The path to Dreybergen took them back through meadows, then orchards and vineyards. The hoarfrost had yielded to the sun’s relentless rays by now, but the wind remained cold—far from typical for a late autumn day. Sixten and Lennar rode side by side, exchanging thoughts in their native tongue about what had transpired, while the Grand Mistress had positioned herself at the head of the small group. She needed solitude. Thoughts raced through Eva’s mind, refusing to form a coherent picture no matter how she turned them. She longed to consult old Graybeard for advice. Whenever she fixated on something, he always posed the right questions to set her straight. But her foster father was miles away in Nimbusheim, likely enjoying a well-deserved nap, while she froze her fingers off on the farmers‘ island. She should have brought gloves.
The first houses of Odring came into view when Sixten suddenly called out. She reined in her horse and turned. The Master of Defense had dismounted his pony, which stood rooted to the spot, staring fixedly at a dense blackthorn bush. Its ears were laid back, fur bristling, a telltale muscle twitch rippling across its back. „Mister Meier, you’re unbeatable,“ Sixten boomed, slapping the animal’s flank. Eva didn’t understand until she spotted it in the bush: a glove, light brown, bearing the finely embroidered Order emblem on the back.
Airis‘ glove.
She slid from her horse in a flash and hurried to the spot. She held the soft leather for a moment. It was intact and clean—no blood, she noted with relief. As she untied it from the string securing it to a twig, a folded note fluttered to the ground. She picked it up. The ink was black, the handwriting flourishy—almost too refined for pirate hands. „Grand Master, your friend lives. For now. Come alone, tomorrow at noon to Ravenstone.“ On the back, someone had sketched a stylized griffin with a few quick strokes.
Eva folded the note and pocketed it, her gaze drifting to the distant fields and horizon. Lennar had dismounted too and approached. „You’re not going there alone, are you?“ „I think we have no choice,“ she replied. „But we need a emergency plan if they try to abduct me. With Airis already in their clutches, I won’t take risks. We need a diversion to drive them off if things turn serious.“
Sixten and Lennar exchanged a glance. „Thinking what I’m thinking?“ Sixten asked. Lennar grinned. „I believe so. Know the tale of the Brave Echo, Eva?“ She shook her head, puzzled.
As he began, Lennar’s eyes lit up, as they always did when speaking of his homeland. „The Talende Kløft,“ he started, pronouncing the name in the melodic lilt of the Storm Isles, „a chasm far north of Brannskeld, narrow as a needle’s eye and deep enough to trap the wind endlessly.“
Eva crossed her arms. „Please don’t tell me it’s a story about axe fights. I know you Storm folk—every saga ends with heads getting bashed in.“
„No, this one ends without a single fight—but now that you mention it, quite atypical.“ A smirk crossed Lennar’s face. „It’s about pretending to have everything when you have nothing.“ He traced the gorge’s narrowness in the air with his hand. „Just a few dozen lived in that godforsaken rock cleft, which luckily held rich ore deposits, bringing wealth that made greedy eyes turn. But anyone sailing in heard a whole host of defenders and turned tail quick.“
„Acoustic illusion?“ Eva asked.
„Masterfully so,“ Lennar said. „Ropes, jars, wooden tubes, drums: all placed so echo and wind turned them into more.“ Sixten laughed. „Word got out eventually, but the Brave Echo of Talende Kløft became legend.“
Eva paused briefly. „So you want to create an echo.“
„Exactly,“ Sixten said. „A wind trap and a glider should suffice.“ „The wind catcher plus amplifier delivers the drone of an approaching capital ship,“ Lennar added. „The glider adds the cherry on top—movement in the sky, just what pirates dread. They see it, hear the thunder, and assume a full squadron’s inbound. No one checks what’s really there when the sound is convincing.“
Eva considered, then nodded. „That could work. Think we can be ready by noon tomorrow?“
Ravenstone lay on Sarnheim’s southwestern edge, where the last houses gave way to open fields. Goldendale’s old execution site was plain, functional, and older than any building in town. It consisted of a rectangular, massively masoned foundation of smoothly hewn fieldstones, resembling the remnant of an unfinished structure. A low wall, barely hip-high but remarkably thick, encircled it—evidence it was built for containment, not decoration. At its center sprawled a broad, paved courtyard, sunken in spots. This was the true execution ground, where judgments were once read and sentences carried out. The central block, also deeply notched fieldstone, served as the execution base. Wood remnants at the wall corners hinted at former pillories or scaffolds. Rusty iron rings in the masonry spoke of later uses, like holding prisoners or displaying the condemned. Today, the site stood unused. For over a century, jurisdiction lay with the Council of the Cloud Islands; the place occasionally hosted village gatherings but mostly languished forgotten, its name alone echoing its grim past.
The sun rode high when a young woman hurried across the square. Her dark blonde hair was in a braid; she wore an embroidered cloak and—unseen from outside—only one stocking. As she reached the center, several dark-clad figures blocked her path.