Adventure of Betram Steelstream 1

The Dragoon squadron descends into a mountain valley above Sanbreque’s southern coast. Below, a border village smolders at its outskirts, while villagers cluster beside the road and point toward fresh tracks climbing into the high passes.

At the squadron’s head rides a broad-shouldered middle-aged man with a weathered face, iron-gray hair, and a crimson-plumed helm tucked beneath one arm. A long scar cuts across his left cheek.

The villagers recoil from the armored riders, then hurry forward when the captain lowers his spear. Smoke drifts across shattered fences, carrying the bitter smell of burned thatch.

Beyond the smoking homes, deep hoofprints and boot marks cut through the ash toward the narrow ascent. The squadron gathers its reins and weapons as the valley wind turns cold.

The villagers, a mixed group of adult men and women in soot-streaked, earth-toned clothes exchange frightened looks. Elric’s scarred face hardens, while the dragoons fall silent around their steaming mounts and lowered spears.

A murmur passes through the villagers, no longer merely fearful. Several retreat from Betram’s armor, and one makes the sign of the Holy Mother against his breast.

Betram raises his right fist to his heart in the Sanbreque salute. The villagers watch the gesture, and the dragoons straighten in their saddles as the apology settles over the smoking road.

Elric lowers his spear toward the high pass, his sternness eased. The villagers stop shrinking from Betram, though their eyes remain fixed on the ash-dark tracks.

The Sanbreque Dragoon Squadron moves out, hooves striking sparks from stone. Behind them, the villagers gather beneath the smoke while the steep pass swallows the riders one by one.

The column climbs beyond the last angle where the village can be seen. Wind combs the narrow pass, and Elric reins his horse aside while the other dragoons continue in disciplined silence.

Elric raises one gauntleted hand. The squadron halts among black pines and broken stone, horses steaming in the cold as every spear lowers from attack to watchfulness.

The order passes quietly through the halted riders. Ahead, the hoofprints wind into a cleft veiled by mountain mist, and the squadron waits for Betram to approach under Elric's protection.

Betram nods and leaves the halted squadron behind. He advances lightly through the cleft, placing each boot between loose stones as the mist closes around his silver armor.

The path bends into whiteness. Behind him, the Sanbreque Dragoon Squadron becomes a muted line of horses and lowered spears, while the mountain wind carries away every ordinary sound.

Memory brings Oriflamme’s crowded streets back in flashes: bright banners, hurried strangers, and Caspian’s promise that whisper willow birds would always find one another.

Betram raises two fingers to his lips and whistles into the fog, shaping the delicate, rising call of a whisper willow bird. The notes thread cleanly through the pass.

The final note fades among the black pines. Mist beads on Betram’s lashes, and the narrow trail lies open before him, the signal given exactly as intended.

Betram waits without moving. The mountain wind ebbs, leaving only water dripping from pine needles and the faint creak of his armor beneath the mist.

Then, from somewhere beyond the cleft, a delicate rising whistle answers his call. It is softer than Betram’s signal, but unmistakably shaped in the same old pattern.

His voice carries through the white air, close enough to place somewhere ahead, though the fog conceals his shape. The returning call has done its work.

The question hangs between the pines. Behind Betram, the squadron remains hidden by distance and mist, while Caspian waits somewhere ahead for his answer.

Betram lets the invitation and warning hang in the mist for several long moments. Behind him, the hidden squadron waits among the pines, close enough that a horse shifts and tack softly creaks.

The words reach him, but the fog gives back no immediate answer. When Caspian finally steps into view, his dark hair is damp, his katana at his side, and his brown eyes remain fixed on Betram.

Betram nods and follows Caspian into the mist, leaving the hidden squadron behind. He moves lightly over wet stone, keeping pace without disturbing the mountain silence.

Caspian leads him beneath a leaning shelf of black rock, then down a narrow stair carved into the ridge. The fog thins around an ancient shrine lit by pale crystal lamps.

The shrine’s weathered doors stand open before them. Within, worn statues of winged guardians surround a dry basin, while the mountain wind fades beyond the stone threshold.

Caspian stops beside the dry basin, one hand resting near his katana. The shrine holds only their quiet breathing, while eight Sanbreque dragoons wait somewhere beyond the mist.

Betram crosses the shrine’s quiet space and embraces Caspian. The prince stiffens in surprise, then folds his arms around him, holding him tightly beneath the pale crystal lamps.

Caspian eases back but keeps one hand on Betram’s shoulder. His gentle expression sharpens into cautious concentration as he studies the shrine’s dusty floor.

The plan settles between them, fragile but real. Beyond the shrine, a distant horse stamps in the mist, reminding Caspian that Betram’s waiting dragoons cannot be kept unaware forever.

Caspian’s guarded expression softens beneath Betram’s apology. His hand closes over Betram’s shoulder, and the fragile plan in the shrine becomes a promise rather than a desperate hope.

Caspian steps toward the shrine entrance and listens. Outside, a horse stamps again in the mist, followed by the faint clink of a Sanbreque harness.

The distant squadron waits beyond the fog, eight mounted dragoons held back by their captain’s order. The shrine’s silence now shelters an agreement both kingdoms might still honor.

The final days they shared return in sharp fragments, and Betram’s heart aches beneath his armor. He cannot imagine raising Bahamut against Caspian, even while fearing Odin’s blade might find him first.

Caspian’s hand tightens on the hilt of his katana, though his voice remains gentle. He accepts Betram’s fear as truth, and that honesty leaves the prince with a dangerous measure of leverage.

The promise settles between them as the cost of Caspian’s trust. Beyond the shrine, a harness clinks again, reminding them that eight Sanbreque dragoons wait for Betram’s report.

Betram pulls Caspian close and gives him a quick kiss beneath the shrine’s pale crystal lamps. Caspian’s surprise softens into a tender smile as Betram draws back.

Betram nods, forces himself to turn, and walks from the shrine. Caspian remains beneath the crystal lamps, watching until mist folds between them.

The narrow stair carries Betram back through the fog. Eight waiting dragoons emerge among the black pines, their horses steaming as he returns beneath Captain Vane’s watch.

Behind Betram, Caspian’s footsteps fade into the shrine’s silence. Ahead, the squadron waits for his report, spears lowered but ready beneath the cold mountain mist.

Betram gives the report plainly, naming Caspian’s promise to send proof before tomorrow’s dusk and the traders who will misdirect Veldemarke’s first army toward the western ravines.

Elric studies Betram through the drifting mist, then lowers his spear. Around him, the waiting dragoons ease their grips, though none turns fully from the high pass.