Erdeth Greycloak arrived in Sandgate with little more than a rogue's quick hands and a reputation yet to be made. The weathered frontier fort buzzed with the usual trade of rumor and risk, and it didn't take long before two goatherds at the well, the earnest Boril and the skeptical Udo, put a strange tale in his ear: somewhere up in the high country beyond Cloudhollow Pass ran the Ember Circuit, a race of wild goats whose hooves burned like coals in the dark. Catch one, win its trust, and a man might have more than a story to tell.
Before the climb, Erdeth tested his luck and his blades in the Cellar Pits, trading blows in a blunted bout against a fighter named Bodhi and walking away richer for it. A side wager on a scarred, dangerous-looking competitor paid out handsomely, and the fixer Lorcan took notice, murmuring an offer of quieter work for quieter coin, an offer Erdeth left hanging in the air. At the Tentmaker's Seam, the proprietor Norah outfitted him for the mountains, though she wasn't swayed by his charm, only his gold, and only agreed to deal further if he returned with a goat horn or pelt and a tale worth telling.
The climb out of Sandgate took him through a wadi, up switchbacks, and into a treeline that gave way to thinning, cold air. The first night passed quietly, but the signs were unmistakable: heat-split stone, a scorched cloven hoofprint, and later, a line of ember-bright lights moving along a distant ridge in the dark. By the second day, Erdeth found more than signs. Bootprints belonging to no goat led him to a cold fire ringed with snare wire and pitch-smeared char, and not far beyond it, the herd itself: eight goats with smoldering hooves, grazing uneasily while a poacher moved among hidden snares.
Erdeth nearly gave himself away, but held his nerve when the poacher's eyes swept past him unseeing. A tossed pebble bought him a heartbeat of misdirection, enough to close the distance unnoticed. The ambush was swift and merciless: a rapier thrust opened the man up, and a second strike finished it, Erdeth's blade parting the poacher's throat in the mountain hush. Searching the body, he found snare wire, pitch, charred wood chips, and a brass hoof-token stamped with a cloven mark, the same symbol that had sealed the notice that started this whole venture, along with a handful of coin.
The herd scattered at the violence, but Erdeth tracked their trail and found them again, six goats visible and two more hiding in the rocks. Among them, one stood apart: smaller, watchful, clever-eyed. He made his choice without chasing it. Shedding his gear, he sat down in plain view, met its gaze, and waited. Patience did what force never could. The goat crept closer to graze, balked once, then finally ate from his open palm, nosing for more. He scratched its head and felt it lean into his touch, then spoke softly, promising no traps, no rope, only freedom and the open road ahead of them. The goat pressed against his knee and stayed.
He named it Goarth, a name fit for a racer. As dusk settled over the high country below Cloudhollow Pass, Erdeth sat with his new companion at his side. The poacher was dead, the herd's trust half-won, and the Ember Circuit's race still unrun, the mountain road ahead waiting for them both.