Garran's knock was more like a controlled impact.
It rattled the door enough to wake Trin even if he had been sleeping deeply. As it was, he was already half-awake, lying still and listening to the unfamiliar quiet of a town morning instead of the layered sounds of a camp.
"Trin," Garran's voice came through the wood. "You alive in there?"
"For the moment," Trin called back.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the floor cool under his feet, and crossed the small room to open the door.
Garran stood in the hallway already in his gear—mail polished, tabard straightened, shield on his back. He looked more "official" than Trin had yet seen him, as if he'd stepped into a slightly different version of himself for the day.
"You look almost respectable," Trin observed.
"Careful," Garran said. "Say that too loudly and they'll start asking me to attend parades." He stepped back to let Trin finish dressing. "You ready for a bit of a walk?"
"Where to?" Trin asked, pulling on his mended tunic and armor.
"Barracks," Garran said. "Captain wants to meet the man I keep mentioning in my reports. And I figured you might as well see the town properly on the way, before you end up spending all your time in back rooms sewing our lives back together."
Trin buckled his straps, checked the lay of the leather out of habit, and nodded. "Lead the way."
They stepped out into the morning.
Arlindale looked different in daylight clarity than it had under lantern glow. The same buildings stood, but their lines were sharper now: the cracks in stone foundations, the patched shingles on roofs, the faded paint on shutters. People moved with purpose—shopkeepers sweeping thresholds, a baker hauling out trays of bread, a cart rattling past with sacks of grain.
Garran kept a steady pace, but he pointed things out as they went.
"That's the cooper's," he said, nodding at a squat building with barrels stacked outside. "If you ever need a tub that doesn't leak, talk to old Rhel."
They passed a narrow lane where children were chalking crude shapes onto the packed earth. One of them pointed at Garran's shield and whispered something that made the others snicker.
"And that," Garran went on, "is the alley you avoid if you like your purse. Or your teeth."
Trin glanced down it. A couple of rougher-looking figures lounged there, eyeing passersby with the bored calculation of people always looking for an angle.
"Noted," Trin said.
They crossed a small square where a stone well sat at the center, worn smooth by countless hands. A woman in a faded dress was drawing water, humming under her breath.
"Market sets up here on six-days," Garran said. "You'll get decent leather and better gossip." He nodded toward a taller building with carved pillars. "That's the town hall. Don't go in there unless you enjoy listening to people argue about grain tariffs."
"I have heard enough arguments about more abstract things," Trin said. "Tariffs might be refreshing."
Garran gave a short laugh. "You say that now."
As they neared the inner edge of town, the buildings began to look more uniform—less haphazard. The cobbles were better laid, the gutters cleaner. A low, sturdy wall came into view, not defensive like the outer palisade, but enclosing a cluster of barracks and training yards.
"That's us," Garran said.
The Freewardens' compound was a functional block of timber and stone, practical rather than decorative. A training yard opened off to one side where a handful of recruits were already running drills under the eye of a sergeant. Racks of practice weapons lined one wall. The smell of sweat, oil, and dust hung in the air.
Garran led Trin through a side gate and into a central hall that served as some combination of meeting room, mess, and office. At a table near the far wall, a woman in a worn but well-kept breastplate sat reviewing a stack of papers.
She looked up as they approached.
"Captain," Garran said, stopping a respectful distance away. "This is Trin. The crafter I mentioned in my report."
The captain's gaze swept over Trin, taking in details with the efficient eye of someone who'd evaluated many people in little time. She was in her forties, perhaps, with her hair braided close to her head and a scar that ran from the edge of her eyebrow into her hairline.
"Trin," she said. "Just Trin?"
"For now," he replied.
Her mouth twitched. "Fair enough. I'm Captain Mereth. I hear you've been making yourself useful."
"So I'm told," he said.
Garran spoke up. "He's the one who reinforced our straps, Captain. And he kept his head when we ran into bandits on the road. Not many green hands watch their own blood and everyone else at the same time."
Mereth's eyes narrowed slightly. "You bleed?"
"Less than I should," Trin said, before Garran could answer.
She held his gaze for a moment, then let it go with a small shrug. "I'm not in the habit of turning down capable hands because they're a little strange, as long as their strange doesn't get my people killed."
"That is a sensible policy," Trin said.
Mereth gestured to a chair. "Sit," she said. "This won't take long."
He did.
"Here's the situation," she said. "The Freewardens of Arlindale operate under contract—sometimes with the crown, sometimes with local lords, sometimes with merchant consortiums that don't trust the first two. We take on scouting, escort, and occasionally things with teeth and claws on them."
She steepled her fingers. "From what Garran's told me, you'd be a good fit. We don't have a dedicated gearwright right now, and you clearly know how to handle yourself on the road. So I'll be plain: I'd like to offer you a place. Full membership. Regular pay, share of spoils, expectation that you follow our codes and orders while under our banner."
Trin listened, weighing the words.
There was a certain comfort in the idea—a structure, a role, a reason to stay anchored in one place for longer than a few nights. It would give him access to information, to work, to people. It would also tie him, formally and visibly, to an organization that might one day be caught in a storm he brought with him.
"Your offer is generous," he said.
Mereth's eyes narrowed slightly. "But."
"But," Trin continued, "I am not sure how long I will remain in one place. There are…threads I may need to follow that will pull me beyond Vaelion's borders. Beyond your contracts."
Garran shifted, as if he'd expected that answer and still didn't like it.
Trin went on. "If I accepted full membership and then left suddenly, I would become a liability. To your plans. To your people. I would rather not make commitments I am not sure I can honor."
Mereth considered him for a few breaths.
"Honest," she said. "That's something." She drummed her fingers lightly on the table. "What *would* you be willing to give?"
"Work," Trin said. "On a contract basis. If you need armor mended, tools made, minor things crafted, I can do that. If a particular escort or scouting job requires an extra pair of hands and you're willing to take someone who may not be here forever, I can offer myself then. But I cannot promise to be a Freewarden in the sense you mean it."
Mereth leaned back, measuring him anew.
"That's not unheard of," she said. "We've had independent contractors before. Usually grumpy old blacksmiths who refuse to share bunk space and mages who don't like taking orders from anyone younger than seventy."
"I can aspire to grumpiness," Trin said mildly.
Garran snorted.
Mereth's lips curved faintly. "All right," she said. "We'll do it that way. You stay on as a contracted crafter. We'll pay per job, and if we need you for something on the road, we'll ask, not order. In return, you don't drag trouble you've made elsewhere through my gates without warning."
"That is more than fair," Trin said.
She extended a hand. He took it, her grip firm and calloused.
"Good," she said. "Garran will see that you're on our lists for equipment work. If you need materials for jobs you're doing for us, you can requisition within reason. No gold filigree on spearpoints."
"I'll restrain myself," Trin replied.
Mereth nodded once, then looked past him to Garran. "You're off for the rest of the day," she said. "Until I've sorted the mess that dragon report is going to cause. Try not to start any fights you can't finish."
"No promises," Garran said lightly.
They stepped back out into the barracks yard together.
The recruits were still at their drills, sweat darkening their tunics. A couple of other Freewardens crossed the yard, nodding to Garran as they passed.
Trin's gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, searching for familiar faces.
He saw Lysa first.
She was perched on a low wall near the training ring, legs dangling, idly spinning an arrow between her fingers while watching the recruits. She brightened when she noticed them, hopping down to join them.
"You both survived the captain," she said. "That's a relief. I hate explaining why someone vanished in the middle of town."
"She offered him a place," Garran said.
Lysa's eyes lit up. "And?"
"And he turned it down," Garran finished.
Lysa groaned. "Of course he did."
"I offered contract work instead," Trin said. "I will still be around. Just…less bound."
"Like a cat," Lysa said. "Here when it wants food and company, gone when it sees something shiny in the distance."
"That is…not inaccurate," Trin admitted.
Lysa grinned. "I can work with that."
He glanced around again.
Naera was nowhere in sight.
"Where is Naera?" he asked.
"Not here," Lysa said, looking around as if realizing it herself for the first time. "She left early. Didn't say much beyond 'I have things to think about.'"
Garran let out a low breath through his nose. "Temple, probably."
Trin looked at him. "Temple?"
"Yeah," Garran said. "The little one on the west side. Not one of the big, gilded things like in Lorenfell. Just a small hall with a few altars and a priest who doesn't snore too loudly."
Lysa leaned her elbows on her knees. "Naera goes there after assignments sometimes," she said. "Especially the rough ones."
Garran shrugged. "Never understood it. Most people in her line of work—mages, scholars—they talk more about 'principles' and 'systems' than gods. But she still keeps a pendant under her tunic and leaves offerings when she thinks no one's watching." His tone held not mockery, just mild surprise. "Strange sort of faith for someone who spends so much time dissecting the world."
Trin felt a familiar tightening in his chest at the word *pendant*.
"Is her faith a problem here?" he asked.
"Only if she tries to convert the captain," Lysa said. "So far, she hasn't."
Garran shook his head. "Believe whatever you want, as far as I'm concerned, as long as it doesn't get in the way of your job. Naera does her work better than most. If praying into the dark helps her sleep, that's between her and whoever's listening."
"Sometimes," Lysa added, "it helps to think someone's listening, even if you're not sure."
Trin considered that, then nodded slowly.
"Where is this temple?" he asked.
Garran raised an eyebrow. "Thinking about converting already?"
"Thinking about…walking," Trin said. "And it seems as good a destination as any."
Garran pointed with a short gesture. "Head out the west gate," he said. "You'll see a narrow lane on the left before the last row of houses. Follow it up the slope. The temple's a low stone building with a carved path symbol over the door—old style, not the polished temple version. You'll know it when you see it."
"Thank you," Trin said.
Garran gave him a longer look, something speculating in it. "You and Naera have a lot to talk about?" he asked.
"Perhaps," Trin said. "Or perhaps I just…want to see who your town offers its questions to."
Lysa tilted her head. "If you find out they have better stew than the inn, report back," she said.
"I will endeavor to gather accurate data," Trin replied.
Garran snorted. "Go on, then," he said. "I'm going to make sure the recruits don't stab themselves with the wrong end of their spears."
They parted in the barracks yard—Garran turning toward the training ring, Lysa drifting back to her wall perch, arrow still spinning between her fingers.
Trin stepped out through the gate into the bright afternoon, the directions to the temple clear in his mind, and began to walk.