The Domini saga

Kynes reaches the cliffside outpost as the path levels out at last. Wind knifes between carved stone walls, and lamp smoke clings to the narrow yard.

A gate of iron bands stands half-open ahead. Tired traders and wary guards look up from barrels, crates, and a snow-dusted hitching rail as the trio appears.

Bren shifts a half-step nearer to Kynes, her posture sharp. The violet residue on his gear catches the lamplight like bruised frost.

The gatekeeper studies him, then signals to the inner yard. The iron gate grinds wider, and the outpost reluctantly makes room.

Kynes moves with the yard instead of against it, taking the axe from the wood stack as if he belongs there. He tests the balance once, then starts splitting a round with short, efficient swings.

The first log cracks clean. A pair of traders glance over, then back to their bundles as the sound settles into the outpost’s work rhythm.

Kynes stacks the split pieces where the kennel boys can reach them, not where the gate can. Snow dusts his sleeves, and the violet grit on his palm flakes thinly into the wood chips.

A coin lands in his glove. Another guard quietly points him toward the woodpile, and the outpost’s eyes move off him for the first time.

Kynes keeps chopping until the cords shrink to a neat pile, and Bren matches him with quick, practiced stacking. The yard settles around them, work swallowing the last curious looks.

The last log splits cleanly. Kynes drops the axe into the snow and lets the rhythm die without ceremony.

Bren caps the stack with the final split pieces, then steps back to inspect the pile as if it were a ledger entry.

He does not look at Kynes when he says it, only at the yard, already turning the task into routine.

Kynes wipes the axe head on his sleeve, sets it by the woodpile, and takes up the next armful without breaking pace.

Around them, boots crunch, a carrier passes, and nobody slows. The violet dust is gone into chips and snow, and Kynes is just another pair of hands in the cold.

The ask lands plain, without ornament. The Gatekeeper’s glance flicks to Kynes’s hands, then to the yard, and stops there.

Bren gives one short nod, already moving to make space, and the gatekeeper’s answer turns Kynes from guest into labor by name.

East barrel. Wood. Eave.

Kynes takes the bucket, the handle biting cold into his palm, and walks where he is told without looking back.

At the barrel, a watcher in the yard calls for a ladle, and no one asks who Kynes is. They just point him toward the water.

Kynes sets the full bucket down and takes the next one without pause. Water sloshes once, then settles, and the outpost keeps pretending not to notice the dark elf doing common work by the barrel.

Kynes keeps at the barrel, lifting, carrying, and returning with the same steady rhythm. The outpost stops watching the drow and starts watching the water level instead.