldier, then at the sul'dam, and spoke in a small, trembling voice. "The monster was going to eat me. But the tall man shot it with a bow. Then it charged him."
"And?" the captain prompted.
"He drew his sword," Miri whispered, her eyes wide. "It was pale. Like glass. It hummed when it came out. He didn't even swing hard. He just stepped inside and... and it fell apart."
The inn went dead silent. The captain and the sul'dam exchanged a sharp, calculating look. A man with the aristocratic bearing of The Blood, carrying a sword made of pale glass that could cleanly bisect a grolm?
Slowly, the captain turned. He followed the terrified gazes of the village men until his helmet locked onto the dark corner at the back of the room.
"You," the captain barked, his hand gripping his sword hilt. "Step into the light."
Aran sat perfectly still for a fraction of a second. He knew the absolute rule of the One Power: women could not sense men who could channel, nor could they see their weaves. To this sul'dam and her leashed pet, he was completely invisible to the Power. There was nothing for him to fear.
With slow, deliberate grace, Aran stood.
He did not cower. He did not bow. Walking with the fluid, predatory confidence of a High Age blademaster, he crossed the common room. The villagers parted for him like water. Reaching the hearth, he smoothly pulled a heavy oak chair from a nearby table, scraped it across the floorboards, and sat down directly across from the sul'dam and the captain. He leaned back, resting his hands casually on his knees, the pale, heron-marked hilt of the Atherion clearly visible.
The captain stiffened at the sheer, unmitigated arrogance of the gesture. "You forget your place, stranger. Who are you?"
"My name is Aran," he replied smoothly, his tone laced with the bored, quiet authority of high nobility. He met the sul'dam's gaze without flinching.
"You wield a remarkable blade, Aran," the sul'dam said, her voice a dangerous purr. "And you lack the manners of a commoner. Where do you come from?"
Aran had spent the last several days constructing a flawless tactical lie. "My family originates from the island of Maram Kashor," he said smoothly. "Though I have never seen it myself. When I was a child, my father moved us to a small, isolated estate near the foothills of the Mountains of Dhoom. We lived there in absolute seclusion."
The captain frowned behind his faceplate. "The Mountains of Dhoom? The north is an uninhabitable wasteland. Why would a family of Maram Kashor exile themselves there?"
"That," Aran said smoothly, raising an aristocratic eyebrow, "is precisely the question I am trying to answer. My father was a swordmaster. A wealthy man, highly educated, who insisted on training me rigorously in history, philosophy, and the blade. But he kept me entirely in the dark regarding the politics of this Empire."
Aran leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, seamlessly taking control of the interrogation. "Six months ago, he passed away. I buried him, packed my belongings, and decided it was time to experience the world he hid me from. I traveled south through the mountains. I passed a small, nameless settlement of trappers in the high passes before finding my way to this forest." He gestured dismissively toward the bloody talon on the table. "I encountered that beast shortly after."
His acting was flawless. He radiated the aura of an entitled, highly lethal young lord who had just discovered his father had been lying to him his entire life.
"I have been educated in isolation," Aran continued, looking between the soldier and the sul'dam. "I am venturing to Maram Kashor to uncover who my father truly was, and why he fled. Perhaps, since you represent the authority in this region, you might illuminate some of this for me. Tell me, Captain... is it common for the Empire's exotic beasts to wander feral in peasant timber reserves?"
The sul'dam stared at him, her eyes tracing his aristocratic features, his immaculate, seamless coat, and the impossible sword resting on his knees. He had given them a story just strange enough to be true, delivered with an arrogance only The Blood—or someone raised by an exiled blademaster—could possess.
The captain, however, was not easily charmed. He slammed his gauntlet onto the table, making the ale mugs rattle. "You deflect, wanderer. You speak of exiled fathers and hidden estates, but you ignore the impossibility of the kill. No man, blademaster or not, shears through a full-grown grolm in a single stroke. The hide turns steel. The bone shatters iron. I want the truth."
Aran didn't flinch. He slowly lifted his hand and wrapped his long, elegant fingers around the hilt of the Atherion. The five guards at the door tensed, hands dropping to their weapons, but Aran merely drew the blade a single inch from its scabbard.
The firelight caught the exposed, glass-like steel. It didn't just reflect the light; it seemed to hold it, a flawless, frictionless edge that made the captain's eyes widen behind his visor.
"Standard steel, perhaps," Aran said, his voice entirely unbothered. "My father left me many mysteries, Captain. This blade is one of them. It does not dull. It does not break. And it does not struggle with leathery hides." He slid the sword back with a soft, resonant click.
"A Power-forged blade," the sul'dam breathed, leaning forward, genuine greed flickering in her eyes. "A relic of the Aes Sedai," she said with disgust, "from before the Consolidation. Worth a province of its own."
She raised a hand, signaling the captain to stand down. She was a sul'dam, but she also possessed the authority of the Low Blood, and the man sitting across from her was an enigma. He had the undeniable bearing of the high nobility, yet wore no shaved head or lacquered fingernails to denote his rank.
"You have the arrogance of the Blood and a weapon of a Swordmaster," the sul'dam mused, swirling her spiced wine. "Yet you claim ignorance of the Empire. If your father was truly a lord in exile, he would have a name. Free citizens and peasants have no surnames. What is yours, wanderer?"
Aran met her gaze levelly. "I do not know if my father was a lord or not, but I was given a name. My full name is Aran Valeris."
The sul'dam paused, searching her memory for the lineage. It was an ancient-sounding name, carrying the heavy, archaic syllables of the old families. A surname meant he was definitively claiming to be of The Blood. The social geometry of the room instantly shifted. The captain straightened his posture, his military standing giving him the right to question a lord, but the inherent deference of Seanchan society demanding respect.
Before the captain could press further, a small, soot-stained face popped up from behind Kael's leg. Miri pointed a dramatic finger at the Imperial officers.
"He's telling the truth!" Miri piped up, her voice echoing loudly in the tense tavern. "He didn't even sweat when he chopped the monster! And he's definitely a fancy lord. He eats his roasted squirrel with a tiny silver knife and fork he keeps in his bag! Papa just eats it off the stick!"
Kael turned absolutely white, desperately trying to shush his daughter and shove her back behind his knees, terrified the sul'dam would order them whipped for interrupting.
Instead, the sul'dam let out a sharp, unexpected laugh. The sheer absurdity of a man surviving the deep woods with a Power-forged sword and a set of fine silver dining utensils completely anchored Aran's lie. It was exactly the kind of eccentric, out-of-touch behavior a sheltered nobleman of The Blood would exhibit.
Aran maintained a look of mild, aristocratic offense, though internally he was silently thanking the child's impeccable timing.
"Squirrel with a silver fork," the sul'dam chuckled, shaking her head. The damane at her feet shifted slightly at the sound of her laughter, eyes remaining fixed on the floorboards. The sul'dam looked back at Aran, her tone shifting from hostile interrogation to amused, calculating diplomacy.
"To answer your question, Aran," she said, deliberately using the title. "No. Feral grolm are a severe anomaly. The Empress's beasts are strictly managed. If someone is breeding them in the shadows of the Mountains of Mist, High Lord Turon will want their heads on spikes."
The captain nodded, stepping back into a formal military stance. "If you are venturing into the world to discover your family's history, my Lord, the deep woods are no place for it. When we march at dawn, you will accompany us to Imfaral. A man of your... unique talents and lineage should present himself to the High Lord. And he will certainly want to see that blade."
It wasn't an invitation; it was a politely worded Imperial summons.
Aran offered a slow, deliberate nod, perfectly playing the part of a curious, confident noble. "Very well. I have spent my life in the shadows of the mountains. It is time I saw the Towers of Midnight for myself."
He let a slow, calculated pause stretch between them. "But..."
He leaned back in his chair, taking a measured sip of the bitter ale Torin had poured. He was preparing to walk straight into the heart of an enemy stronghold, surrounded by leashed channelers and insectoid soldiers. It was incredibly dangerous, but Aran smiled inwardly. Imfaral had a library. Imfaral had maps. And a master artificer inside a fortress was infinitely more dangerous than a ghost freezing in the woods.
Aran maintained a look of mild, aristocratic offense to fuel their assumptions of his nobility. He let the tense silence hang in the tavern, then leaned forward, resting his forearms heavily on the timber table. He turned his aristocratic arrogance on them like a weapon.
"I have answered your interrogations, given my lineage, and agreed to display my steel to your lords," Aran said, his tone cooling into a mild, authoritative reprimand. "Yet you sit before me and forget yourselves entirely. Who addresses me?"
The armored captain stiffened, bristling at the tone, but the sul'dam merely smiled, a predatory curve touching her lips.
"I am Sul'dam Lystra," she said, her voice smooth but carrying an undercurrent of steel. "And this is Captain Varek of the Exotic Corps. Forgive our lack of manners, Aran. The frontier breeds bluntness."
"Indeed," Aran said smoothly. "Then satisfy my curiosity, Lystra, Captain Varek. You just discovered evidence of a pack of feral grolm and a rogue handler trespassing in your sanctioned timber reserves. Yet you sit here drinking spiced wine, planning a retreat to Imfaral. If you leave now, the trail goes cold."
Captain Varek grunted, his gauntleted hand clenching into a fist. He was clearly chafing at having his tactical courage questioned by a stranger. "Because I am a commander, my Lord, not a fool. Ten men pressing into dense, unfamiliar brush against a pack of grolm is suicide."
"Then do not press blindly," Aran countered, his genetically enhanced tactical mind seamlessly taking over the conversation. "You have raken outposts along the mountain roads, do you not? Send a flying scout to Imfaral tonight. Requisition your reinforcements. A heavy cadence can be here in ten days. But until they arrive, you must track the handler and the beasts, map their territory, and pin them down. If you abandon the woods for ten days, they will vanish."
Varek and Lystra exchanged a long, measuring glance. The logic was flawless, delivered with the precise, unquestionable cadence of a veteran military officer.
"Let me assist your scouts," Aran offered smoothly, leaning back to let the trap spring shut. "My blade is proven, and I wish to see more of these Imperial beasts in the wild."
Varek narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the strange, commanding man before him, then nodded sharply.
"Very well, Sir Valeris," the Captain agreed. "We send a raken tonight. We track at dawn."