Polish on Iron

Arden’s Briefing at East-Gate Toll Fort

Gray-gold dawn filtered through the vaulted mess hall when Commander Selva Arden summoned the Ashen Roaders for a final strategy huddle.

A single long table waited—polished oak already nicked by Orrik’s restless hammering fingers and Mercer’s dagger-twirling habit. Arden arrived in full parade harness: breastplate buffed to mirror shine, cloak pressed razor-straight. She eyed the group with the fond exasperation one offers beloved—but unruly—hounds.

“Listen well, you glorious ruffians,” she began, dropping a leather folio thick with affidavits. “In 3 days we step into the Crown Hall of Statutes. Noble ministers, High-Archivist Case, Science Regent Erivar—they’ll all sit beneath murals of saints decapitating dragons and expect the same decorum.”

Rowan raised a brow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Arden said, “I do the talking unless a magistrate addresses you by name or rank. When that happens, answer in full sentences, no tavern slang, no dwarf curse-words, and—” she speared Orrik with a look—“no negotiation over spice allowances.”

Orrik grunted but crossed heart with a greasy thumb. Marra’s tail flicked, amused. Gree smirked, polishing her newly issued royal guard greaves that still smelled of fresh tin.

Arden paced, clicking pointer baton against greaves and vambraces as she spoke:

“Rowan Kestrel—present the katana only if asked. If they request a demonstration, you keep the blade sheathed unless I nod. No impromptu sword-songs.”

“Feylin—you’ll handle reagent evidence and heart-stone explanation, but emphasize neutral rune science; we avoid implying mage cabals.”

“Marra—stand half-step behind Rowan. Lionfolk presence intimidates some lords; flash a fang only when you catch them dozing.”

“Orrik—display your makeshift cauldron latch as proof of field ingenuity, but restrain lectures on ‘proper dwarven metallurgy.’”

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“Brother Joss—quote scripture sparingly; these chambers echo.”

“Mercer and Gree—answer courier and guard chain-of-custody questions, then defer.”

She snapped the folio shut. “Remember: we aren’t winning this with blades. We’re winning with a verifiable chain of evidence.”

Mercer raised a tentative hand. “If a duke calls us ‘common brigands’?”

Arden’s smile sharpened. “Then you cough politely and let me remind His Grace that brigands rescued his trade routes from bio-alchemic nightmares.”

A ripple of chuckles eased tension. Rowan caught Marra’s glance—she winked, clearly enjoying the spectacle of disciplined chaos.

Arden distributed wax-sealed entry badges: gilt quills over crossed scales. “Pin these left breast. Guards will search for spiral tattoos; anyone still harboring one—” Her gaze softened on Gree’s freshly healed wrist. “—keep it wrapped. Truth outweighs branding, but looks matter.”

Brother Joss raised his flask, contents swapped for weak tea at Arden’s insistence. “To parchment sharper than spears, and tongues steadier than crossbows.”

They clinked tin mugs.

Road to the Capital Gates

Later that morning the convoy rolled from East-Gate under banners of Valehart crimson. The final day leg to the royal city wound through vineyards and copper-leaf woods. Troopers in ceremonial mail flanked the wagons, while Quill scribes rehearsed testimony in singsong murmurs.

Arden rode beside Rowan at column head. “You look rested,” she noted, eyebrow arched.

“Early riser,” Rowan answered, hiding a smile. Behind them Marra’s mare snorted—perhaps coincidence, perhaps not. Privacy remained intact, whispers blowing away with autumn breeze.

Mid-afternoon, a cluster of village children ran alongside the procession, pointing at the katana and Marra’s exotic mane. Rowan offered a mock salute; Marra tossed one child an apple pinched from Mercer’s snack stash. Arden observed the exchange, then leaned close. “Remember that warmth. Hall of Statutes will try to freeze you.”

“Noted,” Rowan said, gripping reins and feeling the sword’s hum even through scabbard and cloak—calm, waiting, like a held breath before verdict.

On the horizon, spires of the capital pierced haze—ivory steeples catching late sun. Two weeks of bonding miles narrowed to final steps. Arden raised a hand; the column slowed, banners snapping crisp.

“Tomorrow,” she called, loud enough for lancers and Roaders alike, “we trade road dust for marble floors. Keep your backs straight and your tongues sheathed unless bidden.” Her gaze lingered on each face—ruffian, scholar, lioness, dwarf, monk, courier, redeemed shield. “We ride as one.”

Even the katana seemed to pulse in approval. The capital awaited—ink, judgment, perhaps the Stranger’s next move. But tonight, camp citron lamps would still flicker, and two silhouettes would slip unseen between tents before dawn, the quiet backbone of a pride that now numbered seven.