The Mythos of Avalyth

To Kael,

You’ve done well to keep to the shadows.

But shadows don’t always hold what walks through fire to pull another from it.

You’ve been seen. An opportunity awaits. Arrive at the Swaying Lantern before nightfall. Wait for us.

What you seek edges closer—not all that is found is what you expect.

Some paths lead to power. Others, to memory.

All lead to a choice. You’ve stepped beyond silence. Now step into something that lasts.

Be there.

—A Quiet Patron

Kael exhaled slowly, folding the letter between his fingers as the noise of the tavern swelled around him. Tankards clashed, boots scuffed against ale-stained floorboards, and hushed conversations mingled with drunken laughter and whispered secrets. Seated alone at a corner table with a half-finished mug of something strong, his mind was far from the revelry.

The words gnawed at him—vague enough to mean anything, yet weighted with promise. For years, he had chased answers about the Riftveil, following half-truths and fading legends, only to be met with disappointment. Now, this letter offered a chance for something more, a pull he couldn’t ignore.

A hush fell over the tavern.

The bard didn’t introduce himself as he took the stage. He stepped into the space like he’d always belonged there, cloak trailing, eyes bright with memory. No fanfare followed. Just a single breath… …and then, he sang.

Low. Weathered. Carried like a prayer cracked with age.

It seemed to lift from every surface—the walls, the floor, the heavy air itself—as though the tavern had been holding its breath, waiting for him to begin. It filled the room not with volume, but with gravity. Every syllable held weight, like stone dipped in memory—steady, deliberate, impossible to ignore. The melody was ancient and slow, shaped by the kind of grief that forgets time. A hush spread like frost across the tavern floor. Even the mugs seemed quieter in their owners’ hands.

The world once turned on sacred breath,

Bound by life, unbound by death.

No music followed—just his voice, stark and unwavering, echoing like the voice of someone who had outlived the age he sang of. Kael barely breathed. The opening line struck too cleanly, too true.

One gave bloom to soil and sea,

One drew the line where ends must be.

A third kept watch with silent grace,

And held the stillness in its place.

Then the bard raised one hand—slow, deliberate. And with a flick of his fingers, a piano shimmered into being beside him, half-formed from light and shadow. Its polished body reflected the flicker of lanterns, but no one touched it.

The keys moved on their own.

When the music joined him, it came like fog rolling in at dawn—subtle, searching. As though it had always been part of the silence, waiting to be remembered.

But love grew wild, and mercy strayed—

A vow unbroken, then betrayed.

Kael’s breath caught again. Not for the words themselves, but the weight they carried. Vows broken. Mercy twisted. It felt…familiar. Too familiar.

She reached beyond the season’s thread,

To cage the dusk, unmake the dead.

Kael’s grip tightened around his cup. “Unmake the dead,” the line echoed in his thoughts like a bell tolling behind his ribs.

She called it peace, she called it grace,

And cast him down through time and space.

As he sang, the bard lifted his other hand—fingers splayed wide in a graceful, sweeping arc. A second shimmer answered him. From the air, delicate stringed instruments emerged—violins, faint and spectral, forming in a circle around the piano like ghosts called to prayer. They began to play of their own accord, their voices gentle and aching, trailing the melody with haunting precision.

Was that what the Riftveil had really been? Not just a cataclysm. Not natural collapse. But exile. Magic meant to seal something away. Someone.

She broke him not with blade or flame,

But bound his soul in shards of name.

The piano’s rhythm deepened. The room dimmed with silence.

Five gems to hold what once was whole,

Five stones to cage a god’s own soul.

And when the spell took root and screamed—

The world tore wide along the seams.

Kael’s pulse skipped. Five stones. A soul. A name shattered into fragments. He had studied the Riftveil’s mythology for years. But no account had ever described it like this. Not like a defense. Not like a sacrifice. But a cage.

Oh Avalyth, your skies are torn,

A realm unmade, a world reborn.

Through fire’s wrath and thunder’s cry,

Your song still drifts across the sky.

A silence forged where gods once spoke,

The chain undone, the balance broke.

The first chorus swept through the room with all the gravity of scripture. By then, the strings had grown stronger—underpinning the bard’s voice with reverent tension. The piano pulsed like a heartbeat beneath it all. And Kael… felt seen. Every line rang with the shape of a truth he’d never known how to name. A truth he never stopped chasing.

The bard’s hands moved with subtle grace above the moving keys, drawing the piano’s sound into something richer now—less like memory, more like mourning. Strings lingered behind it, low and ghostly. He didn’t sing louder. But he sounded louder. The way fog seems thicker when it clings to bare skin.

No joy in wrath, no pride in fight—

Just warning cast in iron light.

Time stood still, then turned away,

Let fallen gods give none their say.

No trumpet’s call, no victor’s name—

Just broken stars and sky aflame.

A weight settled behind the words. Kael didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

The seas recoiled, the mountains wept,

The stars went dark where they had slept.

Not war, but spellwork shaped the scar—

The price of sealing what gods are.

And all that power, cast and spent,

Left silence carved through the firmament.

The strings held the silence only a heartbeat longer. Then—soft as regret—they stirred again, and the bard’s voice followed, unshaken.

No hand was clean, no vow was kept,

And through the faultline silence crept.

Not loss alone, but what it cost,

When gods forget what must be lost.

Kael blinked—just once. The words struck something different now. Not awe. Not revelation. Grief. Because this wasn’t about heroism. It wasn’t a tale of glory. It was a record of failure.

Of choices too large to undo.

And from that break, the song withdrew—

The chord unstrung, the world split through.

Oh Avalyth, your skies are torn,

A realm unmade, a world reborn.

Through fire’s wrath and thunder’s cry,

Your song still drifts across the sky.

A silence forged where gods once spoke,

The chain undone, the balance broke.

Kael’s hand had curled tightly around his mug, knuckles pale. He wasn’t drinking. He was listening with every inch of himself. Breathing like he didn’t trust the air to stay still. Because this wasn’t just a legend anymore. This was evidence. And something in his chest—something old, sharp, wanting—was starting to ache.

The music swelled, then slowed—piano holding a low chord just long enough to ache, strings bowing into it like a breath caught in the chest. The bard stood still at the center of it all, hands lowered once more, his voice the only part of him that moved.

Kael’s throat worked, dry and tight.

He’d studied the Riftveil for years. Chased whispers, translated fragments. Tried to fit the broken puzzle back together. But this—this was the missing piece. The wound behind the myth. Not just what happened. But what it meant.

The bard slowed now, his voice dipping into the final stanza. No crescendo. No glory. Just quiet devastation, woven into melody.

Now deep beneath the silence lies

The hand that stilled the fading skies.

Not wrath, but truth, was sealed away—

A breath denied, a dusk delayed.

The piano echoed like footsteps down an endless corridor. The violins hovered—almost afraid to touch the next note.

The one they feared, they could not bind—

For change, once caged, still waits in kind.

Kael didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing again.

And should that name be sung once more,

The world might mend where it was torn.

Not all who sleep are meant to fade—

Some fires wait beneath the blade.

So dim the flame, but not the hope,

Trace every scar the gods once wrote.

Listen close, beyond despair—

An absence hums with what’s still there.

The piano dipped lower, as if bowing to the verse. The strings hovered—tender, haunted.

And then, as though exhaling its final breath, the song slipped into its last refrain:

⸻

Oh Avalyth, your skies are torn,

A realm unmade, a world reborn.

Through fire’s wrath and thunder’s cry,

Your song still drifts across the sky.

A silence forged where gods once spoke,

The chain undone the balance broke

As the bard finished his tale, the tavern erupted in applause. Kael joined in, though his hands trembled slightly as he clutched his drink. He took a deep breath—feeling the rough texture of the worn parchment of the letter still warm between his fingers—and noticed the scent of spiced ale and woodsmoke mingle with his rising apprehension.

He was growing frustrated. How long was he going to be kept waiting?

The last two days had been a blur of blood and consequence. The city’s guard commander was dead. His successor had taken the title only long enough to pass it on—handing command to a poor man from the wall district before vanishing into retirement. And himself? He’d risked far too much. Too much exposure. Too much attention. He guarded his anonymity like a blade kept sharp in the dark. Not because he craved obscurity—he didn’t. He wanted to be known, remembered. But not for a fight in a pit, not for saving strangers. He wanted to be remembered for something that would last. Forever.

He still wasn’t sure why he got involved but the uproar of recent events had pushed him back into the obscure where he could look for his glory and legacy without notice. But he still couldn’t take his mind off of her.

It had been more than an hour. He’d scanned every new arrival, every movement near the door—but still, no one had approached. Just as he downed the last of his drink, preparing to leave, the tavern door creaked open.

A hush swept through the room. A set of conjoined twins entered, bound to each other at the shoulder. One was a drow—skin like obsidian, auburn locks cascading over her sharp collarbone, and eyes of molten gold that flickered like flame. The other was a high elf, pale as moonlight with hair like shadow and eyes that glowed an icy, spectral blue. They paused just inside the threshold, letting the crowd adjust to their presence. A current of awareness rippled through the tavern as their unified gaze swept over the room—sharp, intelligent, and assessing. As they moved toward him the crowd parted around them as every eye followed them. When their eyes locked with Kael’s, something struck him like a bolt to the chest—it was as if every secret he had hidden was laid bare in that moment.

For a fleeting moment, he swore they could see everything—his thoughts, his regrets, even the hollow spaces where his ambitions used to burn. Yet Kael held their gaze, masking the jolt behind an unreadable expression, even as a subtle shiver ran down his spine. The twins reached his table and seated themselves with a single fluid motion, drawing every eye in the room.

Their voices overlapped, not in echo—but harmony, like a single thought split in two throats.

“Good evening, Kael,” they said in perfect unison.

“I am Syble,” said the high elf, her voice like a measured breath of cold air, precise and serene.

“And I am Setra,” said the drow, her golden eyes gleaming with mystery as her tone dripped with deliberate warmth.

Kael offered a nod, a gambler’s smile slowly unfurling as he attempted to steady himself. “Syble. Setra. Your letter was… intriguing.. “What can I do for you this evening?”

The twins exchanged a knowing glance. Syble leaned forward, her voice laced with excitement and an undercurrent of something profound.

“We have a proposition. A job that reaches back into the annals of history itself.” Setra’s gaze pierced him. “We’ve uncovered the place where the Riftveil began.”

Kael’s breath hitched just slightly. It wasn’t the first time he had heard such nonsense but this type of work often paid well with low risk. And there was always the odd chance that they might be telling the truth.

“Your doubt is evident, but as we have already mentioned…you were seen” Syble continued amusement tinging the ends of her voice.

“And we know exactly why you’ve been keeping yourself unknown. We have obligations that prevent us from going….And now we need someone with your skill and expertise to find it .” Setra concluded sharply.

“You saw me fight, that doesn’t say much about my other capabilities…so then you’ll have to be a little more direct. Why me? Being a good fighter doesn’t make me good for anything else I have no reputation to speak of what makes you think I’m qualified. I’m a nobody.” Skepticism in every word Kael challenged them. He didn’t care for cryptic talk. If they couldn’t answer him he’d walk.

Setra’s smile vanished, her eyes darkening. “Exactly. No one will miss you if you die. No one will ask questions if you leave. You’ve spent your life chasing greatness and falling short. Aren’t you tired of it? Of being nothing?” Syble’s gaze sharpened further. “And since you got that scar”—she gestured to the faint line along his throat—“you’ve hidden. Safe. Careful. Small. This is your chance to become more than the shadows you’ve clung to.”

Kael’s fingers brushed his scar, the touch igniting a sting of old pain. He exhaled slowly, as if expelling a lifetime of suppressed sorrow. “You’ve not said where exactly I’d be going. Only a fool takes a job without questions.” Kael stated flatly despite the unease they made him feel, his gaze never faltered.

Syble nodded. “You will be traveling south through the myrkviðr. For the moment that is enough information.” She answered with finality.

Kael considered, his mind racing with both hope and lingering doubt. “The Myrkviðr isn’t a place to wander unprepared. Especially the southern stretch—that’s where the mapmakers draw no lines, where compasses spin like lost thoughts, where names go to die.”

“Money won’t matter much in that direction so what can you offer me that would make walking into almost certain death or getting lost forever?” His question was sharp and this is where he was sure he’d have to walk away.

“You misunderstand….we will finance all you will need for departure. Once you depart you will be gone for a very long time….you may well not return.” Setra answered heavily. Syble picked up seamlessly “Your payment comes with completion of the mission. Eternal recognition a legacy never to be forgotten. No more shadows.” “No more hiding.” Setra followed.

“No more Moren.” They concluded in unison.

The way they spoke in turn but as one the way one looked around the room while the other spoke was fascinating and unnerving. Most unsettling was how they both said his last name. Like they knew exactly where it came from and what it meant. He wasn’t going to be convinced that easily. He still wanted solid compensation beyond just promises.

“That sounds, amazing…but suppose where you send me is if fact just another dead end or baseless rumor? Am I to return unpaid for the empty promise alone.

Syble rolled her eyes. And tossed him a bag of gold it jungled as though it held many coins but was as light as if it were empty. “Buy what you need. We have Made adequate arrangements for a horse from the stablemaster. That should suffice.”

Setra spoke next. There is enough gold in that bag to buy this tavern one hundred times over. But small enough still to carry. Consider this full payment. And you will receive credit for anything you find as well as subsequent finds. And don’t forget you’ll get there first so you can keep an item of your choice as well.

Kael raised a brow. “ what exactly is it you expect I will find there?.”

The twins exchanged one last cautious glance, their voices dropping as they leaned closer.

“Meet us at the southern border of the Myrkviðr tomorrow night,” Syble whispered. “Be there by dusk.”

“There are things we can’t say here,” Setra added, urgency flickering in her eyes. “But we’ll have answers. And a parting gift. Make sure you say your farewells Kael, you will be gone for a very long time.

He knew they were being watched. And now He knew who was watching….she was watching….what he didn’t know was why but justmaybe this would lead to another meeting with her. He shook himself…none of that mattered, the twins were promising answers and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to follow this trail if it meant never coming back so be it.

Kael’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve chased the truth of the Riftveil from one false lead to the next—but for the prize waiting at the end of that gamble, I’d follow it off the edge of the continent and

jump in after it, just to see what’s waiting in the dark.”

Setra’s gaze softened, though her voice remained quiet. “Then perhaps your first step is to learn the right question.”

They stood in near-perfect unison. Setra’s voice lingered as they turned to go, smoky and low: “The flame stirs… now so shall you.” Then they were gone.

Kael sat motionless, his thoughts racing and his pulse thundering like war drums. In that

charged silence, he realized that every hidden scar, every secret longing, was driving him toward the unknown. He was going to the southern Myrkviðr.

Where the wild magic was strongest. Where few dare to tread—and even fewer return. Where they say the forest has a mind of its own.

Rising from his seat, Kael decided to rent a room and get an early night. He approached the bar, a sturdy wooden structure adorned with intricate carvings of mythical creatures and scenes of ancient battles—each telling stories older than the city itself. The bartender, a woman with dark, curly hair and a warm, inviting smile, greeted him as he approached.

“Evening,” she said, her voice carrying a melodic lilt. “What can I do for you, traveler?” She gave him a wink, her bright smile softening the air around them. “I’d like to rent a room for the night,” Kael replied, glancing around the tavern. No eyes lingered on him, but an inexplicable tension gnawed at the back of his mind, as though the weight of his upcoming journey had cast an invisible shadow. The sensation lingered, unsettling him in a way he couldn’t quite name.

The bartender nodded, her smile unwavering. “We’ve got a cozy room available. Just up the stairs, first door on the left. That’ll be ten gold pieces for the night.”

Kael handed over the coins, the clinking sound oddly reassuring, like the first steps toward something inevitable. “Thanks, Elana,” he said, his voice quiet with appreciation. She had always looked out for him—her small kindnesses threading through his memories of simpler

times when life wasn’t as complicated. A few years older than he, Elana had worked the tavern since he was sixteen. After particularly rough days in the orphanage, she’d often slip him a pitcher of ale, sometimes just for the comfort of familiarity, always offering him a good room at a low price.

She handed him the key, her fingers brushing his for a brief moment. “I’ll see you tomorrow, hun,” she said brightly.

Kael smiled back at her, then turned and ascended the narrow staircase, the murmur of the tavern fading behind him. The room was simple but comfortable. A sturdy bed with clean linens, a small wooden table, and a chair by the window. A single candle flickered on the table, casting soft, wavering shadows against the walls. The scent of the hearth still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint crackling of the candle’s flame. The quiet was a relief.

Kael set down his belongings and paused for a moment, allowing the silence to settle over him. It was the kind of stillness he rarely allowed himself. He had always dreamed of carving his own path, of stepping out from the shadows of his past. Now, the opportunity lay before him—one he could not waste.

As he lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, Kael replayed the words of Setra and Syble. Their challenge to his bravery, their promise of riches, glory, and eternal recognition—all echoed in his mind. Beyond the journey into the Myrkviðr, beyond the treasures waiting to be claimed—there were the secrets of the Riftveil. His obsession. His self-appointed fate. And the rewards, should he succeed. He had lived for this. Everything else—every dream, every loss—had led to this moment.

Sleep did not come easily. His heart raced with excitement, a strange cocktail of dread and anticipation. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. Outside the window, the moon cast a pale glow over the town, its light shivering across the cobbled streets. The sounds of the tavern—murmured conversations, clinking mugs, the faint strum of a lute—drifted up to his room. The world outside felt distant now, as if a line had been drawn between the life he’d known and the one awaiting him. He closed his eyes, eager and apprehensive for the dawn.

The next morning, Kael’s eyes opened easily, the urgency of the coming day already thrumming in his veins. A surge of adrenaline spurred him into motion, and he swung his legs off the bed, splashing cold water from the basin onto his face. The sensation of it cleared the sleep from his mind, sharpening his focus. Staring into the mirror, he scrutinized his reflection.

Kael was a man of striking features, with tousled dark hair framing a face carved by the hardships of his youth. His piercing green eyes, always sharp and intense, seemed to look right through him, as though they saw both the present and the past, and everything yet to come. His high cheekbones and strong jawline gave his face a chiseled, almost sculpted look, but it was the faint scar across his throat that held his gaze now—a permanent reminder of a past he couldn’t outrun.

His hand instinctively reached for the scar, tracing its path, and memories surged unbidden. The cruelty of the guards, the cold stone walls of the orphanage, the escape attempts, the brutal lessons learned in the shadows. And the man who had given him this scar—the brother he’d once trusted, who had betrayed him in ways that still haunted his sleep. He could feel the weight of it in his chest, but Kael shoved the memory aside. There was too much at stake now. The journey into the Myrkviðr awaited, and his obsession with uncovering the truth of the Riftveil was all that mattered.

Turning away from the mirror, Kael dressed in the simple attire of a peasant. His coarse tunic, faded with years of wear, scraped against his skin, but it was durable. The trousers, patched from constant use, fit him comfortably, cinched at the waist with a worn leather belt. His boots, scuffed and well-worn, were still sturdy enough for the journey ahead.

His armor, bundled and awaiting repairs, lay neatly beside him. The enchanted mail, when worn, transformed into the illusion of a simple alchemist’s traveling robe—a perfect disguise for slipping unnoticed through the world. But today, the armor was dormant, hidden beneath layers of cloth. Kael left it. He would come back for it but he had other things to attend to first. He took one last lingering look around the room. The quiet sanctuary had been brief, but it was time to move on.

He descended the narrow staircase, the sounds of the tavern’s morning bustle filtering in from below—clattering dishes, murmured voices, the rhythmic scratch of a quill on parchment. The tavern was already alive with activity, but Kael’s mind was distant, focused only on the path ahead. He stepped out into the cool morning light, the streets of Aeldenwood stirring with the early hum of market vendors setting up their stalls. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the distant clang of metal, and Kael’s stomach growled faintly in protest. But he ignored it. There was no time for hunger—not now.

Kael had a few places to go but before anything else he had to go toward the gate wall.

The capital city of Aeldenwood bustled with life and motion, tall stone buildings rising around him as he walked. The streets were paved with old cobblestone, twisting like roots beneath his boots, connecting broad avenues and narrow alleys. Ornate balconies loomed overhead, where well-dressed nobles sipped spiced wine and gossiped in shaded luxury. Sunlight filtered through colorful banners fluttering between buildings, casting flickering hues across the market square below.

Vendors shouted above one another, advertising fresh bread, tanned leather, and all manner of steel. Children weaved between carts with sticky fingers, pockets full of stolen fruit and daring smiles. Musicians played flutes and fiddles on corners, while jugglers and fire-breathers competed for coin. The air was rich with the scent of roasted meats and floral perfumes.

And above it all—Skyhold.

The castle floated on a chunk of land anchored to a colossal tree whose gnarled roots wrapped beneath the island and into the earth below. It hovered, impossibly still, supported by a lattice of swirling arcane energy. The tree was unlike anything else in the known world: a massive ash with silver bark and pale green leaves that shimmered like crystal in the sun. Bridges and stairs spiraled up its trunk to the castle gates, carved right into the tree’s heart.

At its peak stood the High Spire of Skyhold, where the Elder Council ruled in the absence of any true monarch. They were the keepers of ancient knowledge, magic, and law. Their search for the lost bloodline of kings had persisted for centuries. No one remembered the last crowned ruler.

Kael’s destination was quieter—on the outskirts of the city.

The wall district loomed ahead—stone dwellings pressed tight together like crooked teeth, rooftops sagging under the weight of weather and time. This was where people survived, not lived. Smoke rose in thin ribbons from chimneys, and the scent of coal fires mixed with the bitter tang of curing herbs. The chatter here was low and cautious. No one looked too long at a stranger.

Just before the old archway that marked the end of the district, Kael turned down a narrow side path—one that didn’t look like a road so much as a forgotten seam in the city’s stonework. The walls here leaned too close together, their upper floors nearly touching. Laundry lines cut the air above like webbing. Moss coated the cracks underfoot. It was quieter here. Still. The kind of quiet that didn’t come from absence, but from warning.

This part of the city had no name on the maps. If it ever had one, the stones had swallowed it.

The path bent once, then again, narrowing with each step.

If you didn’t know where to look, you wouldn’t find it at all.

Lysa liked it that way.

It opened into a crooked little clearing pressed tight against the inner wall of the city. Here, half-hidden by a collapsed arch and the yawning roots of a blackened tree, sat the house.

It wasn’t just hidden.

It was set aside—like the city itself had built around it, then forgotten.

It wasn’t large, and it wasn’t clean. The stone was weatherworn, ivy wound thick over one side, and the wooden door sagged slightly on its hinges. A faded charm—three rusted nails tied with red string—hung from a nail just above the lintel. Someone had carved protective runes into the lintel beneath it. Deep enough that the wood still remembered.

The windows were shuttered, the roof bowed in places. The scent here was different than the city beyond—earthier. Smoke, crushed leaves, and something acrid Kael couldn’t name. It clung to the stone. Leached from the cracks.

This was Lysa’s place.

Though he had a house by the wall, this was the only place he ever really thought of as home.

Kael paused at the edge of the short garden path, where herbs grew in no clear order—wild and thriving, as though the soil bent to her will instead of the seasons.

No answer.

The silence that followed was as familiar as it was pointed. He waited, knowing better than to fill it too quickly.

After a moment, he knocked again.

Then came the scrape of a wooden chair dragging across stone, deliberate and slow. Footsteps shuffled closer—slow at first, then impatient.

A muffled voice snapped from behind the door, sharper than a carving blade. “If you’re another crow come squawking for poultice or plague balm, I swear on every cracked bone in this house I’ll gut you with my ladle and pickle the rest.”

Kael smiled faintly. There it was.

“It’s me.”

A pause.

Then the bolt slid free with a clack, and the door cracked open just wide enough for one eye—piercing and storm-colored—to appear through the gap.

“Hells. Thought you were dead.” She opened it wider with a creak, eyeing him from boot to brow. “Still might be, if you’ve come to bleed on my floors.”

Kael stepped inside without waiting for the full invitation. “Good to see you too, Lysa.”

She harrumphed and turned her back on him, already limping toward the hearth. “You’d think I’d learn not to let strays back in.”

“Yet here we are.”

“Mm. Don’t tempt me to fix that.”

The door creaked shut behind him. The interior was just as he remembered it—cramped, cluttered, and full of smells he could never name. Herbs hung from the rafters in bundles thick with dust and magic. Bottles clinked faintly somewhere in the gloom. Something simmered in a dented pot, and a lazy cat—not hers, never hers, she insisted—lifted its head from the windowsill to glare at him before promptly going back to sleep.

Kael glanced toward the back room. The curtain was drawn.

She saw the look and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t go getting nosey. If the spirits wanted you knowing everything, they’d carved your ears wider.”

Kael raised his hands. “Just making sure the place hasn’t changed.”

“Oh it’s changed. Smells worse since you left.” She eased into her chair with a groan. “Or maybe that’s just your memory catching up.”

Kael moved to lean against the nearest wall, arms crossed. “You always this charming before breakfast?”

“I haven’t had breakfast in twenty years, and you’re still my worst idea today.”

He chuckled low under his breath, eyes drifting again toward the curtain—this time more careful not to linger.

There was something in the air today. Not wrong, not quite. But weighted.

She saw that too.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” she said, voice lower now. “Not today.”

“You said to come back in a few days,” he said lightly. “So here I am.”

Lysa didn’t look up—just kept stirring, slow and deliberate.

“Which means,” she snapped, slapping the spoon against the edge of the pot with a sharp crack, “you’re still as aggravating as the morning I dragged your half-frozen hide off the outer gate road. And just as mouthy.”

Kael smiled. There it was.

“Thought I’d try stating the obvious,” he said innocently. “It’s usually the fastest way to get you to talk.”

Lysa turned just enough to glare at him, eyes narrowing. “You want a reaction? Next time, wear brighter colors. Or bleed louder.”

He gave a theatrical shrug. “Tempting. But I figured poking the hedge witch was safer than a fashion statement.”

She muttered something about “gods save me from dramatics before noon” and went back to stirring—rougher now, but quieter.

Kael’s grin faded, just a fraction.

He didn’t push again. Not yet.

But he was here. And she hadn’t told him to leave.

And for now… that was enough.

Lysa let the spoon rest in the pot. Her eyes didn’t leave the bubbling surface, but her voice shifted—cooler, sharper. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Kael straightened, his humor dimming with the turn in her tone.

“They came by,” she said. “Syble and Setra.”

He didn’t respond right away.

“That letter….they asked me to give it to you. Last night they came here again. Asked if I thought you were the man for the job.” She snorted softly. “I said you were stubborn enough to die proving them right.”

Kael tilted his head. “You didn’t tell them no.”

“I didn’t tell them yes either,” she said, finally glancing his way. “Didn’t have to. You’re here, aren’t you?”

She grabbed a chipped cup from the shelf, poured something steaming into it. The scent hit Kael like a warning—herbal, bitter, alive.

She shoved it into his hands without ceremony. “Drink that. You’re going to need your mind sharp.”

Lysa went on, voice brisk, sharp-edged now.

“You’ve been chasing ghosts and gods like they owe you something. And now you’ve got strangers in fine coats offering riddles and rewards, and you think you’re ready for what’s past the edge of the map?”

She finally turned then—slow, deliberate. Her storm-colored eyes landed on him like a spell gone heavy.

“You’re not.”

Kael’s mouth opened, but she cut him off with a flick of her hand.

“No. You’re not. You’re clever, I’ll give you that. Tenacious. Stubborn as a kicked ox. But this—” she gestured vaguely toward the curtained back room, then the city beyond “—this is bigger than you. Bigger than your pride. And if you walk into it thinking it’s just another way to carve your name into history, it’ll carve you instead.”

She didn’t say it with cruelty. She said it like truth. And that was worse.

Kael furrowed his brow. “You don’t even know what the job is.

Lysa gave a snort sharp enough to cut. “I know more than most would believe,” she said, turning slightly toward him. “And you do? Charging in like a starving fool at a banquet—don’t even know what’s on the table, but already licking the silver.

“I don’t need to,” she said, voice flat as slate. “Syble and Setra don’t show up without reason. And when they do, it’s never small.”

She poured the tea, still not looking at him.

“I know what they want from you.” A pause. “And I know better than to say.”

She poured without looking at him, voice snapping like frost off a branch.

She set the kettle down hard.

“Well. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the world decided it needed someone just reckless enough to get involved and just stubborn enough not to die right away. Stars help us—you fit the bill.”

Then, a beat later, without looking at him:

“And stop looking like I’ve slapped you. If I wanted to hurt your feelings, I’d write it down in ink and mail it to your grave.”

Her look lingered just a moment longer—measuring, half-resigned, half-irked.

Then she turned back to the pot and muttered,

“Should’ve put whiskey in this.”

Lysa fell silent.

For a long moment, she just stared into her cup, the steam rising in slow spirals. Her fingers curled around the ceramic like it held more than heat. When she spoke again, her voice was different—not softer, but weighted. The flair was still there, the fire—but something older threaded through it now. Something almost reverent.

“They said not to tell you anything,” she murmured. “Not about where you’re going. Not what you’ll be doing. That’s for them to say.”

She didn’t look at him. Just swirled the last of the tea in her cup, watching the leaves drift like silt in a stirred riverbed.

“But they didn’t say I couldn’t prepare you.”

Her jaw tensed. Her thumb tapped once against the rim.

“And as much as it pains me to admit it, you’ve finally done what I never thought you’d manage.”

She downed the rest of her tea in one sharp pull, the steam still curling.

Didn’t even flinch.

“Definitely needed the whiskey,” she muttered.

Kael shifted, the first edge of a question forming on his tongue.

“Lysa, what do y—”

“Shut it,” she snapped, not even looking at him. “If I wanted your thoughts, I’d pluck them straight from that skull of yours and pin them to the wall like drying herbs.”

She finally turned, eyes sharp again—but behind them, something lingered. Not quite fear. Not quite regret.

“But I don’t. So hush.”

She stood abruptly, chair legs scraping the stone behind her. The sound echoed sharper than it should’ve.

“Get up, boy,” she muttered, setting her empty cup aside with a hollow clink. “Come here.”

She didn’t wait.

Lysa crossed the room in three limping steps and stopped at the curtain that veiled the back room. Her fingers hovered near the edge—not quite touching it, but close enough the fabric shifted with the tension.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next.

“You want answers?”

Her voice was quiet. Not soft—Lysa didn’t do soft—but something worn at the edges. Frayed.

“Then stop acting like you’re owed them.”

She finally glanced back at him, storm-colored eyes unreadable.

“Well?”

Kael said nothing. He knew better. Whatever answers Lysa might give him now, they wouldn’t be straightforward—and the fact that she knew the twins at all still spun in his mind like a coin on edge.

But when she motioned, he followed.

She drew back the curtain to the back room with a snap of her wrist, revealing… chaos. A cluttered maze of shelves and glass-stoppered bottles, old books, hanging herbs, and scattered bones. It looked more like a storm had passed through a scholar’s nightmare than a sacred space.

Lysa glanced at him, then burst out laughing.

“Spirits, look at your face. What did you think I’d show you? A severed head and a prophecy?” She smirked. “Please. I’d at least light a candle first.”

Lysa stepped into the room, muttering to herself as she moved between leaning towers of tomes and half-labeled jars. She brushed aside a cobweb, then ducked under a hanging bundle of dried yarrow with all the grace of someone used to the chaos but not particularly impressed by it.

Her hands moved with purpose—until they didn’t.

She scowled, shoved aside a crate of loose vials, then reached up to tug a fraying cloth off what looked like a ceremonial bowl filled with polished stones and, inexplicably, buttons.

“No, no, no,” she muttered. “I just had it last season.”

She bent, rifled through a stack of scrolls that promptly collapsed in a heap around her feet.

“Spirits blind me, I’d find it faster if I set the place on fire and summoned the ashes.”

Kael stayed silent at the threshold, wisely.

Lysa didn’t look up, just kept digging—grumbling the whole time. “Can remember the spell that binds marrow to root under a bleeding moon, but not where I put one bloody satchel. Gods save me.”

She froze mid-mutter, then straightened slowly. Her eyes narrowed. “Wait…”

Turning on her heel, she crossed to the far wall and glared up at a leaning shelf stacked with tinctures, faded scrolls, and an unfortunate number of skulls.

“Of course,” she said dryly. “Of course I’d be that idiot.”

She reached up and swatted aside a few of the skulls—one hit the floor with a hollow clunk, another bounced off a shelf below with a cheerful rattle. Behind them, half-buried beneath a collapsed cluster of dried herbs and brittle parchment, was a worn satchel.

Lysa grabbed it, shook off the dust, and slung it over her shoulder like a weapon rediscovered.

Without further ceremony, she shoved the entire shelf forward.

The crash was spectacular.

Glass shattered. Wood splintered. Bottles rolled and popped their corks, releasing sharp, herbal tangs into the air. A puff of powdered something went airborne, glittering in the dusty light like crushed bone and star ash.

Kael didn’t flinch. But his brows did lift.

Lysa stood amid the wreckage, unbothered. “Didn’t like that shelf anyway.”

Behind it, set into the stone wall, was a small alcove.

And inside the alcove sat a plain wooden chest—old, heavy-lidded, reinforced with tarnished brass bands and sealed with a black iron lock.

Lysa took a key from the satchel and knelt in front of the chest. Kael followed suit, silent, his presence steady beside her.

She slid the key into the iron lock. It resisted—age and disuse stiff in its bones. Lysa muttered a curse under her breath and tried again, twisting harder.

Then she paused, not looking at him.

“You know,” she said, voice flat, “you were always a little shit.”

Kael tilted his head. “You’ve mentioned.”

“But you were a clever little shit. Darian saw it the moment he laid eyes on you.”

The lock clicked open.

“Said you were raw. Angry. But you learned fast. Hit faster.”

Kael’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his posture softened—just slightly.

Lysa opened the chest and pulled back a heavy cloth. Beneath it, a set of Draegard armor rested—sleek and battle-worn, trimmed in dark steel and black leather, built for speed and power. Beside it, a sword and dagger gleamed in the low light.

The weapons shimmered—obsidian-black blades kissed with crimson at the edge. The hilts were crafted from what looked like dragon fangs, bound in black leather. The crossguards flared like a dragon’s wings mid-flight, and the pommels bore garnet gems that pulsed faintly with a soft, internal glow. The scabbards were equally elaborate—deep crimson, trimmed in gold filigree, with a subtle pattern of scaled skin embossed along the length.

“He made these for you,” she said, voice thinner now. “Every plate, every stitch. Tuned to your weight, your reach, your style—before you even had a style.”

She ran a hand along the chestplate, fingers lingering where the old Draegard sigil caught the lamplight.

“He was proud of you. Would’ve said it more if you hadn’t driven him to drink.”

Kael exhaled—soft, like something too complicated to name.

“Then Hale came,” she said. “Challenged him. Beat him. Killed him.”

Her voice turned flint-sharp, but quiet. “It was clean. I’ll give him that. But I watched the man I loved bleed out in front of me—and the bastard didn’t even look back.”

“And in all the years since then, he had no idea what it meant to be a Draegard—yet wore the title like it was a damn crown.”

She looked up at Kael then, eyes shining but hard. “And now you’ve ended him. Not out of vengeance. Not out of pride. Just because someone needed saving.”

She smiled—small, crooked. “That’s the part that earns this.”

She stood and turned the chest toward him.

“And yes,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “he already worked that clever enchantment of yours into the whole set. The armor will look like plain traveler’s clothes as long as you wear them.”

Kael stepped forward slowly. His fingers brushed the etched steel—cool, solid, perfectly fitted for hands like his. The linen-wrapped bundle felt heavier than it should, but right.

Lysa’s voice softened, just enough. “You’ve grown, Kael Moren. Still moody. Still brooding. But not so broken as you used to be.”

She smirked. “And if you tell anyone I got sentimental, I’ll gut you with a soup spoon.”

Kael looked up at her, a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Lysa grinned, sharp and tired. “Damn right you wouldn’t.”

Lysa watched him a moment longer, then sighed—long and low, like something giving way inside her ribs.

“You weren’t born of the old world,” she said. “Not like Darian. He came from a time when bloodlines mattered. When names meant more than noise.”

She ran a hand down the edge of the chest, knuckles brushing the iron banding like a memory.

“You didn’t have that. Didn’t need it.”

She looked up at him again—really looked, eyes storm-dark and steady.

“But you might be the last true Draegard anyway.”

There was no smirk this time. No jab. Just quiet conviction, spoken like it hurt a little to admit.

“They’ll never say it,” she went on. “Those twins. But they see it in you. Your value. Your edge. They’ll use it if you let them. So don’t.” She pointed a crooked finger at him.

“What they’re asking of you won’t make sense ‘til you’re where you need to be,” she said, voice low. “And when the time comes—don’t agree to more than you’re willing to pay for.”

Her gaze cut toward him, all thorns and knowing.

“Even a worthy path’ll gut you, if you walk it blind.”

She took a breath, slow and sharp, like she was preparing to say something she’d promised herself she wouldn’t.

“When you’re done out there—if you’re still breathing—come back.”

Her voice was quieter now. Still rough. Still her. But careful.

“There are things I haven’t told you. Things I should.”

A beat passed. Then she turned away with a harrumph and a wave of her hand.

“Now get your armor on. I’m sick of the sight of you standing there gawping like a half-boiled turnip.”

She crossed the room with her usual limp and began gathering broken bits of glass with entirely too much noise.

“No more time for dawdling. You’ve got stars to offend and gods to disappoint.”

But her voice caught—just slightly—on that last word.

And she didn’t turn around.

He turned to the chest, the lamplight flickering across the armor’s dark sheen. For a moment, he just stood there, hands resting on the edge. Then, slowly, he reached in and began to lift the pieces free—pauldron, bracer, chestplate—each one heavier than it looked, each one fitted to him in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. And as he fit each piece, its weight seemed to vanish.

He strapped the vambraces tight, his fingers moving with quiet certainty. The cloak, lined in deep crimson, draped fluidly over his shoulders, falling just short of the scabbard where the sword now rested—silent, coiled, waiting.

He waited for the illusion to take hold.

It didn’t.

The armor remained what it was—blackened steel, sigiled and sharp, gleaming faintly in the low light.

Kael frowned.

Lysa didn’t even look up from sweeping glass. “It responds to will, not timing,” she said, like it was obvious. “Think for it to change and it will. Doesn’t just hide—it adapts. That was Darian’s improvement.”

Kael hesitated.

“Picture it,” she added, waving a hand vaguely. “Could be rags and soot for all it cares. Just pick something and mean it.”

He closed his eyes, drew in a breath—and visualized the longcoat. The worn boots. The weathered gloves.

The illusion settled over him last.

With a blink, the Draegard armor dulled into the shape of a traveler’s garb—patched, worn, unremarkable. Nothing but a longcoat, dark trousers, leather gloves. But the weight was there. The readiness. The quiet threat of steel beneath.

Kael exhaled, slow and controlled.

From the corner, Lysa watched, still crouched over her pile of broken glass. She didn’t say anything for a long time. Then—

“Well,” she muttered, brushing her palms on her skirts. “You look like a mercenary who’s about to make a very stupid decision.”

Kael adjusted the strap across his chest. “That accurate?”

She gave a noncommittal grunt. “Closer than not.”

He turned to face her fully now—gear fitted, weapons in place, the illusion seamless.

“Thank you,” he said. Simple. Unadorned.

Lysa rolled her eyes like it physically pained her. “Don’t get sentimental. You’ll undo all my hard work making you tolerable.”

Kael smiled faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She stepped forward then, just once, and reached up to adjust the collar of his coat.

“You come back,” she said, tone neutral, but her hands careful. “You come back with all your limbs. Or I swear I’ll raise you just to yell at you.”

He nodded once. Firm.

And then he turned toward the door.

As he reached for the handle, she spoke one last time—quiet, almost to herself.

“Last true Draegard,” she said.

The words followed him out.

The door to Lysa’s cottage clicked shut behind him, and Kael exhaled into the morning air. The weight of new armor sat hidden beneath a traveler’s illusion, but it pressed against his skin like memory. He didn’t head for the gates just yet.

Instead, he turned back toward the heart of the city.

By the time he reached the tavern, the streets had grown busier—vendors calling from shaded stalls, carts rattling over worn cobblestones, and the city humming with its usual chaos.

Kael stepped into the tavern just past midday. Warm light spilled through the high windows, catching on mugs and the faint haze of hearthsmoke. The usual hum of voices and clinking cups filled the room.

He crossed to the corner near the fire—quiet, half-shadowed, just warm enough. The chair creaked as he sank into it.

Elena appeared before he’d even settled fully, a plate balanced on one hand, the other resting on her hip.

“People are still buzzing about the arena,” she said, then leaned forward and set the plate down in front of him with casual precision. “Hale. The girl. And the man who stepped in at the last second. No one knows who he was, but they remember how he moved—and how he disappeared right after.”

Kael reached for his fork, turning it once between his fingers. “I saw it.”

Her eyes lit as she slid into the seat across from him, elbows on the table, gaze locked. “You did? Tell me everything. I didn’t get to go. What happened?”

He bent slightly over the plate, steam curling up toward his face. The food smelled rich—fresh off the fire. But he stopped short of the first bite.

“It was the most spectacular fight I’ve ever seen,” he said. “She held her ground longer than anyone expected. Hale had her reeling—but just before the final strike, someone stepped in. Dropped him clean. The crowd didn’t even breathe until it was over.”

“And then vanished into thin air,” Elena said, her voice softer now. “You wouldn’t believe the stories flying around. Some think he was hired. Others say exile come back for revenge. I’ve heard shadow-assassin, disgraced knight, even god-touched.”

Kael let a smirk slip as he rested the fork on the plate’s edge. “People do like their stories.”

“Mhm.” She didn’t move. “You were with them the night after. Her and her brother. Sharing drinks. Sitting close.”

Kael didn’t answer at once.

“I hadn’t even seen you throw a punch before that night,” she added. “Then out of nowhere, you knock her brother flat.”

He lifted the fork again, paused with it halfway up. “He came at me first.”

She shrugged. “Sure. Just… funny timing. One day you’re invisible, next you’re drinking with the girl everyone’s talking about. Then you’re throwing punches in my bar. You don’t usually get involved.”

Kael gave a faint smile and finally took a bite. “Maybe I got curious.”

Elena rose, brushing her hands on her apron, but her gaze lingered a moment longer.

“You’ve got a good poker face,” she murmured. “But your tells are slipping.”

She turned as if to go, but Kael’s voice stopped her.

“I took a job.”

A pause.

“Through the Myrkviðr.”

Her face went still. Not dramatic—not wide-eyed—but still, like a breath held and never quite let out.

“No one goes south through the Myrkviðr,” she said softly.

“Some do.”

“And fewer come back.”

Kael said nothing. He knew she was right.

He reached into his coat and pulled out the pouch he’d gotten from the town’s when he took the job. Laden with coin but it was small and looked empty, a clever enchantment.

He undid the clasp and poured two brimming handfuls of gold into her waiting palms. Coins clinked and spilled through her fingers, heavier than they had any right to be.

She blinked. “Kael…”

“For the far-side rooms,” he said. “Get the beams fixed right. Pay the rest on the tavern so the deed’s in your name. There’ll be enough left to breathe. Or bolt, if it ever comes to that.”

She stared at the gold. It didn’t feel real. “This is more than a thank you.”

“It’s what I owe.”

Her jaw tightened. “You’re not coming back.”

“I plan to.”

“That’s not the same.”

He looked at her then—really looked. Something softened in his posture, like a blade slipping just out of reach.

“For the meals,” he said. “For not asking questions. For letting me pretend this corner was mine.”

She held the coins tighter. “You think that’s what I did?”

Kael didn’t reply.

“You always did bet high,” she said.

He smiled faintly. “House always wins.”

But she didn’t smile back. “Not out there it doesn’t.”

He dipped his head, just enough to count as a goodbye, and turned toward the door. His boots whispered over old floorboards, and then he was gone.

Kael reflected on the morning’s events as he moved through the crowds on his way to Finn’s. He wasn’t fond of the idea of heading south through the Myrkviðr. It was said to be uninhabited—except by wild beasts and wilder magic.

At the stables, he found Finn standing proudly beside a stall separate from the others. There stood the most magnificent horse Kael had ever seen—

Finn was brushing down a dapple-gray stallion when he saw Kael and beamed. “Well I’ll be. Thought they were jokin’ when they said this one was for you.” He slapped the horse’s flank. “Finest tack I’ve ever laid eyes on—real silver, polished black leather, custom fittings. Some noble somewhere is gonna be mad when they realize it’s missin’.”

Kael smirked. “Don’t think I’m stealing it. I’ve been paid ahead for once.”

Finn tilted his head and looked him up and down. “You’re wearin’ a shirt with holes in it.”

Kael shrugged. “Wasn’t that far ahead.”

The halfling snorted “strangest deal I ever made, first time I ever got paid to take a horse just to be told to give it away. They said It’s yours if you survive meeting it face to face. But be Careful though—this stallion’s got fire in his veins.”

Kael now put his full attention on the horse.

It was black—but not simply. It moved, subtly, like a living thing. The surface shimmered with a heatless, living texture, like cooling metal or a still lake touched by distant thunder. In some angles it dulled to pure matte; in others, it whispered with faint embers, like dying fire beneath ash. Sometimes Kael thought he saw shapes in it. Not reflections—memories. Things he couldn’t name.

He looked bred for war. Taller than any warhorse, but moved with the precision of something born for more than battle. His coat was black—not the dull black of midnight, but the deep, lightless black of scorched obsidian, shot through with flickers of iridescence when the light caught his flank. His mane and tail moved like smoke caught in slow wind—weightless, trailing, and unnervingly alive, as if remembering every storm he had ever galloped through.

He smelled like rain in a thunderstorm.

And his eyes…

They were silver. Not pale or gray, but molten—liquid metal flickering behind glass, too smooth, too perfect. They didn’t blink.

This was the mount?

He glanced toward the stablehand, who only gave him a nod, already turning away.

The horse didn’t flinch.

He was expecting leather straps and hooves, some tired animal reined too long and half-spooked by travel. But this one just stood there, silent as stone.

The tack was just as impressive: gleaming leather with intricate silverwork, reins adorned with delicate patterns, and a saddle so finely crafted it looked more like a throne.

Kael reached a hand toward his muzzle.

“Hey there,” he murmured. “Guess it’s you and me.”

And the air changed.

It was subtle—no crack of thunder, no flash of light—but the space between them tightened, as if something ancient had just taken a breath. The coat beneath Kael’s palm warmed. Softened. Then rippled, like fire passing beneath the skin.

Cracks of orange-gold light raced faintly across the horse’s body—no brighter than embers—but enough. Enough to show Kael this wasn’t a trick of the dark. This wasn’t just a horse.

A glow bloomed at the center of his forehead.

A horn. Straight. Black as stone, but lit from within—veined with molten light, alive with power barely restrained.

Kael froze.

The horse watched him—still unmoving, still silent—but now… lit from within, as if remembering itself.

And then it faded.

The cracks closed. The horn vanished. His coat turned black again, plain and dull.

Just a horse.

But Kael stood there a moment longer, hand still resting on that muzzle, breath shallow.

“…Right,” he whispered. “You’ll do.”

Finn didn’t speak at first.

He just stared at the stallion, arms slack at his sides, eyes narrowed like he was trying to see through smoke.

“Kael,” he said finally, voice low. “What the hell did you just saddle?”

Kael adjusted one of the buckles on his coat. “A horse.”

Finn looked at him, deadpan. “That wasn’t a horse. That was a nightmare wrapped in smoke and dressed like a forge-spirit.”

Kael didn’t argue. Just gave the reins a soft tug.

“He let me mount.”

“Yeah, and the moon lets wolves howl at it—doesn’t mean it’s safe.”

The stallion stood still, breathing slow, silver eyes reflecting nothing.

Finn shook his head, half in awe, half in disbelief. “You touched it, and it lit up, Kael. Lit up like it remembered the sun.”

Kael offered a faint smile. “Maybe he just likes me.”

Finn gave him a look. “No one just likes you. Not even me. Took years.”

Kael swung into the saddle. The beast shifted under him, fluid and powerful. The weight of the swords on his hips felt right—anchored, balanced.

Finn stepped back a little, rubbing his jaw. “If you bring that thing back glowing again, I’m charging extra for stabling.”

Kael raised an eyebrow. “What if I don’t come back at all?”

Finn’s grin was sharp, but brief. “Then I’ll know it lit you up too.”

the reins.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—just weighted. A kind of knowing that didn’t need to be named.

“You heading straight out?” Finn asked finally.

Kael nodded. “South.”

Finn exhaled through his nose. “You always pick the fun routes.”

“Don’t wait up.”

“I never do.”

But he didn’t move. Just stood there, hands on his hips, watching Kael the way someone watches a ship leave harbor—too far to stop, too close to forget.

Then, softer, “You sure you want to do this?”

“No.”

Finn gave a short laugh. “At least you’re consistent.”

Kael turned the stallion slightly. It moved with eerie ease, hooves soundless against the packed dirt. Just before Kael could signal him forward, Finn stepped in, grabbing the bridle for half a second—not to stop him, just… to hold.

“If you die,” Finn said, voice low and dry, “I’m keeping your boots.”

Kael raised a brow. “You’d look ridiculous in my boots.”

Finn let go and stepped back, already smirking. “You’re not wrong.”

Kael hesitated.

Then, quietly: “Thanks. For the horse. For everything.”

Finn gave a lopsided shrug, like he couldn’t decide whether to say you’re welcome or you idiot—so he said neither.

“Just come back,” he muttered. “I don’t want to break in another one like you.”

Kael gave him a nod. “I’ll try.”

And then—without another word—he nudged the stallion forward.

The horse moved quiet and gracefully, like smoke and shadow, the city falling behind with each quiet step.

Finn watched until they disappeared from view.

Then he spat into the dirt, muttered something about “dramatic bastard” and went back to work.

What a sight he must have been: a humble scholar, astride a royal steed, with weapons that could start a war. He caught the stares—some in awe, others in quiet contempt. It wasn’t a crowd, but it was enough. As he neared the city gates, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Where are you off to this time, trouble? Trying to ride out with a stolen fortune?”

Kael turned to see Warren—a stocky, smug city guard leaning on his halberd, watching the traffic.

“Afternoon, Warren,” Kael replied, already weary. “The only thing I’ve stolen is a quiet life. Didn’t seem like anyone was using it.”

Warren grinned. “Is that so? Awfully fine horse and arms for a broken little piss pot like yourself. Tell you what—I’ll save myself the trouble of investigating. Pay me five gold and I let you through. Or we can go have a long, loud chat with the captain.”

Kael’s jaw tensed. He didn’t have time for this. Then he remembered—he wasn’t broke anymore.

He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out ten gold coins.

“Five for now, five for when I return—and here’s a tip for guarding the gate,” Kael called, flipping a final coin.

It struck Warren square in the eye.

The guard yelped and doubled over, clutching his face as Kael rode through the gates without another word.

He glanced back at the grand spires and floating island above Aeldenwood. The city shimmered beneath the sunlight, the magic of the castle above casting its long, noble shadow.

He had departed Aeldenwood just after lunch, the lingering taste of roasted venison still clinging to memory as he’d slipped past the city gates. The main road had been bustling with foot traffic—merchants pushing carts heavy with spice and fruit, farmers herding livestock, travelers exchanging weary greetings. Kael kept to himself, hood low, eyes scanning the horizon. Guards in lacquered armor nodded at him without recognition as he passed. The din of the capital faded gradually with distance, replaced by the chirping of larks and the rhythmic clop of hooves on packed earth.

After an hour, he turned off the well-worn trade route, guiding his stallion down a narrower path—one overgrown and seldom traveled, winding southward through thinning woods and patchy meadows. Here, the world felt quieter. More watchful. Trees leaned in close, as if whispering to one another.

The road south unfurled beneath a sky bruised with the colors of dusk—golds bleeding into mauves, stretched across the heavens like the aftermath of a fading battle. Kael rode in silence, the wind tugging at his cloak, his thoughts a tide of half-formed worries and old memories.

Every rhythmic stride of the horse beneath him carried him further from comfort, deeper into the unknown.

When the path finally spilled out into open fields, Kael gave the reins a subtle flick. “Go,” he murmured. The stallion surged forward, hooves pounding the earth in a blur of motion. Wind screamed past Kael’s ears as the landscape rushed by—fences, distant cottages, rolling grassland bathed in amber light. He welcomed the speed, the brief thrill that chased away thought. It didn’t last long, but it didn’t need to.

Fields gave way to dense thickets, the horizon swallowed by a wall of gnarled trees. The Myrkviðr. It was no ordinary forest.

No map could chart its heart, no traveler could claim to have crossed it without cost. Stories claimed it moved when you weren’t looking—paths shifting, whispers crawling into your thoughts. That magic twisted and bent within its borders, as though the very roots drank spells and bled nightmares.

Kael reined in the stallion at the crest of a hill overlooking the forest’s edge. From here, the trees looked like petrified sentinels—vast, silent, and watchful. Shadows pooled between them like spilled ink. He dismounted slowly, patting the stallion’s neck as he stretched out stiff legs.

“You’ve got good instincts,” he murmured to the horse. “Better than most people I’ve met.”

The horse snorted, flicking its ears at him with a look that was almost smug.

Kael chuckled. “What, you think that’s high praise? You don’t even have a name yet.”

He looked the stallion over again—its coat black as a moonless sky, mane and tail like woven starlight, those pale grey eyes gleaming with quiet defiance. “How about… Void?” he offered. The horse immediately stepped away and turned its head in what could only be described as disapproval. “No? Alright, too dramatic. What about—Midnight?” A huff, louder this time. Kael arched a brow. “Okay, now you’re just being picky. Storm?” Another snort. The horse stamped a hoof. Kael squinted. “You’re worse than Finn.”

He leaned on the saddle, thinking when he felt an impression in his mind he was certain it came from his steed. Then, quietly, he said, “Eryndor?” The horse stilled. Its ears perked. No snort. No hoof. Just stillness—and something in those grey eyes that looked like… recognition. “Did you just tell me your name?” Kael asked looking at the strange animal. And another impression came upon him it wasn’t words or thoughts just a feeling he knew without a doubt now that the rose was communicating and theat he had spoken his own name. He didn’t understand how but Kael could understand his mount and the mount clearly understood him.

“Eryndor it is,” Kael said with a nod. “Stubborn as hell, but regal. Fitting.”

He set to work assembling a modest camp—bedroll unrolled, a small fire coaxed to life from dry kindling. The firelight cast flickering gold over his gear, the sword and dagger gleaming faintly as he checked their straps. Once everything was settled, Kael sat near the fire, pulling off his gloves, flexing his fingers. The warmth was welcome, but his mind wasn’t calm. Not here. Not yet. The Myrkviðr loomed ahead—ancient, undisturbed, unknowable. Kael stared into the trees, jaw tight.

He remembered stories. How the forest swallowed entire expeditions. How compasses spun and maps burned of their own accord. How the southern Myrkviðr had never yielded to axe nor

flame. And how anything that ventured too far beyond its borders was simply…..lost or forgotten.

Kael reached into his pack and pulled out the letter again—the one that started it all. The ink was still faintly scented with lavender and spice. He read it one last time, lips moving silently as his eyes traced the words.

The twins had been cryptic but said they had reason and now he waited for them to arrive. He folded it carefully, then drew the obsidian dagger. Its dark blade caught no light. It drank it instead. Kael held it for a long time, watching as tiny sparks of red shimmered across the surface—like embers beneath glass. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was part of something older. Something he couldn’t yet name.

Behind him, Eryndor lowered his head, watching silently. Kael could feel the horse’s gaze.

“Do you think I’m mad for going in there?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Eryndor said nothing, of course—but he didn’t look away either.

Kael smiled faintly. “Yeah. Me too.”

He leaned back against his saddle, eyes turned skyward. The stars had begun to pierce through the clouds, constellations shifting slowly above like an ancient clockwork.

Somewhere in the Myrkviðr, the first piece of the truth waited for him. And Kael would find it.

No matter what it cost.

Kael’s thoughts drifted back to the day’s events. He couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling of how much Syble and Setra seemed to know about him. He was good at reading people, as sharp as any conman, but this was different. It was as if they had seen inside his mind—understanding his every intention and action with unnerving accuracy.

Then his mind turned to the few people he left behind that he knew cared about him. It was a sentiment he wished he could share in. But the fact that he was likely on his way to meet his end or become lost in those woods and the chance that he may never see them again….had no effect on him. He wanted to miss them. He knew he should. He could remember what it felt like to miss someone but he could no longer actually feel it. He’d react as though he could when it suited him, but ever since the blade split his throat and woke up on a bed 10 years ago in Lysa’s house he’s has remained emotionally disconnected.

As the shadows grew longer and the evening air turned cool, Kael kept a sharp eye out for Syble and Setra. He knew they would arrive soon, and he was eager to hear more about his mission.

The flickering firelight offered a small comfort, its soft crackle a soothing backdrop to the coming nightfall.

Then, as if on cue, the sounds of the forest and grasslands around him stilled. The chorus of crickets, rustling leaves, and distant nightbirds ceased abruptly, like a predator was near. A heavy stillness filled the air. Kael’s senses sharpened, his eyes scanning the shadows for movement. He remained alert, knowing that whatever had caused the silence was drawing near. Moments later, two familiar figures emerged from the shadows of the Myrkviðr. Syble and Setra appeared at the clearing’s edge, their presence both commanding and serene. The twins moved with effortless grace, their contrasting eyes gleaming eerily in the firelight.

“Good evening, Kael,” Syble greeted, her smile steady and warm. Setra nodded, her expression calm. “We hope we didn’t keep you waiting long.”

Kael relaxed slightly, acknowledging them with a nod. “Not at all,” he replied, his curiosity

piqued by the eerie silence that followed their arrival. He’d expected them from the direction of the city, but they’d come from the forest instead. There was something unnerving about their

shadowy figures at the fire’s edge, so he gestured for them to join him. “Have a seat. I’m eager to hear about my mission.”

The twins approached and settled by the fire, their movements fluid and deliberate. As they sat, Kael couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that came with their sudden appearance. The forest was dead silent, as if nature itself feared them. He forced himself to focus on what they had to say, even as his instincts screamed to stay alert.

Syble spoke first, her voice soft but full of intent. “Kael, we called you here because we have a task of great importance. Your actions today have shown us that you’re ready for what lies

ahead.”

Setra added, “The journey through the Myrkviðr will be treacherous, but it’s only the beginning.

You’ll be venturing to the place where the Riftveil began—a site of immense power and turmoil.”

Syble continued, “The Riftveil was the cataclysmic event that shattered Avalyth, rending the world asunder. You’ll be traveling to its very heart—a place where the boundaries of reality are thin and the remnants of that tragedy still linger. Legends call it the Frozen Edge.”

Kael’s brow furrowed, the weight of their words settling in. He had heard the legends of the Riftveil his entire life, and now it seemed those tales were about to become his reality.

Setra picked up where her sister had stopped, her voice soft, almost reverent. “The Riftveil

shattered Avalyth. You’ll be traveling to its edge—the wound it left behind. The Frozen Edge.”

Syble added, “It can’t be explained. Only experienced.”

The twins raised their hands, their fingertips brushing. The fire dimmed. The air grew heavy with an unnatural stillness. Their voices merged, a low hum that seemed to resonate deeper than sound. Magic stirred—not around Kael, but within him.

And then, the vision began.

In the place where the planet split, the storm took hold, Time’s grip corrupted, the chaos did unfold.

Waves stilled mid-crash, a frozen sight, Lightning captured, suspended in the night.

Kael stood at the precipice of an alien world. Beneath his feet, the earth cracked open in jagged fractures that glowed faintly blue, as if time itself had bled into the stone. Before him, the ocean had surged—and stopped. Waves towered in place, mid-crash, caught in a single eternal breath. Lightning—forked and violent—hung motionless in the sky, casting long, unmoving shadows across the ice.

The wind carried a melody. The lyrics whispered like ancient truth, threading through the stormclouds above.

Frozen Edge, where time is a ghost, An icy realm, the land of gods.

Silent waves and lightning’s arc,

In this frozen sea, there lies a spark.

He turned slowly. The land stretched endlessly, glittering with unnatural frost. Hills of solid water rolled like glass dunes, glimmering with starlight trapped within. Above, the sky was split down the middle—half night, half dawn, frozen in conflict.

Time had not just stopped here. It had been broken.

The sea rose up in jagged grace,

A frozen roar that chills the face.

Its fury caught mid-motion, bare,

A silence hard as winter air.

He stepped forward. His boots crunched against crystalline snow. Massive crests of frozen water curled into arches and spires, casting eerie shadows that shifted with no sun to move them. Some waves looked like beasts—leviathans caught in the moment before breaching. Others resembled shrines, their curves delicate and intentional.

Kael touched one—felt the memory of movement beneath his fingers. But it did not yield. This was not ice. It was time, stilled.

Chill winds whisper, frost’s cruel embrace, Frozen bolts, an eerie grace.

Swells so vast, intricate and grand,

A haunted coastline, locked and spanned.

The wind howled without motion. Kael’s breath fogged, though the air didn’t bite—it clung. Around him, frozen rivers formed veins across the terrain, glowing faintly from within. The bolts of lightning were enormous, piercing the horizon like crystalline spears. He passed under one, its hum low and mournful. Snowflakes hovered in the air. Unmoving. As if caught in thought.

When the earth was shattered, seas torn apart, A frozen testament, a work of art.

The Frozen Edge, timeless and cold,

A story of chaos, forever told.

A pulse of light shimmered across the distant sky.

Lightning flickered in slow motion—coiling, unfurling, retreating—all at once. The sky shimmered with it, like a heartbeat seen through glass. There was something alive here. Something ancient. Watching.

Frozen Edge, where time is a ghost, An icy realm, the land of gods.

Silent waves and lightning’s arc,

In this frozen sea, there lies a spark.

Dark clouds loom, their anger quelled, Thunder’s roar in silence dwelled.

Lightning’s dance, a pattern of light, Casting shadows in the endless night.

He tilted his head, listening.

There was no thunder—but the pressure of it was in his chest. The clouds churned in strange patterns, folding in on themselves with silent rage. Light flickered like runes in the dark, tracing paths across the heavens.

They weren’t random. They were signals. A language he couldn’t read—but felt all the same.

Just ice. No time. No day. No night.

Just static weight, and halted light.

The first crack, made without a sound—

The sky split open. The world unbound.

He climbed a rise of sculpted frost.

From the summit, he saw the great scar—the place where the world had torn. A fissure ran for miles, wide enough to swallow cities, deep enough that it vanished into starlight. Around it, the ocean hovered in mid-fall, spilling inward without ever touching the core.

But at its heart—impossibly, defiantly—stood a castle.

It was suspended on vast stone bridges that stretched from either side of the chasm, not crafted by hand but shaped by the land itself. The arches were jagged and imperfect, as though the earth had refused to let the castle fall, clutching it in place with stubborn fury. The structure was ancient—spires twisted by wind and frost, battlements lined with frozen statues of winged creatures mid-flight.

And in that heart of stillness—he saw something spark. A flicker. A heartbeat.

It called to him.

Not named. Not sung. Not called aloud.

Not dared beneath the thunder’s shroud.

But all who see this frozen shore

Know what was here… and is no more.

Frozen Edge, where time is a ghost, An icy realm, the land of gods.

Silent waves and lightning’s arc,

In this frozen sea, there lies a spark.

The words curled around his thoughts now, no longer distant. They were in him.

The landscape pulsed with memory. Echoes of gods long dead. Wars that never ended. Time that would never mend.

Walking through this realm of ice, A frozen dance, nature’s sacrifice.

The place the planet split, and time was corrupted, A world forever chilled, the balance disrupted.

The final note echoed like a bell in his bones. Just as the final note of the song faded into the void—a flash of violet light erupted from a high window in the tallest tower. Not bright, but deliberate. Like a signal. A warning. Or a summons.

The light disappeared.

And with it, the vision shattered.

He was back at the camp. The fire crackled softly. The twins sat where they’d been, hands still joined, eyes open now—but not looking at him. Not yet.

Kael exhaled, frost still curling from his breath.

“Tell me,” he said slowly, voice raspy, “how do I get there?”

Setra’s voice softened as she concluded, “The Frozen Edge is a place of both tragedy and beauty, a solemn reminder of the Riftveil’s wrath. The Myrkviðr guards its secrets well—no map can lead you true. But follow the compass south, beyond where most dare to tread, and you will find it, Kael: the center of everything that was broken.”

As the conjured vision began to fade, with the shock of the experience receding, his senses

returned, and cold doubt crept in. “What proof do you have that this place is real? How can I trust what I’ve just seen is anything more than clever magic?”

Setra’s haunting voice responded, “The proof lies within your journey, Kael. You will know the truth when you reach the Frozen Edge and see it with your own eyes.”

Syble added soothingly, “Trust in the path you are on. The Myrkviðr and the site of the Riftveil await, and your journey will reveal the truth in ways you cannot yet comprehend.”

Kael’s expression grew steely as he gazed hard at the twins. He wasn’t fool enough to gamble his life without proof of the odds. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t just take your word for it,” he said, suspicion lacing his tone.

Seeing Kael’s unresolved doubts would not rest at her sister’s words, Setra smiled. “Well, at least you are not a fool,” she said with a chuckle.

Syble reached into her cloak and pulled out an ancient map, its edges worn and faded. She handed it to Kael, her fingers brushing his as she passed it over. Kael’s breath caught in his

throat. He could feel the weight of the object in his hands—the map wasn’t just parchment, it was a relic, a fragment of the past, something that could answer the questions that had gnawed at him for years. The faintest tremor ran through him as he grasped the map, a surge of excitement and obsession curling through his chest.

This map—one of the few remnants from the world before the Riftveil—could hold the key to unlocking the very mysteries he’d devoted his life to uncovering. He hadn’t dared to hope he might ever hold something like this in his hands, and now that he did, the pull of it was undeniable.

Kael unfurled the map, his eyes scanning its intricate details. Most of it was unfamiliar, filled with names and places he had never seen or heard before. Where the Myrkviðr now loomed on modern charts, the map showed a vast stretch of open land, dotted with towns and cities long erased. No forest, no blight—only civilization, now buried beneath centuries of silence. The ink was faded in places, but the landmarks were clear enough to be useful. Though aged and worn, it lent credibility to their words.

Satisfied with the proof, Kael gave a curt nod. “Is there anything more I should know?” he asked, sensing that there were details they had left out purposefully, as though to see if he had the wit to ask.

Setra and Syble exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable. Instead of responding with words, each twin removed a ring from their finger. Syble’s ring was particularly striking—an intricate dark metal band with gold inlays, ornate patterns winding around it. Set in the center was a round gem of a sickly green hue. This gem seemed to warp and distort the air around it, creating an aura of eerie light and shadow.

“This ring,” Syble explained in her soothing voice, handing it to Kael, “will mask your scent from lesser beasts, provide you with the ability to communicate across any language, and help you see farther in the dark.”

Setra then extended her hand, revealing her own ring. The band was made of a white metal, lined with intricate black inlays that traced elegant patterns along its surface. Set in the center was a gem of silver, swirling with a golden mist within. As Kael gazed at it, the gem seemed to have a life of its own, shimmering with an ethereal glow.

Setra’s haunting voice carried a sense of gravitas as she explained, “This ring will keep you warm against any cold, help keep you dry in the rain, and allow you to sense the intentions of another person in times of uncertainty.”

Both twins spoke in unison, their voices blending seamlessly. “These rings have other uses, but you will have to discover them on your own.”

Their tones then shifted, firm and powerful, leaving no room for doubt. “We are hopeful that you need not someone to babysit you through the forest, Kael. You were hired to take on this task and given tools to aid you. Be grateful we have given you as much.”

Kael accepted the rings, marveling at their craftsmanship and the power they seemed to hold. He slipped them onto his fingers, feeling an immediate connection to their magical properties.

Before he could express his gratitude, Setra’s voice took on a serious tone. “One more thing, Kael,” she warned. “You are not the only one searching for the Frozen Edge. There are others who seek its power, and you must not let anyone know what you are searching for. The stakes are too high, and the dangers too great.”

Syble nodded in agreement, her soothing voice tinged with urgency. “Remember, discretion is key. Trust no one with knowledge of your quest, for even a single whisper could bring unwanted eyes upon you.”

Kael absorbed their warnings, understanding that there were forces at play he didn’t know about and that he didn’t know which side of the moral fence he was currently standing on, not that it mattered much to him. He accepted it as part of the mission that he would have to discover the answers to both who else was searching for the Frozen Edge and the side he was on for himself. His favorite part of gambling was the excitement of events with unknown variables leading up to an uncertain outcome, and this was proving to be the most exciting gamble of his life so far.

Setra then began to speak of another legend, her voice painting a vivid picture. “There is another tale, Kael, one that speaks of a leviathan beneath the ice of the Frozen Edge. It is said to tunnel under the ice, protecting whatever lies at the center of the Riftveil’s beginning.”

As Setra spoke, Kael’s mind conjured the image of this mighty creature. A leviathan, an immense beast of legend, with scales as hard as the thickest ice and eyes that glowed with a cold, ruthless intelligence. Its massive body carved tunnels beneath the frozen sea, moving with an eerie grace through the glacial depths.

Syble continued, her voice adding to the imagery. “The leviathan is a protector of the Frozen

Edge, its massive form creating a labyrinth of tunnels beneath the ice. It is said that the creature’s very presence keeps intruders at bay, and its roar can shatter even the strongest resolve. Those who have dared to venture too close to its domain often speak of the feeling of being watched, a primal fear that seeps into their bones.”

Setra’s voice softened as she concluded, “This leviathan is a formidable guardian, Kael. If you are to succeed in your mission, you must be prepared to face not only the frozen landscape but also the ancient powers that dwell beneath the ice.”

The vivid description of the leviathan stirred a mix of awe and apprehension within Kael. He knew the journey ahead would be fraught with peril, but he also felt a growing readiness to be on his way.

Syble spoke first, her soothing voice echoing through the night air, “Time is no object, Kael, nor shall money be. If you are in need, you will always find the amount required in your saddlebag.”

Setra’s haunting voice continued, “The world may forget you exist while you search, but upon your return, you will be a figure never to be forgotten.”

Turning to leave, the twins laid a hand upon Kael’s shoulder. “Good luck,” they said together. As they stepped out of the firelight, their forms began to shimmer. They vanished into thin air, the last notes of their voices echoing on the wind, blending with the night.

As he stared into the embers, Kael wondered what it would be like to be forgotten by the world. The thought gnawed at the edges of his mind like frost creeping through cracks—quiet, invasive, inevitable. He wasn’t widely known—just another wanderer in a vast, indifferent world—but the idea of vanishing completely, of existing only in shadows and silence, stirred a strange unease within him. Stranger still was the absence of sorrow. The thought should have stung, but it stirred nothing in his chest. That emptiness unnerved him more than the thought itself.

Yet alongside the fear of fading, there flickered something brighter. The twins had promised that upon his return, he would be a figure no one could forget. Immortality of name, of deed, of memory. The thought was honey on the tongue. To be etched into history—to leave a mark so deep the world would never heal from it—felt like a reward worth any price. Kael had few fond memories in this life. He would trade them all for legacy.

His pulse quickened. A name carried by wind and whisper long after his bones turned to dust. More than a fleeting breath in time.

The fire crackled softly, its light dancing across his face, casting gold over the furrow of his brow. Doubt flickered at the edges of his thoughts, but it was met with the raw, undeniable thrill of what lay ahead. The unknown loomed large, a dark sea without stars, and yet, beneath his apprehension, a voice whispered: Greatness lies in the crossing.

He flexed his fingers and felt the cool weight of the rings he wore—silent totems of his purpose. Their touch grounded him, reminded him that this was real. No longer a dream, no longer a tale passed across tavern tables. The twins’ final words echoed in his mind: Time and coin are no object. The world might forget him for now—but not forever. Not if he succeeded.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, allowing the forest to speak. The wind rustled through the trees like an old song, and an owl’s distant call cut through the quiet with solemn grace. Crickets stitched their rhythm into the air. Nature’s nocturne, ancient and unchanging.

In that stillness, Kael found a fragile peace—a tether between fear and anticipation, between what he was and what he might become. The night offered no answers, only silence. But within that silence, resolve took root.

He opened his eyes. The firelight reflected in them, like stars caught in glass. His chest felt both lighter and heavier—a paradox of emotion he could neither name nor shake. The burden of what success would mean pressed on him like armor, but so did the promise: wealth beyond imagining, and a legacy carved into the bones of history.

He would not falter.

The night deepened. The twins’ magic had long since faded, and with it, the forest returned to itself. The trees no longer held their breath. The owl sang again. Crickets resumed their nightly sermon. The world accepted him once more.

Kael moved with purpose. He unrolled his bedroll, its fabric whispering against the earth. Forgoing his tent—the stars too beautiful to hide from, the air too warm to warrant walls—he lay down beside the fire.

Above him stretched a cathedral of stars. Each one a silent witness, their cold light older than gods. The moon poured silver across the land, turning every branch and stone into sculpture. Kael stared upward, breath slow, heart steady. A hush fell over him.

The weight of the mission did not vanish, but it softened, reshaped by the awe of what surrounded him. This world still held beauty, even after all it had lost.

He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of pine and earth and fire. His mind wandered again to the Frozen Edge, to the secrets that slept beneath its ice. Fear and wonder danced in equal measure. But slowly, gently, the night began to wrap him in its embrace. His thoughts slowed. The ache behind his eyes eased.

As his breathing steadied, he let his muscles unwind, one by one. The warmth of the fire met the cool kiss of the soil below, and between the two, he found balance.

Sleep came not with a crash, but with a slow surrender.

The forest cradled him. The stars above held their silent vigil. And in that stillness, beneath that ancient sky, Kael drifted into dreams—while the world, just for a little while, forgot him.

But morning would come. And with it, the first steps of a man who would not be forgotten.

The soft light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a golden hue across Kael’s campsite nestled along the tree line. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the earthy scent of the forest. Embers in the firepit had burned down to a gentle glow, and a fine layer of dew shimmered on the grass and leaves, catching the first rays of sunlight.

Kael stirred from sleep, stretching as he took in the quiet serenity. The sky above was painted in strokes of pink and orange, and long shadows stretched across the ground. Birds chirped softly, their melodies a subtle reminder that life thrived in the world around him.

With practiced care, Kael set about breaking camp. He left no trace behind—packing his bedroll, extinguishing the embers, and scattering leaves and ash until the forest floor looked untouched. Once satisfied, he turned to his horse. The steed greeted him with a soft whicker, its eyes reflecting quiet trust. Kael patted its neck and murmured something low before fitting the saddle and bridle. Opting to lead the horse on foot for now, he took the reins and began walking, tracing the forest’s edge.

The world stirred around him, bathed in the gentle hush of morning. Trees stood tall and ancient, their trunks like silent sentinels guarding secrets older than the land itself. Leaves rustled softly in the breeze, creating a natural symphony that accompanied his steady footsteps.

Kael’s thoughts wandered—equal parts anticipation and determination. The Myrkviðr loomed beside him, dark and enigmatic. Its borders were inviting in the way cliffs called to fools: beautiful, mysterious, and potentially fatal. He could feel the pulse of magic just beyond the first line of trees.

Eventually, Kael turned south, leading his horse into the forest proper. The trees closed in around them, their thick canopy filtering the sunlight into dappled patches on the forest floor. Each step felt like crossing into another world.

The Myrkviðr was known for its shifting paths and unpredictable nature. No map could capture its temperament, and no traveler emerged unchanged. The journey to the Frozen Edge had truly begun.

Ancient trees loomed above—gnarled and twisted, their bark cloaked in moss and lichen. The light that pierced the canopy was tinged green and gold, casting an enchanted glow on everything it touched. Underbrush crowded the path: delicate ferns swaying in the breeze, wildflowers blooming in vibrant bursts, and low vines coiling like lazy snakes around roots and trunks.

The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled the air, a testament to the cycle of life and death that ruled here. Yet within the decay, there was beauty.

Kael soon spotted the forest’s stranger inhabitants—creatures shaped by centuries of residual magic. A Luminescent Slyvek, foxlike and glowing faintly in the shadows, darted through the underbrush, leaving a trail of pale light. Its intelligent gaze lingered on Kael before vanishing into the foliage.

A Whispering Serpent slithered nearby, its vine-like scales blending perfectly with the greenery. Only its golden eyes gave it away. The soft, rustling whisper it emitted echoed like leaves caught in windless motion, eerie and beautiful.

Above, Glimmerwing Moths flitted through shafts of light—delicate insects with glasslike wings. They shimmered like sunlight on water, drawn to pockets where the forest’s magic gathered thickest. The hum of their wings added a soft, melodic counterpoint to the forest’s natural chorus.

Sunlight painted the ground in shifting patterns—cool shadows broken by warm pools of light. The interplay of light and dark made the Myrkviðr feel otherworldly, as if Kael had stepped outside the known world entirely.

He took his time. He’d never traveled this far south in the forest and didn’t intend to rush. There was too much to see.

He passed Mooncap Fungi, mushrooms as wide as dinner plates that absorbed moonlight. Their phosphorescent caps glowed softly at night, illuminating the underbrush in pale hues.

Pearl-draped spiderwebs glistened with dew, strung like necklaces between branches. The Spindleweaver Spiders that spun them were unique to the Myrkviðr—their silk stronger than steel, their artistry nearly invisible unless kissed by morning light.

Kael caught glimpses of larger creatures too: a Sablehart, its velvety black fur shifting with the forest’s colors, and antlers that glowed faintly in the gloom; a Crimson Boar, bristled in shimmering red, rooting through the undergrowth for magic-laced tubers.

But as midday crept closer, the forest grew still.

The hush was immediate and chilling. Birds fell silent. The usual rustle of unseen creatures vanished. Even Kael’s horse grew uneasy, its ears flicking and nostrils flaring. Kael slowed, alert. His pulse quickened. Then he saw it.

A Shadowstalker—a predator as silent as death—stepped into view. Catlike in form, its sleek body melted into the forest shadows, nearly invisible save for its piercing emerald eyes. It hunted by sight. And it was close.

Kael’s body tensed, breath halting. Without a sound, he led his horse off the trail and crouched behind a thick clump of bushes, one hand gripping the reins tight, the other resting near his blade. His heartbeat thudded in his ears.

The Shadowstalker prowled past, muscle and menace in perfect motion. Its emerald gaze swept across the underbrush. Kael held still, barely daring to blink. Sweat slid down his temple. One sound—one movement—would mean death.

The predator paused, ears twitching toward a distant noise. Then, in a blur of motion, it vanished into the trees. Kael exhaled slowly, pulse still hammering.

Above, the canopy allowed only fractured glimpses of sky. Shafts of filtered light painted the path ahead in amber and green. Shadows danced and shifted with every breeze, a living mosaic that seemed to watch his every step. He pressed on.

The Myrkviðr tolerated no arrogance. Kael knew better than to lower his guard. But even amid its dangers, the forest held a strange allure—one he couldn’t ignore. Respectful, cautious, but ever curious, he ventured deeper. Each footstep was a quiet declaration: I see you. I’m listening.

The forest, ancient and alive, whispered back.

The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the forest floor. With only a few hours of good light left, Kael’s thoughts turned to making camp—until a sudden blur of motion snapped him to attention.

A wood sprite shot from the trees like a bolt of lightning, its iridescent wings glinting in the fading sun. A high-pitched giggle, mischief-laden and melodic, echoed through the trees. In a blink, it snatched the dagger from Kael’s belt, the blade flashing in the dappled light.

Kael froze, his gaze locking onto the tiny figure now hovering before him.

The sprite was no larger than his hand, its delicate features a mix of curiosity and amusement. Its skin shimmered with a faint translucence, like it was made of living starlight. Dragonfly-like wings fluttered rapidly, catching and scattering light in a kaleidoscope of color. Large, expressive eyes sparkled with delight, and it wore clothing fashioned from woven leaves and petals—an outfit both elegant and utterly wild.

Kael didn’t move. He’d heard tales of wood sprites—tricksters with a fondness for pranks, but easily provoked into something far more dangerous. He forced a calm smile, leaning into charm.

“Your speed is impressive,” he said lightly. “That was quite the feat, snatching my dagger so swiftly. But I’m going to need it back. Or do I have to chase you down?”

His grin matched the sprite’s own, sly and challenging.

The sprite let out another giggle, a sound like wind chimes in spring. “Catch me if you can, big guy!” it teased, wings whirring as it darted away.

Kael’s pulse quickened. He’d hoped to ease into the forest, to observe before engaging. But the Myrkviðr had other plans. With a final glance at his horse, he took off after the sprite.

The forest came alive with movement. The sprite streaked ahead like a glimmering comet, zigzagging between trees, dancing over moss-covered logs. Kael followed with practiced agility, weaving through roots, ducking branches, his every movement calculated and fluid.

The canopy cast a patchwork of shadow and light across the forest floor, turning the chase into a game of reflex and instinct. The sprite’s laughter echoed around him, spurring him forward. It darted to the left, disappeared behind a thicket.

Kael didn’t hesitate—he dove through the foliage and emerged still on its trail. His breath came steadily, years of training and instinct guiding him. He was faster than most, but the sprite was something else entirely. Still, he grinned. He hadn’t felt this alive in weeks.

“You’re slow, big guy!” the sprite called back, veering sharply and skimming the forest floor.

Kael followed, vaulting over a fallen tree, barely brushing the undergrowth. The ground grew trickier—leaf-covered slopes, tangled roots hidden underfoot. Still, Kael pressed on.

“Is that all you’ve got?” the sprite called, clearly enjoying itself. Kael could almost reach it now—his fingers brushed air just behind the dagger’s hilt.

Then the sprite shot straight up into the trees.

Kael climbed after it, leaping from one thick branch to another, the rustle of leaves and the sprite’s laughter blending in a symphony of movement. He climbed higher, using momentum and balance rather than brute force.

Then, without warning, the sprite swooped back down and zipped through a narrow gap between two massive trunks. “Too slow, human!” it called.

Kael twisted midair, slipped through the gap, and kept pace.

The chase blurred into instinct. The forest raced past him. The sprite’s wings shimmered like sunlight on water, its laughter leading him deeper into the heart of the Myrkviðr.

Finally, the sprite slowed. A small clearing opened ahead. The air felt still, charged with the same anticipation Kael felt in his bones.

Both came to a stop.

The sprite hovered just out of reach, dagger still in hand, eyes sparkling. “I win this round,” it declared triumphantly. “So, big guy… what’s next?”

Kael grinned, catching his breath. “Alright—double or nothing.”

The sprite arched a brow. “Oh? Not another chase, I hope.”

Kael reached into his pocket, pulling out a small enchanted amulet—finely crafted, etched with runes, enchanted with a minor protection charm. “This is my wager. What do you propose for our next game?”

The sprite eyed the trinket with interest, but shook its head. “Tempting… but I’ve got something better in mind.”

Its gaze flicked to Kael’s hand.

“How about one of those shiny rings instead? Much more interesting, don’t you think?”

Kael hesitated. The rings—gifts from the twins—were more than enchanted relics. They were reminders of a bond forged in fire and blood. Giving them up wasn’t just a gamble; it was

betrayal. Still… an idea sparked.

“I’ll do you one better,” he said, removing both rings. He held them up alongside the amulet. “Double or nothing. If I win, I get my dagger. If you win, you keep the dagger and the rings. But if I win… you owe me a favor.”

The sprite’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, I like the sound of that! Bold and clever. Alright… but the game has to be fair.”

It spun mid-air, wings humming. “How about riddles?”

Kael shook his head. “Too easy to manipulate. Riddles have a hundred right answers and a thousand wrong ones.”

“Clever and cautious,” the sprite said with approval. “Fine. Let’s make it a contest of skill—no tricks, no magic—just talent.”

The sprite lit up. “Perfect!”

They moved quickly. The clearing was ideal—flat, open, with a line of trees at various distances. Kael set up targets at fifty, one hundred, and one hundred fifty yards.

The sprite hovered beside him, twirling its bow in one hand. It was a delicate thing—made of enchanted vine, strung with silver thread. Its arrows were slivers of polished stone on flexible twigs. Though tiny, the bow glowed faintly with power.

“Ready to lose, big guy?” it teased with a wink.

Kael didn’t answer. He just nodded once and stepped back, jaw set.

The sprite took its position, drawing an arrow with a fluid motion. It hovered in midair, still as a dragonfly just before the strike. Then—twang.

The arrow zipped through the air and struck the first target dead center with a satisfying thunk.

“One down,” the sprite sang, a little twirl midair. “Two to go.”

Kael’s eyes narrowed. That was no lucky shot.

The sprite turned smoothly, lined up again—this time at the second target, one hundred yards out. The silence thickened as it drew and loosed.

Another bullseye. Unshaken. Effortless.

Kael’s fingers curled tighter around his bow.

It was a game, but one with stakes he couldn’t afford to lose. The dagger was replaceable, sure— but the rings? One was gifted by Syble, the other by Setra, and both held magic threaded with memory. They weren’t just tools. They were pieces of trust. Of loyalty.

And now, they hung in the balance.

The sprite turned toward the final mark—one hundred fifty yards. The farthest shot. A challenge even for seasoned archers.

Kael watched it still midair, its wings only a faint shimmer, its face now serious. The bow creaked softly as it drew. Then, with a breathless pause—it fired.

Dead center. Again.

The sprite spun midair, arms raised high. “Three for three! A draw is as good as a loss—you can’t win unless you top that, human!”

Kael didn’t move.

His heartbeat thrummed—not from panic, but pressure. The kind that coiled tight beneath the ribs, sharp and surgical.

He stared down the range.

One miss, one slip, and it was over. The dagger, the rings, the favor—it all vanished in a puff of wings and laughter.

He stepped forward and reached for his bow.

No charm. No tricks. Just skill.

He exhaled slowly. Let the tension bleed out through his fingertips.

And the challenge began.

Kael stepped forward, calm and quiet. The sprite floated nearby, arms crossed, smug and sparkling.

“Three perfect shots,” it said with a grin. “Not bad for a little thing, huh?”

Kael didn’t answer. He rolled his shoulders, drew a steadying breath, and unstrapped the elegant longbow from his pack—a sleek, darkwood weapon strung with braided shadowthread, silent and taut. He’d crafted it himself in the western isles, where the winds never stopped screaming.

Bullseye.

The sprite arched a brow but said nothing.

Kael reached for his second arrow. His focus narrowed. One hundred yards.

He exhaled and fired. Thunk. Bullseye again.

The sprite’s grin faltered, just slightly. “Lucky shot,” it muttered.

Kael stepped into position for the final mark. One hundred fifty yards. A stiff breeze stirred the leaves, but Kael’s eyes stayed fixed on the center of the target.

Fired.

The arrow whistled through the air—cutting across the gust like a blade through silk—and slammed into the center with a sharp, perfect crack.

Three for three.

“Match,” Kael said simply.

The sprite stared at the distant target, mouth slightly open. It flitted forward, inspecting the arrowheads, muttering under its breath. Then, slowly, it returned to Kael, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“Tied,” it said flatly. “Not a win. Just a match.”

Kael smirked. “Then let’s settle it.”

He reached for his last arrow—a heavier one, with a rune-carved shaft and a silver tip. He turned and pointed to a distant pine tree far beyond the last target.

“See the knot in the bark?”

The sprite squinted. “That’s… easily two hundred yards.”

“Right.” Kael nocked the arrow, drew back, and loosed without another word.

The arrow soared—a dark blur arcing high, then diving down. It struck the tree with a clean, hollow thock, sinking dead center into the knot.

The sprite’s jaw dropped.

Kael turned to it, calm and composed. “Your turn.”

The sprite narrowed its eyes, suddenly serious. It hovered to the spot, drew one of its glimmering arrows, and loosed with a sharp whistle.

The arrow flew fast—clean, tight—but veered just slightly off-course, missing the knot by an inch.

Silence followed.

Kael crossed his arms. “That’s game.”

The sprite floated still for a moment, eyes wide. Then it broke into a cackle—a high, wild laugh full of genuine delight. “HA! Oh, you cheeky, clever bastard!”

It zipped around him once, then landed gently on his shoulder, placing the dagger neatly back in its sheath.

“A deal’s a deal,” it said with a grin. “You win. Your dagger, your rings… and one favor.”

Kael raised a brow. “You’ll honor that?”

“Of course I will,” it replied, mock-offended. “I may be a thief, but I’m not a liar. You get one favor—no tricks, no loopholes.”

“And your name?” Kael asked.

The sprite crossed its tiny arms again. “That’ll cost you a second favor.”

Kael chuckled. “Fair.”

It gave a wink and began to rise into the air. “Don’t waste the favor on something boring, alright? Be interesting. And if you need me—just whisper into a ring of mushrooms. I’ll hear it.”

With a flutter of wings and one last mischievous laugh, the sprite vanished into the trees, trailing shimmering dust behind it.

Kael stood alone in the quiet clearing, heartbeat steady, grin lingering. He retrieved his arrow from the tree and slid it back into his quiver.

Then he turned, whistled low, and his horse trotted out from the shadows where it had waited the entire time.

“Come on,” Kael muttered. “Camp’s not going to set itself.”

Kael took a moment to compose himself and assess his surroundings. As he looked around, a realization struck him—the sprite might have played one final trick.

He stood in a circular clearing, with eight distinct paths branching out in all directions. Each led into a different type of forest, creating a surreal and mesmerizing panorama.

The first path disappeared into a dense and shadowy woodland. Towering, ancient trees stretched skyward, their branches so tightly woven they formed a canopy that allowed only slivers of light through. Moss blanketed the ground in a dark green carpet, and the air was cool and damp, alive with the subtle sound of rustling leaves.

The second path was a riot of color and life. Trees shimmered in the golden sun, their green leaves rustling above vibrant wildflowers in full bloom. The air was sweet with their fragrance, and a symphony of birdsong and insect hums gave the forest a welcoming charm.

The third path led into a pale, ghostly grove. Trees with white, smooth bark and silvery-grey leaves stood like silent sentinels. Ethereal blue grass swayed in a light mist that clung to the ground, casting the entire scene in an eerie, haunting glow.

The fourth was peaceful, lined with cherry blossom trees whose delicate pink petals fluttered gently in the breeze. The path itself was made of smooth white stones, and the scent of blossoms filled the air. It exuded calm and quiet serenity.

The fifth was wild and untamed. Gnarled trees choked by thick vines loomed over an uneven path littered with roots and brambles. The scent of damp earth and decay hung heavy, and distant animal calls echoed faintly, hinting at hidden dangers.

The sixth path defied imagination. Trees made of crystal sparkled in the sunlight, refracting light into dazzling patterns across white, sandy ground. As wind passed through the crystalline branches, it produced a soft, musical chime.

The seventh was dark and foreboding. Trees blackened and bare clawed at the sky, while crimson grass pushed through pitch-black soil that looked almost tar-like. The air stank of smoke and ash, and the cracked, broken path added to the sinister ambiance.

The eighth and final path glowed with golden light. Elegant trees shimmered with brilliant gold leaves, and the ground was covered in soft, sunlit grass. The air smelled of honey and wildflowers, and the well-worn path seemed warm and inviting.

Kael stood at the center of the clearing, turning slowly to take it all in. Each path was a world unto itself—each filled with beauty, danger, or both. If the sprite meant to confuse him, it had succeeded.

Still, Kael reminded himself of what the twins had said: time was no object, and he would be

forgotten until his return. That meant he had all the time he needed. Even if he chose wrong, he’d find something.

He pulled out his compass, hoping for clarity—but the needle spun wildly, refusing to settle. He didn’t know how far in he was, or which direction was south.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the forest into a brief, breathtaking twilight. Leaves glowed pink and purple in the fading light, shadows dancing across the forest floor. But night fell quickly here, and Kael knew predators—both natural and not—would soon be on the move.

He made camp near a large, sturdy tree, its wide trunk offering some sense of shelter. As his fire crackled to life, he mulled over the twins’ warning to keep his mission secret. Since receiving his scar, he hadn’t told anyone anything about himself.

The memory of that day clawed its way back.

Kael never knew how he survived..(NOTE: I can’t remember if Lysa already mentioned finding him at the city gates after his throat was cut need to check the scene at the beginning.)Recovery had been long and brutal. The scar on his throat was a permanent reminder of betrayal.

Since then, Kael had trusted no one. Beneath his stoic exterior, what would have been a simmering rage lived but he could not use the rage he knew he should feel. He didn’t feel it. Instead he decided to use logic to fuel his need for vengeance. He was betrayed and he was owed a blood debt—, one day, he would face that ghost from his past And when he did, there would be no forgiveness..

He stirred the fire, watching the flames flicker. The Myrkviðr loomed around him, alive with mystery and danger. Yet in that moment, Kael felt ready.

To shake the memory, he thought of the sprite—clever, relentless, and unexpectedly respectful. Winning the archery contest had earned him a favor, and in a place like this, that could be everything.

Kael smiled faintly as he lay back on his bedroll. The fire’s warmth and the forest’s nocturnal chorus wove together into a strange but comforting lullaby. The Myrkviðr held secrets, and he would uncover them. Somewhere ahead waited the Frozen Edge—and maybe, if fate was kind, his vengeance too.

He awoke with a start.

His heart pounded. Something had roused him, but he couldn’t tell what. Moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting shadows across the clearing. His hand found the hilt of his new sword, just in case.

The forest was alive with rustlings and whispers. But his stallion stood calm, ears flicking lazily—an encouraging sign.

Kael rose silently, scanning the dark. Thanks to the rings on his fingers, his enhanced vision

pierced the gloom, revealing details no human eye should see. The clearing was clear… almost.

Then he saw it.

A soft glow between his stallion’s ears.

Perched there was a black cat with luminous green eyes. They shimmered from within, casting a faint emerald light. The stallion didn’t move, seemingly pleased with its new companion.

Intrigued, Kael approached. The cat turned its head and locked eyes with him. A calm settled over him, quieting his unease. The cat leapt down and padded to the fire, settling between Kael and the flames.

Kael, amused, offered it food. The cat didn’t move until Kael placed it down and stepped away. Then, with slow, precise bites, it ate. Once finished, it resumed its place by the fire, ever watchful.

Satisfied, Kael returned to his bedroll. The fire crackled softly. The cat, the stallion, the forest— they all felt oddly at peace.

He closed his eyes with a smile. Whatever the cat was, it seemed content. And for now, that was enough. Tomorrow, the Myrkviðr would challenge him again.

But tonight, he slept—guarded by firelight, feline eyes, and the deep, enchanted silence of the forest.

As the first light began to filter through the trees, Kael broke camp, adhering to his ritual of erasing all traces of his stay. He kept a wary eye on the feline, which remained perched, elegant and poised, between the horse’s ears. Its enigmatic eyes glowed, as if holding some secret of the forest. Kael mulled over the possibility of using some of the ring’s power to understand the

creature’s intentions, but decided against it for now. It felt… unnecessary. Sometimes, embracing the mystery seemed a better choice. Whatever the cat’s purpose, Kael was ready to face whatever the Myrkviðr had in store.

Choosing a direction wasn’t as critical as he’d first thought. He had no deadline, but he still needed to make a decision. He tried casting a spell for direction, but the Myrkviðr seemed to resist magic—something about this place. After debating a few choices, Kael decided to make a gamble of it.

Gambling was one of his favorite pastimes, and he was good at it. But this time, he was gambling with the Myrkviðr—his life versus its secrets, and all the rewards that came with discovering them. He pulled out his compass, broke the glass covering it, then closed his eyes and pressed his thumb down on the needle. When he opened them again, he found himself staring down the seventh path.

This path led into a dark, foreboding forest. The trees were tall and blackened, their branches twisted and bare, resembling skeletal fingers reaching skyward. The bark was charred and cracked, as if the trees had endured countless fires. The foliage was sparse, with only a few scraggly leaves clinging to the branches, casting eerie shadows on the ground.

The grass along the path was a deep, dark red, almost appearing as if it were stained with blood. The earth itself was pitch-black, exuding an ominous, almost tar-like appearance. Patches of the ground seemed to bubble and ooze, creating an unsettling sense of danger beneath each step. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and ash, lingering like a ghostly reminder of past infernos.

Kael hesitated, his gaze narrowing as he took in the desolate sight ahead. Not the kind of place to get complacent, he thought. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken warnings, but there was no turning back now.

With a breath, he continued forward, the unease in his chest growing as he walked toward the path’s end.

The path wound its way through the forest, narrow and uneven, with cracks forming treacherous gaps in the earth. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of branches or the rustle of unseen creatures. Cobwebs draped across the branches like morbid decorations, glistening with dew in the faint light.

The sky above was obscured by a canopy of twisted branches, allowing only slivers of pale morning light to penetrate the darkness. The atmosphere was suffused with an unsettling energy, as if the forest itself were alive and watching Kael’s every move. Shadows seemed to dance and shift at the edges of his vision, stirring his imagination, and a chill ran down his spine as the eerie beauty of the path unfolded before him.

This place wasn’t just strange—it was alive in a way Kael couldn’t quite define. It whispered to him, pulling at something deeper inside him, something that had been dormant.

The path narrowed, forcing Kael and Eryndor to move in single file. The air grew colder, and an ominous stillness settled over the forest. Kael felt it then—the weight of the forest’s gaze on him, as if the trees were waiting for him to make a mistake. And when the storm began to gather, it felt like the Myrkviðr itself was answering his unease.

The sky above the canopy began to darken, and distant rumbles of thunder echoed through the trees. Kael looked up, noticing the gathering storm clouds on the horizon, their dark forms swirling ominously. The clouds were a towering mass of black and gray, roiling and churning as they advanced. Lightning flickered within the clouds, illuminating their menacing shapes for brief moments before plunging the forest back into darkness.

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves and carrying the scent of rain and impending danger. The storm seemed to be heading directly toward them, its presence growing more formidable with each passing moment. Eryndor’s ears flicked nervously, sensing the approaching tempest.

“We need to find shelter,” Kael muttered, his voice tense. He glanced around but saw nothing. The forest had become a maze of trees, shadows, and thorns. The storm was closing in too fast. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this vulnerable. The world around him seemed to be bending to the storm’s will.

The storm hit like a hammer.

Kael barely had time to react before the wind picked up sharply, carrying the scent of rain and a promise of something dangerous. A chill cut through the air, biting into his skin, making him shiver despite his cloak. His clothes were soaked almost immediately as the storm began its approach. The freezing rain seeping through the fabric, clinging to his body with an unforgiving grip. Each drop felt like a sharp sting against his exposed flesh, and the cold seemed to sink straight to his bones.

His body was shivering, muscles stiffening in protest, but his mind remained steady, calm amidst the chaos. He tried to push forward, but the relentless downpour made every movement sluggish. He could feel the weight of the water pulling at him, dragging him down.

Then, Kael remembered the ring. With a mental command, he willed its magic to stir, to fight back against the cold that threatened to cripple him. Almost instantly, the magic hummed to life, and the biting chill faded away. The cold no longer gripped him, leaving his skin warm, even though the wetness of his clothes still weighed him down. He was dry beneath, but the dampness of his cloak and the cold water clinging to his boots made each step feel heavier, slower.

The rain continued to pour relentlessly, its weight pressing in on him, but at least the shiver in his bones had gone. As Kael continued to move, the storm seemed to intensify, growing wilder with each passing minute. Lightning cracked overhead, followed by a roar of thunder that shook the earth beneath him. The gusts of wind were savage, threatening to throw him off balance.

Kael’s heart pounded in his chest as the storm’s fury bore down on him. The lightning was coming closer, striking with frightening precision. The air smelled of ozone, the crackling energy making the hair on his arms stand on end.

Kael’s teeth clenched as they pressed forward, adrenaline rushing in his veins. You’ve weathered worse, he reminded himself. Keep moving. Don’t stop now.

But the storm had other plans. The sky seemed to split apart with the first crack of lightning, a jagged white bolt cutting through the darkness. Thunder followed instantly, deafening and terrifying, vibrating the earth beneath their feet.

Kael was forced to throw himself to the ground, yanking Eryndor with him, just as the lightning struck, blinding him. Before he could recover, a second bolt split the sky, this one hitting a towering tree just ahead.

Kael watched in horror as the massive tree began to splinter and fall, its trunk cracking in the storm’s fury. The deafening roar of its fall shook the ground beneath them, sending Kael’s heart

into his throat. The tree crashed with a thunderous impact, narrowly missing them by inches. The explosion of debris revealed the mouth of a cave, its dark entrance now partially exposed.

A third bolt of lightning struck the ground, igniting the forest around them. Flames surged toward the sky, devouring everything in their path. Heat washed over Kael, the blaze radiating from the trees with a fury that was nearly as wild as the storm itself. He knew the moment had come—no more time to wait.

With urgency in his movements, Kael urged Eryndor forward, the stallion’s hooves pounding the earth as they charged toward the cave. The storm whipped at them, but the black cat, perched on Eryndor’s back, remained unfazed—its green eyes calm, staring into the chaos with unnerving detachment.

They reached the mouth of the cave just as the entrance began to crumble. Rocks and debris tumbled down, the storm’s final wrath taking its toll. Kael shoved Eryndor forward, his body propelled by instinct more than thought, as the mouth of the cave collapsed behind them. The deafening rumble of thunder followed them into the darkness, leaving them swallowed by the cave’s cool interior.

As they stumbled into the cave’s dim shelter, Kael felt a brief moment of relief. The storm’s intensity was kept at bay, the heat of the flames no longer threatening. Yet the weight of the storm still lingered in his chest, a reminder of nature’s fury and his place within it. The ring’s magic kept him warm, but it hadn’t spared him the weight of the rain. That was something he would have to contend with later.

The echoes of the storm outside began to fade, leaving only the sound of his heavy breathing and the crackling of distant fire. And in that brief silence, the black cat’s piercing eyes locked onto Kael again, but this time, they seemed to hold something more. Something… knowing.

For a moment, they stared at Kael, their intensity unwavering. Then, with a fluid motion, the cat leapt off Eryndor's back and disappeared into the shadows of the cave.

"Wait!" Kael called out, his voice echoing off the cavern walls. But the cat was gone, swallowed by the impenetrable darkness. Kael's heart raced as he stood there, trying to make sense of their surroundings. The cave was silent, save for the distant sounds of the storm and the faint hissing of the extinguished fire outside.

Kael knew they couldn't stay by the entrance. They needed to find a safer place deeper within the cave. He reached out, feeling for Eryndor's reins in the darkness. The stallion's warm breath was a comforting presence as Kael guided him forward, one cautious step at a time. With his enhanced vision, Kael could make out the rough contours of the cave walls and floor, allowing him to navigate more effectively. The cave floor was uneven, and Kael had to navigate carefully to avoid stumbling over loose rocks and debris. The air grew cooler the further they went, a stark contrast to the blistering heat outside. Kael's senses were on high alert, every sound amplified in the confined space.

As they ventured deeper into the cave, the darkness seemed to press in on them from all sides. Kael's mind raced with thoughts of what might lie ahead. He could only hope that the cat had found a safe path through the darkness.

They had survived the storm and the fire, but their journey was far from over. The Myrkviðr had proven to be a treacherous place, and he knew they would face many more challenges before their journey was complete.

For now, they had a moment of peace. Kael closed his eyes, allowing himself to savor the brief reprieve. The darkness of the cave enveloped them, a stark contrast to the storm's fury.

As he adjusted to the cave's eerie silence, Kael began to consider their situation from a different perspective. The collapse of the cave entrance meant there was no way back, but it also presented an opportunity to explore and discover what lay within. A thrill of excitement mixed with a sense of dread as he contemplated the unknown.

Kael's eyes scanned the cave walls, and he noticed faint, faded etchings carved into the stone. The markings were ancient, their meanings obscured by time and wear. He traced his fingers over the rough surface, trying to make sense of the symbols, but they eluded him. The discovery of the etchings filled him with a sense of wonder and curiosity.

He felt a surge of excitement and became eager to press on, to uncover the secrets hidden within the cave. Yet, the fear of being lost in the labyrinthine passages gnawed at the edges of his mind. What if they couldn't find a way out? What if they were trapped in the darkness forever?

Kael shook off the doubts, focusing on the excitement of the journey ahead. The cave held mysteries waiting to be uncovered, and he was determined to face whatever challenges came their way. The thrill of exploration and the dread of the unknown combined to create a potent mix of emotions, driving him forward.

Leading Eryndor deeper into the cave, Kael felt the mixture of excitement and dread intensify. The luminous etchings on the walls seemed to beckon him, urging him to uncover their secrets. The journey through the Myrkviðr was far from over, but Kael was ready to face whatever lay ahead, one step at a time.

As Kael guided Eryndor deeper into the cave, his enhanced vision revealed the rough contours of the stone walls and floor. The oppressive silence pressed in on them, amplifying every sound as they cautiously navigated the labyrinthine passages. The air grew cooler, and the scent of damp earth filled Kael's nostrils.

After what felt like hours of careful exploration, Kael noticed a faint glimmer of light in the distance Intrigued, he moved closer, the light growing brighter with each step. He stepped out of the narrow passageway and into a wide chamber where the source of the light became clear—a shimmering pool of water, glowing softly in the darkness. The water seemed to emit a gentle, ethereal luminescence, casting dancing reflections on the cave walls.

Kael approached the pool, the soft light illuminating his surroundings. The water was crystal clear, its surface smooth and undisturbed. As he gazed into the depths, he felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. The pool's glow felt almost magical, as if it held secrets waiting to be unveiled.

With a sense of anticipation, Kael knelt by the pool and peered into its depths. To his astonishment, the water began to ripple, images forming on its surface. The first visions that emerged were scenes from Kael's past—memories he had long forgotten or buried deep within

his mind. He saw the orphanage where he had grown up, the cold, unforgiving walls and the stern faces of the caretakers who had shown little kindness. The cruelties he faced there were etched into his memory—the harsh punishments, the lack of warmth or affection, and the constant struggle to survive in a place devoid of compassion.

The vision faded, and Kael found himself staring into the pool's depths once more. His heart pounded in his chest. The pool's glow seemed to dim, the images dissolving into the water's surface. The images shifted one final time, and Kael found himself reliving events from the Riftveil—the cataclysmic event that had changed the course of history and the state of the realm. He saw the chaos and destruction, the struggle for survival, and the heroes who had fought valiantly to protect their world. The pool seemed to bring these memories to life, allowing Kael to experience them as if he were there. Kael's vision was filled with the image of the goddess of nature, an elf of unparalleled beauty and grace. Her long, flowing hair was a rich shade of auburn, cascading down her back like a waterfall of autumn leaves. Her emerald green eyes sparkled with wisdom and compassion, and her presence exuded an aura of serenity and power. She rode atop a magnificent dragon, its scales a shimmering green with gold armor that glinted in the sunlight.

Opposing her was Zarathorix, an elf of fearsome presence. He was tall and lean, his stark white hair a sharp contrast to his deep purple eyes that seemed to pierce through the very soul. His features were sharp and angular, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline. His expression was one of cold determination and unyielding resolve.

Zarathorix's dragon was a fearsome beast, its scales a deep, blood-red with purple and silver armor that gleamed menacingly.

The air was thick with tension as the two dragons circled each other in the sky, their riders locked in a fierce battle of wills. Dark storm clouds swirled above, casting a shadow over the

battlefield. Lightning flashed through the sky, illuminating the combatants in stark relief, while thunder rumbled like the roar of an angry beast. Rain poured down in torrents, the wind howling through the trees and whipping the water into a frenzy. The entire battle took place over an intensely stormy sea, its waves crashing violently beneath them.

Zarathorix raised his hand, and bolts of dark energy shot from his fingertips, crackling through the air towards the goddess. Her dragon roared, dodging the attack with grace and agility. In response, she summoned a wave of shimmering green energy, sending it crashing towards Zarathorix.

The clash of magic and might was awe-inspiring, the sky alight with bursts of color and power. Kael could feel the raw energy of the battle, the ground shaking beneath him as the two titans fought for supremacy. The dragons' roars echoed through the air, mingling with the sounds of the arcane spells that filled the battlefield. The storm raged on, its fury mirroring the intensity of the conflict below. Zarathorix's dragon lunged forward, its jaws snapping at the goddess's mount.

The green dragon twisted in mid-air, narrowly avoiding the attack and countering with a swipe of its powerful tail. The impact sent Zarathorix's dragon reeling, but the dark elf quickly regained control, his eyes blazing with fury.

With a swift, fluid motion, Zarathorix drew a wickedly curved blade from his side, its edge gleaming with an unnatural light. He charged at the goddess, their blades meeting in a dazzling display of sparks and raw power. The force of their clash sent shockwaves through the air, the dragons spiraling around them in a deadly dance.

Despite her grace and skill, the goddess struggled against Zarathorix's relentless assault. His strikes were precise and merciless, each one aimed to bring her down. Desperation flickered in her eyes as she parried another blow, her strength waning against his unyielding resolve.

In a final, desperate move, the goddess summoned all her remaining power, channeling it into a spell that would change the course of the battle. As she cast the spell, the air

around them crackled with energy, a brilliant light enveloping them both. The spell's force was so great that it shattered the very fabric of reality, tearing Zarathorix's essence from his body and splitting it into five glowing gems.

Zarathorix's dragon let out a deafening roar as its rider was torn apart by the goddess's magic. The gems scattered across the battlefield, each one pulsating with the dark elf's essence.

The intensity of the spell's power reached a zenith, and the entire planet seemed to shudder under its force. The sea below churned violently, its waves rising to monumental heights and crashing down with the fury of a thousand tempests. The sky above crackled with energy, bolts of lightning striking the ground and sea with blinding intensity. As the spell's force climaxed, the sea began to freeze over completely,

transforming the tumultuous waters into a vast expanse of jagged ice, like the image the twins had shown him. The lightning bolts themselves were frozen mid-strike, their forks suspended in

the air like glowing, crystalline sculptures. The land itself began to break apart, fissures forming in the earth as the spell's power radiated outward. Mountains crumbled, their peaks splitting and tumbling into the

valleys below. The ground quaked with an almost primal force, entire continents shifting and cracking. The very air seemed to vibrate with the raw energy unleashed by the goddess.

Kael's perspective shifted as if viewing the scene from the stars. He witnessed the planet splintering, great cracks snaking across its surface. Chunks of landmass broke away, drifting into the void like fragments of a shattered mirror. The planet's core glowed with an intense, searing light, visible through the enormous fissures that marred its surface. The once-whole world was now a celestial puzzle, pieces of its former self scattered throughout the cosmos.

With her final act, the goddess used teleportation magic to scatter the gems to the far corners of the world, commanding the forces of nature to guard them. As the spell's light began to fade, her form broke apart into fragments of light, vanishing into the storm that raged throughout the battle.

The spell's aftermath left a world forever changed. The ocean, now a frozen expanse, lay silent beneath the sky, its surface a chaotic expanse of jagged ice and frozen waves. The sky didn't clear; the storm remained but frozen in time. Lightning bolts were stopped mid-strike, their forks suspended in the air like eerie, glowing sculptures. The storm clouds hung ominously, unmoving, casting a permanent shadow over the frozen battlefield.

Kael watched in awe as the remnants of the battle remained suspended in time, a testament to the incredible power and sacrifice of the goddess and Zarathorix.

The vision faded, and Kael found himself staring into the pool's depths once more. His heart pounded in his chest, the memory of the Riftveil fresh and vivid. the images faded leaving the waters surface blank and clear once more.

It was difficult for Kael not to look again, the allure of the pool drawing him in with its promise of more revelations. However, he knew well the addictive nature of magic. The pool's enchantment was unlike anything he had ever encountered, and he understood that its power could make him a willing prisoner, held captive by its mesmerizing allure. The seductive pull of the magical visions was almost overwhelming, tempting him to lose himself in its depths forever. Kael had studied magic long enough to recognize the danger of succumbing to its enchantments, knowing that it could trap him in a state of perpetual longing and obsession.

Eryndor, too, seemed eager to be away from the pool. The stallion shifted restlessly, his hooves clattering on the cave floor as he nickered softly. Kael soothed his loyal companion, running a reassuring hand along Eryndor's neck. "Don't worry, my friend," he whispered. "We’ll be leaving momentarily."

Kael took a deep breath, the weight of the past heavy on his shoulders. The luminous etchings on the cave walls seemed to beckon him, urging him to uncover their secrets. Kael stood, his gaze

lingering on the pool for a moment longer before turning to lead Eryndor further into the cave, across the uneven stone floor of the chamber he found another passageway on the far side of the cavernous room almost identical to the one leading back to the entrance.

The passage was tight, with barely enough room for them to walk side by side. The air grew colder, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed through the cavern. The path seemed endless, stretching on in a straight line with no turns or deviations. The oppressive darkness pressed in on them, making it feel as though they were walking through an endless tunnel.

Hours passed as they trudged along the narrow path, Kael's muscles aching from the exertion. His stomach growled loudly, reminding him of his need for sustenance. The relentless journey had taken its toll on both Kael and Eryndor, their movements growing slower and more labored with each step.

Eventually, Kael realized he could not continue without rest and nourishment. He decided to turn back and set up camp for some much-needed respite. Kael knew not the time of day, but it didn't matter. His body screamed for rest, and he could feel the weariness seeping into his bones. The narrow path offered no space for comfort, making it impossible for them to sit and rest properly.

With a heavy sigh, Kael turned Eryndor around, dreading the long trek back to the chamber with the pool. Every step felt like a monumental effort, his legs trembling with fatigue. However, after just ten steps, Kael found himself standing back in the wide chamber. The pool still glowed faintly, its soft light casting eerie shadows on the cave walls.

The suddenness of their return to the chamber took Kael by surprise. The narrow path that had seemed endless now felt like a distant memory. The chamber's expansive space was a stark contrast to the claustrophobic passage they had just traversed. The faint, ethereal glow of the pool illuminated the cavern, its light dancing on the rough stone walls and reflecting off the still water's surface.

Kael felt a mixture of relief and trepidation as he led Eryndor to a comfortable spot away from the pool. The chamber's cool air was a welcome change from the stifling path, and Kael began to set up camp, his movements slow and deliberate. He unpacked his provisions, the scent of dried meat and bread filling the air as he prepared a simple meal.

Eryndor, too, seemed to relax, his ears flicking as he nibbled on some grain. The stallion's earlier restlessness was replaced with a sense of calm, his trust in Kael evident in the way he stood quietly by his side.

Kael's stomach growled again, reminding him of his hunger. He took a bite of the dried meat, the familiar taste providing a small measure of comfort. As he ate, Kael couldn't help but glance back at the pool, its faint glow still beckoning him. The magic's allure was undeniable, but Kael steeled himself against the temptation. He knew he couldn't afford to lose himself in its depths, not when there were still so many unknowns ahead.

As Kael finished his meal, he felt a sense of weariness settle over him. The journey had been long and arduous, and his body craved rest. He laid out his bedroll on the cool stone floor, the sound of Eryndor's soft breathing providing a soothing backdrop. The chamber's eerie silence was broken only by the faint, rhythmic dripping of water from the cave's ceiling.

Kael closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting to the visions he had witnessed in the pool. The memories of the past and the challenges yet to come weighed heavily on his mind, but he knew he had to stay strong.

As he drifted off to sleep, Kael's mind was filled with the echoes of the past, the visions from the pool lingering like distant whispers. The faint glow of the pool illuminated the chamber, a silent reminder of the magic that had brought him this far and the mysteries that still awaited him.

Kael awoke stiff and sore from a night on the cold, unforgiving cave floor. The battle with the storm and the exertion of their journey had left his muscles aching and his body weary. He groaned softly as he sat up, stretching to work out the kinks in his back and shoulders.

The chamber was eerily silent. The pool’s faint glow threw ghostly light across the rough stone walls. Kael dug into his pack for a light breakfast, hoping to regain a bit of strength. He chewed on a piece of dried fruit and some hardtack, the necessary sustenance providing a small measure of energy.

As he finished his breakfast, Kael began to look around the chamber with fresh eyes. Other than the faintly shimmering pool, whose magic still pulled at him, and the etchings on the walls, there were other details he had not noticed before.

The chamber was vast and cavernous, the ceiling arching high above them, adorned with stalactites that hung like ancient chandeliers. Some were long and slender, others short and thick, each one a unique formation crafted over millennia. Water dripped from their tips, the rhythmic sound echoing softly through the chamber.

The floor was uneven, with large flat stones interspersed with patches of gravel and small pools of water. The pools were shallow, their surfaces reflecting the faint glow of the main pool in the center. The water in these smaller pools was clear and still, like tiny, tranquil mirrors scattered across the chamber floor.

Along one side, Kael spotted a small alcove, partially hidden by a curtain of hanging moss. The moss was a vibrant green, a stark contrast to the muted colors of the stone walls. It seemed to thrive in the damp, cool environment of the cave, its tendrils swaying gently in the air currents.

Kael approached the alcove with cautious curiosity. Inside, he found a collection of curious rock formations—some resembling delicate spirals, others like intricate sculptures. The natural artistry was mesmerizing, each one a testament to the slow, patient work of time and nature.

As he explored further, he discovered a series of small, faintly glowing crystals embedded in the cave walls. The crystals emitted a soft, ethereal light, casting a gentle glow that added to the

chamber’s otherworldly atmosphere. He reached out to touch one, feeling its cool, smooth surface under his fingertips. The light seemed to pulse slightly at his touch, as if responding to his presence.

His gaze shifted to the narrow path they had walked the night before. Kael recalled the seeming futility of their trek—no matter how far they had walked, they had gotten nowhere. The path stretched endlessly, a straight line that offered no turns or deviations. The oppressive darkness of the passage had made it feel as though they were walking through an interminable tunnel.

The memory of the previous night’s journey filled Kael with a sense of frustration. He had walked for hours, his muscles straining with each step, only to find himself back where he had started. The realization that the path had led him nowhere added to the feeling of being trapped in the cave’s mysterious grip.

Eryndor nickered softly, drawing Kael’s attention back to the pool. The stallion’s earlier restlessness had returned, his ears flicking and his eyes darting around the chamber. Kael soothed his loyal companion, running a reassuring hand along Eryndor’s neck. “How about we try that

path again?” he asked, a hint of excitement in his voice. Kael’s love for puzzles and his natural curiosity made him a decent wizard, and the challenge of figuring out the cave’s secrets intrigued him. “Let’s see if we can uncover its mystery this time.”

Kael took one last look around the chamber, taking in the details with fresh eyes. The beauty and mystery of the cave were undeniable, but he knew they couldn’t linger here forever. He gathered his belongings and prepared to move on.

As he led Eryndor toward the path once more, Kael felt a mix of excitement and determination. The narrow passage stretched before them, a daunting yet intriguing challenge. The cave’s mysteries beckoned, and Kael’s curiosity was piqued.

The air turned cooler as they ventured down the corridor, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and moss. The walls of the passage appeared to draw closer, the darkness thickening and creating an almost claustrophobic atmosphere. The ground was uneven, littered with loose gravel and small rocks that crunched underfoot.

Kael’s senses were heightened, every sound amplified in the confined space. The weight of the darkness around them made it feel as though they were moving through an endless corridor. The passage stretched ahead in a seemingly perpetual straight line, devoid of any twists or branches.

After about twenty minutes of walking, Kael decided to test the path. He turned back, counting his steps as he retraced his way. To his amazement, it took only ten steps to return to the wide chamber with the pool, just as it had the previous night. The soft shimmer of the pool hadn’t changed, still casting its pale light across the cave’s walls.

Determined to uncover the cave’s secrets, Kael set off down the path again, this time paying close attention to the walls and floor in search of any clues. The passage remained unchanged, the oppressive darkness and claustrophobic atmosphere persisting as they moved forward. Kael’s keen eyes scanned the walls for any markings or hidden passages, but he found nothing. The ground, too, offered no clues—just the same loose gravel and uneven stones.

Frustrated, Kael turned back once more, counting his steps as he retraced his way. After just ten steps, he was back in the wide chamber. The chamber’s cool air and the faint glow of the pool were a stark contrast to the stifling path they had just traversed.

Undeterred, he looked around again. Tracing a hand over the walls, he found several more narrow halls exactly like the first. Kael decided to try one of these other paths, hoping for different results. He led Eryndor to a different entrance within the chamber and ventured down a new passage. The walls were just as close, the air just as cool, and the path just as narrow. The

oppressive darkness surrounded them, and the ground was littered with the same loose gravel and small rocks.

Kael and Eryndor walked for another twenty minutes, the passage stretching on in a straight line with no alterations or diversions. The darkness felt almost tangible, pressing in on them from all sides. Kael’s muscles ached from the exertion, and his mind raced with thoughts of what might lie ahead.

Eventually, Kael decided to test this path as well. He turned back and counted his steps, his heart sinking as he realized it took only ten steps to return to the wide chamber. The pool still glowed faintly, its soft light casting an eerie luminance on the cave walls.

The repeated experience left Kael puzzled and frustrated. The cave seemed to be playing tricks on him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something crucial. Determined to uncover the cave’s secrets, Kael resolved to stay vigilant and continue exploring. He led Eryndor to their familiar comfortable spot away from the pool and began to set up camp once more. The chamber’s cool air was a welcome change from the stifling paths, and Kael’s mind buzzed with possibilities as he prepared a simple meal.

After finishing his meal, Kael looked at Eryndor with a thoughtful expression. “You know, Eryndor, this cave seems determined to test us,” he said, gently stroking the stallion’s neck. “There’s something we’re not seeing,” he muttered, eyes narrowing at the far wall. “And I’ll be damned if this cave outsmarts me.”

Eryndor nickered softly, his eyes catching the faint glow of the pool’s light. Kael met his gaze, seeing the quiet trust and loyalty that grounded him. It was enough to steady his mind, but the labyrinthine cave still held its secrets, elusive and mocking.

Kael rose and began to examine the room once more, but this time, his focus shifted to the glowing crystals embedded in the stone walls. Their soft, ethereal light cast ghostly shadows, as if the cave itself were alive, watching. He reached for one of the crystals, its cool surface sending a shiver up his arm as his fingers brushed over it. The light flickered but remained steady— unresponsive. Nothing. He tried again, touching another crystal, but the outcome was the same. His frustration simmered beneath the surface, each failure gnawing at his resolve.

He stepped back, pacing, every step echoing in the vast emptiness. The chamber was still beautiful, but it felt suffocating now, its mysteries pressing against him, taunting him with their silence. His gaze shifted to Eryndor, who watched him with patient eyes. Kael’s lips tightened, and he spoke softly, more to himself than the stallion. “We’ll find a way out, Eryndor.

Together.”

Determined, he tested each passage, retracing his steps. No matter which path he took, he found himself back in the same wide chamber after only a few steps. His mind raced. Each attempt felt like an endless loop, and as the minutes passed, the weight of the cave seemed to grow heavier on his shoulders.

The pool’s dim glow reflected off the water, a silent reminder of his stagnant progress. His stomach churned from the repeated failures, but he fought against it. Anger wouldn’t help. He needed clarity.

“Focus,” he muttered, unsheathing his sword. The blade sang through the air in a series of fluid, controlled movements, the familiar rhythm soothing his nerves. He moved through his drills— each slice and parry a reminder of his discipline, his control. But it didn’t fill the void of frustration, not when the puzzle before him remained unsolved.

Next, he turned to his magic. With his eyes closed, Kael drew in a deep breath and reached for the arcane power that simmered just beneath his skin. Sparks of light flickered from his fingertips, illuminating the dark cavern with brief bursts of blue fire. His magic obeyed, but it was fleeting—nothing substantial. The glow of his magic paled in comparison to the glow of the crystals, each light reminding him of his impotence here.

Hours passed, and as the day seemed to stretch on indefinitely, Kael’s muscles began to protest, but his mind stayed sharp. Despite the lack of progress, he could feel his focus sharpening with each repetition, each movement. A quiet resolve settled over him; he was no closer to

understanding the cave’s secret, but that didn’t matter. Not yet. He could still outlast it.

As evening bled into the cave, the soft glow from the pool and the crystals dimmed with the coming darkness. Kael sat down against the cold stone, eyes fixed on the silent water. His body ached from the day’s efforts, but his thoughts raced. The weight of isolation pressed on him. His provisions were running low, and the idea of being trapped here for much longer—possibly forever—began to gnaw at him.

Eryndor nickered, sensing Kael’s unease. The stallion’s calm was a balm to his restless thoughts, and Kael ran a hand along his companion’s sleek neck. “We’re not giving up,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

But doubt crept in. The black cat from earlier danced in the edges of his mind. What had it known? How had it moved through this maze so effortlessly? Was there something he was missing—something hidden right under his nose?

The thought wouldn’t leave him. It was like a whisper on the edge of his consciousness, tempting him to follow it, to find the truth the cat might hold. Kael’s stomach tightened with a mix of frustration and curiosity. He needed an answer—he couldn’t stop until he had one.

The hours passed, the silence of the cave heavy around him. The faint hum of the pool’s light kept him company as he mulled over the black cat, the crystal glow, the paths he had walked. Each new direction seemed only to lead him back to the same place, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting for him, something just beyond his reach.

Sleep came suddenly, when his exhaustion overtook him. The stone floor beneath him was hard, but it did little to comfort him in the face of the nightmare that soon followed.

He found himself walking the winding paths again, but this time, they twisted unnaturally, stretching like a living thing. The walls pressed in around him, and the air felt thick, suffocating. The faint light of the crystals flickered and died, leaving only the dark, pulsing glow of the pool. The silence was broken by soft whispers, voices disembodied and cold, filling his ears with taunts of failure.

His heart pounded, panic rising in his chest. He shouted for Eryndor, but his voice was swallowed by the darkness. He stumbled forward, every step heavier than the last, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Ahead, the black cat appeared again, its eyes glowing with an eerie, knowing light. It stared at him, unblinking, and then, with a flick of its tail, it vanished into the shadows.

Desperation clawed at Kael as he tried to follow, but the path shifted, twisting and elongating, just out of reach. The whispers grew louder, drowning out his thoughts, making it impossible to think. Panic seized him, but he fought it, forcing his legs to move forward. The light ahead grew brighter, and with it, a fleeting sense of hope.

Kael bolted forward, the darkness receding as the light grew stronger. Just as he reached the source, he woke with a start. His chest heaved, heart pounding, and the familiar sight of the cave greeted him—Eryndor’s steady presence beside him, the pool’s faint glow casting shadows across the stone.

Kael sat up, his mind reeling from the dream, the whispers still echoing in the back of his mind. The black cat’s eyes lingered there, elusive and unsolved. The nightmare had not been a simple dream—he knew that now. It was a warning.

The cave had secrets. And Kael was determined to uncover them. And then light lightning, the idea struck him: perhaps it was a clue more than a warning. The light he’d seen in his nightmare might well have been this pool.

Despair had begun to creep in at the thought of another aimless day lost in these depths—until the realization took hold. Maybe the pool was the answer. Maybe it held the key to getting out. With renewed purpose, Kael stepped closer and peered into the still water, searching for anything that might guide him to freedom.

Something peculiar caught his eye. The pool reflected the ceiling of the cave—but it didn’t match what he saw when he looked up. The real roof was jagged with stalactites, dark and

uneven, lit only in patches by faintly glowing crystals. But in the pool’s reflection, the ceiling was… different. It showed the cave floor instead—only altered.

Torches lined the reflected paths, their golden light banishing the shadows that pressed on Kael’s mind. Makeshift furniture lay scattered—stone tables, wooden chairs, even bedding. Personal items dotted the floor like breadcrumbs. It wasn’t just different; it looked lived in. Warm. Real.

Kael’s heart quickened. This wasn’t just a reflection. It was a clue. A doorway. He leaned in, studying the lit paths and strange furnishings, the comforting signs of life in a place that should have been desolate.

He extended a hand and brushed the surface gently. Ripples spread from his fingers—but the image didn’t shift or blur. It was like peering through a window into another world.

His breath caught. The pool wasn’t just magical. It existed on a different plane.

Kael drew on his arcane training and cast a detection spell. Soft blue light bloomed from his fingers, spreading across the water. It rippled outward, searching for toxins or curses.

Nothing. The water was pure.

Thirst tugged at him. He dipped his hands in and drank. The water was cool and crisp, invigorating—but unremarkable. Still, it grounded him, clearing the static from his mind. He sat back, thinking. Then another idea sparked.

He summoned a light orb and sent it drifting down into the pool. But as it descended, its glow began to twist and blur. The pool resisted. The orb flickered out.

Undeterred, he tried divination. No answers. He reached out with his mind, probing for spirits. Nothing. Even disturbing the surface brought no change. Every test failed—but each failure only confirmed the same truth:

This pool was a portal.

Finally, he tried something simple. He picked up a small stone and dropped it in. The water rippled—and in the reflection, the stone leapt out of the pool.

Not a mirror. A doorway.

The realization struck hard. The reflected world wasn’t just different. It was parallel. A mirrored version of the same cave—only better lit, better lived. Perhaps even safer.

His pulse surged. This was the path forward.

He packed his things, erasing all signs of his presence. Turning to his horse, he smirked. “What do you think, Eryndor? Fancy a swim?”

The stallion nickered, ears flicking.

Kael stepped into the pool, expecting to sink. Instead, the water only covered his ankles—cool and still. Eryndor followed, hooves splashing gently.

As Kael stood in the center, the reflection rose. Torches and stone furniture stretched upward, the mirrored world growing more real. Above him, the cave roof drifted away.

The sensation was otherworldly—weightless, as if suspended between two worlds.

The water rose, enveloping him slowly. He took a breath and let it consume him. Submerged, Kael felt the pressure of depth, the quiet calm of being between realities.

When his lungs burned, he gasped—expecting water.

But he breathed.

Cool air rushed in. Not water. Air.

He could breathe beneath the surface. Light shimmered around him, warping time and sound. Everything was vivid: the pressure, the silence, the sensation of transformation.

Then— He surfaced. The cave was lit by torches. Lived in. Warm. Just as he’d seen. Kael stood dripping, Eryndor beside him. He turned in a slow circle, heart pounding.

“Been a while since someone used that entrance,” said a voice, echoing through the torchlit corridors. Familiar, yet distant. Impossible to place.

Kael turned.

“Except for our feline friend, of course.”

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward—an old man, silhouetted in the firelight… stepping forward as he spoke.

“Welcome, travelers,” the old bard greeted, his voice warm and inviting. “I am Alaric. What story unfolds for you in this timeless place?”

“I remember you!” Kael exclaimed in surprise at finding the old man here of all places.

“You took the stage—with a beard like snow and eyes that looked like they’d watched the world end. You conjured a piano. Not a lute, not a harp—a damn piano. I didn’t even know magic like that existed.

Then the violins appeared—hovering in the air—and the drums began to play themselves, slow and thunder-deep. You didn’t touch a thing, but the music… it moved like memory. Then you sang…”

Alaric’s eyes sparked with recognition.

“Ah. Then you must belong to the twins.”

His voice was warm, but edged with a practiced amusement—like a man who’s seen the dance too many times, and remembers every misstep.

“Well! You’re here faster than I expected. My recital at the Swaying Lantern was only a year ago.”

A pause. His eyes flickered—sharp, calculating, then something softer, almost a flicker of sorrow.

“The last one took three… no, five years. Died in that cave near the hot springs. Or the badgers got him. Or maybe the mushrooms whispered him away.”

He waved a hand, as if brushing away a troublesome thought.

“Shame. He cried during the drums. Poor bastard.”

His expression softened—not kindly, but like someone recalling a ghost who once danced too close to the fire.

“Still. It’s nice to be remembered. I suppose I’ll have to go back someday… let the piano lament another ballad of the broken world.”

Kael frowned, confusion creeping into his tone. “A year?! But it’s only been five or six days since I left Aldenwood!”

Alaric chuckled, his eyes glinting.

“Time doesn’t behave in the Myrkviðr. A day could be a week, or an hour an eternity—it all depends on the forest’s mood. What seems like moments to you might be years outside the forest’s borders.”

Silence followed as Kael processed this. At that moment, the cat leapt from Alaric’s arms, landing softly on the stone floor. It padded to Kael, rubbing against his leg with a contented purr—like greeting an old friend.

Alaric smiled. “That stubborn creature won’t speak its name, but it’s taken a liking to you—a rare honor.”

Kael’s thoughts spun. He expected anxiety to rise, the sharp ache of realization to hit—but instead, there was nothing. The absence unsettled him deeply. Time he thought he’d spent wandering had stretched into a year in the outside world. Loved ones aging, chances fading, life moving on without him—and yet, he felt no grief, no fear, no relief. The void within gnawed at him.

He steadied himself and asked the question gnawing at him.

“Alaric, the place I came from on the other side of the pool—am I now in an alternate reality or another time altogether?”

The room stilled. Alaric stroked his beard, his eyes twinkling with quiet insight.

“It’s all the same world, Kael. You never left it. When you crossed the pool, you entered the Myrkviðr as it was a thousand years ago,” he said, voice soothing yet layered. “This isn’t time travel. The forest remembers. It preserves echoes of itself.”

Kael listened, heart thudding. The cave pulsed with energy. Shadows danced, hinting at unseen truths.

Alaric continued,

“When you leave, you will return to the present moment. You are simply viewing this—it is no longer an actual point in time. The forest remembers everything, and sometimes it gives us a bit of its memory to use. But sometimes it will use it against you.”

Kael’s gaze shifted to a rough stone chair in the corner, worn and solid—like the forest itself.

“The Myrkviðr is alive,” Alaric said. “It remembers, protects, endures. While you can interact with these memories, you cannot change them. They’re woven into the forest like threads in an ancient tapestry.”

Kael nodded slowly. The forest’s sentience awed him. His path forward would require more than strength—it would demand reverence.

After a pause, Alaric leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

“Now, Kael. Anyone traveling south through the Myrkviðr has a tale worth hearing. Tell me yours. Start at the tavern. End with how you came to be in this cave.”

Alaric nodded, listening as Kael recounted his journey. When Kael reached the part about the map, he immediately asked to see it.

Kael handed it over. Alaric’s eyes narrowed as he studied it.

“Please, continue your tale,” Alaric said, voice sharp.

Kael resumed, reaching the part about the twins. At the mention of the rings, Alaric’s gaze sharpened.

“The rings,” he said, voice firm. “Show them to me. Now.”

Kael hesitated, then slipped them off and handed them over. Alaric took them with trembling fingers, inspecting them with reverent care. The tension in the room suddenly grew thick.

“Come with me,” he said distantly and walked away without waiting. Kael hurried after him.

He led Kael down a long, descending passage. Some parts were pristine, others eroded with age. The deeper they went, the colder it grew. Shadows flared along the walls, cast by flickering torchlight.

They emerged into a vast chamber lined with shelves—books, scrolls, relics of magic. A staff crowned with a glowing crystal stood in one corner. A still, eerie scrying pool glimmered in another.

“This is where you begin,” Alaric said. “The Myrkviðr hides many secrets. You must be ready. The knowledge here will aid you—but tread carefully. The road to the Frozen Edge is perilous.”

His gaze dropped to Kael’s hands. “Those rings…” he muttered. “Sybil and Setra gave them to you? I can’t believe they let them go.”

Kael stiffened. “How well do you know them?”

Alaric hesitated. “Better than most. If they are certain enough…”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “You must be tested—in magic, in combat, and I must look into your soul.”

Kael recoiled. “But I… I’m not—”

Alaric’s presence swelled, voice deepening.

“You will do as I’ve said. You stand on the brink of truths few dare to know. I must see if you’re worthy.”

The room vibrated with power.

“This is not a request.”

Torch flames surged. Shadows danced. The chamber pulsed with ancient magic.

Alaric’s tone shifted—measured, quiet, final.

“The combat test comes first.”

He moved to a corner and retrieved a sword—its blade clear as glass, catching firelight in dazzling flashes. The hilt, wrapped in worn leather, bore runes lost to time.

Returning to the center, Alaric raised the blade.

“Steel yourself, Kael. Fight me as if your life depends on it. You won’t win. But if you don’t impress me—I will kill you.”

Kael’s pulse roared in his ears. Despite Alaric’s age, he moved with uncanny grace and strength. The chamber shimmered with power.

Kael drew his new weapon, though he hadn’t used it before. The weight felt familiar in his hand. With a focused breath, the fear dulled, replaced by hard-earned resolve.

Alaric raised his sword. The chamber held its breath. The storm was about to break.

Kael’s heart thundered in his chest.

Despite Alaric’s weathered face and white beard, there was a vitality in his movements that defied age. The old bard stood like a seasoned warrior—balanced, poised, utterly composed. His grip on the sword was firm but fluid, every inch of him radiating lethal confidence.

The chamber, lined with ancient magical artifacts, felt like it was holding its breath. The air grew thick, almost suffocating. Flickering torchlight danced off Alaric’s blade, casting warped reflections on the stone walls. Kael felt the moment coil tight around him. This wasn’t just a test—it was survival.

A stillness settled over him like frost—cold, measured, and deadly. He willed his illusion to vanish so Alaric could see him in his armor. He scanned Alaric’s stance, hunting for flaws. Nothing. No sloppiness. No tells. The bard’s form was flawless.

Alaric raised his sword.

The air crackled, charged with energy. Though the room’s enchantments had faded, power still radiated from Alaric like a storm held barely in check.

Then he moved.

Like a serpent striking, Alaric crossed the chamber in an instant, his blade aimed straight for Kael’s chest. The thrust came so fast Kael barely reacted. Instinct took over. Steel rang out—Kael’s parry just in time. The force jolted up his arm, and he spun with the momentum, creating space.

They faced off again, blades low, breath even.

Alaric watched him with a predator’s focus—sharp, deliberate. They began to circle. Each step slow. Each heartbeat loud.

Kael searched him again. Still no weakness. No wobble in his grip. No hesitation in his stance. But Kael’s fear began to melt into focus. He adjusted his grip. The sword felt right in his hand—like it belonged there.

This time, he moved first.

Kael surged forward, swift and silent. Alaric met him with a slash aimed at Kael’s midsection. Kael dropped low, knees skimming stone, sliding under the blade. Air roared above him.

Opportunity.

He slashed at Alaric’s legs in passing, but the bard leapt effortlessly, avoiding the strike. He landed and spun, driving a powerful back kick into the side of Kael’s face.

Pain exploded. Kael crashed to the floor, jaw ringing. Blood flooded his mouth.

Alaric loomed, the eerie glass blade catching torchlight like ice. He moved with ruthless efficiency—no wasted motion, no hesitation. He stabbed down.

Kael rolled in, grabbing Alaric’s legs. With a heave, he rolled back the other way, hurling the bard forward. Alaric hit hard, face-first. The crunch of bone echoed. Blood dripped to the floor.

Slowly, the bard pushed up. He looked at the blood smeared across his hand, more intrigued than angry.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve bled,” he muttered, half to himself.

Then he vanished.

He came at Kael again, faster than sight. Steel screamed as they traded blows—Kael blocking the first, struggling with the second, nearly breaking under the third. His muscles burned. Every strike was heavier than the last.

A sidestep. A wrist flick. Alaric knocked Kael’s sword low, then slashed upward—cutting just beneath Kael’s eye.

White-hot pain tore across his face. Blood blurred his vision. He staggered back, hand to his cheek. The wound burned like fire.

No time. Alaric was coming again.

Overhead strikes—fast, punishing. Kael blocked, barely. His arms trembled. His stance faltered. Blow after blow drove him back. Until he collapsed. Alaric lifted his blade.

Desperation surged. Kael lashed out with a kick, catching Alaric in the gut. The bard flew backward, crashing flat on the stone, breath knocked from him.

Kael scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, lungs burning. But Alaric rose too—already moving.

Kael struck while he could. A slash—blocked. A stab—deflected. Another—redirected. Even from the ground, Alaric moved like flowing water. Impossibly smooth. Impossibly fast.

Kael couldn’t touch him.

Still, he pressed on. Ignoring the fire in his face. Pushing through the pain. He had to prove he belonged here. And then he saw it. A flicker in Alaric’s eyes. This wasn’t just combat—it was judgment. The realization cut deeper than any blade.

Kael attacked with renewed fury. Alaric parried with thunderous force. The impact nearly tore the sword from Kael’s grasp. Then Alaric swept his legs.

Kael crashed to the floor.

Before he could rise, a heavy boot slammed into his chest. He skidded across the chamber, the stone tearing at his back, crashing into the wall with a brutal thud.

Pain pulsed through him. His breath came in ragged gasps. But he stood.

Dragging himself up with the wall, sword in hand, limbs shaking. Blood smeared his face. His chest ached. But he rose.

Alaric was ready.

They collided again—blades clashing with a roar. Blow after blow. Kael swung wide—blocked. Alaric countered—Kael barely parried.

Kael’s arms trembled. His vision blurred.

Alaric raised his sword high and brought it down. Kael caught the strike, dropping to one knee from the weight of it. Their swords locked.

Time froze.

“You fight well for a human of a single lifetime,” Alaric said, voice calm as ever.

Then came the storm.

Alaric broke the lock and unleashed a brutal flurry. Kael blocked two. The third hit his hand.

His sword flew from his grip.

Before Kael could move, Alaric sheathed his own blade.

Then punched him.

The blow slammed into Kael’s jaw, snapping his head sideways. Another strike—his ribs. Another—his stomach. The last—a hammering punch to the temple.

Kael hit the ground like a felled tree.

The pain swallowed him.

Darkness swept in, cold and absolute. And then, Alaric’s voice, distant and final:

“But you still have much to learn.”

Kael’s eyes snapped open.

A bolt of bright pain seared through his face, side, and chest—a brutal reminder of the beating he’d taken. The bard—no, not just a bard—had proven himself far more than a traveling performer. Whatever age Alaric wore on the outside meant nothing. His speed, precision, and strength defied it. Kael had never seen anything like it.

“Don’t move too much. I’m fairly certain I broke a few of your ribs with that last kick,” came Alaric’s voice from his right, light and laced with amusement. “I took the liberty of examining your soul while you were unconscious,” he continued, almost idly. “What I found there was… promising. I’m pleased I didn’t have to kill you.”

Something about the way he said it made the hairs on Kael’s arms rise. He couldn’t explain why, but the room suddenly felt colder, as if something unseen had brushed too close.

Kael, still disoriented and aching, tried to gather his thoughts. Instead, several questions spilled from his mouth at once.

“How long was I out?”

“Where am I?”

“What did you see?”

Another jolt of pain stabbed through his ribs, stealing his breath. He gritted his teeth and forced out one more question.

“How are you so old… and so deadly?”

Alaric chuckled—an audible, unbothered sound.

“The answer to your first question: a day and a half. Apologies—I really did hit you harder than I intended.” He said it cheerfully, as if Kael should be proud of surviving. “But the rest will have to wait until you’ve eaten.”

Kael blinked, taking in his surroundings for the first time. The room was small, windowless, and bare. Pale stone walls, a single chair—one Alaric hadn’t bothered to sit in—and a narrow table with nothing on it. His bedroll had been laid out on the floor, likely by Alaric himself.

The simplicity of it unsettled him more than if he’d woken in a dungeon.

Alaric stood and offered a hand.

Kael ignored it. Refusing to let pain dictate his movements, he forced himself upright with a wince. “Lead the way. I’m starving.”

Alaric nodded with quiet approval and turned, stepping into the hall beyond. Kael followed, each step a fresh reminder of the damage done to his ribs.

But any thought of pain fell away as they moved deeper into the structure. Whatever Kael had expected—rough-hewn tunnels, dripping stone, the remnants of some ancient ruin—this was not it.

The corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by sconces of softly glowing crystal embedded in the walls—no flame, no heat, yet they cast a warm golden hue. The walls themselves were smooth- cut stone, veined with silver and violet minerals that shimmered faintly when the light hit them just right. Not natural stone—not entirely. There was a precision to the construction, an artistry that felt too elegant for a fortress, too purposeful for a ruin.

The air was clean and cool, with a faint scent he couldn’t place—like old parchment, iron, and the ghost of incense long burned away.

They passed through branching halls and vaulted corridors, each more ornate than the last. Though the structure was smaller than any proper castle Kael had seen, the craftsmanship rivaled the grandest halls of Aeldenwood. Alcoves housed ancient statues that lacked names or plaques, their features worn smooth with time or intentionally left ambiguous. Tapestries of deep indigo and silver adorned the walls at intervals, woven with swirling patterns that danced if stared at too long.

It was beautiful. And it exuded both loneliness and power.

Kael slowed slightly, eyes flicking from one detail to the next, the ache in his body momentarily forgotten. “This isn’t a cave,” he muttered, more to himself than to Alaric.

Alaric’s smile, seen only in profile, hinted at secrets. “You’re quick.”

They turned one final corner and came to a set of tall doors crafted from dark wood veined with metal—brass or gold, Kael couldn’t tell. The doors parted soundlessly at a gesture from Alaric, revealing a modest dining hall beyond.

It was no grand banquet chamber, but it still managed to feel regal. A long stone table stretched down the center of the room, flanked by mismatched chairs—some high-backed and carved with strange sigils, others plain and utilitarian. The walls were lined with narrow arched windows that revealed nothing but an endless wash of mist beyond, as if the world outside had been swallowed by fog.

Above, a chandelier floated without chains, its many glass orbs glowing softly in rhythm, pulsing like a heartbeat. The table was already set.

A bounty of food lay spread before him—steam curling from dishes that seemed pulled from a noble’s feast rather than the dwelling of a reclusive, ageless warrior. There were roasted root vegetables, honey-glazed and nestled beside thick slabs of dark meat crusted with herbs. A trencher of fresh bread sat near the center, golden and split to reveal a soft, fragrant interior.

Bowls of vibrant fruits—some familiar, others foreign—gleamed like gems under the

chandelier’s warm light. A thick stew simmered in a silver tureen, its aroma rich with spices Kael couldn’t name but instantly craved.

Kael’s stomach twisted violently, a raw, hollow pain rising through him. Nearly three days since his last meal, and only water to keep him alive since. His body had survived the beating, the healing, and the journey to this strange place—but the ache of hunger had only grown sharper, more insistent, until it throbbed behind his ribs like a second pulse.

He didn’t wait for permission.

Crossing the threshold, he collapsed into the nearest chair and snatched at the bread, tearing a

piece free as if every fiber of him had forgotten what hunger truly was. The bread’s warmth and the gentle softness ignited a forgotten sense of comfort, nearly drawing a low, almost animalistic groan from him. He tore off another piece, then spooned stew into a deep bowl, heedless of etiquette or presentation.

He devoured his food with a reckless intensity, as if every bite might be the last he would ever taste. Yet as he ate, an undercurrent of wariness pulsed beneath his hunger. This place—this meticulous luxury—felt out of place, as though each perfectly laid dish concealed another, darker intention.

Still, he kept eating. Whatever this place was, whatever Alaric was—it hadn’t killed him. Not yet.

And right now, that was enough.

While Kael reached for a second helping of stew, the steam curling lazily from the bowl, Alaric silently slid to the head of the table, his presence suddenly transforming the mood. He took a seat a few chairs away, not close enough to crowd, but near enough to observe. His hands folded in his lap, and though the table before him was set, he didn’t touch a single dish.

He simply watched.

Kael didn’t notice at first, too consumed by hunger. But when the edge began to dull—when the pain in his ribs stopped screaming and settled into a sullen throb—he slowed. His breathing steadied. The sounds of his eating echoed less sharply off the stone walls.

And then Alaric spoke.

“You asked where you are,” he said, his voice slicing through the silence like a sudden burst of lightning in a dark sky. “This was once the home of a lord… long dead.”

Kael flinched at the suddenness of it. He hadn’t realized how still the room had become—how much he’d allowed himself to forget he wasn’t alone. He swallowed hard, wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist, and looked around the hall with new eyes.

“Doesn’t look like this place belongs to a dead man,” Kael said, gesturing toward the immaculate feast, the gleaming table, the absence of even a speck of dust. “Place like this should’ve

crumbled to cobwebs by now.”

“I’ve kept care of it since his passing,” Alaric replied calmly. “It is not my home, but I have spent many years within its halls. Long enough to see it outlast its purpose.”

Kael studied him, chewing slower now, his hunger no longer the only thing gnawing at him.

“But now,” Alaric continued, his tone shifting—quiet, final—“I no longer need to.”

His eyes hadn’t moved from Kael. Not once.

“This house,” he said, “is now fully staffed. And it has a new owner.”

The words sank in slowly—each syllable a promise of change that both terrified and beckoned

him. Kael’s brow furrowed, the gears in his mind sluggish from pain and exhaustion. And yet, as he stared back across the table, watching the flicker of torchlight dance in Alaric’s eyes, understanding began to creep in.

“You mean…” Kael’s voice trailed off.

Alaric offered no nod, no smile—only silence.

But that silence spoke volumes.

Kael sat back in his chair, suddenly all too aware of the warmth in his belly, of the food he’d devoured, of the clean room, the waiting hallways, the perfection of the place. It hadn’t been done for Alaric.

It had been prepared for him. And now, he realized with a cold clarity, he wasn’t just a guest.

He was the heir to something he didn’t understand. Not yet. Kael stared at the man across from him, heart still pounding in the quiet that followed.

Alaric let him sit with the weight of it, as if he knew Kael needed a moment to absorb the shift beneath his feet. Then, gently, he leaned back in his chair, folding one leg over the other.

“When you complete your journey, when you return from the Frozen Edge, this hall will be waiting for you,” Alaric said softly. “A place not just to rest, but to rise. A seat among those who matter.” Kael said nothing. His fingers curled lightly around the rim of his bowl, not lifting it again. “You asked me about myself,” Alaric continued. “But before I tell you anything more, there are things you must understand. Things tied to your quest.”

He rose from his chair with a slow, deliberate grace, moving to one of the tall windows that framed the hall. Beyond the glass, twilight bled across the sky, washing the stones outside in bruised purples and ember-orange.

“Tell me, Kael,” he said, hands clasped behind his back, “what do you know of the Riftveil?”

Kael’s brow tightened. “ I know all the old tales. I know that every legend is rooted in some truth, and I know that people have a fondness for romanticizing legend. The fact that there is not a single trace of evidence for a person to find other than the world itself and its state almost as if the world is ashamed of something and did their best to bury it is enough reason to lend those tails little credibility.” Kael answered resolutely, adding “ I’ve studied magic to some degree rocking away a demon even in five pieces would have no connection to the state of the planet. Why did it destroy the world as as it was? It doesn’t add up, but then I received a letter from the twins and you came you sang your song….and a path to the truth opened or rather I was out on it. I won’t speculate as to what happened or what the truth is. I will find the truth and let it tell me.”

Alaric met his gaze, his expression unreadable. He didn’t seem rushed, didn’t seem to mind the weight of the silence stretching between them.

“Before the Riftveil, when the world was whole and the divine ruled the realms, the Goddess stood as the guardian of harmony. But an entity of unparalleled malice, or so Zarathorix, sought to unravel the very fabric of existence with his insatiable hunger for power. Or so the old tales say….

Kael listened intently, the weight of Alaric’s words drawing him deeper into the story.

“They tell us tha t in order to protect the world, the Goddess engaged Zarathorix in a battle so fierce it cracked the bones of the world. She knew that merely defeating him would not be enough, for his essence was too potent to be destroyed. Instead, she devised a plan to lock away his dark spirit and created five powerful gems to hold the aspects of Zarathorix’s malevolence. These gems were scattered across the now shattered planet so no single being could ever claim their full strength.”

Alaric’s voice grew more intense, his eyes reflecting the vivid images of the past.

“Each gem was imbued with a facet of Zarathorix’s essence:

Gem of Wrath: A violent red gem that pulses with fury, embodying Zarathorix’s insatiable rage and destructive force. It burns with the intensity of a thousand suns, capable of inciting war and chaos wherever it lies.

Gem of Fear: An inky black gem that exudes despair. It feeds on the darkest corners of the mind, sowing terror and dread. Those who come into contact with it are haunted by their deepest fears, unable to escape its grip.

Gem of Corruption: A sickly green gem swirling with the power of manipulation. It twists the hearts and minds of those who seek its influence, spreading deceit and moral decay. It erodes the very essence of integrity, leaving only a shell of corruption behind.

Gem of Deception: A gem of swirling gold and a silvery sheen, laced with false promises of grandeur and power. It entices with the allure of grandeur, leading its victims into a web of lies and illusions. Those who covet it are blinded by its deceit, unable to discern truth from falsehood.

Gem of Dominion: A deep purple gemstone that carries with it the will to subjugate all to its power. It emanates an oppressive force that seeks to dominate and control, bending the wills of those around it to serve its master.”

A chill crept down Kael’s spine as Alaric spoke, each word etching those cursed gems into his mind.

“Most are unaware,” Alaric continued in a hushed tone, “that Zarathorix was ready for the

Goddess’s plan. Using his dark magic, he merged two of his most insidious aspects into a single gem. The chosen aspects were Corruption and Deception. The resulting gem, known as the Gem of Spite, is a sickly green and gold, swirling with the power to manipulate and deceive, making it one of the most dangerous things in existence. This gem holds the essence of Zarathorix’s cunning and malevolence, capable of turning even the purest hearts to darkness.”

Alaric’s gaze intensified as he leaned forward.

Kael’s breath caught.

He looked down at his hands.

Two rings. Two stones.

One, a sickly green, its depths shifting like smoke in water—Corruption.

The other, gold veined with silver, the light bending subtly around it—Deception.

His chest tightened. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.

Alaric was already watching.

And with a single, near-imperceptible nod, he confirmed what Kael hadn’t dared ask.

“Yet, despite its power, the Gem of Spite still lacks the sheer dominance of the Gem of

Dominion. It is said that the Gem of Dominion holds the very core of Zarathorix’s essence, the primal force that fuels his will to control and conquer. As well as what remains of his consciousness.

Kael’s thoughts spun, a storm of implications thundering through him. The enormity of his quest, to find the Staff of the Goddess and the other relics, weighed heavily upon him.

Alaric paused, his eyes locking with Kael’s.

“As for the gem that was left empty,” Alaric murmured, “its fate remains shrouded in mystery. Some believe it shattered under the immense strain of Zarathorix’s dark magic, its fragments lost to time. Others whisper that the empty gem still exists, holding a purpose unknown but no less dangerous. It is said that this gem might one day reveal its true nature, a dormant force waiting for the right moment to awaken.”

A profound dread settled in Kael’s chest as the final piece was laid bare. The realization that Zarathorix had anticipated the Goddess’s actions and taken steps to counter them added a new layer of complexity and danger to his quest.

As Alaric’s tale hung in the air, the door to the dining hall suddenly burst open, startling both him and Kael. Two figures entered—a pair of twins, their identical features framed by cascading hair, their eyes sharp and discerning.

“That’s how the story goes,” one began, her voice laced with skepticism, “but fortunately you are at least intelligent enough to know already that the legend is not the truth.”

Her twin nodded in agreement, crossing her arms

Their sudden appearance and pointed declaration Alaric off guard, his usual composure faltering. He glanced between the twins and Kael, tension thickening the air.

Alaric cleared his throat, regaining his footing. “You raise a valid point,” he said, addressing the twins. “The legends often omit nuance. Perhaps it’s time we spoke of what lies beneath the

surface.”

The twins exchanged a look, their expressions softening. They moved to sit, a silent acknowledgement that the story was far from finished.

“No need for exploration, Alaric,” Syble interjected, her tone decisive as she turned her gaze toward him. “They are coming, and Kael should be on his way before they arrive.” Her voice carried urgency, and as she turned to Kael, her eyes burned with unspoken truth.

“The reason such measures were taken,” Setra said, her voice low and heavy with emotion, “is because Zarathorix was not merely a demon. He was a god—a brother, in fact, to the goddess who shattered his form and imprisoned him.”

Her words hung in the air, steeped in ancient grief and fury, rewriting the story Kael thought he knew.

In that moment, he was awestruck. It was so hard to believe, it flew in the face of every accepted truth and yet it made more sense than any other explanation. His heart raced as his obsession kicked in he was eager to hear more.

Alaric, though briefly surprised by the twins’ abrupt delivery, he,quickly masked it, his composure returning. He exchanged a knowing glance with Syble—something passed between them Kael didn’t yet understand, but he noted it.

His mind raced. A god? Zarathorix—embodiment of chaos and ruin—was divine? And the goddess, his sister, had torn him apart, bound him, and hidden the truth behind a tale of righteous victory. The line between good and evil didn’t just blur—it shifted, revealed as something far more intricate.

Beneath the ache in his ribs, something stirred—sharp, electric. Fascination took hold. Each revelation struck like flint to stone, igniting questions, theories, possibilities. The story he’d questioned for years was falling into place—but not as he’d expected. It wasn’t a lie. It was a framework, deliberately incomplete.

The truth rang like a fractured bell—distorted, yes, but unmistakably real.

Silence lingered, heavy and expectant.

Kael glanced down at his hands.

Two rings. Two stones.

Corruption shimmered with its sickly green pulse—dense, swirling, alive.

Deception caught the light in a shifting dance of gold and silver, its gleam too fluid to be trusted.

He stared at them, eyes narrowing. The bands… they weren’t symmetrical, not exactly. The edges curved in ways that suggested design, not flaw. A pattern meant to be completed.

He hesitated—then removed one and slid it beside the other, aligning both onto a single finger.

The moment they touched, a jolt snapped through the air.

A sharp light flared—green and gold and searing white—bright enough to burn through shadow. Heat surged over his skin, not painful, but charged, like the cusp of something ancient waking. The metal fused in an instant, seamless and unbreakable.

Now there was only one ring.

Its stone shimmered, the two colors locked in orbit, swirling as one. Not Corruption. Not Deception. Something else.

The Gem of Spite.

Kael stared at it, expression unreadable.

Setra’s smile deepened—not pride, not amusement. Satisfaction.

“Well done,” she said, tone cool. “You didn’t even scream.”

Kael looked up. “Why would I?”

Their silence was absolute—and deliberate.

Alaric inclined his head. “History is rarely written by clean hands. When gods go to war, mortals are left to carry the pieces—fractured, glorified, or buried.”

He began to circle the table, each step slow, deliberate. “What Avalyth believes isn’t a lie, Kael. But it’s… curated. A version fit for temples and bedtime stories. A version that comforts.”

Syble’s voice cut in, bitter and sharp. “In this case, it was buried beneath something more palatable.”

Kael’s eyes narrowed. “And you three know the actual events that occurred?”

“We do,” Syble said simply.

“Because,” Setra added.

“We were there,” Alaric finished.

Their eyes held sorrow, but Kael couldn’t summon pity. He wanted to. But all he felt was suspicion—and intrigue. For a moment, he wondered if truth was a curse—a burden that chipped away at certainty, reshaping everything it touched. As their revelations settled, he found no comfort, only a deeper interest. The tale was not what it seemed. And now, he wanted more.

Kael’s breath shook slightly his heart pounding against his bruised ribs. “That’s not possible.”

Alaric chuckled, but the sound was hollow. “Time means little.” His voice was quiet but vast, like an echo from another age. “What I am now is not what I was. And what I was… had many names. Some whispered, others erased.”

He stopped just beside Kael’s chair, eyes distant. “But there’s one truth you must hold above all others. Zarathorix is not now—nor has he ever been—a demon. And the goddess who bound him was not entirely merciful.”

Kael stared, blood cold.

Setra broke the silence next, voice quiet but unflinching.

“Divinity does not guarantee virtue. And vengeance is not the sole domain of the damned.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the soft crackle of a nearby torch. Kael felt the world tilt—his understanding slipping like sand through fractured fingers.

“And what does that make you three, are you divine or the damned?” he asked, his voice low.

“We are survivors,” Syble answered coolly.

Alaric turned away, walking back toward the arched windows, the mist outside beginning to thin, revealing jagged silhouettes beyond—a shattered skyline, remnants of towers half-swallowed by fog.

“The Riftveil was never meant to be possible. The power it took to unmake the god Zarathorix cost the goddess her life and nearly tore the world apart. Even now, its magic runs wild across the isles,” he called back over his shoulder.

“Tell him, Alaric. We haven’t much time,” Syble called hastily, looking at the door to the banquet hall.

“I watched from the shore the day of the final battle… My brother and sister stood against each other in a clash that shook oceans, burned the sky, and angered the elements. In the end, I watched her use the magic that led us to where we are now. I was struck by a bolt of lightning as the earth split. The bolt froze in place—and that was the moment time itself broke.”

Kael rose slowly from his seat, the weight of everything pressing down like a second gravity. “Then that means… you’re a god, too? And if the bolt is what broke time when it struck you, that means…”

The realization struck him like a ton of bricks.

“By the Aether… You’re the Architect of Time. The Creator. The one who wielded chronomancy!”

At this, Syble, Setra, and Alaric all laughed—a hollow, bitter sound.

“Formerly, yes. I’m surprised you even know the terms or learned of me—traces were so few,” Alaric said, nodding with approval. “When the bolt struck, I was severed from the timelines. In the aftermath, I found glass the lightning had made from the beach sand. I forged a sword from it—the very one I used in your test.”

“I still carry divine blood. I will live forever. My magic is rivaled by few, and I retain every physical gift of a god. I am fallen, but I am not mortal.”

“What you find at the Frozen Edge is just the beginning. There, you will find—”

Just then, the door burst open and six heavily armored men entered, clad in thick silver-and- black plate, their helmets fully concealing their faces.

Alaric drew his sword at the sight of them, and the twins stood, but otherwise made no move.

“Kael, you are in no condition to fight. I may be able to subvert bloodshed here, but I honestly doubt it. You have to go. Your things are in your room.”

You’ll find an exit through your room. Follow the map. It has been restored, Syble’s voice echoed—though her lips never moved. Kael realized only he could hear her.

Then Setra’s voice followed: There is much you don’t know, and now we cannot prepare you. You will find your answers at the Frozen Edge—in the place you saw in your vision.

Kael could see Alaric talking to the apparent leader of these armed men, but could hear nothing except the twins.

“Leave and head south, that’s the only guidance we can give you. Now go.”

The tone was final and sharp he did not stand to argue. He knew he’d be a liability in a fight right now.

He left the room, and his hearing returned. He could hear muffled talking as he entered the bare room he’d woken up in. He put on his armor and strapped his sword and dagger on. He had no idea what had happened to Eryndor, but as he fastened the last clasp, he heard battle erupt.

He drew his sword and rushed back to aid Alaric and the twins—despite their order to leave and the agony in his ribs. He arrived just in time to see the twins, unarmed, dodge fluidly around a slash aimed at their chest. Syble waved her hand and spoke a word Kael couldn’t hear. The attacker began convulsing violently, unable to fall—held upright by some vicious magic.

After a few seconds, the man’s mouth opened wide as if to scream, but it kept opening, his jaw unhinging as his head split in two. Bones snapped and skin tore, the ribcage turning outward like a grotesque blooming flower. Muscles writhed and reversed themselves, veins threading out like roots before shriveling in the open air. His body peeled itself inside out, flaying inch by inch until he collapsed in a steaming, unrecognizable heap. The other intruders, horrified, attacked again with renewed rage.

Alaric looked back and, seeing Kael’s expression of shock and disbelief, smiled—the smile of a blood-drunk warrior. Then he pointed to the doorway. It cracked and collapsed, sealing Kael off from the fight.

He now had no choice but to move forward—still with questions that no longer merely surrounded the Riftveil. He had been tested by a god. Dined with one. And though the twins remained a mystery—a terrifyingly powerful one—they had promised him truth at the Frozen Edge.

The truth wasn’t a light waiting to be uncovered.

And it was already burning.

Kael stepped out into the chill night air with heavy limbs and broken ribs, his mind still reeling from the revelations inside. The corridors of the fortress had led him to the outer courtyard, where several heavily armored men stood guard along the perimeter. Their silver-and-black plate gleamed in the moonlight, and their low voices confirmed a single purpose: to eliminate any escapee.

As Kael emerged from the doorway, one guard muttered, “Kill anyone who comes out—they know nothing of our orders.” The others grunted in agreement. With the fortress surrounded and his options dwindling, Kael knew he had no choice but to confront them.

Leaning heavily on his injured ribs, Kael deliberately accentuated his pain as if pleading for mercy. In that desperate moment, he felt an odd, inexplicable surge within him—a chill coursing from deep inside, urging him to appear utterly vulnerable. Unbeknownst to Kael, this strange internal stirring subtly altered the perception of the lethal guards waiting outside. Instead of readying themselves to carry out their deadly orders, they hesitated, their hostile intent clouded by an uncharacteristic compulsion to help. It was as if his desperate display had disarmed their aggression, luring them into believing that his flight was genuine and pitiful.

They rushed over to help him. As one would-be assailant turned would-be rescuer reached out to catch him and prevent his fall, another closed in aggressively, intent on keeping to his orders. Mid-fall, Kael twisted sharply and unsheathed his dagger in a single fluid motion—slicing the throat of the oncoming attacker. The guard who had attempted to keep him from falling, seeing what happened, suddenly dropped him. As Kael hit the ground, he gasped for air, the pain throbbing intensely through his chest. The sentry decisively drew his sword and made to stab Kael with a heavy downward thrust.

Reacting instinctively, Kael rolled, his dagger flashing as it sliced deep into the man’s Achilles tendon, forcing the guard to scream and fall. Kael sprang up and drove the blade through the attacker’s eye. The enemy convulsed, collapsing in a moment of brutal, pained agony. Kael fell over in pain from his ribs, laying across the body of the man he just killed. It was at that moment that the rest of the attacking party, drawn by the sudden violence and screams, finally took notice.

The brief lull was shattered as more voices and clanging metal announced that additional attackers were converging. With every labored breath and every searing pang from his broken ribs, Kael knew he couldn’t hold against these odds in perfect condition—let alone in his current state.

Hearing the approach of armored footsteps and angry shouts as the rest of the attack party closed in—some of them now on horseback—he saw the tree line was not far away. “Back into the Myrkviðr,” he thought to himself. He hoped against hope that Eryndor was a magical creature, or at least had somehow followed and was nearby.

Summoning what strength he had left, Kael forced himself to his feet and into a run. He was limping and slower than those chasing him. Another unknown feeling washed over him—he recognized it as fear, but he didn’t feel afraid. He was, however, overcome with the thought process of one who was afraid and in desperation for survival. He was running out of time.

Suddenly, he burst into a clearing in the woods. There, in the dim light and haunting stillness, the pain in his ribs threatened to overwhelm him. For a moment, he almost accepted that this clearing might be his grave.

In that desperate instant, he let out a loud, ragged whistle. The momentary panic faded as his calculation and his resolve reasserted themselves.

Drawing his blade one more time, Kael turned to face the direction his pursuers would approach from, ready to take as many with him as possible. The shadow of a large tree lay across the clearing. Kael stared over it as his enemies broke into the space on horseback, some of them having mounted before giving chase.

As they approached, the shadow of the tree seemed to come alive—rippling and writhing. In the Myrkviðr, anything could happen. The men on horses slowed, warily watching. Kael did the same.

The shadow began to roil violently, like a storm-tossed sea—and with a sudden, piercing neigh, Eryndor burst from it.

The horse tore into the clearing like a phantom born of wind and fury, his hooves striking the earth like drumbeats of war. Moonlight glinted off his sleek, dark coat as he surged forward, eyes wild with fire, mane trailing behind him like a banner. Kael staggered at the sheer force of the moment, a lump rising in his throat—not from fear or exhaustion, but something raw and rare: awe.

It was like watching salvation gallop out of a nightmare.

Kael limped with every fiber of his strength toward the incredible creature as the chasers renewed their pursuit.

He mounted—and they bolted into a frenzied chase through the dark, tangled woods.

The stallion tore across the clearing like a storm, hooves pounding the ground with thunderous urgency. His coat shimmered with an almost spectral sheen, muscles rippling as he galloped with unnatural speed and precision. Trees blurred past on either side as Eryndor charged through the dense forest, never once faltering. Branches that should have torn at his flanks missed by inches; roots that might have tripped another mount passed harmlessly beneath him. It was as though the forest itself bent away from his path, honoring his momentum.

The pursuit was chaos: pounding hooves, shouting voices, the distant clash of steel, and Kael’s ragged, painful breaths filled the air.

The massive steed galloped at an impossible speed, weaving through the trees with uncanny precision—never striking branch or root. Eryndor moved like a creature beyond nature’s laws, leaning into turns with the grace of a shadow, hooves thudding against earth and stone without hesitation. Low branches, jagged rocks, and treacherous roots became mere blurs beside them. Kael clung to the saddle, wind ripping past his ears, eyes stinging, heart pounding. He could barely process the speed, the madness of it—the way Eryndor seemed to dance through the chaos without effort.

Just as a fragile hope began to kindle, fate turned cruel.

A sudden, unseen force struck Kael violently in the face and chest at once, wrenching him from the saddle. He lost sight of Eryndor as he crashed to the ground.

His battered body fought to remain conscious. His vision wavered, the world tilting—blurring. The attackers encircled him, their torches bobbing like hungry specters.

And then, through the haze— A massive green dragon descended upon the clearing.

There was a burst of brilliant green light—a flash so intense it seemed to freeze the moment in time, suspending it in silence. Then: darkness.

Delivering news to the Witness was never easy. Even for Sterling—hardened, disciplined, and favored enough to have been promoted to captain just a few months ago—there was no comfort in standing before a being who had once been a god. The Witness had lived through the Riftveil—survived the cataclysm that shattered the known world and tore the divine from the heavens. Only he had returned. His generals, his warriors—none of them survived. The rest had become myth, lost to a void that no gods remained to fill.

Now, in the silence of the chamber, the weight of every word seemed to stretch time itself.

“It’s been confirmed. Alaric and the twins have been on the move,” Sterling said, his voice steady despite the gravity of the report.

The air thickened. The Witness leaned forward over his desk, the light catching the deep, jagged scar that ran across his face—a permanent reminder of the violence that had undone much of what he had once known.

“Where?” His voice was cold, distant—only the faintest trace of the god he had once been remained in it.

Sterling cleared his throat. “Sightings of the twins are scattered across the region. We can’t track them—they vanish like shadows. But reports suggest they’ll surface soon in Aldenwood. Alaric is traveling the main roads, disguised as a bard. Should we move to intercept?”

“No,” the Witness replied, his words hard as stone. “Do not approach him. I will not see even one more of us fall to that folly. It would be a wasted life.”

Sterling hesitated, pushing further. “With respect, sir, there’s only one of him. And he’s rarely seen now. This could be our chance. If I took a battalion—if we broke silence for once—we could capture him. Maybe… maybe you could make him see reason.”

The Witness tilted his head slightly, his eyes—those eyes that had witnessed the collapse of gods and the birth of a new world—examining Sterling with an intensity that could freeze a man in his tracks. “I forget how new you are to this post, Kept—so I’ll do you the courtesy of answering your questioning. But do not mistake your youth for wisdom.”

The tone was sharp, yet measured—so many ages of pain woven into every word.

“I will also spare myself the loss of a good soldier, and possibly a battalion, because you underestimate an enemy you cannot comprehend.”

Sterling’s breath caught. The words were as much a warning as a truth.

“Yes, sir.”

The Witness rarely spoke in such long passages. His orders were usually succinct—efficient. But when he spoke, it was always with purpose. And this time, his voice carried a weight Sterling could feel in the marrow of his bones.

“Come with me,” the Witness commanded, standing and leading Sterling toward the balcony that overlooked the hidden city nestled deep within the Western Isles.

The air outside was crisp, the sea winds carrying the scent of salt and forgotten dreams. Below, the city was shrouded in an eerie silence.

“The city is well-concealed. It must remain so. If Alaric ever discovered its location, he would obliterate it—and with it, any chance we have of stopping him.”

His voice had taken on the cadence of someone who had borne the weight of ancient secrets—someone who had seen too much, lost too much, to be swayed by idealism.

“When the Order first formed—nearly a thousand years after the Riftveil—it was because the world had begun to forget. People began searching for the Aspects under Alaric’s direction. The Aspects, you see, are the key to Zarathorix’s return. To releasing him from his prison.”

The Witness’s eyes burned with a mix of sorrow and steel. “If that happens, the world as we know it will burn. Even if we lose our lives in the effort, we cannot allow them to be found. We must kill or convert anyone searching for them.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze shifting to the horizon. For a fleeting moment, he was lost in thought—an eternal specter caught between past and future.

“I once led five hundred trained and blessed warriors to intercept Alaric. I was the only one who returned—and Alaric never even broke a sweat. Never once seemed winded. There is no fighting him. We move around him. We wait. We steal what we must if he finds an Aspect, but we do not engage.”

He paused, and for a moment, the weight of memory seemed to draw even his divine bearing into shadow.

“He was waiting for us. Not with armies. Not with walls or traps. He was simply… there. The battlefield itself was his weapon. He fractured time. Slowed it. Stopped it. Reversed it. I saw men struck down only to fall again moments later, their lives playing on repeat until they unraveled. Others withered to dust in seconds—aged by centuries in the blink of an eye. Some turned their blades on each other, convinced by illusions so real they bled from imagined wounds.”

His voice dropped lower.

“I reached him. I fought through it all and reached him. I struck. He never moved. I don’t even know if the blade touched him—or if that moment was taken from me. A memory stolen. Time bent around him like wind around a mountain. My every strategy was dust. My every command undone before it was given. He didn’t raise a hand. He didn’t have to.”

He straightened slightly, hands tightening against the railing.

“Even now, time no longer obeys him—not as it did when the stars whispered his name. But the bones of power remain. The god is dead—but the immortal man remembers.”

The Witness exhaled, slow and quiet. “I don’t give him a wide berth out of respect alone. I do so because I have looked into the eyes of the end and survived. Once.”

Sterling stood in stunned silence, the gravity of the Witness’s words pressing down on him like an anvil.

“The tragedy of this conflict is that the line between right and wrong has become a matter of perspective,” the Witness continued, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “Zarathorix was labeled a demon, a destroyer—but that lie persists because it must. The world cannot survive the truth. The truth, if unleashed, would unravel the very fabric of reality. We protect the lie not because we believe it, but because it is the only shield against annihilation.”

He turned toward Sterling, his eyes hardening with a finality that brooked no argument. “Send the Hunter—he will take three of our best. Their orders are to investigate, interfere, and kill if necessary. But above all, we need information. We must know what Alaric and the twins seek—and how they plan to release Zarathorix.”

Sterling bowed his head, understanding the weight of his mission. The Witness had spoken, and there was no questioning the depth of the god’s purpose.

“Yes, sir.”

And as Sterling turned to leave, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this mission—this search for answers—might be the beginning of something far darker than any of them had anticipated.

The Witness stood alone in the shadows, his eyes lingering on the horizon, where time and fate converged into an uncertain future.

Dust rose from the practice ring with every movement. Three combatants circled the lone figure at the center—each of them armed, armored, and already bleeding from shallow cuts.

The Hunter didn’t even seem winded.

Dreya Thorne moved like a shadow given form—silent, sure, and honed to a deadly edge. Her obsidian-black hair fell in a long braid down her back, often tied with a crimson ribbon—a subtle flare in an otherwise utilitarian appearance. Her eyes, a cold silver-gray, seemed forged from winter steel, sharp and unreadable. Her face was lean, angular, beautiful in a way that felt accidental, shaped more by function than vanity. A faint mark ran from her temple to her jaw—a faded scar, barely visible unless the light caught it just right. Clad in leathers black as pitch and trimmed in ash-gray, she bore the quiet weight of purpose, every breath measured every motion calculated—fluid, sharp, intentional. Her twin blades carved arcs through the air, deflecting strikes and creating openings before the attackers even realized they’d made mistakes.

Steel hissed past her cheek.

She twisted, dropped low, and swept the man’s legs from under him. Before he hit the dirt, her knee was at his throat, a blade pressed against his temple.

He froze.

A soft click of leather boots behind her.

She was already on her feet, the blade now pressed to the second attacker’s neck—just beneath the chin. Her breath steady. Her stance balanced.

The third man didn’t move. He raised both hands in mock surrender, smiling despite the bruise already forming beneath one eye.

“You’re dead,” she said quietly to both of them. Her voice was cool and calm—dispassionate, as if she were commenting on the weather.

“That’s not fair,” the third grunted. “You don’t even sweat.”

“You telegraphed your strike,” she said, stepping back and sheathing her blades with a clean, fluid motion. “And your stance was off-balance from the start.”

“Remind me never to spar with her again,” the first muttered, still rubbing his throat as he stood.

She didn’t respond. She was already walking away from the ring when the sound of boots on stone signaled a new arrival.

“Hunter,” said Captain Sterling, his voice clipped, urgent.

She slowed but didn’t stop.

“You’re being deployed.”

The others grew quiet. Even bruised and sore, they stood straighter. Orders from a captain—especially Sterling—were never casual.

She arched a brow over her shoulder. “Where?”

“Aldenwood. You’re taking three of your best. You leave by nightfall.”

She turned slightly now, not all the way. “Objective?”

“Alaric and the twins are on the move. Interfere where possible. Kill if necessary. But your priority is information. We need to know what they’re after—and how close they are to the truth.”

A pause.

“Understood,” she said, without hesitation.

Sterling gave a small nod, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re not to engage Alaric directly. If you encounter him, you fall back.”

She didn’t answer this time.

He frowned. “That’s an order, Hunter.”

Still, silence.

Then she took a step forward.

“If I see him, I’ll decide what’s necessary.”

Sterling’s jaw tightened. He took a step after her. “These orders come from the Witness himself.”

That stopped her cold.

He pressed on, voice hard now. “He left no room for interpretation. If you disobey, it won’t just be your life you lose. We’re not ready for a confrontation. You know that. He knows that.”

The silence that followed stretched—thick with the tension of pride, memory, and the ghosts they both carried.

Slowly, the Hunter turned to face him fully. Her eyes—usually sharp with calculation—now held something quieter beneath them. Not fear. Not deference. But a recognition that could only come from one who had seen the Witness’s will made manifest.

She gave a short nod, sharp as a blade. “Then I fall back.”

Sterling exhaled through his nose. “Good. Have your team ready within the hour.”

She turned again, this time without resistance, and made her way toward the armory. The dust of the sparring yard trailed behind her like smoke.

This time, she did not look back.

The corridor to her quarters was quiet—smooth stone lit by the dying sun through narrow, high windows. Dreya walked it alone, her steps unhurried but purposeful, her mind already moving ahead of her body.

Inside, her room was austere—monastic, almost. A narrow bed, a rack of weapons, a basin for washing. The only ornamentation sat at the foot of the bed: a dark wooden chest, iron-bound and worn smooth at the edges by her hands.

She shed the sparring gear without ceremony, the leather tunic marked by dust and shallow scrapes. Bare walls, no keepsakes. Just her blades, her armor, and the silence she never minded.

She stood bare to the waist for a moment, the last light of evening casting long shadows across her back, muscles honed by years of relentless training moving in fluid rhythm. Her new armor waited on the stand—obsidian leather with fitted plating, flexible at the joints, reinforced at the chest and shoulders. Light enough not to hinder her movement, strong enough to stop a blade. Its shape followed the curve of her frame with precision, form-fitting and elegant, every seam designed with intention. There was allure in it—and she’d turned that into a weapon, too.

The Witness had been thorough in his teaching. Every deception, every gambit, every strategy and technique—she had absorbed them all. When she completed her training and was named Hunter, he had given her his “blessing,” making her nearly immune to fatigue. She could go without sleep, food, or water, functioning at full strength for as long as needed. It did not increase her strength or speed—he didn’t believe in shortcuts. Only in balance. And discipline.

She secured the armor piece by piece, strapping the final greave to her leg and rising in one smooth motion. Then her eyes went to the amulet.

It rested where it always did—on the small black cloth at the edge of the stand. Silver, with etchings too fine to read, the gem at its center darker than blood. The Witness had given it to her after her first mission, placing it in her hand with a strange reverence.

“One day,” he had said, “I’ll tell you where it came from. When you’re ready.”

It was the only piece of her past she had. And it was enough.

She slipped it over her head and let it settle against her collarbone.

Then she turned to the door. She had one hour to assemble her team.

But she already knew the three she would take.

The barracks were loud when Dreya stepped in—laughter, sparring grunts, the clang of armor being checked and rechecked. It quieted fast.

She didn’t speak right away. Let them stew. Let the silence settle.

Then she said, “I need three.”

That was all it took. Every head turned. Conversations died mid-word. The air changed—sharpened.

From the benches, Andela gave a low whistle. “She’s picking teams like it’s a war game.”

Risha grinned. “Hope she picks me. I’ve been bored.”

“Only if you don’t slow her down,” Arden added, stretching where he leaned against a post.

Then came the voice that soured it.

“Three?” Veylan pushed up from a bench near the center, arms folded across his chest. “No commanding officer. No standing orders. Just you deciding who gets pulled?”

He smiled like it was a joke, but his eyes were mean with it.

“Cage,” he said, voice rising for the others to hear, “look who’s playing Hunter.”

A few of his friends snorted—one even gave a low whistle, mocking.

Dreya didn’t flinch.

“You want to spar again?” she asked, tone dry.

That killed the laughter. The last time, he left with a dislocated shoulder and a limp that took three weeks to shake.

Veylan’s mouth twisted, but he pressed on, louder now. “So the Witness just decided to let you lead a mission on your own? Guess the old man finally lost it.”

Andela’s boot tapped once against the bench leg. “He really wants to get hit,” she muttered.

“Two teeth says he does,” Arden replied, not bothering to hide his smirk.

Risha rose halfway from her seat, tension tight across her shoulders—but Dreya turned her head just slightly, eyes locking with hers. One look.

Risha smiled knowingly and eased back down. “I’ll take that bet,” she said to Arden. “You know… to keep it interesting.”

Dreya stepped forward, calm as dusk. “Careful, Veylan,” she said, her voice low. “You don’t follow orders unless they benefit you—and now you’re questioning the one man we all answer to?”

She hit him.

One strike—sharp, deliberate, and cruelly fast. The crack of bone against bone snapped through the room. He dropped, blood and two teeth skidding across the stone.

Dreya didn’t even glance down.

“Grow new ones before you open that mouth again.”

Andela let out a bark of laughter. Arden shook his head, grinning.

Then Dreya looked to them.

“Andela. Arden. Risha. You’re with me.”

No one else moved. No one dared.

As she turned for the door, Risha fell into step beside her. “So… when do we leave?”

“Soon,” Dreya said. “But first, you’re buying Arden a drink. She just won two teeth.”

The armory was quieter than the barracks—lit by amber glowstones that buzzed faintly overhead. Dreya moved between rows of armor stands and open crates, tossing a pair of shortblades to Arden. He caught them without looking.

“Travel light,” she said. “No heavy gear. We move fast, we stay unseen.”

Andela was already at a bench, checking the weight of throwing knives in her palm. “So what are we walking into?”

Dreya adjusted the strap across her chest and glanced back. “Syble and Setra.”

The room shifted. A pause. Even the soft metal-on-metal sounds seemed to hush.

“And Alaric.”

That landed harder.

Risha stood from where she’d been kneeling by a half-packed satchel. “All three?”

Dreya shook her head. “They’re not arriving together. But they’ll be in the same place. We don’t know if they’re working together—yet. That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Andela’s brow furrowed. “If they’re not already… you think they might?”

“I think we can’t afford to assume they’re not,” Dreya said. “And we can’t let any of them know we’re there.”

Arden snorted. “Just recon, then. Like a game of hide-and-don’t-die.”

Dreya gave him a look. “Exactly. We stay out of sight. No heroics. If we’re seen, it’s over. We’re not ready for a fight with any of them.”

Risha leaned her hip against the workbench, arms crossed. “And the others don’t know what Alaric really is.”

“They don’t need to,” Dreya said. “But you do. He’s not just a name. He’s the fallen god of time—and the fracture didn’t leave him powerless. The twins—”

“Are almost as old as Alaric, but a total mystery,” Arden interrupted, his voice low.

Dreya nodded, her expression grim. “We’re not walking into just a hunt. This is something else. And if they’re after the Aspects…”

Risha’s expression darkened. “We’re running a gauntlet.”

“Maybe,” Dreya said, her jaw tight. “But we stay focused. No matter what we find, we don’t engage unless we absolutely have to.”

She pulled her gauntlets from the bench and snapped them into place with practiced precision.

“We’ve got ten minutes to be in the Gateroom. This portal opens once. Miss it, and you find your own way back.”

Andela smirked. “That’s your version of a pep talk, isn’t it?”

Dreya turned just enough to flash her a half-smile. “You’re lucky I like you.”

She didn’t show it, but her mind was already spinning ahead. Recon wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It was supposed to be precise. Quiet. Clean.

But this wasn’t some rival guild or rogue sect sniffing at secrets they didn’t understand.

This was Alaric—the fallen god of time.

Like the Witness, he had seen the earth, sea, and sky shatter. He had survived the Riftveil, endured its unraveling. But where the Witness chose to preserve what remained, Alaric reached back toward what was lost. His vision of restoration—noble, even beautiful—would only birth another cataclysm.

She had studied him through the Witness’s tales, through the visions he’d shown her, teaching not through fear but understanding—what Alaric was capable of, and why he was best avoided. A being whose love for the world made him dangerous.

And it pained her. Because she was the only one who knew the truth: the Witness and Alaric had once been brothers, their bond shattered by the very catastrophe they had tried to stop. She carried that secret like like a hidden blade.

They weren’t meant to be enemies.

But Avalyth had no room for what should have been.

Excitement coiled in her gut.. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t safe. But there it was.

The Witness always said fear was a compass—it pointed to the edges of what you were meant to do. But that had never been why she followed it. If it scares me, it’s mine to do. If something felt too big, too dangerous, too far beyond her reach—she ran toward it. That was the measure of her. Always had been.

Still, this felt different.

He didn’t even know the Veilwardens existed. They operated in the folds of reality, cloaked in anonymity. A thousand missions, a thousand secrets, and not one trace left behind. They weren’t shadows. Shadows left outlines.

They were absence.

If that changed… if he saw them, sensed them…

The consequences would be absolute.

The Gateroom hummed with a low, constant resonance—magic coiled tight beneath the obsidian floor, veins of silver script pulsing toward the arched gate in the center like a heartbeat. Pale light shimmered across the curved walls, alive with warding runes and quiet menace.

Dreya stepped in first—and stopped.

The others almost collided into her.

He was already there.

The Witness stood at the far side of the gate, half-shadowed by the light radiating off the glyphs behind him. No fanfare. No guards. Just his presence—still, unnerving, absolute.

Every breath in the room changed.

It was like the air had thickened, memory clinging to every inhale. Arden straightened instinctively. Risha lowered her gaze. Even Andela, who never bowed to command without sarcasm, stood silent.

Dreya said nothing. She couldn’t. The last time she’d seen him this close, he was sending her off with a hand on her shoulder and a secret in his eyes.

For this.

The Witness looked at each of them in turn, gaze heavy as judgment.

“There’s been a convergence,” he said. His voice didn’t raise, but it filled the room like thunder kept politely on a leash. “Alaric will be in Aldenwood within the week. Syble and Setra as well. Whether by design or coincidence, we cannot say.”

He stepped forward, slow, controlled. “You are to determine whether they are working together—and if they are not, whether they will.”

Dreya didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.

“They may be hunting an Aspect. Or may already have one. We need to know which. We need to know what they know—and how they came to know it.”

He let the weight of that settle. No assumptions. No comfort.

“As for the twins,” he went on, “learn what you can. I do not expect much. But anything you uncover—pattern, allegiance, weakness—will be valuable.”

He turned then, facing Dreya directly. Not the captain. Not the soldier.

The chosen.

“Do not engage Alaric,” he said, his voice dipping low, final. “Not under any circumstance. If you are seen—retreat. If you are followed—disappear. If he leaves the city, follow from a distance. You do not confront him. You do not test him.”

He looked past her to the others.

“And you do not mistake the twins for lesser threats. They were shaped in the silence between gods. They are chaos dressed as myth. Do not treat them as mortal. If they sense you—vanish.”

A pause.

“There will be no extraction gate. This mission may take days. Weeks. Longer. You are not being sent into a warzone. You are being lowered into the quiet before it.”

Another pause. Deeper.

“Do not wake the storm.”

He let that linger. Then, with a glance toward Dreya’s companions—Arden, Risha, and Andela—his voice shifted, softening by degrees.

“You always choose the same three,” he said, more to her than to them. “I’ve noticed.”

His hand lifted, a faint glow gathering at his palm, threads of starlight woven through shadow.

“For your loyalty to her—for your willingness to follow without question—I grant you what I once gave only one.”

The blessing moved through the air like a breath, touching each of them in turn. Risha gasped. Andela blinked, stunned. Arden bowed his head, jaw clenched tight.

“You will not tire. You will not hunger. You will endure.”

Dreya didn’t react, but her chest tightened. She hadn’t asked for this. Had never thought he would offer it.

The others didn’t know what it cost him to give.

And she didn’t know why he had.

But somewhere behind his eyes, something flickered. Not strategy. Not command.

Something older. Sadder.

A quiet penance for the family he had taken from her—and the one he could never give back.

The glow of the gate intensified behind him, ready to open.

Dreya exhaled, only then realizing she hadn’t been.

And in the silence, she felt her fear again—her compass—quietly, insistently, pointing.

Toward him.

And this time, it wasn’t just her own reflection in its pull.

It was the weight of his eyes—the man who had shaped her, raised her, who was more than commander.

The only father she’d ever known.

And the one she was most afraid to disappoint.

The Witness’s voice cut through the hum of the gate, cold and sharp:

“If anyone is on the other side of this gate and sees you come through—kill them. We leave no trace.”

No hesitation followed.

“Yes, sir,” they all said in unison.

And then they stepped forward.

The gate flared to life—light bending inward as though the world itself recoiled. There was no sense of motion, only a wrenching shift, like being pulled through a seam in reality. For a breathless second, their bodies felt stretched thin, their souls echoing behind them—and then they were elsewhere.

A clearing. Quiet. Cold.

The scent of pine and wet loam greeted them as they emerged, grass flattening beneath their boots. Not far off, the road curled through the trees like a pale ribbon.

And someone had seen them.

A rider—lone, fast-moving—had turned his head just as the last shimmer of the gate faded. His eyes went wide, heels dug into the horse, and he shot toward the bend in the road like a man chasing salvation.

“Arden,” Dreya said.

Just his name. That was all.

He moved like instinct. One smooth motion—a throwing knife drawn, arm cocked back, released.

The blade sliced through the air, a glint of steel barely visible against the tree-dappled sky.

The rider crumpled mid-saddle.

They didn’t speak as they crossed the clearing, boots whispering through tall grass. The horse had kept running—spooked by the impact, reins dragging.

The man lay in a heap by the roadside, limbs tangled. Blood soaked into the dirt beneath him, slow and steady. His body had folded unnaturally, like something inside had been cut loose.

Dreya crouched first, fingers brushing the collar of his coat aside.

The knife had struck clean at the base of the neck, just above the spine—deep enough to sever everything that mattered. No struggle. No sound. Just lights out.

Andela crouched beside the corpse, tilting her head at the placement of the blade. “Damn,” she said. “There goes your high score.”

Arden smirked. “Still counts as a headshot if he thinks about it hard enough.”

She didn’t need to.

It was a ridiculous shot—well over one hundred and fifty yards, moving target, wind shifting through the clearing—and still, he’d hit precisely where he needed to.

It always struck her. The sheer accuracy. The ease.

Where she honed her body for close-quarters—the weight of a blade, the read of muscle and breath—Arden was the opposite. Cold distance, precise angles, and deadly reach. No wasted motion. No second tries.

She stood again, gaze flicking past the bend in the road.

Clean kill. No witnesses. Not a trace left behind.

They were in it now.

Risha shaded her eyes with one hand, scanning the horizon. “That’s Aldenwood,” she said. “Half a day’s ride—maybe most of a day walking. You can see the floating island from here.”

They followed her gaze—past the tree line, where the forest gave way to something stranger. The city didn’t sit within the woods so much as in a space carved from it. The trees had pulled back in a wide circle, like the forest itself had opened up a space for Aldenwood to exist. And floating above it all, massive and silent, was an island hung in the sky like a suspended breath. At its center, a great ash tree stood rooted in nothing, its pale branches stretched wide against the clouds.

“Well,” Dreya said, a grin tugging at her lips, “looks like we get to see the blessing in action.”

Risha gave her a sideways look. “You’re not suggesting we run the whole way.”

“I might be.”

“You do remember that’s miles, right?” Andela asked, incredulous. “Like actual, plural miles?”

Dreya turned to her, smile sharpening. “And you won’t even be out of breath when we get there.”

Andela snorted. “You think we’re just going to sprint through half a forest and not feel it?”

“I don’t think,” Dreya said. “I know. The blessing wasn’t meant to make us strong—it’s meant to show us what we already are when the limits are gone. I want you to feel that. I want you to know what it’s like to push hard, run far, and still feel exactly as fresh as you do standing here.”

Risha squinted toward the horizon again. “Still feels insane.”

Arden tilted his head thoughtfully. “Tell you what. If I win, I get to share your bed tonight.”

“You’re assuming you’d survive the attempt,” she said, aiming for menace—but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. A smile she didn’t mean to show. Quick, involuntary. Gone just as fast.

Arden caught it. Didn’t say a word. Just let the moment hang, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

Andela groaned. “Please try. I want to watch her kill you mid-snore.”

Arden grinned wider. “Worth it.”

With a playful smirk Dreya bolted knowing that her team would meet the challenge. The forest blurred past in shades of green and gold as they moved, boots thudding softly against earth still damp from the night’s rain. When they hit the road—narrow and winding through the trees like a forgotten vein—Dreya didn’t slow.

She ran.

Not a jog. Not a measured pace.

She ran.

And the others, blinking at first, followed.

The moment their feet hit the hardened path, the blessing revealed itself. No ache in their legs. No tightness in their lungs. Just speed—pure, effortless speed.

Andela let out a stunned laugh. “What the hell—this is insane!”

“I told you,” Dreya called over her shoulder, her voice steady, sharp with glee. “You’re not tired. You’re just used to pretending you are.”

Arden drew up alongside her, wind in his hair, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Remind me why we didn’t get this blessing sooner?”

Dreya smirked without slowing. “Because I didn’t know he would. And the Witness doesn’t give—he decides.”

She pulled ahead on the last word, long strides devouring the road.

Arden narrowed his eyes. “Is she actually racing us?”

Andela barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s racing. And she’s rubbing it in.”

“You owe me a bed, remember?” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth like a trumpet.

Dreya laughed, turning her head just enough to throw the next line like a knife over her shoulder:

“Better make other plans, Arden! You’ll need new sleep arrangements when I leave you behind!”

The road narrowed the closer they came to the city, pressed on either side by tall, moss-cloaked trees. Shafts of sunlight slipped through the canopy, turning the air golden. Slowly, the thick forest thinned, giving way to broad pines shaped by old magic and the stone markers of Aeldenwood’s outer boundary.

The capital emerged not all at once, but in pieces—a sound, a smell, the gleam of banners through the trees. Then the forest fell away, and Aeldenwood spread before them.

Dreya slowed, the others doing the same beside her as the road became crowded with carts and citizens, travelers and traders weaving their way toward the gates. Their boots struck cobblestone now, smooth and worn like polished bone. The scent of fire-roasted meats and wildflowers hung in the air, carried on the breeze.

The city pulsed with color and life. Stone buildings rose tall and elegant, balconies carved with ivy-like spirals. Market stalls clustered like flowers at the edges of broad plazas, hawkers calling above the din. Banners stretched overhead between rooftops—reds, golds, and deep forest green—casting shifting light across streets that twisted like the roots of some ancient thing.

Musicians played from shaded corners, and children darted past with fruit-stained fingers and pealing laughter. Nobles walked high balconies, sipping spiced wine and watching the crowd like gods of their own little courts.

And high above it all—Skyhold.

The floating island hovered in impossible stillness, a slab of earth suspended above the city by a web of shimmering arcane energy. Built into it—no, from it—was a castle of black and silver stone, rising out of the trunk of an ash tree so massive its gnarled bark formed the very foundation of the citadel. The tree’s bark gleamed faintly in the light, silver-white and veined like old marble, its pale green leaves glimmering like crystal. Roots curled along the underside of the floating island, not touching the city below but stretching wide as if reaching for something long lost.

Dreya stared. “That’s real?”

“It’s real,” Risha said softly, stepping up beside her. “That’s Skyhold. The Elder Council rules from there. No one knows how to reach it—only those they invite are ever taken up.”

Dreya’s eyes stayed fixed on the tree, its grandeur somehow heavier than the sky itself. “How long has it been up there?”

“Since the Riftveil,” Risha said. “The castle was once the home of the goddess who trapped Zarathorix. When the world fractured, something kept the tree standing. Some scholars believe it’s the oldest living thing in all Avalyth.”

Before Dreya could speak again, Risha’s tone turned more serious. She paused, glancing at Dreya. “The Elder Council—those in Skyhold—offer great rewards to anyone who brings them knowledge from before the Riftveil. They’ve been obsessed with the past for centuries, chasing scraps of history, trying to understand what was lost. They even promise a crown to anyone who can prove a claim to the bloodline of the old kings.”

Dreya’s gaze sharpened. “There’s still a bloodline?”

Risha shook her head. “No. It’s just a myth. The last king had no children—that much is known. But the Council still chases the idea, hoping someone shows up with the right name, the right relic. It’s been over a thousand years since anyone wore a crown in Avalyth.”

Dreya absorbed the words, her expression unreadable. Another ghost clung to power, another tragedy buried under time. Then she glanced at Risha again, her voice quiet but sincere.

“You always know these things,” she said. “Whole worlds in your head. It’s like you’ve read half the isles.”

Risha offered a faint smile. “Maybe just a third.”

A shout from the gate drew their attention—travelers were being ushered through in groups now, and the flow of foot traffic tightened into a crush.

They stepped forward, blending with the crowd.

Dreya walked in silence for a time, eyes scanning rooftops, alleys, faces. Her mind was already shifting gears, tightening into purpose. When the press of people finally loosened and the street opened wider, she pulled the others to the side of a shaded building and turned to face them.

“We spread out,” she said. “We’ll draw less attention and cover more ground.”

Her eyes flicked to Risha. “You take the residential sectors.”

Risha nodded. “They’re closest to the outer walls—the poorest district, tight streets and tighter community. Word travels fast there. If anything’s stirring below the noble eye, I’ll hear it first.”

Dreya looked to Arden. “You’re on the market lanes.”

Risha chimed in, “Merchants hear everything. You can talk your way out of as much trouble as your mouth gets you into. If there’s anything to learn, your silver tongue will get it faster than gold.”

Dreya turned to Andela. “You’ve got the arena district.”

“Figures,” Andela muttered, already adjusting her bracers.

Risha smirked. “You’ll blend in better than the rest of us there. Fighters talk when they sweat—and they brag when they bleed.”

“My kind of people,” Andela said with a wicked smile.

Dreya pulled her hood up. “I’ll take the taverns. Secure rooms. Ask questions. See who’s drinking too much to guard their tongue.”

“Scouting or drinking?” Arden asked with a grin.

“Both,” Dreya said without missing a beat.

“Back by nightfall?” Andela asked.

“If we can manage it,” Dreya said. “If you can’t return unseen—don’t.”

No more words were needed. They broke apart and slipped into the veins of the city, each headed toward their mark.

The tavern door groaned as it swung inward, spilling sunlight across a floor worn smooth by years of boots, spills, and brawls. Dreya stepped inside and let it close behind her, the noise of the street muffled in an instant. The air was warm—thick with the scent of hearth smoke, ale, and something sweet baking in the kitchens. Beneath it, a faint trace of damp wool and old wood lingered like memory.

Her eyes adjusted quickly. Shadows stretched long across the walls, lit by flickering lanterns and the steady fire behind the bar. Low music drifted from a corner where a man coaxed a tune from a lute with more strings than he had teeth. Voices filled the space—laughter, muttered bets, the steady hum of too much drink and not enough caution.

Dreya moved with purpose, skirting the edge of the room toward the barkeep. The woman behind the counter had dark, curly hair, a warm, inviting smile, and a quiet confidence about her. She didn’t ask questions when Dreya slid coin across the wood.

“Four rooms,” Dreya said. “Quiet, if you have them.”

“You’ll want the second floor, south hall,” the barkeep replied, tucking the coins away. “Keys are on the ring.”

Dreya took them, noting the numbers. Rooms eight through eleven. Across the hall, the numbers read backwards. She pocketed the keys.

With the rooms secured, she found a seat with her back to the wall and a wide view of the floor. Her hood stayed up, shadowing her face as she sipped something dark and bitter that passed for ale. She wasn’t here to drink. Not really.

To watch.

The conversation around the tavern was largely unhelpful. She learned of cheating husbands and disobedient children. Of stolen chickens and cursed weather. Of a card game gone wrong and a pig that wouldn’t stop screaming at dawn.

But she also learned that the elder council had been out of the city until two nights ago, and no one seemed to know where they’d gone. Apparently, that was normal. Still, Dreya noted it. Their search for lost history could put them on a path to the Aspects, and that would go in her report to the Witness.

The door to the tavern banged open again. A man strode in—broad-shouldered, flushed with urgency, clearly a local worker. He made straight for the bar.

“Elena!” he called to the barkeep. “You will never guess who I bumped into on the road here a few days ago! Oh, I can’t recall his name—I was so excited when he said he was coming I forgot to ask! But you know him! He hasn’t been here in ages! And he promised a story!”

Dreya’s brow knit.

Elena glanced up from cleaning a glass. “A bard?”

“Yes! Tall, lean fella, voice like winter. We were kids the last time he came. When I asked him if he’d be through Aldenwood, he said he had a story he’d never told here before—and it was time people remembered.”

The pieces slotted together in Dreya’s mind like blades into a sheath, fast and cold. Her grip tightened slightly on her mug, breath held just a moment too long.

He was coming. And soon.

As if fate had been listening—mocking her with timing—a chill swept across the room as the tavern door opened once more. Two figures entered in seamless tandem.

Syble and Setra.

The twins moved like dancers sharing one breath, joined at the shoulder beneath a flowing, shadow-colored cloak. One drow, one high elf—their contrast as striking as their synchronicity. They scanned the room without urgency. And when their gaze found Dreya, they moved toward her with quiet certainty.

They did not speak at first.

Instead, they settled into the seats beside her, moving as one. A barmaid passed, and they each ordered a drink—one deep red, the other clear and glittering with herbs.

“You’re early,” Syble said, finally breaking the silence. Her voice was soft, but carried something serrated underneath.

Dreya didn’t look at them. “Any need in pretending I have no idea what you’re talking about?” she asked, dryly. There was no insult in her tone—only resignation sharpened by caution. She knew better than to test the twins. The Witness had warned her well.

“None, Veilwarden,” Syble answered. Her voice dipped into a dangerous whisper.

Setra picked up smoothly. “It is fortunate that you are here.”

“Stay here,” Syble continued, tone flat. “Your team will learn nothing. But Alaric will be here in three days’ time. I’m sure you can guess that if we know you, he does—and we suggest you don’t let him catch wind of you.”

Something inside Dreya shifted—tight, unfamiliar.

The way they spoke in turns without pause, as if sharing one mind split between two bodies. Yet it wasn’t mimicry or echo. Each word carried the inflection of a separate intelligence, like two minds braided into one rhythm. It was unsettling in its precision. Not unnatural—something older than unnatural. Something rehearsed by blood and bound by design.

And it unnerved her. Not in the way danger usually did. It was colder. More intricate. Like standing before a clockwork machine whose ticking had already mapped her every move. It made her feel, for a moment, like a pawn in a game she hadn’t even realized she was playing.

Setra opened her mouth to speak again, but the door creaked once more and in walked a halfling—round-faced, ruddy-cheeked, and dressed in the work-stained leathers of a stablehand. He was the same man who had given Kael his horse days earlier, though Dreya had no way of knowing that. To her, he was just another local, albeit one with purpose in his step.

“There you are,” he said, striding up to the twins. “You said you had a horse for sale? Thought I’d come see for myself if it’s half as fine as you claimed.”

Syble and Setra stood, rising in perfect synchrony. Setra pulled her cloak tighter across the shared shoulder as Syble replied.

“Walk with us.”

Setra gestured toward the door. “We’ll speak outside.”

The halfling blinked, a bit startled, but turned and followed.

Dreya remained seated, her drink untouched now, eyes following the trio as they exited. She wasn’t part of that conversation. She was waiting—for Risha, for Arden, for Andela—to return from their reconnaissance. Alaric wasn’t here yet, but she couldn’t be sure whether the twins’ proclamation that her team would “learn nothing” was a warning, or a threat. As the minutes turned to hours, worry twisted slow and sharp in her gut.

The city had started speaking.

She just hoped her team returned before it began to scream.

The tavern door creaked open again, drawing the eyes of several patrons, but it was Andela who commanded attention. A slice below her eye, crimson already drying into a thin line, and a smear of blood on her cheek where it had trickled from her nose. But her grin was wide, bright—a warrior’s grin, one that seemed to say everything’s just fine.

Dreya straightened as she spotted her, offering a brief nod of acknowledgment, though she couldn’t suppress the flicker of concern that crossed her eyes. She knew Andela. Knew how hard the woman could push through the worst of situations. But this…

Andela didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she wiped the blood from her nose with the back of her hand and pulled a chair out with a flourish before settling into it with a deep sigh.

“The fighters here are amazing!” Andela said with a laugh, though it was tinged with exhaustion. “They don’t know much about things outside the arena, but they sure do know how to give a good scrap!”

Dreya’s mind wandered to their shared history—the countless hours spent sparring, the rhythmic thud of fists on flesh, the sound of blades slicing the air. Andela had always been her favorite partner in those training bouts, a whirlwind of force and energy. Even now, Dreya could still hear the crackle of their last sparring session echoing in her mind. Fighting was more than just muscle; it was about intuition, adaptation, and survival. Andela lived for it in a way that felt both reckless and pure.

And Dreya couldn’t deny it—Andela’s prowess as a fighter had been unmatched. It was something Dreya had admired and respected, even when their hands were locked in friendly combat.

“Just another day at the office,” Andela offered in explanation as she noticed Dreya’s look.

Dreya nodded, her gaze flicking over Andela’s face. She noticed the blood, but more than that, she noticed the faintest glimmer of excitement in Andela’s eyes. She was always a fighter—fists, feet, blade, or bo staff, combat was her thing. It was something Dreya knew well and loved about Andela.

Andela leaned forward, wiping blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. “Let’s just say, those fighters aren’t just throwing punches for fun. Nothing like fighting against someone when winning determines if they get a meal.”

Andela shrugged, carrying on in Dreya’s silence. “Other than that, I didn’t find much that would help us directly. A few new techniques, but nothing worth the risk. I tried talking to the arena master, but he’s tight-lipped. Nothing that leads anywhere useful. It’s all a dead end, Dreya.”

Dreya sat back in her chair and took a breath, allowing the silence to hang between them for a moment. Then, her voice was steady, though tinged with a deeper edge. “I think Alaric works from the same shadows we do. I’m beginning to doubt anyone here can tell us much. But when Arden and Risha get here, I’ll lay out what I know. You know how I hate repeating myself.”

She flagged down a passing server and ordered two drinks. When they arrived, she slid one across the table to Andela, her expression softening just slightly.

“Now tell me all about the men you bloodied for marking that pretty face.”

Andela snorted into her drink. “Only a few this time.”

The laughter came easy after that. Whatever else waited for them, for now they were just two warriors at a table—sisters in all but blood, sharing bruises, drinks, and the brief warmth of knowing they all had each other.

Arden pushed through the tavern’s main door with the weight of frustration riding his shoulders. Dust clung to the hem of his cloak, his jaw was tight, and his eyes went straight to Dreya and Andela. He joined them without a word, dropping into the seat beside Andela with a grunt and a shake of his head.

“Well?” Dreya asked, though her tone was already dry with expectation.

“Nothing,” Arden muttered. “Nothing that matters, anyway. The traders are all snarling about aetherstorms tearing through the northern lanes. Shipments from the Isles are delayed, costs are up, spice and silks are getting scarce.” He waved a hand. “It’ll go in the report. The captains might care.”

“But you don’t,” Andela said, not unkindly.

“No,” Arden admitted. “Because none of it gets us closer. No mention of Alaric, no word of any outsiders stirring the pot. Just grumbling merchants and supply lines stretched thin.”

Dreya leaned back slightly, studying him. “A dead end, then.”

“The cleanest kind,” Arden said. “Whatever’s moving here—it’s deeper than trade. Or too quiet for the streets to hear it.”

Dreya nodded. “I’m starting to think that’s by design.”

She didn’t elaborate, not yet. She’d wait for Risha—then decide how much to say.

For now, she signaled for another round. The table sat in a pocket of quiet, the three of them close in a world that didn’t know they existed.

It wasn’t long before Risha arrived, slipping through the tavern’s door like a shadow through fog. Her cloak was damp at the hem, her expression unreadable, but her eyes found the table in an instant. She moved with a dancer’s grace, fluid and quiet, and slid into the seat across from Dreya without ceremony.

Dreya arched a brow. “Tell me you brought something better than storm routes and spice prices.”

Risha gave a small shake of her head. “Nothing of use. No rumors, no movements, no whispers worth chasing. Either no one knows anything, or they’ve been paid well not to speak.”

She leaned back, stretching her gloves off finger by finger. “But I did learn a few things. Taxes are hitting hardest along the outer wall—worse than I expected. Poorer folk are being bled dry just for breathing the city’s air. The Wall District is crawling with collectors, loan sharks, and thugs dressed in bureaucracy.”

Andela let out a soft whistle. “Sounds like a lovely place to get stabbed.”

“Only if you can’t pay,” Risha replied dryly.

Arden snorted. “Another dead end, then.”

Risha nodded. “But a loud one.”

Dreya stared into her glass for a long moment, watching the way the amber liquid caught the low light. Then she leaned in, voice low but unmistakably sharp.

“The twins know we’re here.”

Arden stilled, the muscle in his jaw twitching. His fingers tightened around his drink, though he didn’t raise it. Andela blinked once, the grin she wore earlier vanishing like breath off glass. She leaned forward, elbows braced against the table, eyes narrowing. Risha’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came. Her expression stayed unreadable—but only just. A flicker of something passed through her eyes. Surprise. Worry. Recognition.

Dreya let the silence stretch a beat before speaking again, each word careful.

“And what’s more… they know who we are. As in Veilwardens.”

The weight of that truth sank in like a stone through still water.

“They knew Arden wouldn’t find anything. Knew the traders were just noise. Knew Risha’s ears would catch only silence. They either control the flow of information here, or they move as secretly as we do.” Her eyes flicked between them. “Maybe both.”

She took a slow sip of her drink, then set it down and continued, her tone shifting—less analytical now, more haunted.

“I watched them. Closely. The way they walked… it was like watching two shadows bound to a single flame. Perfectly in sync, but never quite the same. One leads with a step, the other finishes the thought with a smile. Their words loop into each other, not overlapping, not interrupting—just continuing.”

Dreya’s voice dipped lower.

“They speak like they’ve known every conversation before it’s said. Like they’re remembering it in real time. There’s no breath wasted. No hesitation. It’s unnerving.”

She paused again, and her hand unconsciously brushed the hilt of the dagger at her hip. Her voice dropped even further.

“They aren’t mortal. But they’re not quite divine, either. Whatever they are… they see things. Us. As if they’d already read our stories cover to cover.”

They confirmed it,” she said. “Alaric is coming. According to the twins, he’ll be here. In this tavern. Three days.”

The words landed like a hammer blow—quiet, but impossible to ignore.

Arden let out a sharp breath through his nose, shaking his head slowly. “Three days,” he muttered. “Just enough time to dig a grave or vanish.”

“They also warned he likely already knows who we are,” Dreya added. “If they do, then it stands to reason he might. Their words were… specific. And not just about us being here. They said we were early.”

Risha’s brow furrowed. “Early?” she echoed, a chill running under the word. “As if this was scheduled.”

“They didn’t say more,” Dreya went on. “Someone came to meet them. A stable master—wanted to buy a horse. They left without another glance. Just walked away like none of this mattered.”

Andela scoffed, though there was no humor in it. “We’re dancing on the edge of a blade, and they’re off selling horses?”

“Exactly,” Dreya said. “And that’s why I believe them.”

That silenced the table for a long moment. Only the dull murmur of the tavern around them kept the scene from falling into eerie stillness.

“I don’t trust them,” Dreya continued, voice tightening. “Not even a little. But I believe them. There’s a difference. If the Witness’s warnings are true—if the twins are what he says they are—then they could’ve killed me. Or any of you. But they didn’t. They were expecting us. They let me walk away.”

Arden’s jaw clenched. “Could be they’re waiting for something.”

“Or someone,” Risha added quietly.

“Maybe,” Dreya said. “But if Alaric is coming—if this is the same man the Witness fought and lost to—then we don’t have the luxury of maybes.”

She let her gaze sweep the group, lingering just long enough on each of them to make the silence between words carry weight.

“This isn’t a hunt anymore,” she said, finally. “It’s a countdown.”

Andela leaned back in her chair and drained the last of her drink, then set the mug down with a sharp clink.

“So,” she said, a grin tugging at the edge of her mouth, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Game of hide and don’t die begins in three days. Lovely.”

Arden groaned. “I hate that game.”

Risha said nothing, but the corner of her mouth curved—not quite a smile. Just an acknowledgment.

Dreya leaned back, picked up her drink, and took a slow sip.

“Good,” she murmured. “Then let’s make sure we don’t lose the first round.”

Risha’s eyes lingered on the worn surface of the table.

Her voice dropped—soft, deliberate.

“There’s one family I couldn’t stop thinking about,” she said. “Near the old breach in the wall. Four of them. Maren, the mother—keeps the hearth burning with barely enough fuel to boil water. Two sons, both too thin for their age. The younger one had bruises that didn’t come from play. And the father…” Her words slowed. “He’s a mason, but his hands are cracked and bleeding. Can’t find work anymore. Not the kind that pays honest coin.”

Andela’s posture changed—subtle, but sharp. She leaned in, jaw tightening.

“They borrowed to stay afloat,” Risha continued, her voice cool but brittle. “Just enough to get them through the last season. Then the taxmen came. Then the collectors. Their home’s in arrears, and the enforcers don’t wait long. I saw the badge on one of them—city sanctioned. The father’s got one week, maybe less, before they’re thrown out into the gutter.”

Dreya’s expression hardened.

“Why them?” Arden asked quietly. “Why tell us this?”

Risha met his gaze. “Because the father offered me his last apple. Said it wasn’t much, but that I looked like I needed it more than he did.” Pulling the apple from beneath her cloak and set it in the table.

A silence fell around the table.

Andela’s hands curled into fists beneath the wood. Her voice, when it came, was low and burning.

“What’s the younger boy’s name?”

“Jalen,” Risha answered, without hesitation.

Andela stared down into her drink. “Every damn poor place in this world’s got a Jalen—scraping by, praying no one notices them until it’s too late.”

Dreya didn’t speak, but she watched Andela carefully.

Risha leaned forward. “We came here chasing a storm, but the city’s already drowning, Dreya. Maybe not in blood or war—but in silence. In people forgotten.”

Andela pushed back from the table, her chair scraping across the floor as she stood.

“Then maybe it’s time someone remembered.”

Andela didn’t say another word—just turned and climbed the stairs with steady steps. No huff, no flare of temper. But the tightness in her shoulders spoke volumes. The tavern’s noise closed in behind her, but it didn’t follow her up.

The silence at the table stretched long after she was gone.

Risha glanced between Dreya and Arden, something curious flickering behind her eyes. “She seemed… shaken.”

Arden didn’t answer right away. He was watching the stairwell she’d disappeared through, his jaw clenched like he was grinding back words. Finally, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, and ran a hand over his face.

“She’ll be alright in the morning,” he said softly. “She always is.”

Dreya didn’t press, but her gaze held steady. So Arden continued, not out of obligation—but because the air felt like it needed filling with truth.

“We grew up in the Northern Isles,” he began, voice low. “Volcanic crags and endless ash storms. The soil was black as night, the air scorched and sulfurous. No green fields, no gentle rains—only the roar of lava and smoke. It wasn’t the kind of place you survived; it was the kind you endured.”

He paused, eyes distant.

“Our parents fell ill one season—ash fever, they called it. There were no healers who could help, no remedies we could buy. They burned out before the ash cleared.”

Arden’s hand tightened on his cup.

“I was still small. Andela… she wasn’t much older. But she made sure I ate. Stole food from supply caravans, bartered favors, did whatever she had to. I slept on that ashen ground hungry more nights than not, but never empty. I lived because she wouldn’t let me die.”

Risha shifted in her seat, attentive.

“That family Risha mentioned,” Arden said, voice rough, “they reminded her of home. Of everything she fought to escape—and to preserve. That’s why it hit her so hard.”

Dreya looked at the stairwell for a moment. With a short sigh she handed out keys. “First light tomorrow morning be here for orders. We have three days to kill with no leads I’ll want to make the most of them. Get some rest.”

With that they each left in turn so as not to draw attention waiting minuets in between before the next one went up.. Dreya was the last to leave.

Ok this is where we pick up. Just read this all back to me exactly the way it is

The sun hadn’t yet fully claimed the sky when Dreya descended into the quiet hush of the tavern’s main hall. The fire was low, embers still glowing from the night before, and the scent of old ale clung to the wood. She ordered breakfast for the others—simple, hearty fare—but asked for nothing herself.

The barkeep, sharp-eyed and weathered, gave her a once-over and wordlessly set about preparing something for her anyway. She didn’t argue.

Not five minutes later, Risha appeared, ever the early riser. Her hair was already braided back, armor half-fastened but clean, eyes bright and unbothered by the hour.

“Morning, Dreya,” she said, sliding into the bench beside her. “Food smells good.” She stretched with a groan. “We missed dinner in favor of drinks last night, and my stomach’s holding a grudge.” She grinned and let out a light giggle.

Then came Arden.

He shuffled down the stairs like a man returning from war, boots scuffing against each wooden step. He moved with the groggy resistance of someone who believed mornings were a punishment from the gods. But the smell of bacon and coffee hit him halfway down, and that was enough to stir life into his limbs.

“Well, well,” he said, slinking over to the table with a crooked grin. “A vision of beauty to greet me in the morning. Dreya, you shouldn’t have.”

She didn’t even look up. “I didn’t.”

Undeterred, he slid onto the bench across from her. “Your silence wounds me.”

“Then shut up and let me wound you more.”

He chuckled, unbothered, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Gods, I love mornings like this.”

“You love suffering,” Risha muttered around a bite of toast.

“And yet,” Arden said with a wink, “I’m still here.”

The last of the group to emerge was Andela. She came down the stairs with a measured pace, no storm in her eyes this morning, but something quieter—focused. Collected. The fire that had crackled behind her words the night before was banked now, replaced with something else.

Arden caught sight of her and raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat with his mug in hand. “I know that look,” he said. “That’s the ‘I’m planning something dangerous and I’m not telling you yet’ look.”

He said it with his usual smirk, but there was a thread of genuine concern woven into the tease.

Andela didn’t rise to it, not yet. “Morning,” she said to the group as she reached the table, her voice even. She gave Arden a sidelong glance and added, “I’ll tell you later.”

That was all he got.

She passed behind Risha and gave her a playful nudge. “Up with the sun again, little bird? You ever sleep in?”

“Once,” Risha said, “and I missed breakfast. Never again.”

Andela smirked and slipped into the seat beside her, her usual sharp wit and composed ease settling back into place like armor. Whatever had stirred her overnight, she wasn’t ready to share it. But for now, she was still theirs.

Plates clattered softly, steam rising from bowls and mugs as the group eased into the comfort of a shared meal. The barkeep had brought Dreya a plate despite her silent protest, sliding it in front of her with a grunt and a look that dared her not to eat it. She hadn’t touched it yet.

They talked while they ate—small talk, mostly. Risha complained about the stiffness in her shoulders from sleeping in armor. Arden claimed the coffee was so strong it could polish steel. Andela teased Risha for waking up early just to stare dramatically out the window like a war widow in a bad play.

Then came the real entertainment.

“I still can’t believe you knocked out Valyn’s teeth,” Arden said, grinning as he sopped up yolk with a piece of bread.

“Two teeth,” Andela corrected, pointing her spoon at Dreya. “And a molar. You hit him so hard I think his ancestors flinched.”

“I warned him,” Dreya said without looking up.

“He called her a ‘broodmare in armor,’” Risha added helpfully.

“He was drunk,” Arden offered.

“He was conscious,” Dreya said.

The table laughed—loud, easy, and warm. Even the barkeep cracked a grin as he passed by.

Conversation drifted after that—old stories, worse hangovers, the bacon being better than expected. For a while, it was just breakfast. Just them.

And then Dreya stood.

She didn’t speak at first. She didn’t have to.

The scrape of her chair, the shift in her posture, the sudden stillness of her frame—those were enough. Her team fell silent, mid-sentence and mid-chew, eyes lifting to her with instinctive attentiveness. Even Arden stopped smirking.

She cleared her throat.

The moment hung, the air drawn taut.

“We have to make the most of the three days we have before Alaric arrives,” she said. Her voice was calm, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. “Once he’s here, he will be our primary focus. But until then, we need to see what advantages we can find for the Veilwardens.”

She looked to Arden first.

“Arden, you’re going back to the market lanes. This time, you’re not just sniffing out rumors. You’re looking for opportunity. I want eyes on trade routes—places where we could quietly position agents. If people move through it, we need to be watching it.”

He gave a lazy salute with his fork. “Eyes open, mouth shut. Got it.”

Next, Dreya turned to Risha. “You’re going to the library. Gather as much information as you can—on anything. I know how you like to learn, but prioritize anything that might help the captains when they write their reports to the generals. Make it useful.”

Risha’s breath caught like a child being handed a whole cake. “The Lorekeeper’s Library…” she said, almost salivating. “The largest known collection of knowledge in all the Isles.” Her fingers twitched toward her satchel, already itching for ink and parchment.

Andela snorted softly, and Dreya turned to her next—expecting it.

“Hunter,” Andela said, sitting a bit straighter. “Request permission to return to the arena.”

Dreya hesitated. Just for a breath. Then, her gaze sharpened.

“Only if I go with you.”

Andela nodded once. “No objection.”

The moment hung again—charged now, but settled. The morning’s ease was gone, replaced by readiness. The team didn’t need a battlecry. They just needed orders. And Dreya had given them.

“Back by nightfall,” Dreya said. “We don’t wander the city after dark. People pay strangers closer attention when the sun goes down.”

She made the final command with quiet authority.

“Move out.”

Chairs scraped back. Plates were left half-finished. The team rose with martial efficiency and scattered to their assigned paths.

Dreya turned to Andela. “Alright. What are we up to?”

Andela didn’t answer right away. They walked in silence toward the arena, boots tapping steadily on cobbled stone.

“I’m going to use the city’s law to make a difference,” Andela finally said.

Dreya didn’t press. She just gave a short nod, and they kept walking.

The arena gates were still shut when they arrived. A few early spectators loitered nearby, urmuring about odds and favorites, trading coins and rumors.

Dreya scanned the crowd—and spotted him immediately.

The stablemaster stood out. Not many holdings moved through the city, and fewer still carried themselves like barkeepers with side hustles in bloodsport. He stood beside a wiry man with sharp green eyes and a scar that ran clean from ear to ear. That, more than anything, caught her attention. She couldn’t imagine how he’d survived a wound like that.

He noticed her watching and waved them over, broad grin splitting his face.

“I remember you!” he called. “From the tavern, right? Come to place a bet? I’ve got a list of sure things—and Kael here’s about to make me rich.” He laughed, clapping the scarred man’s shoulder.

Kael gave a faint smile, the kind that knew too much. It didn’t reach his eyes.

Andela stepped in, her tone sharp. “You take big bets?”

Dreya gave her a sidelong glance, already wary.

“Not personally,” the stablemaster said, “but I know the man who does. What are we talking about?”

“I’m invoking the city’s ‘keep what you kill’ law,” Andela said. “I’m challenging the highest office of the city guard. I’ve got ten thousand gold, and I want it on myself.”

The stablemaster let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a wager. I’ll give you five to one—and I’ll even be the first to bet against you.”

He pulled out a battered book and flipped it open, scratching in notes with quick strokes.

“Don’t figure you’ll last more than three minutes against Hale. Commander of the guard. Best fighter the city’s got. Not a crowd favorite, but gods, he’s good.”

“I’ve got five thousand,” Dreya said, voice cool and sure, “that says Andela snaps him like a twig.”

Kael studied Andela for a long moment, eyes narrowing. She recognized the look—it was how she weighed a foe before the first blow. He was doing the same.

“Tell you what,” Kael said at last. “I’ve only got five hundred. But five to one? I’m betting on the stranger.”

The stablemaster grinned wide, tallying it up. “Alright, then. Gates open soon. You lay your challenge before the first bout—they’ll give you a half-hour. Time enough for me to take the bets and get ready to pay out… if you win.”

A horn sounded—deep and brassy, echoing through the stone like the call of something ancient.

The arena gates creaked open.

Andela didn’t hesitate. She walked straight for the threshold, where city guards stood in crisp rows, spears gleaming beneath the morning sun. No words. No ceremony. She just strode in.

Dreya made to follow, but one of the guards held out a hand. “Challengers only. Spectators to the stands.”

Before she could argue, Kael’s voice cut in—low, smooth.

“Come with us,” he said, gesturing toward a private stairway tucked just off the main drag. “We’ve got a box. Good seats.”

Dreya hesitated, then nodded once.

She followed Kael and the stablemaster, winding up a narrow stairwell that opened into a shadowed balcony box. From here, she could see the entire arena floor—every grain of sand, every bloodstain not yet swept clean.

She found Andela immediately. The soldier stood alone in the center, a dark figure against the pale sun-washed pit.

Andela lifted her head. Their eyes met.

Dreya gave her a slow, sure nod.

And then she sat—shoulders tight, heart rising—utterly overtaken by the thrill of what she knew was coming.

Andela stepped forward, voice ringing out clear and sharp across the arena.

“I lay challenge by way of city law—here, in front of all of you as witnesses. Hale! I challenge you for your position—and all the luxury and pay that goes with it!”

A ripple passed through the gathering crowd. Whispers stirred. Eyes turned.

Then a man stepped forward.

He wasn’t towering, but every inch of him was forged in discipline and honed strength. Broad-shouldered, confident in his stride, with the kind of presence that told you he’d seen blood spilled and likely spilled it himself. His armor, though functional, had been customized—leather reinforced with steel plating at the joints and chest, worn smooth where sword strikes had glanced off in battles past. Scars crept from beneath the collar of his cuirass and down his forearms, one of them jagged and pale across his right cheek like a lightning bolt carved in flesh.

His head was shaved close, the remnants of silver-blond hair catching the light, and his eyes—ice-blue and cutting—scanned Andela not with contempt, but with calculation. He held himself like a man who’d never once hesitated in a fight—and never needed to.

“You want my post?” he called back, voice low and dangerous. “The attempt to take it will cost you your life. Challenge accepted.”

He paused—just long enough to let the weight of it settle—then added with a smirk, “Return here in one half hour. Make your funeral arrangements. Or maybe we’ll toss you to the vultures.”

The crowd hissed and murmured.

There was no bluff in him. No false bravado. He was a soldier, through and through—and he clearly enjoyed the risk.

Dreya, watching from the balcony, felt a tension coil in her chest.

She didn’t doubt Andela’s strength.

But something about Hale’s posture, the measured way he spoke, the calm of it—

Dreya silently began to worry.

watched the arena gates open once again, a harsh creak echoing in the heavy silence that had settled over the crowd. She was perched in the shadowed box with Kael and Finn, her eyes locked on the figures emerging from opposite sides of the arena.

Andela stood tall, her frame the image of readiness, but Dreya’s attention was quickly drawn to the figure across the pit. Hale stepped forward, the very air around him seeming to change with his presence.

The armor he wore was a far cry from the polished military armor he had donned when Andela first challenged him. This was different—darker, more worn, as though the years of combat had taken their toll. It wasn’t shiny or ceremonial. This armor was the mark of someone who had earned his place through survival, who had fought countless battles and lived to see the aftermath. It bore the scratches and dents of wars won and lost, each mark a testament to the blood he had spilled and the lives he had taken. The leather was cracked in places, the steel bits dulled, not glistening but worn with purpose.

And then Dreya noticed something—something that twisted in her gut, sending a chill through her spine. This wasn’t just the armor of a commander. This was the armor of a Draegard, the elite soldier class of Avalyth’s most renowned warriors—men and women handpicked from the finest fighters, skilled not only in battle but in strategy, in leadership, and in survival. The Draegard were not simply soldiers; they were living legends, renowned across the Isles. They wielded blades like artists, and their battle tactics had been studied by generals for centuries. Only a few earned this title, and they were known for their ability to outthink and outfight any opponent.

The name Draegard sent a ripple through Dreya’s thoughts, memories of the Witness’s voice slipping into her mind. “The Draegard,” the Witness had once said, “are the pinnacle of the warrior’s path. Few are chosen. Fewer still survive.” Dreya had never fully understood what that meant, but she knew now. This man before her—Hale—was not just any soldier. He was a Draegard. And that brought with it a weight of expectation, not just from his commanders, but from his very name.

She swallowed hard as the realization hit her. The Draegard were the inspiration behind her own name—Dreya. The Witness had named her in honor of those warriors. The Draegard were a symbol of strength, mastery, and survival, and now, standing before her, one of their own was about to face Andela in a fight to the death.

As the full weight of Hale’s true identity sank in, Dreya’s stomach twisted. A Draegard. He wasn’t just any soldier. He was a living nightmare for anyone who had ever faced him in combat.

Hale’s gaze swept over the arena, cold and calculating, before he raised his voice, deep and authoritative, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

“I accept the challenge,” he said, his voice ringing out like a bell. “And I declare that the only way this fight ends is with death. No surrender. No mercy.”

Dreya’s heart stuttered in her chest. The words hung in the air, pregnant with the weight of the finality they carried. Only death would settle this.

Kael leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowed as he studied Hale. Finn’s expression was unreadable, but Dreya could feel the tension radiating off him as he locked eyes with her. She didn’t need to look at him to know that they were both thinking the same thing: Andela was facing an impossible foe.

Andela had no idea what she was up against—not fully. Dreya’s mind flashed back to the night before, when she had seen that fire in Andela’s eyes, that quiet, dangerous resolve. But now, with Hale standing before them in his Draegard armor, Dreya couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just a fight for the title or the challenge—it was a fight for Andela’s very life.

Hale’s challenge rang through the arena, his words casting a shadow over the crowd. The murmurs swelled, whispers of disbelief and anticipation filling the stands. This wasn’t just any contest. This was a battle of life and death.

Dreya’s jaw clenched, and her eyes flicked to Andela. The soldier stood resolute, her back straight, the fire of defiance in her eyes. But Dreya couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling that gnawed at her insides. Andela had always faced danger with unwavering confidence, but this was different.

The Draegard were not just men who fought. They were living legends. And if Andela wasn’t careful—if she didn’t see through the layers of deceit and cunning Hale would surely bring to the fight—then this wouldn’t just be a challenge. It would be her end.

The arena had fallen silent, the tension in the air palpable as the two warriors locked eyes across the bloodied sands. Andela stood poised, her muscles coiled with anticipation. Her sword was gripped tightly in her hands, but her gaze was fixed not just on Hale, but on the aura of fearsome legend that surrounded him. She had heard the whispers, the stories, but seeing him in the flesh—feeling the weight of his presence—was something entirely different. This was not a man; this was a Draegard, a living weapon forged in the fires of war and conflict.

Across from her, Hale remained still, a monolith of quiet power. The shadow of his helm hid his face, but the glint of cold steel was unmistakable. His armor was a testament to the battles he had fought, battered yet unbroken. He didn’t need to make a grand gesture; his very stance, casual but confident, was enough to strike fear into anyone who dared to challenge him.

The horn sounded, the signal to begin, and Andela moved first. Her body surged forward with explosive speed, a blur of motion as she aimed for his legs, intent on taking him off balance. But Hale was already anticipating her move. He shifted to the side effortlessly, his movements fluid, like water flowing around a rock. The sound of steel scraping against armor rang out harshly as her blade missed, the force of her strike dissipating against his unyielding defenses.

Hale didn’t waste time. His sword came up in a vicious arc aimed directly at her midsection. Andela blocked the strike, her muscles straining as the impact reverberated through her arms. She staggered back, her feet sliding in the dirt, but Hale was relentless. Before she could regain her footing, another strike came, faster this time, crashing against her blade with a force that pushed her further back.

She feinted left, her blade flashing in a deceptive arc, but Hale was already on the move. His sword intercepted hers mid-strike, the clash ringing out, the shock of it traveling through her arm. She spun away, narrowly avoiding the follow-up strike aimed at her throat. The crowd was silent, watching with bated breath.

She lunged again, this time with a feint that sent Hale momentarily off balance. His sword met hers with a resounding clang, but she twisted out of his grasp, sidestepping his counterattack. Her blade sliced through the air, narrowly missing his face. The crowd gasped at the near miss, and for a split second, Andela thought she had finally made a breakthrough.

Andela’s next strike came fast, but Hale was faster. His sword slashed across her shoulder, and she staggered, the force of the blow leaving her arm numb. The pain was sharp, but she didn’t falter. She gritted her teeth, pressing forward, her sword an extension of her will. But every attack she launched was met with his impenetrable defense, his strikes relentless.

She spun to avoid another of his attacks, her movements fluid, but Hale’s sword was already there, intercepting hers with devastating precision. The force of his blows pushed her back, step by step, and she could feel her strength beginning to wane. She was tiring, her breath coming in ragged gasps, while Hale remained as steady and unyielding as ever.

The clash of steel echoed across the arena as they circled each other, the crowd frozen in anticipation. Andela could feel the weight of the battle bearing down on her, the blood from her shoulder staining her tunic.

She dropped low again, aiming for the vulnerable gap in his armor near his knee. It was a risky move, one that could either end the fight or leave her wide open. But she had no choice. She had to make this work.

Her sword connected, a sharp pain in Hale’s leg making him stagger. For the briefest moment, Andela thought she had gained the upper hand. But it wasn’t enough. Hale recovered with terrifying speed, his sword flashing toward her once more. She barely managed to parry the strike, the force of it knocking her off balance.

With one last surge of energy, Andela darted beneath his guard again, her sword cutting through the air toward his throat. The arena held its breath as the tip of her blade neared its target. For a split second, it seemed as though the fight was hers.

But Hale’s reflexes were inhuman. His arm shot up, grabbing her wrist with a vice-like grip. With a violent twist, he sent her spinning to the ground. Her sword flew from her hand, landing several feet away as she lay there, gasping for air. The finality of it struck her with an overwhelming force. She had lost.

Andela looked up, her vision blurry, her body spent. Hale stood over her, his sword raised for the final strike. The crowd was still, waiting for the end. But before he could bring his sword down, a blur of motion appeared between them.

Kael.

His figure flashed into view, his eyes burning with fury as he grabbed Hale’s wrist mid-swing. The Draegard’s surprised grunt was barely audible over the roar of the crowd as Kael twisted Hale’s arm, halting the strike.

The arena, which had held its breath in silence for the majority of the fight watched on no challenge had ever been interrupted this way they weren’t sure what was happening. Andela could barely comprehend what had just happened. Kael had intervened—and in doing so, saved her life, putting his at risk for a complete stranger.

Kael’s sudden entrance had frozen everything—time, breath, expectation. He stood between Hale and Andela like a ghost risen from ash and shadow, eyes cold, voice unflinching.

Dreya’s heart skipped, her mind racing as she tried to process the impossible speed of it all. How had he crossed the arena so quickly? How had he moved so silently? He had been right there, beside her, and now, he stood between Andela and death with the stillness of a man who belonged to both worlds.

“I’ll have you in irons for this,” Hale snapped, his blade still hovering inches from Andela’s chest.

Kael tilted his head slightly, a hint of something like amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. “Oh no,” he said quietly. “You keep what you kill, right?”

A pause—then Hale’s eyes flickered, a recognition sparking behind the iron. A grin followed, dry and dangerous. Slowly, almost ceremonially, he lowered his blade.

Kael stepped forward without hesitation, kneeling beside the fallen woman. His hand hovered over her shoulder a moment, then gently touched the wound. His expression never changed. No anger. No pity. Just purpose.

“I challenge you,” he said to her quietly, but clear enough for those listening, “for your place in this fight.”

Then he struck her—quick, clean, a blow to the side of the head that dropped her into unconsciousness. It wasn’t cruelty. It was mercy. A gesture of strange, emotionless kindness.

Rising, Kael turned his gaze to Hale.

“This is the first time anyone here has seen you wear that armor,” he said, voice calm. “You laid a great trap for an unwitting warrior.” His eyes sharpened. “She faced what she didn’t understand,” Kael said. “I’ve already survived it.”

Hale’s brow lifted. He studied Kael for a moment longer, sword still gripped loosely in one hand.

The Draegard circled once, considering. “What’s your name, boy? I want to know what name we set on your gravestone.”

Kael’s answer came without delay. “Kael Moren.”

Dreya looked at Finn. A look of terror and grief was already on his face as if he just watched his best friend die twice.

“Moren?” Hale echoed, now pacing a slow arc across from Kael. “You were rejected for the guard—labeled unfit.” His voice darkened, intrigued. “But you later trained under…” He trailed off, a smile twisting on his face. “Well. This will be interesting.”

He lifted his sword again.

“I accept,” he said. “If you win—she gets the reward. You get nothing. If you lose, I kill you both. Fair?”

Kael nodded once.

He stepped over to where Andela’s sword had fallen. For a moment, he just stared at it.

It looked awkward in his hands—not his blade, not his weight. Andela’s sword had been forged for someone else, its balance tuned to a different rhythm. But as he adjusted his grip, Dreya noticed something shift. His stance settled. The steel no longer fought him. It wasn’t familiarity—it was instinct. Like muscle remembering something the mind never learned. Like he’d done this before, in another life.

Hale watched him silently, then held out his free hand, gesturing to the rack. “Shield?”

Kael shook his head. “None.”

And that was it. No more words.

They began to circle.

Two men—one armored and tested, the other scarred and unreadable—measuring the space between them. The crowd leaned forward, barely daring to breathe.

And above, from her perch in the shadows, Dreya watched—as a Veilwarden, as the Hunter— and as Andelas sister in all but blood. Watching a man worth remembering step into the ring of fate.

Hale struck first—a heavy, brutal slash meant to end the fight quickly. Kael didn’t meet it head-on. He slipped aside, the tip of his borrowed blade flicking out, catching Hale’s exposed gauntlet with a sharp, punishing tap. A counter, fast and precise. Not meant to wound—meant to remind.

Hale grunted, adjusting, but Kael was already reacting to the shift in his weight. The Draegard stepped forward to press the attack—and Kael answered by pivoting low, driving the pommel of his sword into the ribs of Hale’s armor as he passed. A hollow clang echoed across the arena. The blow wasn’t enough to drop him, but it knocked Hale’s momentum off center.

Kael didn’t stay to trade blows. He retreated a half step, hands loose on the hilt, waiting—inviting—the next strike.

It came. Hale lashed out, faster this time, a vicious chop aimed at Kael’s shoulder. Kael twisted under it, one boot sliding across the dust, and as he came up, he drove a knee into the soft gap behind Hale’s thigh—a brutal shot meant to buckle the bigger man’s balance.

Hale staggered again, his sword swinging wide to recover. The Draegard’s frustration was a living thing now, sparking in every heavy breath, every tightened grip.

Kael’s face stayed blank. Not triumphant—measured.

He wasn’t beating Hale with strength. He was dismantling him.

Every counter, every slip, every small strike was another thread pulled from the myth of the Draegard—and Hale was beginning to feel it.

Across the arena, Dreya leaned forward, reading the rhythm of the fight with sharp eyes. She knew what she was seeing, even if the crowd didn’t yet. Kael wasn’t surviving.

He was breaking Hale.

But Hale was no ordinary opponent.

He had been forged in the crucible of real war, not just the pageantry of the arena. Pain and frustration didn’t break men like him — they sharpened them.

The next time Kael slipped aside, Hale didn’t overcommit. He feinted high, reading the twitch of Kael’s weight, and when Kael moved to counter, Hale pivoted sharply, driving a brutal elbow toward Kael’s temple.

Kael ducked just in time. The elbow skimmed past his hair, close enough to stir the air.

For the first time, Kael’s balance faltered. Just a fraction — but enough.

Hale saw it.

He pressed in ruthlessly, his sword flashing in tight, relentless arcs, battering at Kael’s defenses. The easy rhythm Kael had used to pick him apart was under siege now, and he was forced to give ground, parrying blow after blow in a storm of ringing steel.

The crowd found its voice again, roaring with each clash.

Hale wasn’t just adapting. He was hunting.

Kael’s feet slid across the sand, searching for an opening, refusing to be trapped against the arena wall. Every time Hale struck, Kael answered — barely. A glance off the edge of his blade. A narrow sidestep. A deflection just shy of perfect.

But survival wasn’t defeat.

Kael let the tempo spiral, let Hale believe he had the advantage. He needed a crack — a single breath’s hesitation — and when it came, when Hale overreached just slightly on a downward strike, Kael stepped inside.

A vicious headbutt caught Hale across the bridge of the nose.

The Draegard reeled back half a step, blood trickling from beneath the rim of his helm.

Kael didn’t press. He didn’t rush. He reset, light on his feet, breathing steady. Waiting.

Across the arena, Dreya’s fingers tightened around the stone wall, her heart hammering.

This wasn’t luck. It wasn’t desperation.

Kael was fighting like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

And Hale —

Hale was beginning to realize it.

Hale wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his gauntlet, his lips twisting into something that was not quite a smile.

And a promise.

He adjusted his grip on his sword, setting his feet differently — narrower, lower. The stance of a man who had stopped seeing Kael as a nuisance and started seeing him as a true opponent.

The next strike wasn’t brute force. It was calculated. A shallow feint toward Kael’s shoulder that transitioned mid-motion into a low sweep aimed at his legs — a veteran’s trick, designed to catch a faster fighter mid-step.

Kael barely cleared it, leaping back. His heel brushed the arena’s outer ring of stone.

Hale was already moving, giving him no space to breathe.

The Draegard shifted from raw assault to tactical pressure — boxing Kael in with surgical precision, forcing him into tighter and tighter circles. Every swing, every step was a threat designed not just to wound, but to corner.

Kael parried a brutal overhead strike and pivoted, but Hale anticipated, twisting with him, slamming the flat of his blade into Kael’s ribs.

The impact rattled Kael’s lungs. He staggered sideways — not falling, but close.

The crowd roared at the shift in momentum, sensing blood.

Dreya leaned forward, her fists clenched tight against the stone ledge.

This was Hale in his element now — no longer brute force, but cold, methodical dismantling.

Kael knew it, too.

He drew a sharp breath, forcing the pain down, recalibrating. He couldn’t outpower Hale. He couldn’t outpace him forever.

If he was going to survive this, he would have to outthink him.

Again.

Hale circled closer, reading him, measuring him — waiting for Kael to panic.

Kael didn’t.

He sank lower, blade loose in his hand, letting the world narrow to just Hale’s eyes, his shoulders, the faint twitch of muscle that would give him the next move.

The next clash wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t a brawl.

It was a blade sliding against another blade — two predators circling, neither giving ground without a cost.

A fight not of strength alone, but of minds.

Around them, the arena shifted.

The crowd, which had begun the fight howling for blood, had gone quieter — not silent, but different.

The roar of violence had given way to something rarer, sharper.

Awe.

They knew, even if they didn’t fully understand, that this was no ordinary duel. They were watching two masters at work — a game of inches, of seconds, where one mistake would mean death.

Above them, Dreya watched with the taut stillness of a bowstring drawn tight.

Her sharp eyes read the language of every small movement — the micro-faints of Hale’s shoulders, the subtle angling of Kael’s stance. She could see the thought behind each strike, the traps hidden in every shift of weight.

Dreya had seen great fights before.

This was rare.

This was the kind of battle that people would tell stories about long after the dust had settled.

She gripped the edge of the stone rail until her knuckles turned white, breathing slow and steady through her nose.

She knew Kael was outmatched in experience. In reputation.

But something in the way he moved — the way he learned Hale with every exchange — made her gut say the outcome was far from certain.

Down in the pit, Kael let Hale close again, their blades clashing in a bright, sharp chorus.

He wasn’t winning every exchange.

But he wasn’t losing them cleanly either.

Waiting for his moment.

Kael slipped another heavy strike, the blade hissing past his ribs.

He adjusted — fast.

Where a lesser fighter might have pressed forward in anger, Hale pulled back half a step, realigning his stance, his sword coming up in a tighter guard.

No panic.

The Draegard’s mind was catching up to the danger Kael posed, and he was adapting.

Their blades met again — steel kissing steel with sharp, brutal force. Kael twisted aside, angling for another counter, but Hale was ready this time. His guard dropped low to catch the thrust, and his shoulder rolled into a brutal shove that nearly knocked Kael off his feet.

The crowd roared at the clash, the tension rippling through them like a live wire.

But Kael didn’t stumble.

He turned the momentum, letting the shove carry him into a pivot that brought him inside Hale’s guard — close enough to see the narrow glint of calculation behind the Draegard’s eyes.

Kael’s knee snapped up, driving hard into the inside of Hale’s thigh again — another sharp, surgical blow aimed to wear down the bigger man’s foundation.

Hale grunted, shifting his weight instinctively to absorb it — but Kael was already moving, striking low with the flat of his blade across the damaged leg, forcing Hale to take another step back.

It was small. Barely visible.

But in a fight like this, every inch mattered.

Dreya leaned forward from her place in the stands, hardly breathing.

The crowd around her was divided — half roaring Hale’s name, the other half stunned into silence.

They were seeing it now, those sharp enough to understand:

Kael wasn’t just surviving.

He was building something. Strike by strike, breath by breath.

Tearing down a legend the only way you could — not with strength, but with precision and patience.

Below, Kael pressed forward again, feinting another high cut.

Hale parried — but this time, Kael wasn’t there. He dropped low, swept Hale’s feet with a brutal kick, and the Draegard stumbled, forced to catch himself with his free hand on the bloodstained sand.

Another gasp rippled through the arena.

For the first time, Hale was on the back foot — visibly, undeniably.

Didn’t gloat.

He waited, sword poised, giving Hale the space to stand.

This wasn’t over.

Kael waited, his sword steady, his breathing controlled. He saw the frustration in Hale’s eyes, the shift in his stance that marked the Draegard’s recalibration. For the first time in this fight, the arena fell eerily still — even the crowd seemed to sense the change. Kael hadn’t just been landing blows; he’d been chiseling away at Hale’s legendary composure.

But Hale wasn’t broken. Not even close.

The Draegard’s posture grew more deliberate, his eyes narrowing with focus. In that moment, Kael saw the shift — the calm before the storm. Hale wasn’t just going to fight; he was going to teach Kael why this wasn’t a battle he could win.

No warning.

Just a brutal, precise assault of strikes — each one crafted to dismantle Kael’s defenses, not just pierce them.

Kael parried the first blow, barely deflecting the deadly arc of Hale’s blade. The impact reverberated through his arms, the force of it stealing a fraction of his momentum. Then came the second strike, faster than Kael expected. He twisted to avoid it, but Hale wasn’t letting up. The Draegard was on him now — every movement crisp, controlled, and brutal.

Kael’s heart raced, his mind spinning for a response, but Hale’s sword came down in a vicious vertical slash, catching Kael’s guard off balance. The blade cut through the air like a falling guillotine, its edge gleaming with deadly intent.

The hit landed — the flat of Hale’s blade slammed into Kael’s side, sending a shock of pain through his ribs. A gasp escaped Kael’s lips as the blow knocked him sideways. His feet skidded in the sand, but before he could fully recover, Hale was already on him again.

Hale’s eyes never left him — focused, calculating. Each strike was a test of Kael’s reflexes, his endurance. The Draegard was not only attacking Kael’s body; he was probing for weaknesses in his defenses.

Kael barely dodged a high cut, the blade hissing past his ear, but the next strike found its mark — a quick, precise jab aimed at his abdomen, forcing him to step back with a grunt.

For the first time, Kael felt the pressure of Hale’s experience and raw strength. The Draegard wasn’t giving him space to breathe anymore. There were no counters, no breaks in the rhythm — just relentless forward motion. It was a different kind of battle now. Not the calculated match Kael had been playing, but a raw test of endurance.

Kael’s chest heaved as he fought to maintain his composure. Each strike that landed rattled him, each blow a reminder that Hale wasn’t just a warrior; he was the warrior. A symbol of Avalyth’s fighting elite.

The next strike came, faster than the last. Kael ducked, but Hale’s blade swept low, cutting across his ribs with a painful hiss. Kael staggered, breath catching in his chest. His side burned from the blow.

It was no longer just about skill. It was about who could survive the longest.

Across the arena, Dreya clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing. She could see it now — Hale wasn’t just fighting Kael. He was pulling him into a game of attrition. A fight where only one would emerge standing, and Hale wasn’t used to losing.

She could feel the tension in the air as the tide shifted.

Hale’s strikes came harder now. Kael’s defenses, once so sharp, were beginning to fray. His steps became heavier, slower. His movements, still agile, lacked the precision they had before.

And Hale saw it.

In a heartbeat, the Draegard changed tactics again — no more wasted movements. No more testing. He was going to end it.

With a roar, Hale surged forward, his sword moving faster than Kael could react. Kael twisted, but Hale was already on top of him. The blade crashed against Kael’s chest, knocking the wind from him. His legs buckled under the force, and he collapsed to the ground.

The crowd erupted, but Kael’s mind was still sharp. His hand gripped the sword’s hilt tightly, and he pushed himself back to his feet. But Hale wasn’t done. He moved in, striking with a precise flurry — each blow aimed at disarming Kael, each one striking faster, harder, with the single intent to break him.

Kael managed to parry, but only just. He was pushed back again, and his feet slid in the sand. His vision blurred slightly from the blows to his head, but he stayed upright — barely.

Kael steadied himself, breath ragged, ribs screaming with every inhalation. Across from him, Hale advanced—not rushing, not reckless—just inevitable.

Another clash erupted — Kael caught the first strike high, their blades screeching together, sparks flashing between them. Hale followed up instantly, hammering a low cut toward Kael’s side. Kael shifted his stance, absorbing the blow against the flat of his sword, using the momentum to drive his shoulder into Hale’s.

It bought him inches, not more.

Hale adapted immediately, reversing his swing mid-motion. Kael answered with a deft step back, snapping his blade forward in a counter thrust toward Hale’s midsection — only for Hale to twist aside, deflecting it with a sharp flick of his wrist.

Another exchange — brutal, fast — both men probing, striking, reacting with deadly precision. There was no wasted movement now, no desperate gasping for advantage. Only sharp, efficient violence.

Then Kael saw the opening. Hale shifted just slightly too much on his lead foot.

Kael snapped his knee up, aiming for the soft inner thigh just above the greave. At the exact same instant, Hale drove his own boot forward, targeting the gap in Kael’s defense.

The strikes landed together — a brutal, jarring collision that sent both men sliding backward in the dirt, grunting with pain and exertion.

The crowd roared at the spectacle, half-rising from their seats, the tension electric.

Dreya’s hands tightened on the railing where she watched, her knuckles white. She could see it clearly now—neither was willing to yield. This wasn’t just a fight. It was a reckoning.

Kael and Hale straightened slowly, battered but unbowed. Without speaking, without even needing a signal, they began moving toward the center of the arena.

When they met, it was with the crisp, brutal finality of two blades colliding in perfect rhythm.

Steel screamed against steel.

They planted their feet firm in the bloodstained earth — neither giving an inch — and unleashed a flurry of strikes.

Kael’s blade whipped forward, met instantly by Hale’s parry. Hale countered with a downward chop, caught and deflected by Kael’s rising guard. A sideways slash — a twist of the wrist to block. A thrust — a pivot and a riposte.

The only things that moved were their arms, their blades, and the sparks of friction between them.

The air rang with each impact, the blows so rapid that even the trained eyes in the crowd struggled to follow.

It was no longer about strength. It was no longer about speed. It was about will.

Steel clashed in perfect time, a brutal, beautiful rhythm that neither dared break first. Each was waiting, searching for that single mistake—the slight overreach, the flicker of hesitation—that would end it.

But there was none.

For now, it was two masters locked in dead heat, every ounce of training, instinct, and fury focused through the narrow line where their blades met.

And still neither yielded.

Their blades clashed again, the sound sharper now, harsher, as exhaustion and will stripped away anything unnecessary.

Hale parried a cut from Kael and immediately lunged into a vicious riposte, his blade flashing straight for Kael’s chest—fast, clean, a killing thrust.

Kael reacted, not with panic, but with deadly calm.

He twisted at the waist, letting the point of Hale’s sword whistle past him by inches. In the same breath, Kael’s own blade came up in a sharp, brutal arc.

There was no hesitation. No mercy.

Steel bit through flesh and bone in a single, devastating stroke.

Hale’s sword clattered to the ground, his severed hand still gripping the hilt as it fell. Blood sprayed, dark against the pale sand.

For a heartbeat, the world stood still.

Hale staggered back a step, staring at the ruin of his wrist with something almost like disbelief.

The crowd didn’t even react at first—too stunned to process what had happened.

Dreya’s mouth parted slightly, reading the scene with sharp, horrified clarity. She had seen death before. But never delivered with such ruthless precision.

Kael stood where he had struck, blade steady in his hand, face unreadable. No triumph. No anger. Only cold, measured finality.

He had waited for the mistake.

He had made Hale pay for it.

Hale dropped to one knee, blood pouring from his severed wrist. His face twisted, not in pain, but in a snarl of pure, defiant rage.

With a roar, he lunged—one last desperate charge, his body surging forward on instinct and pride alone.

Kael was ready.

He stepped into the charge, pivoting on his heel, and with a single fluid motion, he spun. His blade arced through the air, singing a low, lethal note.

Steel met flesh.

Hale’s momentum carried him two more steps before his body crumpled, head rolling free across the sand.

The arena was silent.

For a long, terrible moment, there was only the wind and the slow drip of blood onto the ground.

Kael straightened, lowering his sword with quiet finality. His face remained impassive, as if he had simply closed a door rather than ended a legend.

Across the arena, Dreya stared, heart hammering in her chest. She could barely breathe.

Not just because Hale—the Draegard, the undefeated—had fallen.

But because Kael had made it look inevitable.

A storm of noise erupted, the crowd surging to its feet, voices clashing between awe, horror, and wild, disbelieving cheers.

Kael stood unmoving in the center of it all, the eye of the storm.

The roar of the crowd didn’t reach him.

Kael moved through the broken sand, not toward the exit, but to where Andela lay. He didn’t glance at the spectators or acknowledge the noise still pulsing from the arena. His attention was singular. Sharp.

Andela pushed herself up on one elbow, jaw tight against the pain. Blood soaked her tunic. Her right arm hung limp, but her eyes didn’t waver when they met his.

“You took your time,” she said, voice hoarse.

He crouched beside her without reply, checking the wound with cool precision. His touch was clinical. Detached. Not rough—just stripped of anything unnecessary.

“You’ll live,” he said.

Then he moved.

One arm slid behind her shoulders, the other beneath her legs, and he lifted her in a single, effortless motion.

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t broad like the usual brutes, but his strength was undeniable—quiet, tightly coiled beneath his skin. He carried her like she weighed nothing at all.

Gentle, but not tender. Controlled. Sure.

There was a strange comfort in the way he moved—total command, untouched by hesitation. It shouldn’t have affected her. But it did. That control struck deeper than she expected, lighting something sharp and physical low in her belly.

The press of his chest against her side, the way his hands held her without tremble or tension, the subtle shift of his muscles beneath her—she felt all of it. Noticed all of it. And despite everything, her body responded.

But it was real.

Kael gave no sign he noticed. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

“This place won’t be safe until the council speaks,” he said, voice low. “And they will. Soon.”

She shifted slightly, testing the tight pull in her ribs. His grip adjusted instantly—firm, sure, like he’d done this a hundred times before.

“I can walk,” she said, though she already knew it wouldn’t matter.

“You’d limp,” he said. “They’d see.”

No emotion. Just fact. Just certainty.

She didn’t argue.

He moved with the same ruthless precision he’d shown in the ring—measured, quiet, unshakable. And now she was part of that motion. Held by it.

The roar behind them dimmed, but the heat under her skin didn’t.

She didn’t trust him. Barely knew him.

But the way he carried her—like she was a task already solved—was doing things to her she couldn’t ignore. That calm certainty, the power under control, the quiet dominance of it all…

It shouldn’t have thrilled her.

And yet, gods help her, it did.

They passed under the archway of the inner gate, where the shade cut the sun and the stone began to cool.

Boots echoed behind them—quick, purposeful. Dreya’s voice followed. “Wait.”

Kael didn’t stop. Just kept moving, footfalls steady against the stone.

“Stop,” Dreya said again, closer now. “I’m not letting you vanish into the alleys with her.”

He turned his head slightly. Just enough to see her. Just enough to register the weight in her words.

“I’m not vanishing,” he said.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He slowed—not for her, but because the gate up ahead was partially barred. Two guards shifted aside as he approached, their eyes dragging over the blood on Andela’s sleeve and the man carrying her like it was nothing.

Dreya caught up, breath even, face hard. Her gaze flicked to Andela, then to him. “Where are you taking her?”

“A healer.”

“Which one?”

“She’s far from the arena. Private. No one will look there.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

Andela didn’t move. Her body lay still in his arms, save for the faint stirring of her breath, shallow but steady.

“She needs rest,” Kael said. “Not an interrogation.”

“I’m not interrogating,” Dreya said. “I’m assessing.”

Andela gave a rough little laugh, though it was barely a sound. “You always this friendly with your saviors?”

Dreya didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed on Kael. Measuring. “We don’t even know your full name.”

“Kael Moren.”

Dreya blinked. Just a flicker. She made a mental note, tucked it away, then moved on. The name meant nothing—but he’d given it freely, and that mattered more.

Andela shifted again, just enough to glance toward Dreya. “Hale destroyed me. I was as good as dead.”

“I saw,” Dreya said. And she had. The way Andela lay now—bruised, slow, pain stitched into every breath—wasn’t something easily forgotten.

Kael kept walking. The street opened wider here—less noise, more dust. He took a turn down a quieter lane, and they followed. Dreya wasn’t letting this go.

“You fight like someone trained. Not just trained—drilled. That wasn’t chance in there.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You kill often?”

“Only when it’s legal.”

“Convenient answer.”

“True one.”

She stepped beside him now, close enough to observe his hold. His arms didn’t strain. His grip didn’t shift. He carried Andela like she weighed nothing—like she was something fragile, but not heavy.

Finally, Dreya asked, “You from around here?”

“Yes.”

“Where, then?”

“By the wall. I have a place there.”

She raised a brow, surprised at the answer. He didn’t elaborate.

Kael spoke before she could press. “You move like military. Precise, but you check your flank too often. Andela’s spacing is textbook, even when she’s winded. Your eyes tracked the exits before you ever called out to me. I’m not asking what you’re here for—and I’m not looking for trust.”

He glanced at her. “But if I meant harm, I’d have let Hale kill her and walked away.”

Dreya didn’t answer at first. Not aloud. Her expression barely shifted—but something in her posture did. A thread of unease pulling tighter, not from fear, but from what she was starting to suspect.

Andela had defended him too quickly. Looked at him too long. There was a line somewhere—professional, necessary—and Andela was drifting near it. Maybe past it.

If she started seeing Kael as a man instead of a tool or an ally, that changed things. For the mission. For all of them.

Kael’s voice cut back in, steady. “She won the duel. That means something here. But it also means people will come looking to take what she just earned. Until the elder council makes it official, she’s a threat worth eliminating.”

He shifted Andela slightly in his arms, more secure than before. “So no, I’m not vanishing. But it matters that she’s hard to find. For now.”

Andela’s hand flexed faintly against his chest. Her voice was soft but clear. “Let him take me, Dreya. I’m tired of bleeding in the street.”

That stopped Dreya for a beat. The tone wasn’t sarcasm. Wasn’t humor. Just truth, worn thin.

Kael didn’t look at her, but he felt the weight of the moment anyway. Not emotion—just understanding. The way he remembered it used to feel.

Dreya exhaled, keeping pace beside them, no longer pushing.

The arena was behind them now, its thunder fading.

Whatever came next—it had already begun.

The streets narrowed as they walked, the din of the arena far behind them now. Stone gave way to dirt, sun slipping lower behind the wall, casting long shadows across their path.

None of them spoke.

Kael moved with that same silent purpose—measured, efficient, untouched by fatigue. Andela hadn’t taken her eyes off him. Not once. Even when her head tilted against his shoulder, even when her breath turned shallow with pain—she watched him. Like he was something she hadn’t decided on yet. Or already had, and didn’t want to admit it.

Dreya noticed. She didn’t say anything. But she noticed.

She wasn’t drawn to him herself. Not like that. But she could see it—why someone would be. He was striking in the kind of way that made people nervous before they realized they were staring. That angled jaw, the lean strength in his frame, the intensity in those green eyes—sharp, suspicious, always reading the next move before it happened.

There was something feral about his stillness. He didn’t pose like a man who knew he was good-looking—he simply existed in a way that demanded attention. He held space like he owned it. Quiet dominance, the kind that didn’t need to raise its voice. The kind that made people check themselves before speaking.

But it was the scar across his throat that stayed with her.

Pale. Jagged. Old.

It told all it needed to, and Dreya didn’t need the details.

She’d seen enough broken things in her time to know that kind of silence didn’t come from peace.

It came from survival.

Whatever gave him that scar… it had shaped the rest. The control. The stillness. The unshakable calm.

She glanced at Andela again.

No, Dreya didn’t trust him. But she didn’t doubt the way he carried her. Or the fact that Andela hadn’t looked away once.

They were nearing the edge of the district now—toward the massive stone wall that marked the city’s outer boundary. Dreya tensed slightly, half-expecting him to make for the gate leading into Aldenwood’s poorest quarter.

He didn’t.

Just before the arch, Kael turned down a side path instead. Narrower. Less traveled.

The house they stopped at was set back from the street, half-shadowed by the slant of the wall and the overgrown vines creeping up the stone. The windows were shuttered, vines climbing crooked up one side, but the place didn’t feel abandoned.

It felt lived in. Settled.

Kael shifted Andela’s weight slightly and raised a hand, knocking twice—firm, precise.

They waited. One minute. Two.

Dreya glanced at him. “You sure this—”

He knocked again, harder.

This time, a muffled voice shot back through the door, raspy and irritated. “If someone’s dying, come back tomorrow. I’m busy not giving a damn today.”

A beat.

Then a loud groan, wood creaking behind it. “Of course it is. Only you’d show up with a corpse that’s still breathing.”

The door cracked open, hinges protesting. The old woman behind it was small, wiry, and wore a shawl two sizes too large, layered like armor. Her hair was white and wild, bound in places by copper rings. Her eyes—sharp as needles—narrowed the moment they landed on Kael.

She didn’t look at the girl in his arms first. She looked at him. At the scar on his throat. At the steadiness in his face.

“Well, shit,” she muttered. “Still alive. That’s inconvenient.”

Kael gave her the faintest flicker of something that might’ve been a smile—or just a shift in the cold.

“You’re losing your touch,” he said.

“I must be. Thought for sure you’d be buried by now. What happened this time?”

“She did,” he said, tilting his head toward Andela.

The healer’s eyes finally moved. She took in the blood, the bruises, the way Andela barely held herself upright in his arms.

“Well,” she huffed. “Bring her in, then. And don’t drip on the rug. I just imagined I cleaned it.”

She turned and walked back inside without waiting.

Dreya hesitated at the threshold.

“Don’t worry,” the woman called over her shoulder. “I only bite if you’re slow or stupid. And you don’t look stupid. Slow, maybe.”

Dreya’s brow lifted, but she stepped in anyway.

The door creaked shut behind them.

Inside, the house smelled of dried herbs and smoke. The air was warm, cluttered, lined with jars and strange little bundles tied with twine. The healer led them to a back room with a single bed and motioned for Kael to lay Andela down.

Once he had, she hovered beside the girl, sharp eyes tracking every shallow breath, every twitch of pain. But her words weren’t for her patient. Not really.

“You know, I found this one at the city gate once,” she said, speaking to Andela as if Kael and Dreya weren’t even there. “Collapsed in the dirt. So much blood I almost didn’t check if he was breathing. Thought he was already gone.”

Kael didn’t look up. “You know you enjoy my visits. Who else comes just to be tormented?”

The old woman snorted. “Mm. Love a man who bleeds on my rug and flatters me in the same breath.”

She reached to feel Andela’s pulse. Her expression sharpened.

“What happened?”

Andela’s voice was faint. “I challenged him. In the arena. Hale.”

The old woman froze.

“You did what?” she barked. “Are you stupid? Challenging a Draegard is a death sentence.”

Andela winced.

“She didn’t know what he was,” Dreya said, stepping in. “Hale beat her down quick. He was about to kill her.”

The healer arched a brow. “Obviously.”

Dreya continued, nodding toward Kael. “He stepped in. Took her place before Hale could finish it.”

There was silence for a breath too long. The old woman looked at Kael again—really looked at him this time.

“You?” she said, slowly. “You fought Hale?”

He didn’t answer.

“He killed him,” Dreya added.

The old woman’s brows rose, but she said nothing at first. Just looked Kael over like she was remembering a version of him that hadn’t walked in for years.

Finally, she muttered, “Well. I’ll be damned. That’s new.”

She squinted at him, tilting her head like a bird trying to decide if a shiny object was worth stealing. “You were taught well—fought like someone who knew where to put the blade before the body even moved, I’ll bet. But you? Sticking your neck out for someone? A stranger, no less? That’s not like you. Not at all.” She clicked her tongue, then added with a squint, “Are you dying and forgot to tell me? Is this one of those deathbed redemption things? Because I swear if you croak in my house, I’m charging extra.”

Kael didn’t blink. “I couldn’t afford to lose my bet.”

The old woman let out a dry, raspy laugh—sharp and knowing. “Mm. We’ll let that lie stand.”

She glanced between him and Andela, something flickering in her eyes—not warmth, exactly. But recognition.

Then she turned abruptly to Dreya. “You. Go to the market lanes. There’s an apothecary with a blue door and a cat that hisses at everyone but me. Tell him I need widowroot, veyla bark, and three sprigs of fireleaf. If he tries to charge more than seven coppers, bite him. Not hard. Just enough to make him think.”

Dreya frowned. “Why not send him?” She nodded toward Kael.

The healer snorted. “Send a man to shop for anything other than weapons or women? That’s about as smart as this one”—she jabbed a thumb at Andela—“challenging a Draegard to a fight.”

She turned back to her work without waiting for a reply.

Dreya huffed through her nose. “You’re probably right about that.”

“I usually am,” the healer muttered, already turning to rummage through a set of dusty jars.

Dreya looked over at Andela. The girl was propped up against the pillow, pale but more alert now. Kael had stayed across the room—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, silent—but the healer had kept herself physically between him and the bed the entire time. Deliberate. Protective, maybe. Though Andela didn’t seem bothered by his presence at all.

There was no wariness in it. Just quiet attention—something in the way Andela kept looking at him, like she couldn’t help it. Not just curiosity. Something warmer, slower. Like the start of a burn.

Andela caught Dreya’s eyes and gave a faint smile. “I’ll be fine. Go.”

Dreya studied her for another breath. Then nodded. “Alright.”

She turned toward the door, thinking to herself: she could stop by the market lanes, grab the damn ingredients—and maybe catch Arden for a quick status report while she was at it. No point wasting the trip.

Things seemed to have a way of changing in Aldenwood, fast and quiet.

And she needed to know what was changing in the trade routes.

The door latched shut behind Dreya, and the healer gave a satisfied little hum, like a stage had cleared just the way she liked it.

“Well,” she said, already moving, sleeves shoved up and muttering to herself, “she’ll be gone a while. Market’s far, and if she’s got sense, she’ll haggle—poorly. Then she’ll learn she needs to hit three shops for what I asked, and one of them’s not even in the market lanes. That’ll be the fun bit.”

She chuckled, shaking her head as she filled a dented kettle from a barrel in the corner and set it over a small iron stove. “Maybe she’ll be back by sunset. Maybe not.”

Andela tried to sit up straighter, but the healer’s hand caught her with the kind of firmness that didn’t allow argument.

“Mm. Don’t.” Her tone shifted, less eccentric now—steady, clinical. “You’ve got bruises and scrapes mostly. Surface damage. But that shoulder? Hale really tried to ruin your arm. Needs stitching. And I have to boil rags.”

She looked over her shoulder at Kael, eyes narrowing. “Suture kit’s still in the same drawer. Top of the shelf to the left, wrapped in blue cloth. Go fetch. And don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what I taught you.”

She smirked. “Though I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve fumbled something sharp.”

Kael moved, slow and sure. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve actually bled, you know. Even longer since I’ve stitched anyone—even myself.”

He glanced at her, a faint glint behind his steady tone. “I assure you, though—I haven’t forgotten. You have a way of making things hard to forget.”

The old woman cackled at that, pleased. “Damn right I do.”

Andela shifted slightly as Kael pulled the stool closer, setting the suture kit on the table beside her. The old healer muttered something about boiling rags and disappeared into the other room, leaving the two of them alone but not entirely unwatched.

Andela’s jaw tensed as she looked down at her shoulder. “If it had been anyone else,” she said, quiet but certain, “I don’t lose. I don’t even know what a Draegard is.”

Kael didn’t respond immediately. He unwound a fresh length of thread, slid the needle through it with practiced ease. His movements were calm, methodical—hands steady, eyes focused.

“I don’t doubt that,” he said finally. “You move like someone who’s used to winning. Confident. Clean technique. But Hale…”

He glanced at her, then back to his work. “A Draegard—it’s a title given to Avalyth’s greatest warriors. If one proves themselves worthy, they can be taken for training by a Draegard.”

He reached for a cloth to wipe away more of the blood. His voice remained low. “They’re taught to see everything—openings, angles, rhythm. Every breath the enemy takes becomes data. They react before you act. Force mistakes. Make you pay for them.”

He paused, meeting her eyes. “They are few in number, as not many survive the training. You have to be prepared to die to attain that level of mastery.”

There was no pride in his voice. Just fact.

“You didn’t lose because you weren’t good,” he said. “You lost because no one told you what you were walking into.”

Andela was quiet for a moment, turning his words over.

Then: “Were you a Draegard?”

Her gaze lifted to his throat. “Is that how you got your scar?”

For the first time since they’d entered the room, Kael stilled in a different way. His head turned slowly—no flicker, no shadow across his face. He just looked at her.

Andela felt it. Like pressure under her skin. His eyes—green, piercing—settled on her as if they could strip away all the noise in her mind. It wasn’t just scrutiny. It was seeing. Understanding. The quiet kind that didn’t ask permission.

Her breath hitched before she could stop it.

“No,” he said. “I’m not a Draegard.”

His voice was quieter now. Not softer—just… pulled from somewhere deeper.

“I’ve only ever told one person what really happened.” His eyes flicked toward the healer across the room. “Lysa.”

The woman gave no sign she’d heard. She was still fussing over her brew, tossing in another handful of dried roots with a muttered curse. But Kael’s mouth curved slightly—not quite a smile.

“She pretends she’s forgotten. But she hasn’t.”

Andela opened her mouth—to apologize, maybe, to say she hadn’t meant to press—but Kael kept speaking. Not unkindly. Just steadily. Like the words had waited too long already.

“I got this scar from the man I once called my brother.”

The words hit like cold iron.

Andela didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. That shift in his tone—sharp, too clean—told her this wasn’t a story he told often.

If ever.

“I grew up in the Aldenwood orphanage. Small. Brutal. You learned fast or you didn’t last.”

A pause.

“Harlan and I were there together. Older. Smarter. Meaner, too. But we were close. My best friend. My brother.”

The name sat between them like a blade unsheathed.

“His name was Harlan.”

Andela’s grip tightened on the blanket. She could feel the thread bite into her palm.

“I was thrown out ten years ago. No job. No family. No one to take me in. The guard passed on me—said I was too weak. No use to them.”

She said nothing. Just listened—fully, fiercely.

There was weight in every word. Pain layered beneath discipline. The way he spoke was too steady, too measured.

Like a wound he’d stitched shut himself—

and reopened now, not for healing,

but for honesty.

Just for her.

And the old healer? She already knew.

That much was clear from the way she clattered about her pot and herbs, pretending she was alone.

As if this story had been spoken in her presence before—

and left to hang in the air like smoke no one dared breathe in.

“The only person who helped me was a bartender at the Swaying Lantern. Elena. Gave me a room for the night, made sure I had a meal.”

He paused, jaw tight.

“That night… I woke to find Harlan in my room.”

Her breath caught.

“He’d vanished a year earlier. Slipped out before the guards could come draft him. No one had seen him since. But there he was—grinning like nothing had changed. Said he had work. Good work. One thousand gold for five days of guard duty at a dig site outside the city.”

Kael’s voice lowered.

“Five days. Easy money. I took it.”

Andela could almost see it—the desperation, the relief. The betrayal still lodged beneath his calm.

“The last night, I was on watch at the gate. He walked up behind me… leaned in… and said, ‘No hard feelings.’ Then he cut my throat.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to slice through the steam rising from Lysa’s pot.

“He left me there. On the stone steps of a ruin. Bleeding into the cracks.” Kael’s lips twisted slightly. “Guess he didn’t cut deep enough.”

Andela didn’t speak. She couldn’t. The weight of it settled over her chest—his voice, his eyes, the cold restraint that somehow made it worse.

She looked at him—not just at the scar now, but at the man who’d carried it this long.

And still survived.

“Like hell he didn’t!” Lysa’s voice cracked through the silence, sharp as a knife. She looked up from her work, eyes narrowing at Andela. “I saw the wound and treated it. I tell you, young lady, by all rights this man should be a corpse. For all I know, he might be.”

Kael’s lips twitched, but his expression remained unreadable.

Lysa huffed and returned to her pot, muttering something under her breath about stubborn fools.

The silence stretched, heavy with everything he’d said.

Andela stared down at the bandages, heart still tugging against the quiet, careful space between them. Something about the way he spoke—measured, stripped of pretense—made her feel exposed in ways she hadn’t expected. Like he wasn’t just telling her a story. He was letting her see something no one else had.

It made her aware of him again. The breadth of his shoulders where he leaned just slightly forward. The steadiness in his voice, the shadowed edge behind his calm. Dangerous. Controlled.

Strangely compelling.

“You grew up poor,” Kael said.

Her eyes snapped back to his.

“I can see it in how you move. What you prioritize. And you’re from the volcanic north. Your stance, your build—it’s different. Balanced like someone used to uneven terrain.”

He wasn’t guessing. He was certain. His words wrapped around her, careful and exacting.

“And you’re not from here. Neither is your friend. You didn’t come to stay.”

His gaze held hers, quiet and unreadable.

“So why choose the guard captain when you decided to claim a place? Of all the faces in the arena… why him?”

Andela was quiet for a beat, eyes flicking down, then back to his. Something in her chest tightened. She didn’t know why it felt harder to speak now—just that it did.

“I was born in the north,” she said finally. “Out in the Crags.”

She didn’t need to explain it—most people didn’t know the region, but from the look in Kael’s eyes, she suspected he did. Still, the words came.

“No green fields. No gentle rains. Just black soil and sulfur in the air. Ash storms that could strip bark off trees if they lasted long enough. The only sound some days was lava flowing in the distance and smoke hissing up into the sky.”

She paused, swallowing against the rough edge in her voice.

“My parents caught ash fever during a bad eruption. Weeks of ash raining down, thick enough to choke the sun. We didn’t have money for medicine. By the time the sky cleared, they were already gone.”

She didn’t say burned out. But the way she said it—flat, quiet, finished—left no need to.

“My brother was eight. I was twelve.”

Her voice stayed level, but her fingers had curled slightly in the blanket, knuckles pale.

“I won’t tell you the things I had to do to make sure Arden ate. I don’t think I could even say them out loud.” Her mouth tightened. “But I’d do them all again.”

She let the silence stretch for a moment, the weight of it settling into the room.

“We had a hard life. Cold, hungry, dangerous. Until we were found.”

Her gaze flicked toward the window, not really seeing it. “It’s not really less hard now. Just… different. But at least it’s not a bad life anymore.”

“The reason I picked Hale,” she said finally, “is because I had a plan.”

Her voice had settled again—steady, clear.

“All the winnings from the fight will go to the wall district. Distributed where it’s needed most.”

She didn’t look at Kael as she said it. Just kept her eyes on some distant thought.

“There’s a family near the old breach. They’ve been on the verge of losing everything. Man’s done everything he can to keep them afloat, but debts… they don’t wait. Doesn’t matter how hard you work when the math’s against you.”

Her lips curved faintly—not soft, not sentimental. But real.

“My plan is to name him as my successor. Guard captain, once this is done. And then I’m done.”

She looked over at Kael now, expression calm but bright with something like defiance. Or pride.

“I’m retiring. Officially. Guard commander no more.”

And that was when Kael’s grin began to crawl across his face—slow and sharp, like it had been waiting to show itself. Not mockery. Just that deep, glinting satisfaction that came when something impossible had just become real.

Kael let out a quiet, surprised breath—almost a laugh.

“Do you have any idea the uproar that’ll cause?”

His eyes gleamed—not with doubt, but with a kind of approving excitement. Like he was watching someone light a fuse he’d always hoped would catch.

“You’re going to shift the whole political landscape, you know that?” he said. “A move like that… it doesn’t just shake titles. It gives the wall district something they haven’t had in a long time.”

Hope.

He leaned back slightly, arms folding.

“I know the family you’re talking about. The father’s name is Rellan. He used to serve in the city guard.”

Kael’s voice lost some of its edge, settling lower.

“Good man. Quiet, but solid. He lost his post when his youngest took ill. Could’ve kept his rank—could’ve left the kid to fend for herself like so many do—but he didn’t. Stayed home. Took care of her himself.”

His jaw tightened just a little.

“She pulled through. But the family never recovered. He turned mason after that. Paid the bills for a while, but the jobs dried up. And the debts didn’t.”

Kael shook his head once. “They deserved better.”

He looked back at her, something sharp and thoughtful in his gaze.

“And you just handed them a future.”

Kael looked at her a beat longer, then exhaled—like something settled behind his eyes.

“And you’ve done more than help that family.”

His voice dropped lower. Intentional. Weighted.

“This move… it’ll stir enough dust that what happened in the arena—between you and Hale, between him and me—gets buried. Forgotten in days.”

A faint, wry tilt touched the corner of his mouth.

“Most in this city don’t really know me. The few that do? They don’t know what I’m capable of. And I want to keep it that way.”

He glanced away briefly, the line of his jaw tightening.

“I don’t want to be known for what I did in a pit. That’s not how I plan to earn my name.”

Then he looked at her again—direct, clear.

“So thank you. For that.”

From across the room, Lysa’s voice cut in, dry as kindling:

“Oh, stars save us. He’s being grateful. Somebody write it down before he chokes on it.”

Kael didn’t even look her way. “Careful, old woman. I’ve still got your needles.”

“And I’ve still got your secrets,” Lysa shot back. “Which one of us do you think bleeds first?”

Kael laughed. Not a scoff. Not one of those low, sardonic huffs he passed off as amusement. A real, rough-edged laugh that pulled from somewhere deep and surprised even him a little.

“Your wit grows sharper by the day,” he said, shaking his head, “despite your age.”

Lysa snorted, utterly unoffended. “Good. Means I’ve still got weapons left when my knees give out. And gods know you’ve given me reason to sharpen them.”

She turned back to her pot with a smug little sniff, talking indecipherably to herself.

Lysa crossed the room with her usual brusque energy, squinting at Kael’s handiwork on Andela’s shoulder. She leaned in close, muttering as she poked gently at the sutures.

“Hmph. You’ve got a steadier hand than I gave you credit for,” she said. Then, louder, “Stitches are clean. Shame about the shoulder—you sew like a medic but tie off like a sailor.”

Kael didn’t respond. Just gave her a look.

Lysa snorted. “Don’t get cocky, boy. You still don’t know how to use a damn wrap to save your life.”

She tugged a blanket higher over Andela’s chest with a practiced hand, smoothing the edge down with surprising gentleness. “She’s going to ache like a cursed mule in the morning. But she’ll live.”

Then she turned and pointed a crooked finger at Kael. “She needs sleep. Not conversation. Not moon-eyed staring. Sleep.”

“I wasn’t—” he began.

“Don’t care. Out.” She shooed him with both hands like swatting at chickens. “You too, bright eyes,” she added to Andela, seeing the girl’s half-lidded gaze still watching them. “Close ‘em. I want rest. Not flirtation disguised as concern.”

Andela smirked, but didn’t protest. Her head sank deeper into the pillow.

Kael turned to go, stepping toward the curtain.

“Wait,” Andela said softly.

He paused, looking back.

“When I’m finished with the promotion ceremony tomorrow,” she said, “come to the Swaying Lantern. Buy me a drink. You owe me one.”

Kael’s mouth lifted slightly. “Alright.”

Lysa made a sound like a snort and a laugh at the same time. “Gods save us. She’s not even out of the bed and already trying to corrupt you.”

She waved him toward the door again. “Off with you. And you—” she added walking up to stand in front of him head high to his chest. jabbing a finger into his chest as he passed, “come back in a few days. We’ve got things to talk about. And take this with you. Someone dropped it off for you. I suggest you make it clear I don’t fly around with letters in my beak.”

She jammed a piece of paper in Kael’s hand who took it without looking at it.

He gave her a nod, eyes steady. “I will.”

Then he slipped through the curtain, footsteps fading into the quiet beyond. A beat later, the front door clicked shut with a solid thunk.

Lysa stood there a moment, arms crossed, listening to the silence that followed. Then she grunted.

“Stars help me,” she muttered, turning back toward the bed. “I’ll deny it with my last breath, but I don’t blame you. If I were your age and still had two good knees, I’d be climbing that man like a tree.”

Andela flushed. “I didn’t think he noticed.”

Lysa barked a laugh. “Oh, he noticed. Believe that. If there’s something to pick up on, Kael picks it up. He just doesn’t show it like normal people. Doesn’t mean he’s blind.”

She walked over, tugged the blanket up a little more, fussing even though it didn’t need fussing.

“He’s distant, not dead. That boy may not feel the way we do—but he understands it. And what I saw tonight?” She gave Andela a look. “That wasn’t nothing. He’s never shown that kind of care for anyone but himself. And, on rare occasions, my husband—usually after Darian put him through a wall.”

Andela bit back a smile, eyes drifting toward the curtain. “He’s… different.”

“Mmh.” Lysa straightened, brushing off her hands. “Different’s not always bad. Just don’t expect him to come running with flowers and poetry. If Kael cares, it won’t be loud. But it’ll be real.”

She reached over, dimmed the lantern with a soft twist of the wick.

“Now get some damn sleep before I knock you out myself. You’ll need your strength if you’re planning to make good on that drink.”

Andela murmured something under her breath that might’ve been agreement, and finally let her eyes fall closed.

Lysa gave one last satisfied grunt and shuffled toward the door, muttering as she went, “Flirtation, promotions, and soul-shy swordsmen. Gods save me, this house used to be quiet.”

The market lanes were dense with sound—voices bartering, carts rumbling, the occasional snap of cloth in the breeze—but Dreya moved through it all like water finding its course.

The satchel on her shoulder was packed with widowroot, veyla bark, and fireleaf—exactly what the old healer had asked for, plus a few extra herbs she’d bartered down on principle. She didn’t mind the errand, not really. It gave her an excuse to scout the lanes again.

And she had a second task.

Arden.

She scanned the movement of merchants, the crooked sprawl of booths and awnings, looking for a familiar figure in the crowd. He was good at disappearing—but not from her. Not when she was looking.

They were here on Veilwarden orders, after all. Information first. Positioning second. That meant knowing where goods moved—legit and otherwise. If Alaric was due to arrive in three days, that left precious little time to identify pressure points in the city’s trade. The main routes were obvious, but the black market trails were where trouble would bloom.

And Dreya wanted to know if Aldenwood’s supply veins bled secrets.

Arden had gone to sniff out the pulse beneath the commerce—see who pulled the real strings. She needed his eyes. His instincts.

And his judgment.

Especially now, after what happened in the arena.

Her mind flicked back to Kael’s expressionless face as he walked away with Andela in his arms. That stillness. The control. Andela had tried to keep it casual, but Dreya had seen the way she looked at him. Like she was trying not to.

They’d talk about it. Later.

First, she needed Arden. And answers.

She turned down a narrow split between spice carts and a jeweler with mismatched earrings laid out in careful rows.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, scanning the crowd. “Where are you, you slippery bastard?”

She spotted him near a shadowed alcove at the edge of the lane, half-hidden beneath the faded green canopy of a weapons vendor. Arden stood like he always did when gathering—relaxed, unreadable, as if he were part of the background.

But Dreya knew better. He missed nothing.

She cut across the crowd and slipped in beside him.

Arden’s eyes flicked to the satchel in her hand. “What’s in the bag?”

“Herbs,” Dreya replied. “For Lysa. Had to haggle with a man who looked like a turnip and smelled worse.”

Arden blinked. “Who the hell is Lysa?”

“The healer,” she said. “Looking after Andela.”

That got his full attention. His stance shifted, sharp now. “Why does Andela need a healer?”

“She’s alive,” Dreya said, meeting his gaze. “But it was close. She challenged a Draegard in the arena.”

Arden froze.

“A what?”

“Name was Hale.”

“The hell’s a Draegard?” Arden asked, furrowing his brow.

“They’re not common knowledge. Not even up north,” she said. “Elite warriors—trained beyond anything normal soldiers get. Kael told me they’re taught to read a fight like a book. See openings before they happen. They don’t just fight—they dismantle.”

She paused, then added, “Kael explained it to me. Draegard aren’t just trained—they’re made. Put through some kind of crucible. They don’t fight like soldiers. They see everything—movement, rhythm, breath patterns. They force mistakes. Then punish them.”

“They’re practically built to kill without wasting energy.”

“She didn’t stand a chance,” Dreya said. “And he was going to kill her. No theatrics. Just… finish it.”

Arden’s voice dropped, tight. “But she’s still breathing. Why?”

“Because Kael stepped in. Took her place. Fought him in her stead.”

Arden stared at her. “And won?”

Dreya nodded once. “Killed him.”

“That fast?”

“No.” Her gaze darkened. “It was a fight. The kind you don’t forget. I watched Hale get dismantled by a man no one’s heard of. Kael didn’t fight with strength—he fought with strategy. Calm. Clean. Like it was just another task.”

Arden’s jaw tightened. “And you just let him take her?”

“She was bleeding out. Barely conscious. He carried her out of the pit while the crowd went wild and took her to a healer on the edge of the city.”

Dreya’s voice stayed level, but there was steel under it.

“He’s not careless. He’s precise. Controlled. He knew we weren’t from here within a minute of meeting us. Knew we had a purpose but asked no questions.”

“That doesn’t make him safe,” Arden retorted, still fuming.

“No,” Dreya agreed. “But he had no reason to help her. No stake in the fight. And still, he carried her out of the ring while the crowd lost its mind.”

She paused.

“I watched how he moved. How he looked at her—didn’t look at her. No gloating. No bravado. Just… done.”

Arden was quiet for a moment. The tension in his jaw hadn’t eased, but his posture shifted—slightly. Not in surrender, but in acknowledgment. He didn’t like what he was hearing.

But he believed it.

Dreya gave him a moment, then nodded toward the stalls. “So,” she said, quieter now. “Tell me what you found.”

Arden dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Main market’s clean. Too clean. Merchants are polished, prices steady, nothing out of place. No talk, no tension. They’re used to being watched.”

“Guard presence?” she asked.

“Predictable. Rote patrols. No sense of threat. But the black market—” he gave a low grunt, “—that’s where things get interesting.”

Dreya’s brow lifted.

“There’s movement,” Arden continued. “New faces. Fast turnover. Someone’s pumping coin into it—probably looking to build favor or start rumors. Either way, there’s more money flowing through backroom deals than upstanding ones. And people down here?”

He gestured with a tilt of his chin toward the alleys. “They don’t talk to strangers unless they want something. But secrets? Secrets sell easy.”

Dreya nodded slowly. “Information market?”

He met her eyes. “Promising. No direct talk of Alaric, but there’s a net being pulled in. People fishing for names, origins, travel patterns. Quiet, but focused. If someone’s hunting anything specific—cargo, relics, people—that’s where we’ll hear it first.”

Dreya folded her arms, thoughtful. “Could be nothing. Could be someone stirring the pot just to see who bites.”

“Or someone using the chaos of festival season to cover their own tracks.”

She grimaced. “We don’t have enough yet.”

“No,” Arden agreed. “But it’s a start.”

She glanced at the satchel again, then back toward the southern edge of the lane where the healer’s hut would be—just out of view.

“I want to keep the pressure on,” she said. “If we can’t trace the movement, we trace the mouths. Find out who’s whispering and why.”

“I’ll dig deeper,” Arden said. “Tonight, if I have to.”

Dreya paused. “Don’t get caught.”

He smirked, the tension finally easing just a notch. “Haven’t yet.”

“Come on, let’s call it a day come with me to see Andela and then we can wait for Risha at the tavern.” Dreya said starting to walk away before she finished talking.

By the time Dreya and Arden rounded the corner toward the old healer’s hut, the sun had dipped low enough to cast long amber streaks across the rooftops.

Kael.

He stepped down from the stoop, the door swinging shut behind him. His coat was unfastened at the throat, his head low, pace measured. He didn’t look up, didn’t break stride.

Dreya slowed.

Kael’s eyes flicked toward her just once, acknowledging her with a small, silent nod—then continued down the lane without a word.

Arden squinted. “Oi!” he called. “Kael, wait!”

Kael didn’t stop.

He just kept walking. Unbothered. Untouched. Like a man who’d already given what he intended to and saw no reason to linger.

Arden took a step after him, visibly irritated, but Dreya caught his arm. “Let it go,” she murmured.

He frowned, but didn’t argue.

They turned back to the door. Arden knocked once—sharp and impatient.

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time.

From within came a grumble. Muffled. Indignant.

“Oh for the love of old bones—what in nine hells is it now? I swear, if it’s one of you boys selling balm again, I’ll feed you to my cat—”

Dreya leaned close to the door and said, in her best Kael impression, “It’s me.”

A pause.

Then, more annoyed than surprised: “About damn time. Thought you’d be lost till morning, slow as you are. Door’s open. And wipe your feet—I’m not sweeping twice in one day.”

Dreya pushed the door open with a smirk and stepped inside, Arden close behind her.

The scent of herbs hit instantly—sharp and clean. The same old warmth from earlier still lingered in the air, mingling with the low hiss of a kettle heating over the coals.

And just past the curtain, the edge of Andela’s blanket peeked from the bed.

Dreya let the door fall shut behind them with a soft click.

Lysa’s voice rang out from the other room the moment Dreya stepped inside. “You wipe your feet?”

“Yes,” Dreya called back, pausing in the doorway.

“You always say that,” Lysa grumbled. “Still manage to track half the street through my rugs.”

Dreya blinked. She’d only been here once, and not for long. The woman had either mistaken her for someone else—or she’d lost a few marbles somewhere behind the herb shelf.

She stepped fully inside as Lysa pushed back the curtain, eyes already narrowing at the sight of Arden.

“And who’s this then?” she barked, glaring at him like a moldy root. “Another stray?”

Arden opened his mouth, but she didn’t wait.

“You bring home all the broody ones, or is this a new hobby?” she snapped at Dreya.

Dreya sighed. “He’s with me.”

“Obviously. My runner doesn’t have the sense to leave trouble where she found it.”

“I’m not your runner.”

“You are until I finish brewing, and your friend finishes healing. Then we’ll renegotiate.”

She turned back to Arden, lips pursed like she was measuring him for a slap or a cure. “Well? You got a name, or should I keep calling you the quiet one?”

“Arden,” he said stiffly.

Lysa sniffed. “Hmph. Sounds fake, but I’ll allow it. Long as you don’t bleed on anything or knock over my jars.”

She turned and shuffled back toward the rear room, muttering to herself. “I swear, next person through that door better be food or gods help me I’m gonna start swinging my ladle like a warhammer…”

Arden leaned toward Dreya as they followed. “She always like this?”

Dreya smirked. “Only when she likes you.”

“Charming.”

Lysa shot Arden a sideways glance as she shuffled to the hearth, already dropping herbs into the chipped kettle. “You family to the loud one?”

Arden blinked. “You mean Andela?”

“She got another loud one stashed somewhere I don’t know about?” Lysa snapped, pouring water with theatrical slowness. “Yes, her. You blood or just the kind that sticks?”

Arden straightened a little. “She’s my sister in all the ways that count.”

“Hmph,” Lysa muttered. “Good. Girl could use someone in her corner.”

She began stoking the fire beneath the kettle, muttering to herself about people who don’t know how to sit still long enough to heal.

Arden watched her a moment longer, then asked, “That man we saw leaving… Kael. What’s his story?”

Just stirred the brew.

Then: “A quiet storm, that one.”

She glanced over her shoulder at them, eyes sharp. “You looking for trouble or trying to keep it from finding you?”

Arden held her gaze. “Trying to understand the man who saved my sister.”

Lysa grunted. “You won’t. Not all the way.”

She turned back to the kettle.

“But I’ll tell you what I can.”

Lysa didn’t look up from the tea. Just stirred once, then twice.

“Whatever I don’t tell you is his business,” she said plainly. “If you want to know more, you’ll have to ask him yourself. And good luck getting more than a grunt.”

She reached for a smaller jar on the shelf, tossing in a pinch of something sharp-smelling. “What I will tell you is this—I found him years ago, damn near bled out at the gates of the city. Throat slashed, face ghost-pale, laying in the dust like the gods had tossed him aside.”

She snorted. “And stubborn even then. Clinging to life like it owed him something.”

Arden blinked. Dreya said nothing, just listened.

“I patched him up,” Lysa went on. “Took days. Had to stitch him together like a tapestry. Boy didn’t speak for two weeks—not ‘cause he couldn’t. Just didn’t want to. Never thanked me, either. Just nodded and stole my bread.”

She grabbed the kettle with a cloth and set it to steep, waving her free hand like swatting off a bad memory. “He grew up in the city orphanage. Aldenwood eats its own, and he had nothing but fists and fire. But Darian—my husband—he saw something in him.”

Her voice lowered just a notch. Not gentler, but with a flicker of weight.

“Darian wasn’t just some brawler. He was a philosopher. A thinker. Could quote war texts and outdrink a noble in the same breath. Knew how to fight, sure—but more important, knew why to fight. What it costs. What it means.”

She jabbed a finger toward the door Kael had disappeared through. “He taught Kael all of it. Swordplay, discipline, reading people, asking the right questions. Drilled it into him till it stuck.”

Then she huffed. “Kael still turned out broody and half-feral, mind you. But smart. Calculating. Quieter than a shadow and twice as sharp.”

She turned back to the tea, pouring into chipped mugs with no ceremony.

“Man’s got ghosts, and most of them don’t speak. But he’s never lifted a hand without cause—and I’ve never seen him give a damn about anyone, not really. Not till her.”

She passed a mug to Dreya. “So. You can worry all you want, but I’d wager your sister’s in better hands than most.”

Then to Arden, raising a brow: “You gonna drink this or stand there brooding like a statue?”

Arden scowled into his tea, barely sipping. “Andela—what did she think of him?”

Lysa didn’t look up. “What’s it matter what she thought?”

“She’s my sister,” he shot back, jaw tight. “I wasn’t there. I want to know what she saw.”

That made Lysa glance his way. Not unkindly. Just… sharper.

“She saw someone who didn’t hesitate to bleed for her,” Lysa said. “That tends to make an impression.”

Arden’s mouth pressed into a flat line. “What did they talk about?”

Lysa’s eyes narrowed.

“He told her things,” she said evenly. “Things that weren’t mine to repeat. That’s what trust looks like.”

She stirred her tea once, then set the spoon down with a soft clink.

“He was respectful. Careful with her shoulder. Didn’t leer. Didn’t gloat. Stitched her up himself, clean as you please. You want the truth?” Her voice lowered, just slightly. “I think she’s quite taken with him.”

That made Arden stiffen.

Lysa shrugged, as if the conversation bored her now. “Wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve seen in this city. People fall harder for less.”

Didn’t have to.

The silence that followed said more than enough.

“I think I’d like a word with him,” Arden said, voice low. Intent clear. The kind of intent that didn’t care whether it came off as a threat.

Lysa stopped mid-stir and looked up at him—really looked. Then, to his surprise, she laughed.

Not a chuckle. Not a huff.

A full, raspy, belly-deep laugh that seemed to shake the whole damn room.

“Oh, boy,” she wheezed, wiping her eye with the back of her hand. “Boy.”

She leaned back on her stool like she was settling in to enjoy the wreckage. “Of all the people you could’ve picked a fight with in this city, you’re thinking about picking one with him?”

She shook her head, still half-laughing. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. Not a drop of sense, but plenty of guts.”

Arden stiffened. “I’m not looking for a fight.”

“Sure you’re not,” Lysa said, smirking. “That’s why you sound like you want to run him out of town on principle.”

She leaned forward now, eyes sharp, humor fading.

“Let me tell you something. Kael doesn’t like to fight. Not because he’s soft. Not because he’s scared. Because he knows what happens when he does.”

She let the silence hang for half a breath.

“There’s a distance in him, sure. Something gone quiet inside. But needless killing?” She shook her head. “It’s one of the few things that still bothers him.”

She pointed one bony finger at Arden. “You think you see a threat? He sees noise. And Kael doesn’t like noise. He keeps things quiet.”

Then she turned slightly, gesturing toward Dreya and the still-sleeping Andela.

“But if you push him… if you decide to start something—”

Her voice turned razor-sharp.

“—the only thing they are going to remember him for… is killing you.”

Final.

Arden didn’t speak. Not right away. His jaw was tight, hands clenched at his sides—but he said nothing.

Because deep down, he knew Lysa wasn’t bluffing in her belief.

But he figured she was exaggerating. Kael had saved Andela’s life—fine. Maybe he could fight, maybe he was dangerous. But this? This felt like a friend defending another friend with too much fire and not enough reason.

He gave a tight exhale. “You’re close to him. I get it. Probably see him better than the rest of us.”

Lysa just shook her head, sharp and knowing. “I’m sure you’ll get the chance. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Then Dreya spoke, her voice lower than before. “I saw him fight Hale.”

Arden looked over, eyes narrowing, waiting for her to say more.

But she didn’t.

Whatever she’d seen, she left it hanging there—half a warning, half a weight. It was enough to make something shift behind Arden’s eyes.

He didn’t back off. But his posture changed. Less certain. More calculating.

Because Dreya didn’t offer praise lightly.

And Arden, for all his fury, wanted that praise. From her.

He rolled his shoulders once and looked toward the door Kael had vanished through, jaw tight.

“Fine,” he muttered. “We’ll see.”

Lysa clapped her hands once—sharp and final. “Alright, enough brooding and posturing. Visiting hours are over.”

Arden blinked. “But—”

“But nothing,” she snapped, already moving to pluck the kettle off the stove. “She’ll be asleep soon, and if either of you wakes her before her shoulder sets, I’ll test my stitches on you.”

Dreya opened her mouth to argue, but Lysa shot her a look that could sour milk.

“You can come back tomorrow. She won’t even have an injury left by then. No excuses.”

She crossed to the door, flung it open, and gestured dramatically. “Out. Go walk off your testosterone. Take a nap. Trip in the street for all I care.”

Arden hesitated—just long enough to get swatted on the shoulder with a rolled-up dish rag.

“Out.”

Dreya threw up her hands. “Alright, alright.”

They stepped into the night air, the door swinging shut behind them with a solid thud and the snick of the lock sliding home.

Arden muttered under his breath, rubbing his shoulder. “Old woman’s got no manners.”

Dreya gave him a sideways glance. “No. But she’s got Andela in one piece. And that’s more than you were ready to manage.”

Arden grunted, but didn’t argue.

They walked off into the darkened street, the lanterns glowing low in the distance, and behind them, Lysa’s voice carried faintly through the door:

“And don’t come back till sunrise! I’m not a damn inn!”

The Swaying Lantern was quieter tonight. The clamor of the festival had shifted elsewhere—out toward the plazas and music halls, where lanterns bobbed and strings hummed like threads of lightning. But here, in the dim-lit warmth of Aldenwood’s oldest tavern, the air held a softer tension.

Risha sat waiting at the same table they’d claimed the night before, her hood down, silver hair braided back, fingers drumming idly along the rim of a half-finished drink.

She looked up the moment Dreya and Arden stepped through the door.

“Well,” she said, arching a brow. “You look like you’ve had a day.”

Dreya didn’t answer at first. Just crossed the room, dropped the satchel beside the bench, and sat down across from her with a long exhale. Arden followed, slower, still simmering just beneath the surface.

Between them, they told her everything.

Not all at once—but in the sharp, efficient rhythm of people trained to relay what matters. Andela. The arena. Kael. The healer. The black market leads. Risha listened in silence, eyes narrowing slightly, lips pressed in a thoughtful line. She didn’t interrupt. But when Dreya finally fell quiet, Risha nodded once, letting the weight of it settle.

“Well,” she said again. “That’s not at all the update I expected over a cup of ale.”

Dreya gave a dry chuckle. “Welcome to Aldenwood.”

Risha’s expression softened, just a touch. “Is she alright?”

“She will be,” Arden said. Still tense. Still not quite convinced.

Risha glanced between them, then leaned forward, eyes sparking with her usual quiet excitement. “While you were off making new friends and nearly dying—again—I was busy myself.”

“Oh?” Dreya said, her tone lifting.

“I’ve been working out of the Lorekeeper’s Hall,” Risha said, lowering her voice as a barmaid passed. “It’s everything I hoped—old scrolls, unmarked histories, diagrams so layered they breathe with magic. They don’t even guard it well. Just lots of trust and an inflated sense of their own obscurity.”

Arden raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly were you doing with all that trust?”

Risha grinned. Then pulled a thin, slate-bound book from her satchel and laid it gently on the table.

“Copying it,” she said simply.

Dreya blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even close.” She tapped the cover. “Enchanted codex. Bound with shadow-ink. Every page I copy folds into this one—never expands, never distorts. Infinite space. It’ll hold every scrap of lore in that building, and no one will ever know it left.”

Arden gave a low whistle.

“I’ve gotten through about half of it,” Risha continued. “They closed for the evening, so I’ll go back tomorrow. But gods, Dreya—you wouldn’t believe what’s tucked into the older annex. Pre-fall maps. Temple keys. There’s even a theory on lunar drift tied to the aether currents that suggests there are more efficient ways to cross it than sailing.”

Dreya leaned back with a slow, impressed smile. “Risha. That’s… godsdamn brilliant.”

Risha’s grin widened, pleased. “I thought you’d like it.”

“You’ve got creativity and tenacity—and you’re cute enough no one questions your intentions.”

“Oh, they question them,” Risha said, sipping her drink. “They’re just too polite to ask.”

Arden chuckled, finally relaxing enough to take a seat. “Remind me never to underestimate you.”

“Please do,” Risha said. “It makes the results so much more dramatic.”

The fire crackled nearby. A plate clattered in the kitchen. Outside, the festival pressed on without them—but here at the table, the mission pulled tighter. The circle held. And tomorrow, they’d press further.

The night settled in around them, heavy with wear and warmth. They shared a drink—one each, no more. No wild tales or reckless laughter, just the quiet kind of companionship that comes after surviving a long day. No one said it, but they were tired. All of them.

Even Arden, though he’d never admit it, nursed his drink slower than usual. His shoulders stayed taut, jaw still set like he was ready to act—but when Dreya finally suggested they call it, he didn’t argue. Just rose, nodded once, and followed her up the narrow stairs to the rented rooms above the Lantern.

Risha lingered a bit longer. Lost in her notes. Muttering quietly to herself as she cross-referenced something etched into the corner of her enchanted codex. By the time Dreya’s door clicked shut, the soft rustle of pages was the last sound in the tavern save the fire’s steady crackle.

But she remembered waking.

The pale light of morning pushed through the wooden slats of her window, and for once, no voices stirred below. She sat up slowly, eyes still heavy, and reached for her boots with one hand while rubbing at her temple with the other.

Risha’s bed was already empty.

The blanket folded, the corner of her pillow still faintly creased. But she was gone.

A slow smile crept onto Dreya’s face.

Of course she was.

“Good,” she murmured to herself. “Don’t wait on us.”

She crossed the room in a few strides, knocked twice on Arden’s door across the hall, and pushed it open without waiting.

He was already awake—half-dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed with one boot on and the other in his hand. Alert. Tense. But not surprised.

He glanced up at her with a lopsided grin. “If you wanted to see me shirtless, you could’ve just asked.”

Dreya rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Don’t flatter yourself. If I wanted to see something worth staring at, I’d go back to bed and dream it.”

Arden chuckled and finished pulling on his boot. “Savage this early. I must’ve done something right.”

“She gone?” he asked as he stood.

Dreya nodded. “Yeah. Probably halfway to the Lorekeeper’s Hall by now.”

Arden grunted. “Figured.”

“Come on,” she said, already turning away. “Let’s go get Andela.”

He followed, no complaint in his step. Just a quiet readiness that had nothing to do with sleep.

The streets of Aldenwood were quieter in the early light—carts creaking over worn cobbles, shutters cracking open, voices still low with sleep. The scent of baking bread drifted from a corner stall, mixing with damp stone and the ever-present tang of smoke from the lower forges.

Dreya moved with purpose, but her pace wasn’t rushed. Arden matched her stride, boots thudding softly beside hers.

“For today,” she said, glancing sideways, “we do nothing unless we’re all together. We get Andela. We stay with her.”

Arden frowned. “You think she’s a target?”

“She’s the guard captain now. Technically,” Dreya said. “Kael won the fight. That makes her claim hard to challenge. But Aldenwood isn’t going to make that easy.”

“She planned it,” Arden muttered.

Dreya gave a small nod. “She had a motive. We don’t know what it is yet—but we’re not going to find out by scattering.”

They passed a pair of street cleaners murmuring about the mess in the arena. No mention of names. Just vague tones of disbelief and “someone finally dropped Hale.”

Arden gave a small shake of his head. “People already talking like it was bound to happen.”

Dreya smirked. “People rewrite stories fast when there’s gold on the line.”

Arden didn’t smile.

After a pause, he said, “You trust him?”

“Kael?” Dreya shrugged. “No. But I don’t distrust him either.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got right now.”

They turned the final corner. The healer’s hut came into view—weathered stone tucked between two crooked buildings, smoke curling from a thin chimney.

Dreya slowed her steps, eyes narrowing slightly. “Stay sharp. Lysa’s probably armed with a soup spoon and bad attitude.”

“I’ll brace myself,” Arden muttered.

Then they stepped up to the door.

The first knock brought silence.

The second earned a rustle, a chair leg scraping across wood, and a muttered curse that grew louder with every footstep.

“By the stars, you again?” came Lysa’s voice from behind the door, sharp as ever. “If you’ve come to sell me another bag of herbs or ask for more soup, I swear to every pantheon left, I’ll teach you what this ladle is really for.”

Dreya leaned closer, voice dry. “It’s just us.”

A pause.

Then the bolt slid open with a clack, and the door creaked inward.

Lysa stood there in her usual state of frayed disapproval, arms crossed, one brow raised high enough to scrape the sky.

“Took you long enough,” she muttered. “I was about five minutes from sending your sister home with a note pinned to her coat.”

“She’s ready to go?” Dreya asked.

“She’s fine,” Lysa huffed, waving them inside. “Already fussed over her more than I ever did my own bones. She’s stubborn, that one. Sat up too fast this morning and nearly passed out—but did she listen when I told her to lie down?”

Dreya stepped inside, followed by Arden, who earned a long, assessing look from the old healer.

“You again,” Lysa said, squinting. “You bleed in my house yet?”

“No,” Arden muttered.

“Shame. Would’ve given me something to do.”

She turned on her heel and barked toward the back room. “Girl, your entourage’s here. If you’re not dressed, throw a blanket over yourself and pretend.”

From beyond the curtain came the sound of movement—footsteps, fabric shifting, the low creak of a stool.

And then Andela’s voice, dry but steady: “I’m decent. Don’t get your robes in a knot.”

Andela stepped into view a moment later—and both Dreya and Arden stilled.

Andela stood tall, armored in dark leather shaped to movement and war. Her chestplate, matte black with crimson-edged seams, fit like it had been forged to her exact form—sleek, deliberate, dangerous. Her midsection was bare, muscles coiled and bruised beneath the light, and the split battle skirt hung low on her hips, reinforced but agile, made for speed and reach. Bracers gripped her arms, and dark straps wrapped snug around her thighs. Her long braid fell over one shoulder, tight and utilitarian.

She looked like she’d stepped out of a mural meant to warn invaders.

And whatever toll the arena had taken yesterday, it hadn’t dulled the fire behind her eyes.

Lysa snorted and stepped aside. “She’s all yours. Try not to let her get impaled again before sundown.”

Arden let out a low whistle. “Gods, Andela. You planning to kill someone or seduce them into surrender?”

Andela arched a brow. “Mind your tone. That’s ‘Captain of the Guard’ to you now.”

That made Arden blink. “You’re joking.”

She crossed her arms, the movement making her armor creak just slightly. “Council made it official this morning. Papers, seal, the whole bit. I’m calling an assembly of the city’s top officers in an hour. We’re going to the wall.”

Dreya straightened. “What for?”

“You’ll see,” Andela said. “But first—”

Her gaze turned toward Lysa. “I need to find Kael.”

Lysa, already returning to her kettle, snorted again. “He’s probably with Finn.”

Arden frowned. “Who’s Finn?”

“Half-sized nuisance with twice the mouth of any man I’ve ever met,” Lysa muttered, but her tone carried fondness under the bite. “Owns the stables east of the square. Smells like a goat, curses like a bard, and owes me a chicken.”

She looked over her shoulder. “If Kael’s not cashing in his winnings with that pint-sized pirate, I’ll eat my own damn boots.”

Andela grinned. “Then that’s where we’re going.”

“Directions?” Dreya asked.

Lysa waved a hand toward the window. “Head east till you smell hay, sweat, and something vaguely criminal. The sign says ‘Finn’s Lot’ but half the letters fell off last winter. You’ll know it when you see it.”

Andela was already moving, braid swinging behind her. “Let’s go, then.”

As they stepped out into the sun-drenched street, Dreya paused at the door and turned back.

“Thank you, Lysa,” she said sincerely.

Lysa snorted. “If you want to thank me, next time bring me a jar of pickled skyshrooms and a man who knows how to shut up. And not another bleeding half-corpse.”

She shut the door with a thud, muttering something about boiling water and people with no sense.

“Finn’s lot should be this way,” Andela said, mostly to herself. “He’s holding a hefty sum of mine, and I’d rather collect it before he forgets he owes me.”

They turned east, weaving through narrower streets where the clamor of the square faded behind them. The scent of hay lingered in the air—clean, sun-warmed—and somewhere ahead, a faint braying carried on the breeze.

“Lysa made it sound like a den of thieves,” Dreya murmured.

Andela smirked. “Maybe it is. But if so, it’s a very tidy one.”

They rounded the final corner and found themselves in a quieter stretch of the city, where stone and timber gave way to low, thatched roofs and neat fencing. The sign overhead read ‘F _ _ N’S LOT’, the missing letters long gone—but the grounds were immaculate. Fences were freshly mended. The stalls swept. Buckets and tack hung in tidy rows. It wasn’t grand. But it was cared for.

Laughter drifted to them on the breeze as they rounded the last fence.

They followed the sound, passing a hitching post and a row of empty stalls, until they reached a small open yard. There, Kael leaned against the frame of a stall, arms crossed, half in shadow. Finn crouched a few feet away by a bay mare’s hoof, hammer in hand, grinning like a man halfway through a story he could barely believe himself.

“Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” Finn was saying. “Had half the square crying foul and the other half looking for payback. Good thing no one knows your name, friend—someone might’ve tried to have you gelded. You cost a lot of people a lot of money.”

He barked a laugh and slapped the mare’s flank. She twitched her tail but didn’t spook.

Kael didn’t laugh, but a ghost of a smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

Andela stepped ahead without needing to be asked, her stride purposeful, braid swinging at her back. Dreya didn’t follow immediately. She watched the movement, the way Andela squared her shoulders—like a woman walking into something planned, not stumbled into—and allowed the distance to grow.

Clearly, Andela had a reason for coming here first.

“Morning, Finn,” Andela called as she entered the yard, voice confident, easy.

Finn glanced up from the mare’s hoof, squinting against the sunlight. His grin widened. “Well, look at that. Captain of the Guard, in my stable. Thought I heard a rumor.”

He stood, stretching his back with a theatrical groan. “People around here don’t know much, but they know Hale was a tough one. You lasted longer than most thought you would.” He shot her a wink. “And didn’t get disemboweled. Good start.”

Andela chuckled, brushing a loose strand of hair back. “I’ll take the compliment, even if I’m not sure I deserve it.”

“Sure you do,” Finn said, returning to his tools. “Your name’s getting around—for better or worse.”

Her smile faltered slightly at that, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she turned toward the stall where Kael still leaned, watching her.

Their eyes met—and whatever easy confidence she’d worn slipped just a fraction.

“Kael,” she said, softer now.

He said nothing at first. Just studied her with that unreadable stillness of his, gaze fixed, unwavering.

Andela swallowed and crossed the final few steps. “You look better than yesterday.”

Still, Kael didn’t speak—but his eyes didn’t leave hers.

Andela’s posture held—but her voice came gentler now. “I came to find you.”

Kael’s gaze remained steady. “Well, you found me. What can I do for you?”

Andela took a step closer, just ahead of the others, her expression lightening with a crooked grin. “I wondered if you’d like to come to the wall with me.”

Kael’s eyes flicked to hers—sharp, unreadable. He already knew what she meant. What she was planning.

He shook his head. “I’ve got things to attend to.”

Her smile faltered slightly, but before the silence could settle too long,his tone shifted—lighter, with a thread of familiarity.

“But don’t forget—you still owe me a drink at the Swaying Lantern.”

Dreya blinked. “You two are having a drink?”

Arden crossed his arms, stiffening. “Since when?” He whispered to Dreya clearly displeased.

Dreya said nothing just shook her head, a subtle warning. Kael noticed. He didn’t look away, didn’t explain. His attention remained fixed on Andela.

She blushed slightly, a flicker of color high on her cheeks, but held her ground.

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said over her shoulder with a grin. “But you’re buying. I like expensive.”

Kael’s eyes lingered. “Then you’d better show up.”

Her grin widened. “Don’t be late.”

To Kael,

You’ve done well to keep to the shadows.

But shadows don’t always hold what walks through fire to pull another from it.

You’ve been seen. An opportunity awaits. Arrive at the Swaying Lantern before nightfall. Wait for us.

What you seek edges closer—not all that is found is what you expect.

Some paths lead to power. Others, to memory.

All lead to a choice. You’ve stepped beyond silence. Now step into something that lasts.

Be there.

—A Quiet Patron

Kael exhaled slowly, folding the letter between his fingers as the noise of the tavern swelled around him. Tankards clashed, boots scuffed against ale-stained floorboards, and hushed conversations mingled with drunken laughter and whispered secrets. Seated alone at a corner table with a half-finished mug of something strong, his mind was far from the revelry.

The words gnawed at him—vague enough to mean anything, yet weighted with promise. For years, he had chased answers about the Riftveil, following half-truths and fading legends, only to be met with disappointment. Now, this letter offered a chance for something more, a pull he couldn’t ignore.

A hush fell over the tavern.

The bard didn’t introduce himself as he took the stage. He stepped into the space like he’d always belonged there, cloak trailing, eyes bright with memory. No fanfare followed. Just a single breath… …and then, he sang.

Low. Weathered. Carried like a prayer cracked with age.

It seemed to lift from every surface—the walls, the floor, the heavy air itself—as though the tavern had been holding its breath, waiting for him to begin. It filled the room not with volume, but with gravity. Every syllable held weight, like stone dipped in memory—steady, deliberate, impossible to ignore. The melody was ancient and slow, shaped by the kind of grief that forgets time. A hush spread like frost across the tavern floor. Even the mugs seemed quieter in their owners’ hands.

The world once turned on sacred breath,

Bound by life, unbound by death.

No music followed—just his voice, stark and unwavering, echoing like the voice of someone who had outlived the age he sang of. Kael barely breathed. The opening line struck too cleanly, too true.

One gave bloom to soil and sea,

One drew the line where ends must be.

A third kept watch with silent grace,

And held the stillness in its place.

Then the bard raised one hand—slow, deliberate. And with a flick of his fingers, a piano shimmered into being beside him, half-formed from light and shadow. Its polished body reflected the flicker of lanterns, but no one touched it.

The keys moved on their own.

When the music joined him, it came like fog rolling in at dawn—subtle, searching. As though it had always been part of the silence, waiting to be remembered.

But love grew wild, and mercy strayed—

A vow unbroken, then betrayed.

Kael’s breath caught again. Not for the words themselves, but the weight they carried. Vows broken. Mercy twisted. It felt…familiar. Too familiar.

She reached beyond the season’s thread,

To cage the dusk, unmake the dead.

Kael’s grip tightened around his cup. “Unmake the dead,” the line echoed in his thoughts like a bell tolling behind his ribs.

She called it peace, she called it grace,

And cast him down through time and space.

As he sang, the bard lifted his other hand—fingers splayed wide in a graceful, sweeping arc. A second shimmer answered him. From the air, delicate stringed instruments emerged—violins, faint and spectral, forming in a circle around the piano like ghosts called to prayer. They began to play of their own accord, their voices gentle and aching, trailing the melody with haunting precision.

Was that what the Riftveil had really been? Not just a cataclysm. Not natural collapse. But exile. Magic meant to seal something away. Someone.

She broke him not with blade or flame,

But bound his soul in shards of name.

The piano’s rhythm deepened. The room dimmed with silence.

Five gems to hold what once was whole,

Five stones to cage a god’s own soul.

And when the spell took root and screamed—

The world tore wide along the seams.

Kael’s pulse skipped. Five stones. A soul. A name shattered into fragments. He had studied the Riftveil’s mythology for years. But no account had ever described it like this. Not like a defense. Not like a sacrifice. But a cage.

Oh Avalyth, your skies are torn,

A realm unmade, a world reborn.

Through fire’s wrath and thunder’s cry,

Your song still drifts across the sky.

A silence forged where gods once spoke,

The chain undone, the balance broke.

The first chorus swept through the room with all the gravity of scripture. By then, the strings had grown stronger—underpinning the bard’s voice with reverent tension. The piano pulsed like a heartbeat beneath it all. And Kael… felt seen. Every line rang with the shape of a truth he’d never known how to name. A truth he never stopped chasing.

The bard’s hands moved with subtle grace above the moving keys, drawing the piano’s sound into something richer now—less like memory, more like mourning. Strings lingered behind it, low and ghostly. He didn’t sing louder. But he sounded louder. The way fog seems thicker when it clings to bare skin.

No joy in wrath, no pride in fight—

Just warning cast in iron light.

Time stood still, then turned away,

Let fallen gods give none their say.

No trumpet’s call, no victor’s name—

Just broken stars and sky aflame.

A weight settled behind the words. Kael didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

The seas recoiled, the mountains wept,

The stars went dark where they had slept.

Not war, but spellwork shaped the scar—

The price of sealing what gods are.

And all that power, cast and spent,

Left silence carved through the firmament.

The strings held the silence only a heartbeat longer. Then—soft as regret—they stirred again, and the bard’s voice followed, unshaken.

No hand was clean, no vow was kept,

And through the faultline silence crept.

Not loss alone, but what it cost,

When gods forget what must be lost.

Kael blinked—just once. The words struck something different now. Not awe. Not revelation. Grief. Because this wasn’t about heroism. It wasn’t a tale of glory. It was a record of failure.

Of choices too large to undo.

And from that break, the song withdrew—

The chord unstrung, the world split through.

Oh Avalyth, your skies are torn,

A realm unmade, a world reborn.

Through fire’s wrath and thunder’s cry,

Your song still drifts across the sky.

A silence forged where gods once spoke,

The chain undone, the balance broke.

Kael’s hand had curled tightly around his mug, knuckles pale. He wasn’t drinking. He was listening with every inch of himself. Breathing like he didn’t trust the air to stay still. Because this wasn’t just a legend anymore. This was evidence. And something in his chest—something old, sharp, wanting—was starting to ache.

The music swelled, then slowed—piano holding a low chord just long enough to ache, strings bowing into it like a breath caught in the chest. The bard stood still at the center of it all, hands lowered once more, his voice the only part of him that moved.

Kael’s throat worked, dry and tight.

He’d studied the Riftveil for years. Chased whispers, translated fragments. Tried to fit the broken puzzle back together. But this—this was the missing piece. The wound behind the myth. Not just what happened. But what it meant.

The bard slowed now, his voice dipping into the final stanza. No crescendo. No glory. Just quiet devastation, woven into melody.

Now deep beneath the silence lies

The hand that stilled the fading skies.

Not wrath, but truth, was sealed away—

A breath denied, a dusk delayed.

The piano echoed like footsteps down an endless corridor. The violins hovered—almost afraid to touch the next note.

The one they feared, they could not bind—

For change, once caged, still waits in kind.

Kael didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing again.

And should that name be sung once more,

The world might mend where it was torn.

Not all who sleep are meant to fade—

Some fires wait beneath the blade.

So dim the flame, but not the hope,

Trace every scar the gods once wrote.

Listen close, beyond despair—

An absence hums with what’s still there.

The piano dipped lower, as if bowing to the verse. The strings hovered—tender, haunted.

And then, as though exhaling its final breath, the song slipped into its last refrain:

⸻

Oh Avalyth, your skies are torn,

A realm unmade, a world reborn.

Through fire’s wrath and thunder’s cry,

Your song still drifts across the sky.

A silence forged where gods once spoke,

The chain undone the balance broke

As the bard finished his tale, the tavern erupted in applause. Kael joined in, though his hands trembled slightly as he clutched his drink. He took a deep breath—feeling the rough texture of the worn parchment of the letter still warm between his fingers—and noticed the scent of spiced ale and woodsmoke mingle with his rising apprehension.

He was growing frustrated. How long was he going to be kept waiting?

The last two days had been a blur of blood and consequence. The city’s guard commander was dead. His successor had taken the title only long enough to pass it on—handing command to a poor man from the wall district before vanishing into retirement. And himself? He’d risked far too much. Too much exposure. Too much attention. He guarded his anonymity like a blade kept sharp in the dark. Not because he craved obscurity—he didn’t. He wanted to be known, remembered. But not for a fight in a pit, not for saving strangers. He wanted to be remembered for something that would last. Forever.

He still wasn’t sure why he got involved but the uproar of recent events had pushed him back into the obscure where he could look for his glory and legacy without notice. But he still couldn’t take his mind off of her.

It had been more than an hour. He’d scanned every new arrival, every movement near the door—but still, no one had approached. Just as he downed the last of his drink, preparing to leave, the tavern door creaked open.

A hush swept through the room. A set of conjoined twins entered, bound to each other at the shoulder. One was a drow—skin like obsidian, auburn locks cascading over her sharp collarbone, and eyes of molten gold that flickered like flame. The other was a high elf, pale as moonlight with hair like shadow and eyes that glowed an icy, spectral blue. They paused just inside the threshold, letting the crowd adjust to their presence. A current of awareness rippled through the tavern as their unified gaze swept over the room—sharp, intelligent, and assessing. As they moved toward him the crowd parted around them as every eye followed them. When their eyes locked with Kael’s, something struck him like a bolt to the chest—it was as if every secret he had hidden was laid bare in that moment.

For a fleeting moment, he swore they could see everything—his thoughts, his regrets, even the hollow spaces where his ambitions used to burn. Yet Kael held their gaze, masking the jolt behind an unreadable expression, even as a subtle shiver ran down his spine. The twins reached his table and seated themselves with a single fluid motion, drawing every eye in the room.

Their voices overlapped, not in echo—but harmony, like a single thought split in two throats.

“Good evening, Kael,” they said in perfect unison.

“I am Syble,” said the high elf, her voice like a measured breath of cold air, precise and serene.

“And I am Setra,” said the drow, her golden eyes gleaming with mystery as her tone dripped with deliberate warmth.

Kael offered a nod, a gambler’s smile slowly unfurling as he attempted to steady himself. “Syble. Setra. Your letter was… intriguing.. “What can I do for you this evening?”

The twins exchanged a knowing glance. Syble leaned forward, her voice laced with excitement and an undercurrent of something profound.

“We have a proposition. A job that reaches back into the annals of history itself.” Setra’s gaze pierced him. “We’ve uncovered the place where the Riftveil began.”

Kael’s breath hitched just slightly. It wasn’t the first time he had heard such nonsense but this type of work often paid well with low risk. And there was always the odd chance that they might be telling the truth.

“Your doubt is evident, but as we have already mentioned…you were seen” Syble continued amusement tinging the ends of her voice.

“And we know exactly why you’ve been keeping yourself unknown. We have obligations that prevent us from going….And now we need someone with your skill and expertise to find it .” Setra concluded sharply.

“You saw me fight, that doesn’t say much about my other capabilities…so then you’ll have to be a little more direct. Why me? Being a good fighter doesn’t make me good for anything else I have no reputation to speak of what makes you think I’m qualified. I’m a nobody.” Skepticism in every word Kael challenged them. He didn’t care for cryptic talk. If they couldn’t answer him he’d walk.

Setra’s smile vanished, her eyes darkening. “Exactly. No one will miss you if you die. No one will ask questions if you leave. You’ve spent your life chasing greatness and falling short. Aren’t you tired of it? Of being nothing?” Syble’s gaze sharpened further. “And since you got that scar”—she gestured to the faint line along his throat—“you’ve hidden. Safe. Careful. Small. This is your chance to become more than the shadows you’ve clung to.”

Kael’s fingers brushed his scar, the touch igniting a sting of old pain. He exhaled slowly, as if expelling a lifetime of suppressed sorrow. “You’ve not said where exactly I’d be going. Only a fool takes a job without questions.” Kael stated flatly despite the unease they made him feel, his gaze never faltered.

Syble nodded. “You will be traveling south through the myrkviðr. For the moment that is enough information.” She answered with finality.

Kael considered, his mind racing with both hope and lingering doubt. “The Myrkviðr isn’t a place to wander unprepared. Especially the southern stretch—that’s where the mapmakers draw no lines, where compasses spin like lost thoughts, where names go to die.”

“Money won’t matter much in that direction so what can you offer me that would make walking into almost certain death or getting lost forever?” His question was sharp and this is where he was sure he’d have to walk away.

“You misunderstand….we will finance all you will need for departure. Once you depart you will be gone for a very long time….you may well not return.” Setra answered heavily. Syble picked up seamlessly “Your payment comes with completion of the mission. Eternal recognition a legacy never to be forgotten. No more shadows.” “No more hiding.” Setra followed.

“No more Moren.” They concluded in unison.

The way they spoke in turn but as one the way one looked around the room while the other spoke was fascinating and unnerving. Most unsettling was how they both said his last name. Like they knew exactly where it came from and what it meant. He wasn’t going to be convinced that easily. He still wanted solid compensation beyond just promises.

“That sounds, amazing…but suppose where you send me is if fact just another dead end or baseless rumor? Am I to return unpaid for the empty promise alone.

Syble rolled her eyes. And tossed him a bag of gold it jungled as though it held many coins but was as light as if it were empty. “Buy what you need. We have Made adequate arrangements for a horse from the stablemaster. That should suffice.”

Setra spoke next. There is enough gold in that bag to buy this tavern one hundred times over. But small enough still to carry. Consider this full payment. And you will receive credit for anything you find as well as subsequent finds. And don’t forget you’ll get there first so you can keep an item of your choice as well.

Kael raised a brow. “ what exactly is it you expect I will find there?.”

The twins exchanged one last cautious glance, their voices dropping as they leaned closer.

“Meet us at the southern border of the Myrkviðr tomorrow night,” Syble whispered. “Be there by dusk.”

“There are things we can’t say here,” Setra added, urgency flickering in her eyes. “But we’ll have answers. And a parting gift. Make sure you say your farewells Kael, you will be gone for a very long time.

He knew they were being watched. And now He knew who was watching….she was watching….what he didn’t know was why but justmaybe this would lead to another meeting with her. He shook himself…none of that mattered, the twins were promising answers and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to follow this trail if it meant never coming back so be it.

Kael’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve chased the truth of the Riftveil from one false lead to the next—but for the prize waiting at the end of that gamble, I’d follow it off the edge of the continent and

jump in after it, just to see what’s waiting in the dark.”

Setra’s gaze softened, though her voice remained quiet. “Then perhaps your first step is to learn the right question.”

They stood in near-perfect unison. Setra’s voice lingered as they turned to go, smoky and low: “The flame stirs… now so shall you.” Then they were gone.

Kael sat motionless, his thoughts racing and his pulse thundering like war drums. In that

charged silence, he realized that every hidden scar, every secret longing, was driving him toward the unknown. He was going to the southern Myrkviðr.

Where the wild magic was strongest. Where few dare to tread—and even fewer return. Where they say the forest has a mind of its own.

Rising from his seat, Kael decided to rent a room and get an early night. He approached the bar, a sturdy wooden structure adorned with intricate carvings of mythical creatures and scenes of ancient battles—each telling stories older than the city itself. The bartender, a woman with dark, curly hair and a warm, inviting smile, greeted him as he approached.

“Evening,” she said, her voice carrying a melodic lilt. “What can I do for you, traveler?” She gave him a wink, her bright smile softening the air around them. “I’d like to rent a room for the night,” Kael replied, glancing around the tavern. No eyes lingered on him, but an inexplicable tension gnawed at the back of his mind, as though the weight of his upcoming journey had cast an invisible shadow. The sensation lingered, unsettling him in a way he couldn’t quite name.

The bartender nodded, her smile unwavering. “We’ve got a cozy room available. Just up the stairs, first door on the left. That’ll be ten gold pieces for the night.”

Kael handed over the coins, the clinking sound oddly reassuring, like the first steps toward something inevitable. “Thanks, Elana,” he said, his voice quiet with appreciation. She had always looked out for him—her small kindnesses threading through his memories of simpler

times when life wasn’t as complicated. A few years older than he, Elana had worked the tavern since he was sixteen. After particularly rough days in the orphanage, she’d often slip him a pitcher of ale, sometimes just for the comfort of familiarity, always offering him a good room at a low price.

She handed him the key, her fingers brushing his for a brief moment. “I’ll see you tomorrow, hun,” she said brightly.

Kael smiled back at her, then turned and ascended the narrow staircase, the murmur of the tavern fading behind him. The room was simple but comfortable. A sturdy bed with clean linens, a small wooden table, and a chair by the window. A single candle flickered on the table, casting soft, wavering shadows against the walls. The scent of the hearth still lingered in the air, mixing with the faint crackling of the candle’s flame. The quiet was a relief.

Kael set down his belongings and paused for a moment, allowing the silence to settle over him. It was the kind of stillness he rarely allowed himself. He had always dreamed of carving his own path, of stepping out from the shadows of his past. Now, the opportunity lay before him—one he could not waste.

As he lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, Kael replayed the words of Setra and Syble. Their challenge to his bravery, their promise of riches, glory, and eternal recognition—all echoed in his mind. Beyond the journey into the Myrkviðr, beyond the treasures waiting to be claimed—there were the secrets of the Riftveil. His obsession. His self-appointed fate. And the rewards, should he succeed. He had lived for this. Everything else—every dream, every loss—had led to this moment.

Sleep did not come easily. His heart raced with excitement, a strange cocktail of dread and anticipation. Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. Outside the window, the moon cast a pale glow over the town, its light shivering across the cobbled streets. The sounds of the tavern—murmured conversations, clinking mugs, the faint strum of a lute—drifted up to his room. The world outside felt distant now, as if a line had been drawn between the life he’d known and the one awaiting him. He closed his eyes, eager and apprehensive for the dawn.

The next morning, Kael’s eyes opened easily, the urgency of the coming day already thrumming in his veins. A surge of adrenaline spurred him into motion, and he swung his legs off the bed, splashing cold water from the basin onto his face. The sensation of it cleared the sleep from his mind, sharpening his focus. Staring into the mirror, he scrutinized his reflection.

Kael was a man of striking features, with tousled dark hair framing a face carved by the hardships of his youth. His piercing green eyes, always sharp and intense, seemed to look right through him, as though they saw both the present and the past, and everything yet to come. His high cheekbones and strong jawline gave his face a chiseled, almost sculpted look, but it was the faint scar across his throat that held his gaze now—a permanent reminder of a past he couldn’t outrun.

His hand instinctively reached for the scar, tracing its path, and memories surged unbidden. The cruelty of the guards, the cold stone walls of the orphanage, the escape attempts, the brutal lessons learned in the shadows. And the man who had given him this scar—the brother he’d once trusted, who had betrayed him in ways that still haunted his sleep. He could feel the weight of it in his chest, but Kael shoved the memory aside. There was too much at stake now. The journey into the Myrkviðr awaited, and his obsession with uncovering the truth of the Riftveil was all that mattered.

Turning away from the mirror, Kael dressed in the simple attire of a peasant. His coarse tunic, faded with years of wear, scraped against his skin, but it was durable. The trousers, patched from constant use, fit him comfortably, cinched at the waist with a worn leather belt. His boots, scuffed and well-worn, were still sturdy enough for the journey ahead.

His armor, bundled and awaiting repairs, lay neatly beside him. The enchanted mail, when worn, transformed into the illusion of a simple alchemist’s traveling robe—a perfect disguise for slipping unnoticed through the world. But today, the armor was dormant, hidden beneath layers of cloth. Kael left it. He would come back for it but he had other things to attend to first. He took one last lingering look around the room. The quiet sanctuary had been brief, but it was time to move on.

He descended the narrow staircase, the sounds of the tavern’s morning bustle filtering in from below—clattering dishes, murmured voices, the rhythmic scratch of a quill on parchment. The tavern was already alive with activity, but Kael’s mind was distant, focused only on the path ahead. He stepped out into the cool morning light, the streets of Aeldenwood stirring with the early hum of market vendors setting up their stalls. The scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the distant clang of metal, and Kael’s stomach growled faintly in protest. But he ignored it. There was no time for hunger—not now.

Kael had a few places to go but before anything else he had to go toward the gate wall.

The capital city of Aeldenwood bustled with life and motion, tall stone buildings rising around him as he walked. The streets were paved with old cobblestone, twisting like roots beneath his boots, connecting broad avenues and narrow alleys. Ornate balconies loomed overhead, where well-dressed nobles sipped spiced wine and gossiped in shaded luxury. Sunlight filtered through colorful banners fluttering between buildings, casting flickering hues across the market square below.

Vendors shouted above one another, advertising fresh bread, tanned leather, and all manner of steel. Children weaved between carts with sticky fingers, pockets full of stolen fruit and daring smiles. Musicians played flutes and fiddles on corners, while jugglers and fire-breathers competed for coin. The air was rich with the scent of roasted meats and floral perfumes.

And above it all—Skyhold.

The castle floated on a chunk of land anchored to a colossal tree whose gnarled roots wrapped beneath the island and into the earth below. It hovered, impossibly still, supported by a lattice of swirling arcane energy. The tree was unlike anything else in the known world: a massive ash with silver bark and pale green leaves that shimmered like crystal in the sun. Bridges and stairs spiraled up its trunk to the castle gates, carved right into the tree’s heart.

At its peak stood the High Spire of Skyhold, where the Elder Council ruled in the absence of any true monarch. They were the keepers of ancient knowledge, magic, and law. Their search for the lost bloodline of kings had persisted for centuries. No one remembered the last crowned ruler.

Kael’s destination was quieter—on the outskirts of the city.

The wall district loomed ahead—stone dwellings pressed tight together like crooked teeth, rooftops sagging under the weight of weather and time. This was where people survived, not lived. Smoke rose in thin ribbons from chimneys, and the scent of coal fires mixed with the bitter tang of curing herbs. The chatter here was low and cautious. No one looked too long at a stranger.

Just before the old archway that marked the end of the district, Kael turned down a narrow side path—one that didn’t look like a road so much as a forgotten seam in the city’s stonework. The walls here leaned too close together, their upper floors nearly touching. Laundry lines cut the air above like webbing. Moss coated the cracks underfoot. It was quieter here. Still. The kind of quiet that didn’t come from absence, but from warning.

This part of the city had no name on the maps. If it ever had one, the stones had swallowed it.

The path bent once, then again, narrowing with each step.

If you didn’t know where to look, you wouldn’t find it at all.

Lysa liked it that way.

It opened into a crooked little clearing pressed tight against the inner wall of the city. Here, half-hidden by a collapsed arch and the yawning roots of a blackened tree, sat the house.

It wasn’t just hidden.

It was set aside—like the city itself had built around it, then forgotten.

It wasn’t large, and it wasn’t clean. The stone was weatherworn, ivy wound thick over one side, and the wooden door sagged slightly on its hinges. A faded charm—three rusted nails tied with red string—hung from a nail just above the lintel. Someone had carved protective runes into the lintel beneath it. Deep enough that the wood still remembered.

The windows were shuttered, the roof bowed in places. The scent here was different than the city beyond—earthier. Smoke, crushed leaves, and something acrid Kael couldn’t name. It clung to the stone. Leached from the cracks.

This was Lysa’s place.

Though he had a house by the wall, this was the only place he ever really thought of as home.

Kael paused at the edge of the short garden path, where herbs grew in no clear order—wild and thriving, as though the soil bent to her will instead of the seasons.

No answer.

The silence that followed was as familiar as it was pointed. He waited, knowing better than to fill it too quickly.

After a moment, he knocked again.

Then came the scrape of a wooden chair dragging across stone, deliberate and slow. Footsteps shuffled closer—slow at first, then impatient.

A muffled voice snapped from behind the door, sharper than a carving blade. “If you’re another crow come squawking for poultice or plague balm, I swear on every cracked bone in this house I’ll gut you with my ladle and pickle the rest.”

Kael smiled faintly. There it was.

“It’s me.”

A pause.

Then the bolt slid free with a clack, and the door cracked open just wide enough for one eye—piercing and storm-colored—to appear through the gap.

“Hells. Thought you were dead.” She opened it wider with a creak, eyeing him from boot to brow. “Still might be, if you’ve come to bleed on my floors.”

Kael stepped inside without waiting for the full invitation. “Good to see you too, Lysa.”

She harrumphed and turned her back on him, already limping toward the hearth. “You’d think I’d learn not to let strays back in.”

“Yet here we are.”

“Mm. Don’t tempt me to fix that.”

The door creaked shut behind him. The interior was just as he remembered it—cramped, cluttered, and full of smells he could never name. Herbs hung from the rafters in bundles thick with dust and magic. Bottles clinked faintly somewhere in the gloom. Something simmered in a dented pot, and a lazy cat—not hers, never hers, she insisted—lifted its head from the windowsill to glare at him before promptly going back to sleep.

Kael glanced toward the back room. The curtain was drawn.

She saw the look and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t go getting nosey. If the spirits wanted you knowing everything, they’d carved your ears wider.”

Kael raised his hands. “Just making sure the place hasn’t changed.”

“Oh it’s changed. Smells worse since you left.” She eased into her chair with a groan. “Or maybe that’s just your memory catching up.”

Kael moved to lean against the nearest wall, arms crossed. “You always this charming before breakfast?”

“I haven’t had breakfast in twenty years, and you’re still my worst idea today.”

He chuckled low under his breath, eyes drifting again toward the curtain—this time more careful not to linger.

There was something in the air today. Not wrong, not quite. But weighted.

She saw that too.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to,” she said, voice lower now. “Not today.”

“You said to come back in a few days,” he said lightly. “So here I am.”

Lysa didn’t look up—just kept stirring, slow and deliberate.

“Which means,” she snapped, slapping the spoon against the edge of the pot with a sharp crack, “you’re still as aggravating as the morning I dragged your half-frozen hide off the outer gate road. And just as mouthy.”

Kael smiled. There it was.

“Thought I’d try stating the obvious,” he said innocently. “It’s usually the fastest way to get you to talk.”

Lysa turned just enough to glare at him, eyes narrowing. “You want a reaction? Next time, wear brighter colors. Or bleed louder.”

He gave a theatrical shrug. “Tempting. But I figured poking the hedge witch was safer than a fashion statement.”

She muttered something about “gods save me from dramatics before noon” and went back to stirring—rougher now, but quieter.

Kael’s grin faded, just a fraction.

He didn’t push again. Not yet.

But he was here. And she hadn’t told him to leave.

And for now… that was enough.

Lysa let the spoon rest in the pot. Her eyes didn’t leave the bubbling surface, but her voice shifted—cooler, sharper. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Kael straightened, his humor dimming with the turn in her tone.

“They came by,” she said. “Syble and Setra.”

He didn’t respond right away.

“That letter….they asked me to give it to you. Last night they came here again. Asked if I thought you were the man for the job.” She snorted softly. “I said you were stubborn enough to die proving them right.”

Kael tilted his head. “You didn’t tell them no.”

“I didn’t tell them yes either,” she said, finally glancing his way. “Didn’t have to. You’re here, aren’t you?”

She grabbed a chipped cup from the shelf, poured something steaming into it. The scent hit Kael like a warning—herbal, bitter, alive.

She shoved it into his hands without ceremony. “Drink that. You’re going to need your mind sharp.”

Lysa went on, voice brisk, sharp-edged now.

“You’ve been chasing ghosts and gods like they owe you something. And now you’ve got strangers in fine coats offering riddles and rewards, and you think you’re ready for what’s past the edge of the map?”

She finally turned then—slow, deliberate. Her storm-colored eyes landed on him like a spell gone heavy.

“You’re not.”

Kael’s mouth opened, but she cut him off with a flick of her hand.

“No. You’re not. You’re clever, I’ll give you that. Tenacious. Stubborn as a kicked ox. But this—” she gestured vaguely toward the curtained back room, then the city beyond “—this is bigger than you. Bigger than your pride. And if you walk into it thinking it’s just another way to carve your name into history, it’ll carve you instead.”

She didn’t say it with cruelty. She said it like truth. And that was worse.

Kael furrowed his brow. “You don’t even know what the job is.

Lysa gave a snort sharp enough to cut. “I know more than most would believe,” she said, turning slightly toward him. “And you do? Charging in like a starving fool at a banquet—don’t even know what’s on the table, but already licking the silver.

“I don’t need to,” she said, voice flat as slate. “Syble and Setra don’t show up without reason. And when they do, it’s never small.”

She poured the tea, still not looking at him.

“I know what they want from you.” A pause. “And I know better than to say.”

She poured without looking at him, voice snapping like frost off a branch.

She set the kettle down hard.

“Well. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the world decided it needed someone just reckless enough to get involved and just stubborn enough not to die right away. Stars help us—you fit the bill.”

Then, a beat later, without looking at him:

“And stop looking like I’ve slapped you. If I wanted to hurt your feelings, I’d write it down in ink and mail it to your grave.”

Her look lingered just a moment longer—measuring, half-resigned, half-irked.

Then she turned back to the pot and muttered,

“Should’ve put whiskey in this.”

Lysa fell silent.

For a long moment, she just stared into her cup, the steam rising in slow spirals. Her fingers curled around the ceramic like it held more than heat. When she spoke again, her voice was different—not softer, but weighted. The flair was still there, the fire—but something older threaded through it now. Something almost reverent.

“They said not to tell you anything,” she murmured. “Not about where you’re going. Not what you’ll be doing. That’s for them to say.”

She didn’t look at him. Just swirled the last of the tea in her cup, watching the leaves drift like silt in a stirred riverbed.

“But they didn’t say I couldn’t prepare you.”

Her jaw tensed. Her thumb tapped once against the rim.

“And as much as it pains me to admit it, you’ve finally done what I never thought you’d manage.”

She downed the rest of her tea in one sharp pull, the steam still curling.

Didn’t even flinch.

“Definitely needed the whiskey,” she muttered.

Kael shifted, the first edge of a question forming on his tongue.

“Lysa, what do y—”

“Shut it,” she snapped, not even looking at him. “If I wanted your thoughts, I’d pluck them straight from that skull of yours and pin them to the wall like drying herbs.”

She finally turned, eyes sharp again—but behind them, something lingered. Not quite fear. Not quite regret.

“But I don’t. So hush.”

She stood abruptly, chair legs scraping the stone behind her. The sound echoed sharper than it should’ve.

“Get up, boy,” she muttered, setting her empty cup aside with a hollow clink. “Come here.”

She didn’t wait.

Lysa crossed the room in three limping steps and stopped at the curtain that veiled the back room. Her fingers hovered near the edge—not quite touching it, but close enough the fabric shifted with the tension.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next.

“You want answers?”

Her voice was quiet. Not soft—Lysa didn’t do soft—but something worn at the edges. Frayed.

“Then stop acting like you’re owed them.”

She finally glanced back at him, storm-colored eyes unreadable.

“Well?”

Kael said nothing. He knew better. Whatever answers Lysa might give him now, they wouldn’t be straightforward—and the fact that she knew the twins at all still spun in his mind like a coin on edge.

But when she motioned, he followed.

She drew back the curtain to the back room with a snap of her wrist, revealing… chaos. A cluttered maze of shelves and glass-stoppered bottles, old books, hanging herbs, and scattered bones. It looked more like a storm had passed through a scholar’s nightmare than a sacred space.

Lysa glanced at him, then burst out laughing.

“Spirits, look at your face. What did you think I’d show you? A severed head and a prophecy?” She smirked. “Please. I’d at least light a candle first.”

Lysa stepped into the room, muttering to herself as she moved between leaning towers of tomes and half-labeled jars. She brushed aside a cobweb, then ducked under a hanging bundle of dried yarrow with all the grace of someone used to the chaos but not particularly impressed by it.

Her hands moved with purpose—until they didn’t.

She scowled, shoved aside a crate of loose vials, then reached up to tug a fraying cloth off what looked like a ceremonial bowl filled with polished stones and, inexplicably, buttons.

“No, no, no,” she muttered. “I just had it last season.”

She bent, rifled through a stack of scrolls that promptly collapsed in a heap around her feet.

“Spirits blind me, I’d find it faster if I set the place on fire and summoned the ashes.”

Kael stayed silent at the threshold, wisely.

Lysa didn’t look up, just kept digging—grumbling the whole time. “Can remember the spell that binds marrow to root under a bleeding moon, but not where I put one bloody satchel. Gods save me.”

She froze mid-mutter, then straightened slowly. Her eyes narrowed. “Wait…”

Turning on her heel, she crossed to the far wall and glared up at a leaning shelf stacked with tinctures, faded scrolls, and an unfortunate number of skulls.

“Of course,” she said dryly. “Of course I’d be that idiot.”

She reached up and swatted aside a few of the skulls—one hit the floor with a hollow clunk, another bounced off a shelf below with a cheerful rattle. Behind them, half-buried beneath a collapsed cluster of dried herbs and brittle parchment, was a worn satchel.

Lysa grabbed it, shook off the dust, and slung it over her shoulder like a weapon rediscovered.

Without further ceremony, she shoved the entire shelf forward.

The crash was spectacular.

Glass shattered. Wood splintered. Bottles rolled and popped their corks, releasing sharp, herbal tangs into the air. A puff of powdered something went airborne, glittering in the dusty light like crushed bone and star ash.

Kael didn’t flinch. But his brows did lift.

Lysa stood amid the wreckage, unbothered. “Didn’t like that shelf anyway.”

Behind it, set into the stone wall, was a small alcove.

And inside the alcove sat a plain wooden chest—old, heavy-lidded, reinforced with tarnished brass bands and sealed with a black iron lock.

Lysa took a key from the satchel and knelt in front of the chest. Kael followed suit, silent, his presence steady beside her.

She slid the key into the iron lock. It resisted—age and disuse stiff in its bones. Lysa muttered a curse under her breath and tried again, twisting harder.

Then she paused, not looking at him.

“You know,” she said, voice flat, “you were always a little shit.”

Kael tilted his head. “You’ve mentioned.”

“But you were a clever little shit. Darian saw it the moment he laid eyes on you.”

The lock clicked open.

“Said you were raw. Angry. But you learned fast. Hit faster.”

Kael’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his posture softened—just slightly.

Lysa opened the chest and pulled back a heavy cloth. Beneath it, a set of Draegard armor rested—sleek and battle-worn, trimmed in dark steel and black leather, built for speed and power. Beside it, a sword and dagger gleamed in the low light.

The weapons shimmered—obsidian-black blades kissed with crimson at the edge. The hilts were crafted from what looked like dragon fangs, bound in black leather. The crossguards flared like a dragon’s wings mid-flight, and the pommels bore garnet gems that pulsed faintly with a soft, internal glow. The scabbards were equally elaborate—deep crimson, trimmed in gold filigree, with a subtle pattern of scaled skin embossed along the length.

“He made these for you,” she said, voice thinner now. “Every plate, every stitch. Tuned to your weight, your reach, your style—before you even had a style.”

She ran a hand along the chestplate, fingers lingering where the old Draegard sigil caught the lamplight.

“He was proud of you. Would’ve said it more if you hadn’t driven him to drink.”

Kael exhaled—soft, like something too complicated to name.

“Then Hale came,” she said. “Challenged him. Beat him. Killed him.”

Her voice turned flint-sharp, but quiet. “It was clean. I’ll give him that. But I watched the man I loved bleed out in front of me—and the bastard didn’t even look back.”

“And in all the years since then, he had no idea what it meant to be a Draegard—yet wore the title like it was a damn crown.”

She looked up at Kael then, eyes shining but hard. “And now you’ve ended him. Not out of vengeance. Not out of pride. Just because someone needed saving.”

She smiled—small, crooked. “That’s the part that earns this.”

She stood and turned the chest toward him.

“And yes,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “he already worked that clever enchantment of yours into the whole set. The armor will look like plain traveler’s clothes as long as you wear them.”

Kael stepped forward slowly. His fingers brushed the etched steel—cool, solid, perfectly fitted for hands like his. The linen-wrapped bundle felt heavier than it should, but right.

Lysa’s voice softened, just enough. “You’ve grown, Kael Moren. Still moody. Still brooding. But not so broken as you used to be.”

She smirked. “And if you tell anyone I got sentimental, I’ll gut you with a soup spoon.”

Kael looked up at her, a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Lysa grinned, sharp and tired. “Damn right you wouldn’t.”

Lysa watched him a moment longer, then sighed—long and low, like something giving way inside her ribs.

“You weren’t born of the old world,” she said. “Not like Darian. He came from a time when bloodlines mattered. When names meant more than noise.”

She ran a hand down the edge of the chest, knuckles brushing the iron banding like a memory.

“You didn’t have that. Didn’t need it.”

She looked up at him again—really looked, eyes storm-dark and steady.

“But you might be the last true Draegard anyway.”

There was no smirk this time. No jab. Just quiet conviction, spoken like it hurt a little to admit.

“They’ll never say it,” she went on. “Those twins. But they see it in you. Your value. Your edge. They’ll use it if you let them. So don’t.” She pointed a crooked finger at him.

“What they’re asking of you won’t make sense ‘til you’re where you need to be,” she said, voice low. “And when the time comes—don’t agree to more than you’re willing to pay for.”

Her gaze cut toward him, all thorns and knowing.

“Even a worthy path’ll gut you, if you walk it blind.”

She took a breath, slow and sharp, like she was preparing to say something she’d promised herself she wouldn’t.

“When you’re done out there—if you’re still breathing—come back.”

Her voice was quieter now. Still rough. Still her. But careful.

“There are things I haven’t told you. Things I should.”

A beat passed. Then she turned away with a harrumph and a wave of her hand.

“Now get your armor on. I’m sick of the sight of you standing there gawping like a half-boiled turnip.”

She crossed the room with her usual limp and began gathering broken bits of glass with entirely too much noise.

“No more time for dawdling. You’ve got stars to offend and gods to disappoint.”

But her voice caught—just slightly—on that last word.

And she didn’t turn around.

He turned to the chest, the lamplight flickering across the armor’s dark sheen. For a moment, he just stood there, hands resting on the edge. Then, slowly, he reached in and began to lift the pieces free—pauldron, bracer, chestplate—each one heavier than it looked, each one fitted to him in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. And as he fit each piece, its weight seemed to vanish.

He strapped the vambraces tight, his fingers moving with quiet certainty. The cloak, lined in deep crimson, draped fluidly over his shoulders, falling just short of the scabbard where the sword now rested—silent, coiled, waiting.

He waited for the illusion to take hold.

It didn’t.

The armor remained what it was—blackened steel, sigiled and sharp, gleaming faintly in the low light.

Kael frowned.

Lysa didn’t even look up from sweeping glass. “It responds to will, not timing,” she said, like it was obvious. “Think for it to change and it will. Doesn’t just hide—it adapts. That was Darian’s improvement.”

Kael hesitated.

“Picture it,” she added, waving a hand vaguely. “Could be rags and soot for all it cares. Just pick something and mean it.”

He closed his eyes, drew in a breath—and visualized the longcoat. The worn boots. The weathered gloves.

The illusion settled over him last.

With a blink, the Draegard armor dulled into the shape of a traveler’s garb—patched, worn, unremarkable. Nothing but a longcoat, dark trousers, leather gloves. But the weight was there. The readiness. The quiet threat of steel beneath.

Kael exhaled, slow and controlled.

From the corner, Lysa watched, still crouched over her pile of broken glass. She didn’t say anything for a long time. Then—

“Well,” she muttered, brushing her palms on her skirts. “You look like a mercenary who’s about to make a very stupid decision.”

Kael adjusted the strap across his chest. “That accurate?”

She gave a noncommittal grunt. “Closer than not.”

He turned to face her fully now—gear fitted, weapons in place, the illusion seamless.

“Thank you,” he said. Simple. Unadorned.

Lysa rolled her eyes like it physically pained her. “Don’t get sentimental. You’ll undo all my hard work making you tolerable.”

Kael smiled faintly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

She stepped forward then, just once, and reached up to adjust the collar of his coat.

“You come back,” she said, tone neutral, but her hands careful. “You come back with all your limbs. Or I swear I’ll raise you just to yell at you.”

He nodded once. Firm.

And then he turned toward the door.

As he reached for the handle, she spoke one last time—quiet, almost to herself.

“Last true Draegard,” she said.

The words followed him out.

The door to Lysa’s cottage clicked shut behind him, and Kael exhaled into the morning air. The weight of new armor sat hidden beneath a traveler’s illusion, but it pressed against his skin like memory. He didn’t head for the gates just yet.

Instead, he turned back toward the heart of the city.

By the time he reached the tavern, the streets had grown busier—vendors calling from shaded stalls, carts rattling over worn cobblestones, and the city humming with its usual chaos.

Kael stepped into the tavern just past midday. Warm light spilled through the high windows, catching on mugs and the faint haze of hearthsmoke. The usual hum of voices and clinking cups filled the room.

He crossed to the corner near the fire—quiet, half-shadowed, just warm enough. The chair creaked as he sank into it.

Elena appeared before he’d even settled fully, a plate balanced on one hand, the other resting on her hip.

“People are still buzzing about the arena,” she said, then leaned forward and set the plate down in front of him with casual precision. “Hale. The girl. And the man who stepped in at the last second. No one knows who he was, but they remember how he moved—and how he disappeared right after.”

Kael reached for his fork, turning it once between his fingers. “I saw it.”

Her eyes lit as she slid into the seat across from him, elbows on the table, gaze locked. “You did? Tell me everything. I didn’t get to go. What happened?”

He bent slightly over the plate, steam curling up toward his face. The food smelled rich—fresh off the fire. But he stopped short of the first bite.

“It was the most spectacular fight I’ve ever seen,” he said. “She held her ground longer than anyone expected. Hale had her reeling—but just before the final strike, someone stepped in. Dropped him clean. The crowd didn’t even breathe until it was over.”

“And then vanished into thin air,” Elena said, her voice softer now. “You wouldn’t believe the stories flying around. Some think he was hired. Others say exile come back for revenge. I’ve heard shadow-assassin, disgraced knight, even god-touched.”

Kael let a smirk slip as he rested the fork on the plate’s edge. “People do like their stories.”

“Mhm.” She didn’t move. “You were with them the night after. Her and her brother. Sharing drinks. Sitting close.”

Kael didn’t answer at once.

“I hadn’t even seen you throw a punch before that night,” she added. “Then out of nowhere, you knock her brother flat.”

He lifted the fork again, paused with it halfway up. “He came at me first.”

She shrugged. “Sure. Just… funny timing. One day you’re invisible, next you’re drinking with the girl everyone’s talking about. Then you’re throwing punches in my bar. You don’t usually get involved.”

Kael gave a faint smile and finally took a bite. “Maybe I got curious.”

Elena rose, brushing her hands on her apron, but her gaze lingered a moment longer.

“You’ve got a good poker face,” she murmured. “But your tells are slipping.”

She turned as if to go, but Kael’s voice stopped her.

“I took a job.”

A pause.

“Through the Myrkviðr.”

Her face went still. Not dramatic—not wide-eyed—but still, like a breath held and never quite let out.

“No one goes south through the Myrkviðr,” she said softly.

“Some do.”

“And fewer come back.”

Kael said nothing. He knew she was right.

He reached into his coat and pulled out the pouch he’d gotten from the town’s when he took the job. Laden with coin but it was small and looked empty, a clever enchantment.

He undid the clasp and poured two brimming handfuls of gold into her waiting palms. Coins clinked and spilled through her fingers, heavier than they had any right to be.

She blinked. “Kael…”

“For the far-side rooms,” he said. “Get the beams fixed right. Pay the rest on the tavern so the deed’s in your name. There’ll be enough left to breathe. Or bolt, if it ever comes to that.”

She stared at the gold. It didn’t feel real. “This is more than a thank you.”

“It’s what I owe.”

Her jaw tightened. “You’re not coming back.”

“I plan to.”

“That’s not the same.”

He looked at her then—really looked. Something softened in his posture, like a blade slipping just out of reach.

“For the meals,” he said. “For not asking questions. For letting me pretend this corner was mine.”

She held the coins tighter. “You think that’s what I did?”

Kael didn’t reply.

“You always did bet high,” she said.

He smiled faintly. “House always wins.”

But she didn’t smile back. “Not out there it doesn’t.”

He dipped his head, just enough to count as a goodbye, and turned toward the door. His boots whispered over old floorboards, and then he was gone.

Kael reflected on the morning’s events as he moved through the crowds on his way to Finn’s. He wasn’t fond of the idea of heading south through the Myrkviðr. It was said to be uninhabited—except by wild beasts and wilder magic.

At the stables, he found Finn standing proudly beside a stall separate from the others. There stood the most magnificent horse Kael had ever seen—

Finn was brushing down a dapple-gray stallion when he saw Kael and beamed. “Well I’ll be. Thought they were jokin’ when they said this one was for you.” He slapped the horse’s flank. “Finest tack I’ve ever laid eyes on—real silver, polished black leather, custom fittings. Some noble somewhere is gonna be mad when they realize it’s missin’.”

Kael smirked. “Don’t think I’m stealing it. I’ve been paid ahead for once.”

Finn tilted his head and looked him up and down. “You’re wearin’ a shirt with holes in it.”

Kael shrugged. “Wasn’t that far ahead.”

The halfling snorted “strangest deal I ever made, first time I ever got paid to take a horse just to be told to give it away. They said It’s yours if you survive meeting it face to face. But be Careful though—this stallion’s got fire in his veins.”

Kael now put his full attention on the horse.

It was black—but not simply. It moved, subtly, like a living thing. The surface shimmered with a heatless, living texture, like cooling metal or a still lake touched by distant thunder. In some angles it dulled to pure matte; in others, it whispered with faint embers, like dying fire beneath ash. Sometimes Kael thought he saw shapes in it. Not reflections—memories. Things he couldn’t name.

He looked bred for war. Taller than any warhorse, but moved with the precision of something born for more than battle. His coat was black—not the dull black of midnight, but the deep, lightless black of scorched obsidian, shot through with flickers of iridescence when the light caught his flank. His mane and tail moved like smoke caught in slow wind—weightless, trailing, and unnervingly alive, as if remembering every storm he had ever galloped through.

He smelled like rain in a thunderstorm.

And his eyes…

They were silver. Not pale or gray, but molten—liquid metal flickering behind glass, too smooth, too perfect. They didn’t blink.

This was the mount?

He glanced toward the stablehand, who only gave him a nod, already turning away.

The horse didn’t flinch.

He was expecting leather straps and hooves, some tired animal reined too long and half-spooked by travel. But this one just stood there, silent as stone.

The tack was just as impressive: gleaming leather with intricate silverwork, reins adorned with delicate patterns, and a saddle so finely crafted it looked more like a throne.

Kael reached a hand toward his muzzle.

“Hey there,” he murmured. “Guess it’s you and me.”

And the air changed.

It was subtle—no crack of thunder, no flash of light—but the space between them tightened, as if something ancient had just taken a breath. The coat beneath Kael’s palm warmed. Softened. Then rippled, like fire passing beneath the skin.

Cracks of orange-gold light raced faintly across the horse’s body—no brighter than embers—but enough. Enough to show Kael this wasn’t a trick of the dark. This wasn’t just a horse.

A glow bloomed at the center of his forehead.

A horn. Straight. Black as stone, but lit from within—veined with molten light, alive with power barely restrained.

Kael froze.

The horse watched him—still unmoving, still silent—but now… lit from within, as if remembering itself.

And then it faded.

The cracks closed. The horn vanished. His coat turned black again, plain and dull.

Just a horse.

But Kael stood there a moment longer, hand still resting on that muzzle, breath shallow.

“…Right,” he whispered. “You’ll do.”

Finn didn’t speak at first.

He just stared at the stallion, arms slack at his sides, eyes narrowed like he was trying to see through smoke.

“Kael,” he said finally, voice low. “What the hell did you just saddle?”

Kael adjusted one of the buckles on his coat. “A horse.”

Finn looked at him, deadpan. “That wasn’t a horse. That was a nightmare wrapped in smoke and dressed like a forge-spirit.”

Kael didn’t argue. Just gave the reins a soft tug.

“He let me mount.”

“Yeah, and the moon lets wolves howl at it—doesn’t mean it’s safe.”

The stallion stood still, breathing slow, silver eyes reflecting nothing.

Finn shook his head, half in awe, half in disbelief. “You touched it, and it lit up, Kael. Lit up like it remembered the sun.”

Kael offered a faint smile. “Maybe he just likes me.”

Finn gave him a look. “No one just likes you. Not even me. Took years.”

Kael swung into the saddle. The beast shifted under him, fluid and powerful. The weight of the swords on his hips felt right—anchored, balanced.

Finn stepped back a little, rubbing his jaw. “If you bring that thing back glowing again, I’m charging extra for stabling.”

Kael raised an eyebrow. “What if I don’t come back at all?”

Finn’s grin was sharp, but brief. “Then I’ll know it lit you up too.”

the reins.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—just weighted. A kind of knowing that didn’t need to be named.

“You heading straight out?” Finn asked finally.

Kael nodded. “South.”

Finn exhaled through his nose. “You always pick the fun routes.”

“Don’t wait up.”

“I never do.”

But he didn’t move. Just stood there, hands on his hips, watching Kael the way someone watches a ship leave harbor—too far to stop, too close to forget.

Then, softer, “You sure you want to do this?”

“No.”

Finn gave a short laugh. “At least you’re consistent.”

Kael turned the stallion slightly. It moved with eerie ease, hooves soundless against the packed dirt. Just before Kael could signal him forward, Finn stepped in, grabbing the bridle for half a second—not to stop him, just… to hold.

“If you die,” Finn said, voice low and dry, “I’m keeping your boots.”

Kael raised a brow. “You’d look ridiculous in my boots.”

Finn let go and stepped back, already smirking. “You’re not wrong.”

Kael hesitated.

Then, quietly: “Thanks. For the horse. For everything.”

Finn gave a lopsided shrug, like he couldn’t decide whether to say you’re welcome or you idiot—so he said neither.

“Just come back,” he muttered. “I don’t want to break in another one like you.”

Kael gave him a nod. “I’ll try.”

And then—without another word—he nudged the stallion forward.

The horse moved quiet and gracefully, like smoke and shadow, the city falling behind with each quiet step.

Finn watched until they disappeared from view.

Then he spat into the dirt, muttered something about “dramatic bastard” and went back to work.

What a sight he must have been: a humble scholar, astride a royal steed, with weapons that could start a war. He caught the stares—some in awe, others in quiet contempt. It wasn’t a crowd, but it was enough. As he neared the city gates, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Where are you off to this time, trouble? Trying to ride out with a stolen fortune?”

Kael turned to see Warren—a stocky, smug city guard leaning on his halberd, watching the traffic.

“Afternoon, Warren,” Kael replied, already weary. “The only thing I’ve stolen is a quiet life. Didn’t seem like anyone was using it.”

Warren grinned. “Is that so? Awfully fine horse and arms for a broken little piss pot like yourself. Tell you what—I’ll save myself the trouble of investigating. Pay me five gold and I let you through. Or we can go have a long, loud chat with the captain.”

Kael’s jaw tensed. He didn’t have time for this. Then he remembered—he wasn’t broke anymore.

He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out ten gold coins.

“Five for now, five for when I return—and here’s a tip for guarding the gate,” Kael called, flipping a final coin.

It struck Warren square in the eye.

The guard yelped and doubled over, clutching his face as Kael rode through the gates without another word.

He glanced back at the grand spires and floating island above Aeldenwood. The city shimmered beneath the sunlight, the magic of the castle above casting its long, noble shadow.

He had departed Aeldenwood just after lunch, the lingering taste of roasted venison still clinging to memory as he’d slipped past the city gates. The main road had been bustling with foot traffic—merchants pushing carts heavy with spice and fruit, farmers herding livestock, travelers exchanging weary greetings. Kael kept to himself, hood low, eyes scanning the horizon. Guards in lacquered armor nodded at him without recognition as he passed. The din of the capital faded gradually with distance, replaced by the chirping of larks and the rhythmic clop of hooves on packed earth.

After an hour, he turned off the well-worn trade route, guiding his stallion down a narrower path—one overgrown and seldom traveled, winding southward through thinning woods and patchy meadows. Here, the world felt quieter. More watchful. Trees leaned in close, as if whispering to one another.

The road south unfurled beneath a sky bruised with the colors of dusk—golds bleeding into mauves, stretched across the heavens like the aftermath of a fading battle. Kael rode in silence, the wind tugging at his cloak, his thoughts a tide of half-formed worries and old memories.

Every rhythmic stride of the horse beneath him carried him further from comfort, deeper into the unknown.

When the path finally spilled out into open fields, Kael gave the reins a subtle flick. “Go,” he murmured. The stallion surged forward, hooves pounding the earth in a blur of motion. Wind screamed past Kael’s ears as the landscape rushed by—fences, distant cottages, rolling grassland bathed in amber light. He welcomed the speed, the brief thrill that chased away thought. It didn’t last long, but it didn’t need to.

Fields gave way to dense thickets, the horizon swallowed by a wall of gnarled trees. The Myrkviðr. It was no ordinary forest.

No map could chart its heart, no traveler could claim to have crossed it without cost. Stories claimed it moved when you weren’t looking—paths shifting, whispers crawling into your thoughts. That magic twisted and bent within its borders, as though the very roots drank spells and bled nightmares.

Kael reined in the stallion at the crest of a hill overlooking the forest’s edge. From here, the trees looked like petrified sentinels—vast, silent, and watchful. Shadows pooled between them like spilled ink. He dismounted slowly, patting the stallion’s neck as he stretched out stiff legs.

“You’ve got good instincts,” he murmured to the horse. “Better than most people I’ve met.”

The horse snorted, flicking its ears at him with a look that was almost smug.

Kael chuckled. “What, you think that’s high praise? You don’t even have a name yet.”

He looked the stallion over again—its coat black as a moonless sky, mane and tail like woven starlight, those pale grey eyes gleaming with quiet defiance. “How about… Void?” he offered. The horse immediately stepped away and turned its head in what could only be described as disapproval. “No? Alright, too dramatic. What about—Midnight?” A huff, louder this time. Kael arched a brow. “Okay, now you’re just being picky. Storm?” Another snort. The horse stamped a hoof. Kael squinted. “You’re worse than Finn.”

He leaned on the saddle, thinking when he felt an impression in his mind he was certain it came from his steed. Then, quietly, he said, “Eryndor?” The horse stilled. Its ears perked. No snort. No hoof. Just stillness—and something in those grey eyes that looked like… recognition. “Did you just tell me your name?” Kael asked looking at the strange animal. And another impression came upon him it wasn’t words or thoughts just a feeling he knew without a doubt now that the rose was communicating and theat he had spoken his own name. He didn’t understand how but Kael could understand his mount and the mount clearly understood him.

“Eryndor it is,” Kael said with a nod. “Stubborn as hell, but regal. Fitting.”

He set to work assembling a modest camp—bedroll unrolled, a small fire coaxed to life from dry kindling. The firelight cast flickering gold over his gear, the sword and dagger gleaming faintly as he checked their straps. Once everything was settled, Kael sat near the fire, pulling off his gloves, flexing his fingers. The warmth was welcome, but his mind wasn’t calm. Not here. Not yet. The Myrkviðr loomed ahead—ancient, undisturbed, unknowable. Kael stared into the trees, jaw tight.

He remembered stories. How the forest swallowed entire expeditions. How compasses spun and maps burned of their own accord. How the southern Myrkviðr had never yielded to axe nor

flame. And how anything that ventured too far beyond its borders was simply…..lost or forgotten.

Kael reached into his pack and pulled out the letter again—the one that started it all. The ink was still faintly scented with lavender and spice. He read it one last time, lips moving silently as his eyes traced the words.

The twins had been cryptic but said they had reason and now he waited for them to arrive. He folded it carefully, then drew the obsidian dagger. Its dark blade caught no light. It drank it instead. Kael held it for a long time, watching as tiny sparks of red shimmered across the surface—like embers beneath glass. It wasn’t just a weapon. It was part of something older. Something he couldn’t yet name.

Behind him, Eryndor lowered his head, watching silently. Kael could feel the horse’s gaze.

“Do you think I’m mad for going in there?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Eryndor said nothing, of course—but he didn’t look away either.

Kael smiled faintly. “Yeah. Me too.”

He leaned back against his saddle, eyes turned skyward. The stars had begun to pierce through the clouds, constellations shifting slowly above like an ancient clockwork.

Somewhere in the Myrkviðr, the first piece of the truth waited for him. And Kael would find it.

No matter what it cost.

Kael’s thoughts drifted back to the day’s events. He couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling of how much Syble and Setra seemed to know about him. He was good at reading people, as sharp as any conman, but this was different. It was as if they had seen inside his mind—understanding his every intention and action with unnerving accuracy.

Then his mind turned to the few people he left behind that he knew cared about him. It was a sentiment he wished he could share in. But the fact that he was likely on his way to meet his end or become lost in those woods and the chance that he may never see them again….had no effect on him. He wanted to miss them. He knew he should. He could remember what it felt like to miss someone but he could no longer actually feel it. He’d react as though he could when it suited him, but ever since the blade split his throat and woke up on a bed 10 years ago in Lysa’s house he’s has remained emotionally disconnected.

As the shadows grew longer and the evening air turned cool, Kael kept a sharp eye out for Syble and Setra. He knew they would arrive soon, and he was eager to hear more about his mission.

The flickering firelight offered a small comfort, its soft crackle a soothing backdrop to the coming nightfall.

Then, as if on cue, the sounds of the forest and grasslands around him stilled. The chorus of crickets, rustling leaves, and distant nightbirds ceased abruptly, like a predator was near. A heavy stillness filled the air. Kael’s senses sharpened, his eyes scanning the shadows for movement. He remained alert, knowing that whatever had caused the silence was drawing near. Moments later, two familiar figures emerged from the shadows of the Myrkviðr. Syble and Setra appeared at the clearing’s edge, their presence both commanding and serene. The twins moved with effortless grace, their contrasting eyes gleaming eerily in the firelight.

“Good evening, Kael,” Syble greeted, her smile steady and warm. Setra nodded, her expression calm. “We hope we didn’t keep you waiting long.”

Kael relaxed slightly, acknowledging them with a nod. “Not at all,” he replied, his curiosity

piqued by the eerie silence that followed their arrival. He’d expected them from the direction of the city, but they’d come from the forest instead. There was something unnerving about their

shadowy figures at the fire’s edge, so he gestured for them to join him. “Have a seat. I’m eager to hear about my mission.”

The twins approached and settled by the fire, their movements fluid and deliberate. As they sat, Kael couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that came with their sudden appearance. The forest was dead silent, as if nature itself feared them. He forced himself to focus on what they had to say, even as his instincts screamed to stay alert.

Syble spoke first, her voice soft but full of intent. “Kael, we called you here because we have a task of great importance. Your actions today have shown us that you’re ready for what lies

ahead.”

Setra added, “The journey through the Myrkviðr will be treacherous, but it’s only the beginning.

You’ll be venturing to the place where the Riftveil began—a site of immense power and turmoil.”

Syble continued, “The Riftveil was the cataclysmic event that shattered Avalyth, rending the world asunder. You’ll be traveling to its very heart—a place where the boundaries of reality are thin and the remnants of that tragedy still linger. Legends call it the Frozen Edge.”

Kael’s brow furrowed, the weight of their words settling in. He had heard the legends of the Riftveil his entire life, and now it seemed those tales were about to become his reality.

Setra picked up where her sister had stopped, her voice soft, almost reverent. “The Riftveil

shattered Avalyth. You’ll be traveling to its edge—the wound it left behind. The Frozen Edge.”

Syble added, “It can’t be explained. Only experienced.”

The twins raised their hands, their fingertips brushing. The fire dimmed. The air grew heavy with an unnatural stillness. Their voices merged, a low hum that seemed to resonate deeper than sound. Magic stirred—not around Kael, but within him.

And then, the vision began.

In the place where the planet split, the storm took hold, Time’s grip corrupted, the chaos did unfold.

Waves stilled mid-crash, a frozen sight, Lightning captured, suspended in the night.

Kael stood at the precipice of an alien world. Beneath his feet, the earth cracked open in jagged fractures that glowed faintly blue, as if time itself had bled into the stone. Before him, the ocean had surged—and stopped. Waves towered in place, mid-crash, caught in a single eternal breath. Lightning—forked and violent—hung motionless in the sky, casting long, unmoving shadows across the ice.

The wind carried a melody. The lyrics whispered like ancient truth, threading through the stormclouds above.

Frozen Edge, where time is a ghost, An icy realm, the land of gods.

Silent waves and lightning’s arc,

In this frozen sea, there lies a spark.

He turned slowly. The land stretched endlessly, glittering with unnatural frost. Hills of solid water rolled like glass dunes, glimmering with starlight trapped within. Above, the sky was split down the middle—half night, half dawn, frozen in conflict.

Time had not just stopped here. It had been broken.

The sea rose up in jagged grace,

A frozen roar that chills the face.

Its fury caught mid-motion, bare,

A silence hard as winter air.

He stepped forward. His boots crunched against crystalline snow. Massive crests of frozen water curled into arches and spires, casting eerie shadows that shifted with no sun to move them. Some waves looked like beasts—leviathans caught in the moment before breaching. Others resembled shrines, their curves delicate and intentional.

Kael touched one—felt the memory of movement beneath his fingers. But it did not yield. This was not ice. It was time, stilled.

Chill winds whisper, frost’s cruel embrace, Frozen bolts, an eerie grace.

Swells so vast, intricate and grand,

A haunted coastline, locked and spanned.

The wind howled without motion. Kael’s breath fogged, though the air didn’t bite—it clung. Around him, frozen rivers formed veins across the terrain, glowing faintly from within. The bolts of lightning were enormous, piercing the horizon like crystalline spears. He passed under one, its hum low and mournful. Snowflakes hovered in the air. Unmoving. As if caught in thought.

When the earth was shattered, seas torn apart, A frozen testament, a work of art.

The Frozen Edge, timeless and cold,

A story of chaos, forever told.

A pulse of light shimmered across the distant sky.

Lightning flickered in slow motion—coiling, unfurling, retreating—all at once. The sky shimmered with it, like a heartbeat seen through glass. There was something alive here. Something ancient. Watching.

Frozen Edge, where time is a ghost, An icy realm, the land of gods.

Silent waves and lightning’s arc,

In this frozen sea, there lies a spark.

Dark clouds loom, their anger quelled, Thunder’s roar in silence dwelled.

Lightning’s dance, a pattern of light, Casting shadows in the endless night.

He tilted his head, listening.

There was no thunder—but the pressure of it was in his chest. The clouds churned in strange patterns, folding in on themselves with silent rage. Light flickered like runes in the dark, tracing paths across the heavens.

They weren’t random. They were signals. A language he couldn’t read—but felt all the same.

Just ice. No time. No day. No night.

Just static weight, and halted light.

The first crack, made without a sound—

The sky split open. The world unbound.

He climbed a rise of sculpted frost.

From the summit, he saw the great scar—the place where the world had torn. A fissure ran for miles, wide enough to swallow cities, deep enough that it vanished into starlight. Around it, the ocean hovered in mid-fall, spilling inward without ever touching the core.

But at its heart—impossibly, defiantly—stood a castle.

It was suspended on vast stone bridges that stretched from either side of the chasm, not crafted by hand but shaped by the land itself. The arches were jagged and imperfect, as though the earth had refused to let the castle fall, clutching it in place with stubborn fury. The structure was ancient—spires twisted by wind and frost, battlements lined with frozen statues of winged creatures mid-flight.

And in that heart of stillness—he saw something spark. A flicker. A heartbeat.

It called to him.

Not named. Not sung. Not called aloud.

Not dared beneath the thunder’s shroud.

But all who see this frozen shore

Know what was here… and is no more.

Frozen Edge, where time is a ghost, An icy realm, the land of gods.

Silent waves and lightning’s arc,

In this frozen sea, there lies a spark.

The words curled around his thoughts now, no longer distant. They were in him.

The landscape pulsed with memory. Echoes of gods long dead. Wars that never ended. Time that would never mend.

Walking through this realm of ice, A frozen dance, nature’s sacrifice.

The place the planet split, and time was corrupted, A world forever chilled, the balance disrupted.

The final note echoed like a bell in his bones. Just as the final note of the song faded into the void—a flash of violet light erupted from a high window in the tallest tower. Not bright, but deliberate. Like a signal. A warning. Or a summons.

The light disappeared.

And with it, the vision shattered.

He was back at the camp. The fire crackled softly. The twins sat where they’d been, hands still joined, eyes open now—but not looking at him. Not yet.

Kael exhaled, frost still curling from his breath.

“Tell me,” he said slowly, voice raspy, “how do I get there?”

Setra’s voice softened as she concluded, “The Frozen Edge is a place of both tragedy and beauty, a solemn reminder of the Riftveil’s wrath. The Myrkviðr guards its secrets well—no map can lead you true. But follow the compass south, beyond where most dare to tread, and you will find it, Kael: the center of everything that was broken.”

As the conjured vision began to fade, with the shock of the experience receding, his senses

returned, and cold doubt crept in. “What proof do you have that this place is real? How can I trust what I’ve just seen is anything more than clever magic?”

Setra’s haunting voice responded, “The proof lies within your journey, Kael. You will know the truth when you reach the Frozen Edge and see it with your own eyes.”

Syble added soothingly, “Trust in the path you are on. The Myrkviðr and the site of the Riftveil await, and your journey will reveal the truth in ways you cannot yet comprehend.”

Kael’s expression grew steely as he gazed hard at the twins. He wasn’t fool enough to gamble his life without proof of the odds. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t just take your word for it,” he said, suspicion lacing his tone.

Seeing Kael’s unresolved doubts would not rest at her sister’s words, Setra smiled. “Well, at least you are not a fool,” she said with a chuckle.

Syble reached into her cloak and pulled out an ancient map, its edges worn and faded. She handed it to Kael, her fingers brushing his as she passed it over. Kael’s breath caught in his

throat. He could feel the weight of the object in his hands—the map wasn’t just parchment, it was a relic, a fragment of the past, something that could answer the questions that had gnawed at him for years. The faintest tremor ran through him as he grasped the map, a surge of excitement and obsession curling through his chest.

This map—one of the few remnants from the world before the Riftveil—could hold the key to unlocking the very mysteries he’d devoted his life to uncovering. He hadn’t dared to hope he might ever hold something like this in his hands, and now that he did, the pull of it was undeniable.

Kael unfurled the map, his eyes scanning its intricate details. Most of it was unfamiliar, filled with names and places he had never seen or heard before. Where the Myrkviðr now loomed on modern charts, the map showed a vast stretch of open land, dotted with towns and cities long erased. No forest, no blight—only civilization, now buried beneath centuries of silence. The ink was faded in places, but the landmarks were clear enough to be useful. Though aged and worn, it lent credibility to their words.

Satisfied with the proof, Kael gave a curt nod. “Is there anything more I should know?” he asked, sensing that there were details they had left out purposefully, as though to see if he had the wit to ask.

Setra and Syble exchanged a glance, their expressions unreadable. Instead of responding with words, each twin removed a ring from their finger. Syble’s ring was particularly striking—an intricate dark metal band with gold inlays, ornate patterns winding around it. Set in the center was a round gem of a sickly green hue. This gem seemed to warp and distort the air around it, creating an aura of eerie light and shadow.

“This ring,” Syble explained in her soothing voice, handing it to Kael, “will mask your scent from lesser beasts, provide you with the ability to communicate across any language, and help you see farther in the dark.”

Setra then extended her hand, revealing her own ring. The band was made of a white metal, lined with intricate black inlays that traced elegant patterns along its surface. Set in the center was a gem of silver, swirling with a golden mist within. As Kael gazed at it, the gem seemed to have a life of its own, shimmering with an ethereal glow.

Setra’s haunting voice carried a sense of gravitas as she explained, “This ring will keep you warm against any cold, help keep you dry in the rain, and allow you to sense the intentions of another person in times of uncertainty.”

Both twins spoke in unison, their voices blending seamlessly. “These rings have other uses, but you will have to discover them on your own.”

Their tones then shifted, firm and powerful, leaving no room for doubt. “We are hopeful that you need not someone to babysit you through the forest, Kael. You were hired to take on this task and given tools to aid you. Be grateful we have given you as much.”

Kael accepted the rings, marveling at their craftsmanship and the power they seemed to hold. He slipped them onto his fingers, feeling an immediate connection to their magical properties.

Before he could express his gratitude, Setra’s voice took on a serious tone. “One more thing, Kael,” she warned. “You are not the only one searching for the Frozen Edge. There are others who seek its power, and you must not let anyone know what you are searching for. The stakes are too high, and the dangers too great.”

Syble nodded in agreement, her soothing voice tinged with urgency. “Remember, discretion is key. Trust no one with knowledge of your quest, for even a single whisper could bring unwanted eyes upon you.”

Kael absorbed their warnings, understanding that there were forces at play he didn’t know about and that he didn’t know which side of the moral fence he was currently standing on, not that it mattered much to him. He accepted it as part of the mission that he would have to discover the answers to both who else was searching for the Frozen Edge and the side he was on for himself. His favorite part of gambling was the excitement of events with unknown variables leading up to an uncertain outcome, and this was proving to be the most exciting gamble of his life so far.

Setra then began to speak of another legend, her voice painting a vivid picture. “There is another tale, Kael, one that speaks of a leviathan beneath the ice of the Frozen Edge. It is said to tunnel under the ice, protecting whatever lies at the center of the Riftveil’s beginning.”

As Setra spoke, Kael’s mind conjured the image of this mighty creature. A leviathan, an immense beast of legend, with scales as hard as the thickest ice and eyes that glowed with a cold, ruthless intelligence. Its massive body carved tunnels beneath the frozen sea, moving with an eerie grace through the glacial depths.

Syble continued, her voice adding to the imagery. “The leviathan is a protector of the Frozen

Edge, its massive form creating a labyrinth of tunnels beneath the ice. It is said that the creature’s very presence keeps intruders at bay, and its roar can shatter even the strongest resolve. Those who have dared to venture too close to its domain often speak of the feeling of being watched, a primal fear that seeps into their bones.”

Setra’s voice softened as she concluded, “This leviathan is a formidable guardian, Kael. If you are to succeed in your mission, you must be prepared to face not only the frozen landscape but also the ancient powers that dwell beneath the ice.”

The vivid description of the leviathan stirred a mix of awe and apprehension within Kael. He knew the journey ahead would be fraught with peril, but he also felt a growing readiness to be on his way.

Syble spoke first, her soothing voice echoing through the night air, “Time is no object, Kael, nor shall money be. If you are in need, you will always find the amount required in your saddlebag.”

Setra’s haunting voice continued, “The world may forget you exist while you search, but upon your return, you will be a figure never to be forgotten.”

Turning to leave, the twins laid a hand upon Kael’s shoulder. “Good luck,” they said together. As they stepped out of the firelight, their forms began to shimmer. They vanished into thin air, the last notes of their voices echoing on the wind, blending with the night.

As he stared into the embers, Kael wondered what it would be like to be forgotten by the world. The thought gnawed at the edges of his mind like frost creeping through cracks—quiet, invasive, inevitable. He wasn’t widely known—just another wanderer in a vast, indifferent world—but the idea of vanishing completely, of existing only in shadows and silence, stirred a strange unease within him. Stranger still was the absence of sorrow. The thought should have stung, but it stirred nothing in his chest. That emptiness unnerved him more than the thought itself.

Yet alongside the fear of fading, there flickered something brighter. The twins had promised that upon his return, he would be a figure no one could forget. Immortality of name, of deed, of memory. The thought was honey on the tongue. To be etched into history—to leave a mark so deep the world would never heal from it—felt like a reward worth any price. Kael had few fond memories in this life. He would trade them all for legacy.

His pulse quickened. A name carried by wind and whisper long after his bones turned to dust. More than a fleeting breath in time.

The fire crackled softly, its light dancing across his face, casting gold over the furrow of his brow. Doubt flickered at the edges of his thoughts, but it was met with the raw, undeniable thrill of what lay ahead. The unknown loomed large, a dark sea without stars, and yet, beneath his apprehension, a voice whispered: Greatness lies in the crossing.

He flexed his fingers and felt the cool weight of the rings he wore—silent totems of his purpose. Their touch grounded him, reminded him that this was real. No longer a dream, no longer a tale passed across tavern tables. The twins’ final words echoed in his mind: Time and coin are no object. The world might forget him for now—but not forever. Not if he succeeded.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, allowing the forest to speak. The wind rustled through the trees like an old song, and an owl’s distant call cut through the quiet with solemn grace. Crickets stitched their rhythm into the air. Nature’s nocturne, ancient and unchanging.

In that stillness, Kael found a fragile peace—a tether between fear and anticipation, between what he was and what he might become. The night offered no answers, only silence. But within that silence, resolve took root.

He opened his eyes. The firelight reflected in them, like stars caught in glass. His chest felt both lighter and heavier—a paradox of emotion he could neither name nor shake. The burden of what success would mean pressed on him like armor, but so did the promise: wealth beyond imagining, and a legacy carved into the bones of history.

He would not falter.

The night deepened. The twins’ magic had long since faded, and with it, the forest returned to itself. The trees no longer held their breath. The owl sang again. Crickets resumed their nightly sermon. The world accepted him once more.

Kael moved with purpose. He unrolled his bedroll, its fabric whispering against the earth. Forgoing his tent—the stars too beautiful to hide from, the air too warm to warrant walls—he lay down beside the fire.

Above him stretched a cathedral of stars. Each one a silent witness, their cold light older than gods. The moon poured silver across the land, turning every branch and stone into sculpture. Kael stared upward, breath slow, heart steady. A hush fell over him.

The weight of the mission did not vanish, but it softened, reshaped by the awe of what surrounded him. This world still held beauty, even after all it had lost.

He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the scent of pine and earth and fire. His mind wandered again to the Frozen Edge, to the secrets that slept beneath its ice. Fear and wonder danced in equal measure. But slowly, gently, the night began to wrap him in its embrace. His thoughts slowed. The ache behind his eyes eased.

As his breathing steadied, he let his muscles unwind, one by one. The warmth of the fire met the cool kiss of the soil below, and between the two, he found balance.

Sleep came not with a crash, but with a slow surrender.

The forest cradled him. The stars above held their silent vigil. And in that stillness, beneath that ancient sky, Kael drifted into dreams—while the world, just for a little while, forgot him.

But morning would come. And with it, the first steps of a man who would not be forgotten.

The soft light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a golden hue across Kael’s campsite nestled along the tree line. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the earthy scent of the forest. Embers in the firepit had burned down to a gentle glow, and a fine layer of dew shimmered on the grass and leaves, catching the first rays of sunlight.

Kael stirred from sleep, stretching as he took in the quiet serenity. The sky above was painted in strokes of pink and orange, and long shadows stretched across the ground. Birds chirped softly, their melodies a subtle reminder that life thrived in the world around him.

With practiced care, Kael set about breaking camp. He left no trace behind—packing his bedroll, extinguishing the embers, and scattering leaves and ash until the forest floor looked untouched. Once satisfied, he turned to his horse. The steed greeted him with a soft whicker, its eyes reflecting quiet trust. Kael patted its neck and murmured something low before fitting the saddle and bridle. Opting to lead the horse on foot for now, he took the reins and began walking, tracing the forest’s edge.

The world stirred around him, bathed in the gentle hush of morning. Trees stood tall and ancient, their trunks like silent sentinels guarding secrets older than the land itself. Leaves rustled softly in the breeze, creating a natural symphony that accompanied his steady footsteps.

Kael’s thoughts wandered—equal parts anticipation and determination. The Myrkviðr loomed beside him, dark and enigmatic. Its borders were inviting in the way cliffs called to fools: beautiful, mysterious, and potentially fatal. He could feel the pulse of magic just beyond the first line of trees.

Eventually, Kael turned south, leading his horse into the forest proper. The trees closed in around them, their thick canopy filtering the sunlight into dappled patches on the forest floor. Each step felt like crossing into another world.

The Myrkviðr was known for its shifting paths and unpredictable nature. No map could capture its temperament, and no traveler emerged unchanged. The journey to the Frozen Edge had truly begun.

Ancient trees loomed above—gnarled and twisted, their bark cloaked in moss and lichen. The light that pierced the canopy was tinged green and gold, casting an enchanted glow on everything it touched. Underbrush crowded the path: delicate ferns swaying in the breeze, wildflowers blooming in vibrant bursts, and low vines coiling like lazy snakes around roots and trunks.

The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled the air, a testament to the cycle of life and death that ruled here. Yet within the decay, there was beauty.

Kael soon spotted the forest’s stranger inhabitants—creatures shaped by centuries of residual magic. A Luminescent Slyvek, foxlike and glowing faintly in the shadows, darted through the underbrush, leaving a trail of pale light. Its intelligent gaze lingered on Kael before vanishing into the foliage.

A Whispering Serpent slithered nearby, its vine-like scales blending perfectly with the greenery. Only its golden eyes gave it away. The soft, rustling whisper it emitted echoed like leaves caught in windless motion, eerie and beautiful.

Above, Glimmerwing Moths flitted through shafts of light—delicate insects with glasslike wings. They shimmered like sunlight on water, drawn to pockets where the forest’s magic gathered thickest. The hum of their wings added a soft, melodic counterpoint to the forest’s natural chorus.

Sunlight painted the ground in shifting patterns—cool shadows broken by warm pools of light. The interplay of light and dark made the Myrkviðr feel otherworldly, as if Kael had stepped outside the known world entirely.

He took his time. He’d never traveled this far south in the forest and didn’t intend to rush. There was too much to see.

He passed Mooncap Fungi, mushrooms as wide as dinner plates that absorbed moonlight. Their phosphorescent caps glowed softly at night, illuminating the underbrush in pale hues.

Pearl-draped spiderwebs glistened with dew, strung like necklaces between branches. The Spindleweaver Spiders that spun them were unique to the Myrkviðr—their silk stronger than steel, their artistry nearly invisible unless kissed by morning light.

Kael caught glimpses of larger creatures too: a Sablehart, its velvety black fur shifting with the forest’s colors, and antlers that glowed faintly in the gloom; a Crimson Boar, bristled in shimmering red, rooting through the undergrowth for magic-laced tubers.

But as midday crept closer, the forest grew still.

The hush was immediate and chilling. Birds fell silent. The usual rustle of unseen creatures vanished. Even Kael’s horse grew uneasy, its ears flicking and nostrils flaring. Kael slowed, alert. His pulse quickened. Then he saw it.

A Shadowstalker—a predator as silent as death—stepped into view. Catlike in form, its sleek body melted into the forest shadows, nearly invisible save for its piercing emerald eyes. It hunted by sight. And it was close.

Kael’s body tensed, breath halting. Without a sound, he led his horse off the trail and crouched behind a thick clump of bushes, one hand gripping the reins tight, the other resting near his blade. His heartbeat thudded in his ears.

The Shadowstalker prowled past, muscle and menace in perfect motion. Its emerald gaze swept across the underbrush. Kael held still, barely daring to blink. Sweat slid down his temple. One sound—one movement—would mean death.

The predator paused, ears twitching toward a distant noise. Then, in a blur of motion, it vanished into the trees. Kael exhaled slowly, pulse still hammering.

Above, the canopy allowed only fractured glimpses of sky. Shafts of filtered light painted the path ahead in amber and green. Shadows danced and shifted with every breeze, a living mosaic that seemed to watch his every step. He pressed on.

The Myrkviðr tolerated no arrogance. Kael knew better than to lower his guard. But even amid its dangers, the forest held a strange allure—one he couldn’t ignore. Respectful, cautious, but ever curious, he ventured deeper. Each footstep was a quiet declaration: I see you. I’m listening.

The forest, ancient and alive, whispered back.

The sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows across the forest floor. With only a few hours of good light left, Kael’s thoughts turned to making camp—until a sudden blur of motion snapped him to attention.

A wood sprite shot from the trees like a bolt of lightning, its iridescent wings glinting in the fading sun. A high-pitched giggle, mischief-laden and melodic, echoed through the trees. In a blink, it snatched the dagger from Kael’s belt, the blade flashing in the dappled light.

Kael froze, his gaze locking onto the tiny figure now hovering before him.

The sprite was no larger than his hand, its delicate features a mix of curiosity and amusement. Its skin shimmered with a faint translucence, like it was made of living starlight. Dragonfly-like wings fluttered rapidly, catching and scattering light in a kaleidoscope of color. Large, expressive eyes sparkled with delight, and it wore clothing fashioned from woven leaves and petals—an outfit both elegant and utterly wild.

Kael didn’t move. He’d heard tales of wood sprites—tricksters with a fondness for pranks, but easily provoked into something far more dangerous. He forced a calm smile, leaning into charm.

“Your speed is impressive,” he said lightly. “That was quite the feat, snatching my dagger so swiftly. But I’m going to need it back. Or do I have to chase you down?”

His grin matched the sprite’s own, sly and challenging.

The sprite let out another giggle, a sound like wind chimes in spring. “Catch me if you can, big guy!” it teased, wings whirring as it darted away.

Kael’s pulse quickened. He’d hoped to ease into the forest, to observe before engaging. But the Myrkviðr had other plans. With a final glance at his horse, he took off after the sprite.

The forest came alive with movement. The sprite streaked ahead like a glimmering comet, zigzagging between trees, dancing over moss-covered logs. Kael followed with practiced agility, weaving through roots, ducking branches, his every movement calculated and fluid.

The canopy cast a patchwork of shadow and light across the forest floor, turning the chase into a game of reflex and instinct. The sprite’s laughter echoed around him, spurring him forward. It darted to the left, disappeared behind a thicket.

Kael didn’t hesitate—he dove through the foliage and emerged still on its trail. His breath came steadily, years of training and instinct guiding him. He was faster than most, but the sprite was something else entirely. Still, he grinned. He hadn’t felt this alive in weeks.

“You’re slow, big guy!” the sprite called back, veering sharply and skimming the forest floor.

Kael followed, vaulting over a fallen tree, barely brushing the undergrowth. The ground grew trickier—leaf-covered slopes, tangled roots hidden underfoot. Still, Kael pressed on.

“Is that all you’ve got?” the sprite called, clearly enjoying itself. Kael could almost reach it now—his fingers brushed air just behind the dagger’s hilt.

Then the sprite shot straight up into the trees.

Kael climbed after it, leaping from one thick branch to another, the rustle of leaves and the sprite’s laughter blending in a symphony of movement. He climbed higher, using momentum and balance rather than brute force.

Then, without warning, the sprite swooped back down and zipped through a narrow gap between two massive trunks. “Too slow, human!” it called.

Kael twisted midair, slipped through the gap, and kept pace.

The chase blurred into instinct. The forest raced past him. The sprite’s wings shimmered like sunlight on water, its laughter leading him deeper into the heart of the Myrkviðr.

Finally, the sprite slowed. A small clearing opened ahead. The air felt still, charged with the same anticipation Kael felt in his bones.

Both came to a stop.

The sprite hovered just out of reach, dagger still in hand, eyes sparkling. “I win this round,” it declared triumphantly. “So, big guy… what’s next?”

Kael grinned, catching his breath. “Alright—double or nothing.”

The sprite arched a brow. “Oh? Not another chase, I hope.”

Kael reached into his pocket, pulling out a small enchanted amulet—finely crafted, etched with runes, enchanted with a minor protection charm. “This is my wager. What do you propose for our next game?”

The sprite eyed the trinket with interest, but shook its head. “Tempting… but I’ve got something better in mind.”

Its gaze flicked to Kael’s hand.

“How about one of those shiny rings instead? Much more interesting, don’t you think?”

Kael hesitated. The rings—gifts from the twins—were more than enchanted relics. They were reminders of a bond forged in fire and blood. Giving them up wasn’t just a gamble; it was

betrayal. Still… an idea sparked.

“I’ll do you one better,” he said, removing both rings. He held them up alongside the amulet. “Double or nothing. If I win, I get my dagger. If you win, you keep the dagger and the rings. But if I win… you owe me a favor.”

The sprite’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, I like the sound of that! Bold and clever. Alright… but the game has to be fair.”

It spun mid-air, wings humming. “How about riddles?”

Kael shook his head. “Too easy to manipulate. Riddles have a hundred right answers and a thousand wrong ones.”

“Clever and cautious,” the sprite said with approval. “Fine. Let’s make it a contest of skill—no tricks, no magic—just talent.”

The sprite lit up. “Perfect!”

They moved quickly. The clearing was ideal—flat, open, with a line of trees at various distances. Kael set up targets at fifty, one hundred, and one hundred fifty yards.

The sprite hovered beside him, twirling its bow in one hand. It was a delicate thing—made of enchanted vine, strung with silver thread. Its arrows were slivers of polished stone on flexible twigs. Though tiny, the bow glowed faintly with power.

“Ready to lose, big guy?” it teased with a wink.

Kael didn’t answer. He just nodded once and stepped back, jaw set.

The sprite took its position, drawing an arrow with a fluid motion. It hovered in midair, still as a dragonfly just before the strike. Then—twang.

The arrow zipped through the air and struck the first target dead center with a satisfying thunk.

“One down,” the sprite sang, a little twirl midair. “Two to go.”

Kael’s eyes narrowed. That was no lucky shot.

The sprite turned smoothly, lined up again—this time at the second target, one hundred yards out. The silence thickened as it drew and loosed.

Another bullseye. Unshaken. Effortless.

Kael’s fingers curled tighter around his bow.

It was a game, but one with stakes he couldn’t afford to lose. The dagger was replaceable, sure— but the rings? One was gifted by Syble, the other by Setra, and both held magic threaded with memory. They weren’t just tools. They were pieces of trust. Of loyalty.

And now, they hung in the balance.

The sprite turned toward the final mark—one hundred fifty yards. The farthest shot. A challenge even for seasoned archers.

Kael watched it still midair, its wings only a faint shimmer, its face now serious. The bow creaked softly as it drew. Then, with a breathless pause—it fired.

Dead center. Again.

The sprite spun midair, arms raised high. “Three for three! A draw is as good as a loss—you can’t win unless you top that, human!”

Kael didn’t move.

His heartbeat thrummed—not from panic, but pressure. The kind that coiled tight beneath the ribs, sharp and surgical.

He stared down the range.

One miss, one slip, and it was over. The dagger, the rings, the favor—it all vanished in a puff of wings and laughter.

He stepped forward and reached for his bow.

No charm. No tricks. Just skill.

He exhaled slowly. Let the tension bleed out through his fingertips.

And the challenge began.

Kael stepped forward, calm and quiet. The sprite floated nearby, arms crossed, smug and sparkling.

“Three perfect shots,” it said with a grin. “Not bad for a little thing, huh?”

Kael didn’t answer. He rolled his shoulders, drew a steadying breath, and unstrapped the elegant longbow from his pack—a sleek, darkwood weapon strung with braided shadowthread, silent and taut. He’d crafted it himself in the western isles, where the winds never stopped screaming.

Bullseye.

The sprite arched a brow but said nothing.

Kael reached for his second arrow. His focus narrowed. One hundred yards.

He exhaled and fired. Thunk. Bullseye again.

The sprite’s grin faltered, just slightly. “Lucky shot,” it muttered.

Kael stepped into position for the final mark. One hundred fifty yards. A stiff breeze stirred the leaves, but Kael’s eyes stayed fixed on the center of the target.

Fired.

The arrow whistled through the air—cutting across the gust like a blade through silk—and slammed into the center with a sharp, perfect crack.

Three for three.

“Match,” Kael said simply.

The sprite stared at the distant target, mouth slightly open. It flitted forward, inspecting the arrowheads, muttering under its breath. Then, slowly, it returned to Kael, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

“Tied,” it said flatly. “Not a win. Just a match.”

Kael smirked. “Then let’s settle it.”

He reached for his last arrow—a heavier one, with a rune-carved shaft and a silver tip. He turned and pointed to a distant pine tree far beyond the last target.

“See the knot in the bark?”

The sprite squinted. “That’s… easily two hundred yards.”

“Right.” Kael nocked the arrow, drew back, and loosed without another word.

The arrow soared—a dark blur arcing high, then diving down. It struck the tree with a clean, hollow thock, sinking dead center into the knot.

The sprite’s jaw dropped.

Kael turned to it, calm and composed. “Your turn.”

The sprite narrowed its eyes, suddenly serious. It hovered to the spot, drew one of its glimmering arrows, and loosed with a sharp whistle.

The arrow flew fast—clean, tight—but veered just slightly off-course, missing the knot by an inch.

Silence followed.

Kael crossed his arms. “That’s game.”

The sprite floated still for a moment, eyes wide. Then it broke into a cackle—a high, wild laugh full of genuine delight. “HA! Oh, you cheeky, clever bastard!”

It zipped around him once, then landed gently on his shoulder, placing the dagger neatly back in its sheath.

“A deal’s a deal,” it said with a grin. “You win. Your dagger, your rings… and one favor.”

Kael raised a brow. “You’ll honor that?”

“Of course I will,” it replied, mock-offended. “I may be a thief, but I’m not a liar. You get one favor—no tricks, no loopholes.”

“And your name?” Kael asked.

The sprite crossed its tiny arms again. “That’ll cost you a second favor.”

Kael chuckled. “Fair.”

It gave a wink and began to rise into the air. “Don’t waste the favor on something boring, alright? Be interesting. And if you need me—just whisper into a ring of mushrooms. I’ll hear it.”

With a flutter of wings and one last mischievous laugh, the sprite vanished into the trees, trailing shimmering dust behind it.

Kael stood alone in the quiet clearing, heartbeat steady, grin lingering. He retrieved his arrow from the tree and slid it back into his quiver.

Then he turned, whistled low, and his horse trotted out from the shadows where it had waited the entire time.

“Come on,” Kael muttered. “Camp’s not going to set itself.”

Kael took a moment to compose himself and assess his surroundings. As he looked around, a realization struck him—the sprite might have played one final trick.

He stood in a circular clearing, with eight distinct paths branching out in all directions. Each led into a different type of forest, creating a surreal and mesmerizing panorama.

The first path disappeared into a dense and shadowy woodland. Towering, ancient trees stretched skyward, their branches so tightly woven they formed a canopy that allowed only slivers of light through. Moss blanketed the ground in a dark green carpet, and the air was cool and damp, alive with the subtle sound of rustling leaves.

The second path was a riot of color and life. Trees shimmered in the golden sun, their green leaves rustling above vibrant wildflowers in full bloom. The air was sweet with their fragrance, and a symphony of birdsong and insect hums gave the forest a welcoming charm.

The third path led into a pale, ghostly grove. Trees with white, smooth bark and silvery-grey leaves stood like silent sentinels. Ethereal blue grass swayed in a light mist that clung to the ground, casting the entire scene in an eerie, haunting glow.

The fourth was peaceful, lined with cherry blossom trees whose delicate pink petals fluttered gently in the breeze. The path itself was made of smooth white stones, and the scent of blossoms filled the air. It exuded calm and quiet serenity.

The fifth was wild and untamed. Gnarled trees choked by thick vines loomed over an uneven path littered with roots and brambles. The scent of damp earth and decay hung heavy, and distant animal calls echoed faintly, hinting at hidden dangers.

The sixth path defied imagination. Trees made of crystal sparkled in the sunlight, refracting light into dazzling patterns across white, sandy ground. As wind passed through the crystalline branches, it produced a soft, musical chime.

The seventh was dark and foreboding. Trees blackened and bare clawed at the sky, while crimson grass pushed through pitch-black soil that looked almost tar-like. The air stank of smoke and ash, and the cracked, broken path added to the sinister ambiance.

The eighth and final path glowed with golden light. Elegant trees shimmered with brilliant gold leaves, and the ground was covered in soft, sunlit grass. The air smelled of honey and wildflowers, and the well-worn path seemed warm and inviting.

Kael stood at the center of the clearing, turning slowly to take it all in. Each path was a world unto itself—each filled with beauty, danger, or both. If the sprite meant to confuse him, it had succeeded.

Still, Kael reminded himself of what the twins had said: time was no object, and he would be

forgotten until his return. That meant he had all the time he needed. Even if he chose wrong, he’d find something.

He pulled out his compass, hoping for clarity—but the needle spun wildly, refusing to settle. He didn’t know how far in he was, or which direction was south.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the forest into a brief, breathtaking twilight. Leaves glowed pink and purple in the fading light, shadows dancing across the forest floor. But night fell quickly here, and Kael knew predators—both natural and not—would soon be on the move.

He made camp near a large, sturdy tree, its wide trunk offering some sense of shelter. As his fire crackled to life, he mulled over the twins’ warning to keep his mission secret. Since receiving his scar, he hadn’t told anyone anything about himself.

The memory of that day clawed its way back.

Kael never knew how he survived..(NOTE: I can’t remember if Lysa already mentioned finding him at the city gates after his throat was cut need to check the scene at the beginning.)Recovery had been long and brutal. The scar on his throat was a permanent reminder of betrayal.

Since then, Kael had trusted no one. Beneath his stoic exterior, what would have been a simmering rage lived but he could not use the rage he knew he should feel. He didn’t feel it. Instead he decided to use logic to fuel his need for vengeance. He was betrayed and he was owed a blood debt—, one day, he would face that ghost from his past And when he did, there would be no forgiveness..

He stirred the fire, watching the flames flicker. The Myrkviðr loomed around him, alive with mystery and danger. Yet in that moment, Kael felt ready.

To shake the memory, he thought of the sprite—clever, relentless, and unexpectedly respectful. Winning the archery contest had earned him a favor, and in a place like this, that could be everything.

Kael smiled faintly as he lay back on his bedroll. The fire’s warmth and the forest’s nocturnal chorus wove together into a strange but comforting lullaby. The Myrkviðr held secrets, and he would uncover them. Somewhere ahead waited the Frozen Edge—and maybe, if fate was kind, his vengeance too.

He awoke with a start.

His heart pounded. Something had roused him, but he couldn’t tell what. Moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting shadows across the clearing. His hand found the hilt of his new sword, just in case.

The forest was alive with rustlings and whispers. But his stallion stood calm, ears flicking lazily—an encouraging sign.

Kael rose silently, scanning the dark. Thanks to the rings on his fingers, his enhanced vision

pierced the gloom, revealing details no human eye should see. The clearing was clear… almost.

Then he saw it.

A soft glow between his stallion’s ears.

Perched there was a black cat with luminous green eyes. They shimmered from within, casting a faint emerald light. The stallion didn’t move, seemingly pleased with its new companion.

Intrigued, Kael approached. The cat turned its head and locked eyes with him. A calm settled over him, quieting his unease. The cat leapt down and padded to the fire, settling between Kael and the flames.

Kael, amused, offered it food. The cat didn’t move until Kael placed it down and stepped away. Then, with slow, precise bites, it ate. Once finished, it resumed its place by the fire, ever watchful.

Satisfied, Kael returned to his bedroll. The fire crackled softly. The cat, the stallion, the forest— they all felt oddly at peace.

He closed his eyes with a smile. Whatever the cat was, it seemed content. And for now, that was enough. Tomorrow, the Myrkviðr would challenge him again.

But tonight, he slept—guarded by firelight, feline eyes, and the deep, enchanted silence of the forest.

As the first light began to filter through the trees, Kael broke camp, adhering to his ritual of erasing all traces of his stay. He kept a wary eye on the feline, which remained perched, elegant and poised, between the horse’s ears. Its enigmatic eyes glowed, as if holding some secret of the forest. Kael mulled over the possibility of using some of the ring’s power to understand the

creature’s intentions, but decided against it for now. It felt… unnecessary. Sometimes, embracing the mystery seemed a better choice. Whatever the cat’s purpose, Kael was ready to face whatever the Myrkviðr had in store.

Choosing a direction wasn’t as critical as he’d first thought. He had no deadline, but he still needed to make a decision. He tried casting a spell for direction, but the Myrkviðr seemed to resist magic—something about this place. After debating a few choices, Kael decided to make a gamble of it.

Gambling was one of his favorite pastimes, and he was good at it. But this time, he was gambling with the Myrkviðr—his life versus its secrets, and all the rewards that came with discovering them. He pulled out his compass, broke the glass covering it, then closed his eyes and pressed his thumb down on the needle. When he opened them again, he found himself staring down the seventh path.

This path led into a dark, foreboding forest. The trees were tall and blackened, their branches twisted and bare, resembling skeletal fingers reaching skyward. The bark was charred and cracked, as if the trees had endured countless fires. The foliage was sparse, with only a few scraggly leaves clinging to the branches, casting eerie shadows on the ground.

The grass along the path was a deep, dark red, almost appearing as if it were stained with blood. The earth itself was pitch-black, exuding an ominous, almost tar-like appearance. Patches of the ground seemed to bubble and ooze, creating an unsettling sense of danger beneath each step. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and ash, lingering like a ghostly reminder of past infernos.

Kael hesitated, his gaze narrowing as he took in the desolate sight ahead. Not the kind of place to get complacent, he thought. The atmosphere was heavy with unspoken warnings, but there was no turning back now.

With a breath, he continued forward, the unease in his chest growing as he walked toward the path’s end.

The path wound its way through the forest, narrow and uneven, with cracks forming treacherous gaps in the earth. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of branches or the rustle of unseen creatures. Cobwebs draped across the branches like morbid decorations, glistening with dew in the faint light.

The sky above was obscured by a canopy of twisted branches, allowing only slivers of pale morning light to penetrate the darkness. The atmosphere was suffused with an unsettling energy, as if the forest itself were alive and watching Kael’s every move. Shadows seemed to dance and shift at the edges of his vision, stirring his imagination, and a chill ran down his spine as the eerie beauty of the path unfolded before him.

This place wasn’t just strange—it was alive in a way Kael couldn’t quite define. It whispered to him, pulling at something deeper inside him, something that had been dormant.

The path narrowed, forcing Kael and Eryndor to move in single file. The air grew colder, and an ominous stillness settled over the forest. Kael felt it then—the weight of the forest’s gaze on him, as if the trees were waiting for him to make a mistake. And when the storm began to gather, it felt like the Myrkviðr itself was answering his unease.

The sky above the canopy began to darken, and distant rumbles of thunder echoed through the trees. Kael looked up, noticing the gathering storm clouds on the horizon, their dark forms swirling ominously. The clouds were a towering mass of black and gray, roiling and churning as they advanced. Lightning flickered within the clouds, illuminating their menacing shapes for brief moments before plunging the forest back into darkness.

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves and carrying the scent of rain and impending danger. The storm seemed to be heading directly toward them, its presence growing more formidable with each passing moment. Eryndor’s ears flicked nervously, sensing the approaching tempest.

“We need to find shelter,” Kael muttered, his voice tense. He glanced around but saw nothing. The forest had become a maze of trees, shadows, and thorns. The storm was closing in too fast. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this vulnerable. The world around him seemed to be bending to the storm’s will.

The storm hit like a hammer.

Kael barely had time to react before the wind picked up sharply, carrying the scent of rain and a promise of something dangerous. A chill cut through the air, biting into his skin, making him shiver despite his cloak. His clothes were soaked almost immediately as the storm began its approach. The freezing rain seeping through the fabric, clinging to his body with an unforgiving grip. Each drop felt like a sharp sting against his exposed flesh, and the cold seemed to sink straight to his bones.

His body was shivering, muscles stiffening in protest, but his mind remained steady, calm amidst the chaos. He tried to push forward, but the relentless downpour made every movement sluggish. He could feel the weight of the water pulling at him, dragging him down.

Then, Kael remembered the ring. With a mental command, he willed its magic to stir, to fight back against the cold that threatened to cripple him. Almost instantly, the magic hummed to life, and the biting chill faded away. The cold no longer gripped him, leaving his skin warm, even though the wetness of his clothes still weighed him down. He was dry beneath, but the dampness of his cloak and the cold water clinging to his boots made each step feel heavier, slower.

The rain continued to pour relentlessly, its weight pressing in on him, but at least the shiver in his bones had gone. As Kael continued to move, the storm seemed to intensify, growing wilder with each passing minute. Lightning cracked overhead, followed by a roar of thunder that shook the earth beneath him. The gusts of wind were savage, threatening to throw him off balance.

Kael’s heart pounded in his chest as the storm’s fury bore down on him. The lightning was coming closer, striking with frightening precision. The air smelled of ozone, the crackling energy making the hair on his arms stand on end.

Kael’s teeth clenched as they pressed forward, adrenaline rushing in his veins. You’ve weathered worse, he reminded himself. Keep moving. Don’t stop now.

But the storm had other plans. The sky seemed to split apart with the first crack of lightning, a jagged white bolt cutting through the darkness. Thunder followed instantly, deafening and terrifying, vibrating the earth beneath their feet.

Kael was forced to throw himself to the ground, yanking Eryndor with him, just as the lightning struck, blinding him. Before he could recover, a second bolt split the sky, this one hitting a towering tree just ahead.

Kael watched in horror as the massive tree began to splinter and fall, its trunk cracking in the storm’s fury. The deafening roar of its fall shook the ground beneath them, sending Kael’s heart

into his throat. The tree crashed with a thunderous impact, narrowly missing them by inches. The explosion of debris revealed the mouth of a cave, its dark entrance now partially exposed.

A third bolt of lightning struck the ground, igniting the forest around them. Flames surged toward the sky, devouring everything in their path. Heat washed over Kael, the blaze radiating from the trees with a fury that was nearly as wild as the storm itself. He knew the moment had come—no more time to wait.

With urgency in his movements, Kael urged Eryndor forward, the stallion’s hooves pounding the earth as they charged toward the cave. The storm whipped at them, but the black cat, perched on Eryndor’s back, remained unfazed—its green eyes calm, staring into the chaos with unnerving detachment.

They reached the mouth of the cave just as the entrance began to crumble. Rocks and debris tumbled down, the storm’s final wrath taking its toll. Kael shoved Eryndor forward, his body propelled by instinct more than thought, as the mouth of the cave collapsed behind them. The deafening rumble of thunder followed them into the darkness, leaving them swallowed by the cave’s cool interior.

As they stumbled into the cave’s dim shelter, Kael felt a brief moment of relief. The storm’s intensity was kept at bay, the heat of the flames no longer threatening. Yet the weight of the storm still lingered in his chest, a reminder of nature’s fury and his place within it. The ring’s magic kept him warm, but it hadn’t spared him the weight of the rain. That was something he would have to contend with later.

The echoes of the storm outside began to fade, leaving only the sound of his heavy breathing and the crackling of distant fire. And in that brief silence, the black cat’s piercing eyes locked onto Kael again, but this time, they seemed to hold something more. Something… knowing.

For a moment, they stared at Kael, their intensity unwavering. Then, with a fluid motion, the cat leapt off Eryndor's back and disappeared into the shadows of the cave.

"Wait!" Kael called out, his voice echoing off the cavern walls. But the cat was gone, swallowed by the impenetrable darkness. Kael's heart raced as he stood there, trying to make sense of their surroundings. The cave was silent, save for the distant sounds of the storm and the faint hissing of the extinguished fire outside.

Kael knew they couldn't stay by the entrance. They needed to find a safer place deeper within the cave. He reached out, feeling for Eryndor's reins in the darkness. The stallion's warm breath was a comforting presence as Kael guided him forward, one cautious step at a time. With his enhanced vision, Kael could make out the rough contours of the cave walls and floor, allowing him to navigate more effectively. The cave floor was uneven, and Kael had to navigate carefully to avoid stumbling over loose rocks and debris. The air grew cooler the further they went, a stark contrast to the blistering heat outside. Kael's senses were on high alert, every sound amplified in the confined space.

As they ventured deeper into the cave, the darkness seemed to press in on them from all sides. Kael's mind raced with thoughts of what might lie ahead. He could only hope that the cat had found a safe path through the darkness.

They had survived the storm and the fire, but their journey was far from over. The Myrkviðr had proven to be a treacherous place, and he knew they would face many more challenges before their journey was complete.

For now, they had a moment of peace. Kael closed his eyes, allowing himself to savor the brief reprieve. The darkness of the cave enveloped them, a stark contrast to the storm's fury.

As he adjusted to the cave's eerie silence, Kael began to consider their situation from a different perspective. The collapse of the cave entrance meant there was no way back, but it also presented an opportunity to explore and discover what lay within. A thrill of excitement mixed with a sense of dread as he contemplated the unknown.

Kael's eyes scanned the cave walls, and he noticed faint, faded etchings carved into the stone. The markings were ancient, their meanings obscured by time and wear. He traced his fingers over the rough surface, trying to make sense of the symbols, but they eluded him. The discovery of the etchings filled him with a sense of wonder and curiosity.

He felt a surge of excitement and became eager to press on, to uncover the secrets hidden within the cave. Yet, the fear of being lost in the labyrinthine passages gnawed at the edges of his mind. What if they couldn't find a way out? What if they were trapped in the darkness forever?

Kael shook off the doubts, focusing on the excitement of the journey ahead. The cave held mysteries waiting to be uncovered, and he was determined to face whatever challenges came their way. The thrill of exploration and the dread of the unknown combined to create a potent mix of emotions, driving him forward.

Leading Eryndor deeper into the cave, Kael felt the mixture of excitement and dread intensify. The luminous etchings on the walls seemed to beckon him, urging him to uncover their secrets. The journey through the Myrkviðr was far from over, but Kael was ready to face whatever lay ahead, one step at a time.

As Kael guided Eryndor deeper into the cave, his enhanced vision revealed the rough contours of the stone walls and floor. The oppressive silence pressed in on them, amplifying every sound as they cautiously navigated the labyrinthine passages. The air grew cooler, and the scent of damp earth filled Kael's nostrils.

After what felt like hours of careful exploration, Kael noticed a faint glimmer of light in the distance Intrigued, he moved closer, the light growing brighter with each step. He stepped out of the narrow passageway and into a wide chamber where the source of the light became clear—a shimmering pool of water, glowing softly in the darkness. The water seemed to emit a gentle, ethereal luminescence, casting dancing reflections on the cave walls.

Kael approached the pool, the soft light illuminating his surroundings. The water was crystal clear, its surface smooth and undisturbed. As he gazed into the depths, he felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. The pool's glow felt almost magical, as if it held secrets waiting to be unveiled.

With a sense of anticipation, Kael knelt by the pool and peered into its depths. To his astonishment, the water began to ripple, images forming on its surface. The first visions that emerged were scenes from Kael's past—memories he had long forgotten or buried deep within

his mind. He saw the orphanage where he had grown up, the cold, unforgiving walls and the stern faces of the caretakers who had shown little kindness. The cruelties he faced there were etched into his memory—the harsh punishments, the lack of warmth or affection, and the constant struggle to survive in a place devoid of compassion.

The vision faded, and Kael found himself staring into the pool's depths once more. His heart pounded in his chest. The pool's glow seemed to dim, the images dissolving into the water's surface. The images shifted one final time, and Kael found himself reliving events from the Riftveil—the cataclysmic event that had changed the course of history and the state of the realm. He saw the chaos and destruction, the struggle for survival, and the heroes who had fought valiantly to protect their world. The pool seemed to bring these memories to life, allowing Kael to experience them as if he were there. Kael's vision was filled with the image of the goddess of nature, an elf of unparalleled beauty and grace. Her long, flowing hair was a rich shade of auburn, cascading down her back like a waterfall of autumn leaves. Her emerald green eyes sparkled with wisdom and compassion, and her presence exuded an aura of serenity and power. She rode atop a magnificent dragon, its scales a shimmering green with gold armor that glinted in the sunlight.

Opposing her was Zarathorix, an elf of fearsome presence. He was tall and lean, his stark white hair a sharp contrast to his deep purple eyes that seemed to pierce through the very soul. His features were sharp and angular, with high cheekbones and a strong jawline. His expression was one of cold determination and unyielding resolve.

Zarathorix's dragon was a fearsome beast, its scales a deep, blood-red with purple and silver armor that gleamed menacingly.

The air was thick with tension as the two dragons circled each other in the sky, their riders locked in a fierce battle of wills. Dark storm clouds swirled above, casting a shadow over the

battlefield. Lightning flashed through the sky, illuminating the combatants in stark relief, while thunder rumbled like the roar of an angry beast. Rain poured down in torrents, the wind howling through the trees and whipping the water into a frenzy. The entire battle took place over an intensely stormy sea, its waves crashing violently beneath them.

Zarathorix raised his hand, and bolts of dark energy shot from his fingertips, crackling through the air towards the goddess. Her dragon roared, dodging the attack with grace and agility. In response, she summoned a wave of shimmering green energy, sending it crashing towards Zarathorix.

The clash of magic and might was awe-inspiring, the sky alight with bursts of color and power. Kael could feel the raw energy of the battle, the ground shaking beneath him as the two titans fought for supremacy. The dragons' roars echoed through the air, mingling with the sounds of the arcane spells that filled the battlefield. The storm raged on, its fury mirroring the intensity of the conflict below. Zarathorix's dragon lunged forward, its jaws snapping at the goddess's mount.

The green dragon twisted in mid-air, narrowly avoiding the attack and countering with a swipe of its powerful tail. The impact sent Zarathorix's dragon reeling, but the dark elf quickly regained control, his eyes blazing with fury.

With a swift, fluid motion, Zarathorix drew a wickedly curved blade from his side, its edge gleaming with an unnatural light. He charged at the goddess, their blades meeting in a dazzling display of sparks and raw power. The force of their clash sent shockwaves through the air, the dragons spiraling around them in a deadly dance.

Despite her grace and skill, the goddess struggled against Zarathorix's relentless assault. His strikes were precise and merciless, each one aimed to bring her down. Desperation flickered in her eyes as she parried another blow, her strength waning against his unyielding resolve.

In a final, desperate move, the goddess summoned all her remaining power, channeling it into a spell that would change the course of the battle. As she cast the spell, the air

around them crackled with energy, a brilliant light enveloping them both. The spell's force was so great that it shattered the very fabric of reality, tearing Zarathorix's essence from his body and splitting it into five glowing gems.

Zarathorix's dragon let out a deafening roar as its rider was torn apart by the goddess's magic. The gems scattered across the battlefield, each one pulsating with the dark elf's essence.

The intensity of the spell's power reached a zenith, and the entire planet seemed to shudder under its force. The sea below churned violently, its waves rising to monumental heights and crashing down with the fury of a thousand tempests. The sky above crackled with energy, bolts of lightning striking the ground and sea with blinding intensity. As the spell's force climaxed, the sea began to freeze over completely,

transforming the tumultuous waters into a vast expanse of jagged ice, like the image the twins had shown him. The lightning bolts themselves were frozen mid-strike, their forks suspended in

the air like glowing, crystalline sculptures. The land itself began to break apart, fissures forming in the earth as the spell's power radiated outward. Mountains crumbled, their peaks splitting and tumbling into the

valleys below. The ground quaked with an almost primal force, entire continents shifting and cracking. The very air seemed to vibrate with the raw energy unleashed by the goddess.

Kael's perspective shifted as if viewing the scene from the stars. He witnessed the planet splintering, great cracks snaking across its surface. Chunks of landmass broke away, drifting into the void like fragments of a shattered mirror. The planet's core glowed with an intense, searing light, visible through the enormous fissures that marred its surface. The once-whole world was now a celestial puzzle, pieces of its former self scattered throughout the cosmos.

With her final act, the goddess used teleportation magic to scatter the gems to the far corners of the world, commanding the forces of nature to guard them. As the spell's light began to fade, her form broke apart into fragments of light, vanishing into the storm that raged throughout the battle.

The spell's aftermath left a world forever changed. The ocean, now a frozen expanse, lay silent beneath the sky, its surface a chaotic expanse of jagged ice and frozen waves. The sky didn't clear; the storm remained but frozen in time. Lightning bolts were stopped mid-strike, their forks suspended in the air like eerie, glowing sculptures. The storm clouds hung ominously, unmoving, casting a permanent shadow over the frozen battlefield.

Kael watched in awe as the remnants of the battle remained suspended in time, a testament to the incredible power and sacrifice of the goddess and Zarathorix.

The vision faded, and Kael found himself staring into the pool's depths once more. His heart pounded in his chest, the memory of the Riftveil fresh and vivid. the images faded leaving the waters surface blank and clear once more.

It was difficult for Kael not to look again, the allure of the pool drawing him in with its promise of more revelations. However, he knew well the addictive nature of magic. The pool's enchantment was unlike anything he had ever encountered, and he understood that its power could make him a willing prisoner, held captive by its mesmerizing allure. The seductive pull of the magical visions was almost overwhelming, tempting him to lose himself in its depths forever. Kael had studied magic long enough to recognize the danger of succumbing to its enchantments, knowing that it could trap him in a state of perpetual longing and obsession.

Eryndor, too, seemed eager to be away from the pool. The stallion shifted restlessly, his hooves clattering on the cave floor as he nickered softly. Kael soothed his loyal companion, running a reassuring hand along Eryndor's neck. "Don't worry, my friend," he whispered. "We’ll be leaving momentarily."

Kael took a deep breath, the weight of the past heavy on his shoulders. The luminous etchings on the cave walls seemed to beckon him, urging him to uncover their secrets. Kael stood, his gaze

lingering on the pool for a moment longer before turning to lead Eryndor further into the cave, across the uneven stone floor of the chamber he found another passageway on the far side of the cavernous room almost identical to the one leading back to the entrance.

The passage was tight, with barely enough room for them to walk side by side. The air grew colder, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed through the cavern. The path seemed endless, stretching on in a straight line with no turns or deviations. The oppressive darkness pressed in on them, making it feel as though they were walking through an endless tunnel.

Hours passed as they trudged along the narrow path, Kael's muscles aching from the exertion. His stomach growled loudly, reminding him of his need for sustenance. The relentless journey had taken its toll on both Kael and Eryndor, their movements growing slower and more labored with each step.

Eventually, Kael realized he could not continue without rest and nourishment. He decided to turn back and set up camp for some much-needed respite. Kael knew not the time of day, but it didn't matter. His body screamed for rest, and he could feel the weariness seeping into his bones. The narrow path offered no space for comfort, making it impossible for them to sit and rest properly.

With a heavy sigh, Kael turned Eryndor around, dreading the long trek back to the chamber with the pool. Every step felt like a monumental effort, his legs trembling with fatigue. However, after just ten steps, Kael found himself standing back in the wide chamber. The pool still glowed faintly, its soft light casting eerie shadows on the cave walls.

The suddenness of their return to the chamber took Kael by surprise. The narrow path that had seemed endless now felt like a distant memory. The chamber's expansive space was a stark contrast to the claustrophobic passage they had just traversed. The faint, ethereal glow of the pool illuminated the cavern, its light dancing on the rough stone walls and reflecting off the still water's surface.

Kael felt a mixture of relief and trepidation as he led Eryndor to a comfortable spot away from the pool. The chamber's cool air was a welcome change from the stifling path, and Kael began to set up camp, his movements slow and deliberate. He unpacked his provisions, the scent of dried meat and bread filling the air as he prepared a simple meal.

Eryndor, too, seemed to relax, his ears flicking as he nibbled on some grain. The stallion's earlier restlessness was replaced with a sense of calm, his trust in Kael evident in the way he stood quietly by his side.

Kael's stomach growled again, reminding him of his hunger. He took a bite of the dried meat, the familiar taste providing a small measure of comfort. As he ate, Kael couldn't help but glance back at the pool, its faint glow still beckoning him. The magic's allure was undeniable, but Kael steeled himself against the temptation. He knew he couldn't afford to lose himself in its depths, not when there were still so many unknowns ahead.

As Kael finished his meal, he felt a sense of weariness settle over him. The journey had been long and arduous, and his body craved rest. He laid out his bedroll on the cool stone floor, the sound of Eryndor's soft breathing providing a soothing backdrop. The chamber's eerie silence was broken only by the faint, rhythmic dripping of water from the cave's ceiling.

Kael closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting to the visions he had witnessed in the pool. The memories of the past and the challenges yet to come weighed heavily on his mind, but he knew he had to stay strong.

As he drifted off to sleep, Kael's mind was filled with the echoes of the past, the visions from the pool lingering like distant whispers. The faint glow of the pool illuminated the chamber, a silent reminder of the magic that had brought him this far and the mysteries that still awaited him.

Kael awoke stiff and sore from a night on the cold, unforgiving cave floor. The battle with the storm and the exertion of their journey had left his muscles aching and his body weary. He groaned softly as he sat up, stretching to work out the kinks in his back and shoulders.

The chamber was eerily silent. The pool’s faint glow threw ghostly light across the rough stone walls. Kael dug into his pack for a light breakfast, hoping to regain a bit of strength. He chewed on a piece of dried fruit and some hardtack, the necessary sustenance providing a small measure of energy.

As he finished his breakfast, Kael began to look around the chamber with fresh eyes. Other than the faintly shimmering pool, whose magic still pulled at him, and the etchings on the walls, there were other details he had not noticed before.

The chamber was vast and cavernous, the ceiling arching high above them, adorned with stalactites that hung like ancient chandeliers. Some were long and slender, others short and thick, each one a unique formation crafted over millennia. Water dripped from their tips, the rhythmic sound echoing softly through the chamber.

The floor was uneven, with large flat stones interspersed with patches of gravel and small pools of water. The pools were shallow, their surfaces reflecting the faint glow of the main pool in the center. The water in these smaller pools was clear and still, like tiny, tranquil mirrors scattered across the chamber floor.

Along one side, Kael spotted a small alcove, partially hidden by a curtain of hanging moss. The moss was a vibrant green, a stark contrast to the muted colors of the stone walls. It seemed to thrive in the damp, cool environment of the cave, its tendrils swaying gently in the air currents.

Kael approached the alcove with cautious curiosity. Inside, he found a collection of curious rock formations—some resembling delicate spirals, others like intricate sculptures. The natural artistry was mesmerizing, each one a testament to the slow, patient work of time and nature.

As he explored further, he discovered a series of small, faintly glowing crystals embedded in the cave walls. The crystals emitted a soft, ethereal light, casting a gentle glow that added to the

chamber’s otherworldly atmosphere. He reached out to touch one, feeling its cool, smooth surface under his fingertips. The light seemed to pulse slightly at his touch, as if responding to his presence.

His gaze shifted to the narrow path they had walked the night before. Kael recalled the seeming futility of their trek—no matter how far they had walked, they had gotten nowhere. The path stretched endlessly, a straight line that offered no turns or deviations. The oppressive darkness of the passage had made it feel as though they were walking through an interminable tunnel.

The memory of the previous night’s journey filled Kael with a sense of frustration. He had walked for hours, his muscles straining with each step, only to find himself back where he had started. The realization that the path had led him nowhere added to the feeling of being trapped in the cave’s mysterious grip.

Eryndor nickered softly, drawing Kael’s attention back to the pool. The stallion’s earlier restlessness had returned, his ears flicking and his eyes darting around the chamber. Kael soothed his loyal companion, running a reassuring hand along Eryndor’s neck. “How about we try that

path again?” he asked, a hint of excitement in his voice. Kael’s love for puzzles and his natural curiosity made him a decent wizard, and the challenge of figuring out the cave’s secrets intrigued him. “Let’s see if we can uncover its mystery this time.”

Kael took one last look around the chamber, taking in the details with fresh eyes. The beauty and mystery of the cave were undeniable, but he knew they couldn’t linger here forever. He gathered his belongings and prepared to move on.

As he led Eryndor toward the path once more, Kael felt a mix of excitement and determination. The narrow passage stretched before them, a daunting yet intriguing challenge. The cave’s mysteries beckoned, and Kael’s curiosity was piqued.

The air turned cooler as they ventured down the corridor, carrying with it the faint scent of damp earth and moss. The walls of the passage appeared to draw closer, the darkness thickening and creating an almost claustrophobic atmosphere. The ground was uneven, littered with loose gravel and small rocks that crunched underfoot.

Kael’s senses were heightened, every sound amplified in the confined space. The weight of the darkness around them made it feel as though they were moving through an endless corridor. The passage stretched ahead in a seemingly perpetual straight line, devoid of any twists or branches.

After about twenty minutes of walking, Kael decided to test the path. He turned back, counting his steps as he retraced his way. To his amazement, it took only ten steps to return to the wide chamber with the pool, just as it had the previous night. The soft shimmer of the pool hadn’t changed, still casting its pale light across the cave’s walls.

Determined to uncover the cave’s secrets, Kael set off down the path again, this time paying close attention to the walls and floor in search of any clues. The passage remained unchanged, the oppressive darkness and claustrophobic atmosphere persisting as they moved forward. Kael’s keen eyes scanned the walls for any markings or hidden passages, but he found nothing. The ground, too, offered no clues—just the same loose gravel and uneven stones.

Frustrated, Kael turned back once more, counting his steps as he retraced his way. After just ten steps, he was back in the wide chamber. The chamber’s cool air and the faint glow of the pool were a stark contrast to the stifling path they had just traversed.

Undeterred, he looked around again. Tracing a hand over the walls, he found several more narrow halls exactly like the first. Kael decided to try one of these other paths, hoping for different results. He led Eryndor to a different entrance within the chamber and ventured down a new passage. The walls were just as close, the air just as cool, and the path just as narrow. The

oppressive darkness surrounded them, and the ground was littered with the same loose gravel and small rocks.

Kael and Eryndor walked for another twenty minutes, the passage stretching on in a straight line with no alterations or diversions. The darkness felt almost tangible, pressing in on them from all sides. Kael’s muscles ached from the exertion, and his mind raced with thoughts of what might lie ahead.

Eventually, Kael decided to test this path as well. He turned back and counted his steps, his heart sinking as he realized it took only ten steps to return to the wide chamber. The pool still glowed faintly, its soft light casting an eerie luminance on the cave walls.

The repeated experience left Kael puzzled and frustrated. The cave seemed to be playing tricks on him, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing something crucial. Determined to uncover the cave’s secrets, Kael resolved to stay vigilant and continue exploring. He led Eryndor to their familiar comfortable spot away from the pool and began to set up camp once more. The chamber’s cool air was a welcome change from the stifling paths, and Kael’s mind buzzed with possibilities as he prepared a simple meal.

After finishing his meal, Kael looked at Eryndor with a thoughtful expression. “You know, Eryndor, this cave seems determined to test us,” he said, gently stroking the stallion’s neck. “There’s something we’re not seeing,” he muttered, eyes narrowing at the far wall. “And I’ll be damned if this cave outsmarts me.”

Eryndor nickered softly, his eyes catching the faint glow of the pool’s light. Kael met his gaze, seeing the quiet trust and loyalty that grounded him. It was enough to steady his mind, but the labyrinthine cave still held its secrets, elusive and mocking.

Kael rose and began to examine the room once more, but this time, his focus shifted to the glowing crystals embedded in the stone walls. Their soft, ethereal light cast ghostly shadows, as if the cave itself were alive, watching. He reached for one of the crystals, its cool surface sending a shiver up his arm as his fingers brushed over it. The light flickered but remained steady— unresponsive. Nothing. He tried again, touching another crystal, but the outcome was the same. His frustration simmered beneath the surface, each failure gnawing at his resolve.

He stepped back, pacing, every step echoing in the vast emptiness. The chamber was still beautiful, but it felt suffocating now, its mysteries pressing against him, taunting him with their silence. His gaze shifted to Eryndor, who watched him with patient eyes. Kael’s lips tightened, and he spoke softly, more to himself than the stallion. “We’ll find a way out, Eryndor.

Together.”

Determined, he tested each passage, retracing his steps. No matter which path he took, he found himself back in the same wide chamber after only a few steps. His mind raced. Each attempt felt like an endless loop, and as the minutes passed, the weight of the cave seemed to grow heavier on his shoulders.

The pool’s dim glow reflected off the water, a silent reminder of his stagnant progress. His stomach churned from the repeated failures, but he fought against it. Anger wouldn’t help. He needed clarity.

“Focus,” he muttered, unsheathing his sword. The blade sang through the air in a series of fluid, controlled movements, the familiar rhythm soothing his nerves. He moved through his drills— each slice and parry a reminder of his discipline, his control. But it didn’t fill the void of frustration, not when the puzzle before him remained unsolved.

Next, he turned to his magic. With his eyes closed, Kael drew in a deep breath and reached for the arcane power that simmered just beneath his skin. Sparks of light flickered from his fingertips, illuminating the dark cavern with brief bursts of blue fire. His magic obeyed, but it was fleeting—nothing substantial. The glow of his magic paled in comparison to the glow of the crystals, each light reminding him of his impotence here.

Hours passed, and as the day seemed to stretch on indefinitely, Kael’s muscles began to protest, but his mind stayed sharp. Despite the lack of progress, he could feel his focus sharpening with each repetition, each movement. A quiet resolve settled over him; he was no closer to

understanding the cave’s secret, but that didn’t matter. Not yet. He could still outlast it.

As evening bled into the cave, the soft glow from the pool and the crystals dimmed with the coming darkness. Kael sat down against the cold stone, eyes fixed on the silent water. His body ached from the day’s efforts, but his thoughts raced. The weight of isolation pressed on him. His provisions were running low, and the idea of being trapped here for much longer—possibly forever—began to gnaw at him.

Eryndor nickered, sensing Kael’s unease. The stallion’s calm was a balm to his restless thoughts, and Kael ran a hand along his companion’s sleek neck. “We’re not giving up,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

But doubt crept in. The black cat from earlier danced in the edges of his mind. What had it known? How had it moved through this maze so effortlessly? Was there something he was missing—something hidden right under his nose?

The thought wouldn’t leave him. It was like a whisper on the edge of his consciousness, tempting him to follow it, to find the truth the cat might hold. Kael’s stomach tightened with a mix of frustration and curiosity. He needed an answer—he couldn’t stop until he had one.

The hours passed, the silence of the cave heavy around him. The faint hum of the pool’s light kept him company as he mulled over the black cat, the crystal glow, the paths he had walked. Each new direction seemed only to lead him back to the same place, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting for him, something just beyond his reach.

Sleep came suddenly, when his exhaustion overtook him. The stone floor beneath him was hard, but it did little to comfort him in the face of the nightmare that soon followed.

He found himself walking the winding paths again, but this time, they twisted unnaturally, stretching like a living thing. The walls pressed in around him, and the air felt thick, suffocating. The faint light of the crystals flickered and died, leaving only the dark, pulsing glow of the pool. The silence was broken by soft whispers, voices disembodied and cold, filling his ears with taunts of failure.

His heart pounded, panic rising in his chest. He shouted for Eryndor, but his voice was swallowed by the darkness. He stumbled forward, every step heavier than the last, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Ahead, the black cat appeared again, its eyes glowing with an eerie, knowing light. It stared at him, unblinking, and then, with a flick of its tail, it vanished into the shadows.

Desperation clawed at Kael as he tried to follow, but the path shifted, twisting and elongating, just out of reach. The whispers grew louder, drowning out his thoughts, making it impossible to think. Panic seized him, but he fought it, forcing his legs to move forward. The light ahead grew brighter, and with it, a fleeting sense of hope.

Kael bolted forward, the darkness receding as the light grew stronger. Just as he reached the source, he woke with a start. His chest heaved, heart pounding, and the familiar sight of the cave greeted him—Eryndor’s steady presence beside him, the pool’s faint glow casting shadows across the stone.

Kael sat up, his mind reeling from the dream, the whispers still echoing in the back of his mind. The black cat’s eyes lingered there, elusive and unsolved. The nightmare had not been a simple dream—he knew that now. It was a warning.

The cave had secrets. And Kael was determined to uncover them. And then light lightning, the idea struck him: perhaps it was a clue more than a warning. The light he’d seen in his nightmare might well have been this pool.

Despair had begun to creep in at the thought of another aimless day lost in these depths—until the realization took hold. Maybe the pool was the answer. Maybe it held the key to getting out. With renewed purpose, Kael stepped closer and peered into the still water, searching for anything that might guide him to freedom.

Something peculiar caught his eye. The pool reflected the ceiling of the cave—but it didn’t match what he saw when he looked up. The real roof was jagged with stalactites, dark and

uneven, lit only in patches by faintly glowing crystals. But in the pool’s reflection, the ceiling was… different. It showed the cave floor instead—only altered.

Torches lined the reflected paths, their golden light banishing the shadows that pressed on Kael’s mind. Makeshift furniture lay scattered—stone tables, wooden chairs, even bedding. Personal items dotted the floor like breadcrumbs. It wasn’t just different; it looked lived in. Warm. Real.

Kael’s heart quickened. This wasn’t just a reflection. It was a clue. A doorway. He leaned in, studying the lit paths and strange furnishings, the comforting signs of life in a place that should have been desolate.

He extended a hand and brushed the surface gently. Ripples spread from his fingers—but the image didn’t shift or blur. It was like peering through a window into another world.

His breath caught. The pool wasn’t just magical. It existed on a different plane.

Kael drew on his arcane training and cast a detection spell. Soft blue light bloomed from his fingers, spreading across the water. It rippled outward, searching for toxins or curses.

Nothing. The water was pure.

Thirst tugged at him. He dipped his hands in and drank. The water was cool and crisp, invigorating—but unremarkable. Still, it grounded him, clearing the static from his mind. He sat back, thinking. Then another idea sparked.

He summoned a light orb and sent it drifting down into the pool. But as it descended, its glow began to twist and blur. The pool resisted. The orb flickered out.

Undeterred, he tried divination. No answers. He reached out with his mind, probing for spirits. Nothing. Even disturbing the surface brought no change. Every test failed—but each failure only confirmed the same truth:

This pool was a portal.

Finally, he tried something simple. He picked up a small stone and dropped it in. The water rippled—and in the reflection, the stone leapt out of the pool.

Not a mirror. A doorway.

The realization struck hard. The reflected world wasn’t just different. It was parallel. A mirrored version of the same cave—only better lit, better lived. Perhaps even safer.

His pulse surged. This was the path forward.

He packed his things, erasing all signs of his presence. Turning to his horse, he smirked. “What do you think, Eryndor? Fancy a swim?”

The stallion nickered, ears flicking.

Kael stepped into the pool, expecting to sink. Instead, the water only covered his ankles—cool and still. Eryndor followed, hooves splashing gently.

As Kael stood in the center, the reflection rose. Torches and stone furniture stretched upward, the mirrored world growing more real. Above him, the cave roof drifted away.

The sensation was otherworldly—weightless, as if suspended between two worlds.

The water rose, enveloping him slowly. He took a breath and let it consume him. Submerged, Kael felt the pressure of depth, the quiet calm of being between realities.

When his lungs burned, he gasped—expecting water.

But he breathed.

Cool air rushed in. Not water. Air.

He could breathe beneath the surface. Light shimmered around him, warping time and sound. Everything was vivid: the pressure, the silence, the sensation of transformation.

Then— He surfaced. The cave was lit by torches. Lived in. Warm. Just as he’d seen. Kael stood dripping, Eryndor beside him. He turned in a slow circle, heart pounding.

“Been a while since someone used that entrance,” said a voice, echoing through the torchlit corridors. Familiar, yet distant. Impossible to place.

Kael turned.

“Except for our feline friend, of course.”

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward—an old man, silhouetted in the firelight… stepping forward as he spoke.

“Welcome, travelers,” the old bard greeted, his voice warm and inviting. “I am Alaric. What story unfolds for you in this timeless place?”

“I remember you!” Kael exclaimed in surprise at finding the old man here of all places.

“You took the stage—with a beard like snow and eyes that looked like they’d watched the world end. You conjured a piano. Not a lute, not a harp—a damn piano. I didn’t even know magic like that existed.

Then the violins appeared—hovering in the air—and the drums began to play themselves, slow and thunder-deep. You didn’t touch a thing, but the music… it moved like memory. Then you sang…”

Alaric’s eyes sparked with recognition.

“Ah. Then you must belong to the twins.”

His voice was warm, but edged with a practiced amusement—like a man who’s seen the dance too many times, and remembers every misstep.

“Well! You’re here faster than I expected. My recital at the Swaying Lantern was only a year ago.”

A pause. His eyes flickered—sharp, calculating, then something softer, almost a flicker of sorrow.

“The last one took three… no, five years. Died in that cave near the hot springs. Or the badgers got him. Or maybe the mushrooms whispered him away.”

He waved a hand, as if brushing away a troublesome thought.

“Shame. He cried during the drums. Poor bastard.”

His expression softened—not kindly, but like someone recalling a ghost who once danced too close to the fire.

“Still. It’s nice to be remembered. I suppose I’ll have to go back someday… let the piano lament another ballad of the broken world.”

Kael frowned, confusion creeping into his tone. “A year?! But it’s only been five or six days since I left Aldenwood!”

Alaric chuckled, his eyes glinting.

“Time doesn’t behave in the Myrkviðr. A day could be a week, or an hour an eternity—it all depends on the forest’s mood. What seems like moments to you might be years outside the forest’s borders.”

Silence followed as Kael processed this. At that moment, the cat leapt from Alaric’s arms, landing softly on the stone floor. It padded to Kael, rubbing against his leg with a contented purr—like greeting an old friend.

Alaric smiled. “That stubborn creature won’t speak its name, but it’s taken a liking to you—a rare honor.”

Kael’s thoughts spun. He expected anxiety to rise, the sharp ache of realization to hit—but instead, there was nothing. The absence unsettled him deeply. Time he thought he’d spent wandering had stretched into a year in the outside world. Loved ones aging, chances fading, life moving on without him—and yet, he felt no grief, no fear, no relief. The void within gnawed at him.

He steadied himself and asked the question gnawing at him.

“Alaric, the place I came from on the other side of the pool—am I now in an alternate reality or another time altogether?”

The room stilled. Alaric stroked his beard, his eyes twinkling with quiet insight.

“It’s all the same world, Kael. You never left it. When you crossed the pool, you entered the Myrkviðr as it was a thousand years ago,” he said, voice soothing yet layered. “This isn’t time travel. The forest remembers. It preserves echoes of itself.”

Kael listened, heart thudding. The cave pulsed with energy. Shadows danced, hinting at unseen truths.

Alaric continued,

“When you leave, you will return to the present moment. You are simply viewing this—it is no longer an actual point in time. The forest remembers everything, and sometimes it gives us a bit of its memory to use. But sometimes it will use it against you.”

Kael’s gaze shifted to a rough stone chair in the corner, worn and solid—like the forest itself.

“The Myrkviðr is alive,” Alaric said. “It remembers, protects, endures. While you can interact with these memories, you cannot change them. They’re woven into the forest like threads in an ancient tapestry.”

Kael nodded slowly. The forest’s sentience awed him. His path forward would require more than strength—it would demand reverence.

After a pause, Alaric leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

“Now, Kael. Anyone traveling south through the Myrkviðr has a tale worth hearing. Tell me yours. Start at the tavern. End with how you came to be in this cave.”

Alaric nodded, listening as Kael recounted his journey. When Kael reached the part about the map, he immediately asked to see it.

Kael handed it over. Alaric’s eyes narrowed as he studied it.

“Please, continue your tale,” Alaric said, voice sharp.

Kael resumed, reaching the part about the twins. At the mention of the rings, Alaric’s gaze sharpened.

“The rings,” he said, voice firm. “Show them to me. Now.”

Kael hesitated, then slipped them off and handed them over. Alaric took them with trembling fingers, inspecting them with reverent care. The tension in the room suddenly grew thick.

“Come with me,” he said distantly and walked away without waiting. Kael hurried after him.

He led Kael down a long, descending passage. Some parts were pristine, others eroded with age. The deeper they went, the colder it grew. Shadows flared along the walls, cast by flickering torchlight.

They emerged into a vast chamber lined with shelves—books, scrolls, relics of magic. A staff crowned with a glowing crystal stood in one corner. A still, eerie scrying pool glimmered in another.

“This is where you begin,” Alaric said. “The Myrkviðr hides many secrets. You must be ready. The knowledge here will aid you—but tread carefully. The road to the Frozen Edge is perilous.”

His gaze dropped to Kael’s hands. “Those rings…” he muttered. “Sybil and Setra gave them to you? I can’t believe they let them go.”

Kael stiffened. “How well do you know them?”

Alaric hesitated. “Better than most. If they are certain enough…”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “You must be tested—in magic, in combat, and I must look into your soul.”

Kael recoiled. “But I… I’m not—”

Alaric’s presence swelled, voice deepening.

“You will do as I’ve said. You stand on the brink of truths few dare to know. I must see if you’re worthy.”

The room vibrated with power.

“This is not a request.”

Torch flames surged. Shadows danced. The chamber pulsed with ancient magic.

Alaric’s tone shifted—measured, quiet, final.

“The combat test comes first.”

He moved to a corner and retrieved a sword—its blade clear as glass, catching firelight in dazzling flashes. The hilt, wrapped in worn leather, bore runes lost to time.

Returning to the center, Alaric raised the blade.

“Steel yourself, Kael. Fight me as if your life depends on it. You won’t win. But if you don’t impress me—I will kill you.”

Kael’s pulse roared in his ears. Despite Alaric’s age, he moved with uncanny grace and strength. The chamber shimmered with power.

Kael drew his new weapon, though he hadn’t used it before. The weight felt familiar in his hand. With a focused breath, the fear dulled, replaced by hard-earned resolve.

Alaric raised his sword. The chamber held its breath. The storm was about to break.

Kael’s heart thundered in his chest.

Despite Alaric’s weathered face and white beard, there was a vitality in his movements that defied age. The old bard stood like a seasoned warrior—balanced, poised, utterly composed. His grip on the sword was firm but fluid, every inch of him radiating lethal confidence.

The chamber, lined with ancient magical artifacts, felt like it was holding its breath. The air grew thick, almost suffocating. Flickering torchlight danced off Alaric’s blade, casting warped reflections on the stone walls. Kael felt the moment coil tight around him. This wasn’t just a test—it was survival.

A stillness settled over him like frost—cold, measured, and deadly. He willed his illusion to vanish so Alaric could see him in his armor. He scanned Alaric’s stance, hunting for flaws. Nothing. No sloppiness. No tells. The bard’s form was flawless.

Alaric raised his sword.

The air crackled, charged with energy. Though the room’s enchantments had faded, power still radiated from Alaric like a storm held barely in check.

Then he moved.

Like a serpent striking, Alaric crossed the chamber in an instant, his blade aimed straight for Kael’s chest. The thrust came so fast Kael barely reacted. Instinct took over. Steel rang out—Kael’s parry just in time. The force jolted up his arm, and he spun with the momentum, creating space.

They faced off again, blades low, breath even.

Alaric watched him with a predator’s focus—sharp, deliberate. They began to circle. Each step slow. Each heartbeat loud.

Kael searched him again. Still no weakness. No wobble in his grip. No hesitation in his stance. But Kael’s fear began to melt into focus. He adjusted his grip. The sword felt right in his hand—like it belonged there.

This time, he moved first.

Kael surged forward, swift and silent. Alaric met him with a slash aimed at Kael’s midsection. Kael dropped low, knees skimming stone, sliding under the blade. Air roared above him.

Opportunity.

He slashed at Alaric’s legs in passing, but the bard leapt effortlessly, avoiding the strike. He landed and spun, driving a powerful back kick into the side of Kael’s face.

Pain exploded. Kael crashed to the floor, jaw ringing. Blood flooded his mouth.

Alaric loomed, the eerie glass blade catching torchlight like ice. He moved with ruthless efficiency—no wasted motion, no hesitation. He stabbed down.

Kael rolled in, grabbing Alaric’s legs. With a heave, he rolled back the other way, hurling the bard forward. Alaric hit hard, face-first. The crunch of bone echoed. Blood dripped to the floor.

Slowly, the bard pushed up. He looked at the blood smeared across his hand, more intrigued than angry.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve bled,” he muttered, half to himself.

Then he vanished.

He came at Kael again, faster than sight. Steel screamed as they traded blows—Kael blocking the first, struggling with the second, nearly breaking under the third. His muscles burned. Every strike was heavier than the last.

A sidestep. A wrist flick. Alaric knocked Kael’s sword low, then slashed upward—cutting just beneath Kael’s eye.

White-hot pain tore across his face. Blood blurred his vision. He staggered back, hand to his cheek. The wound burned like fire.

No time. Alaric was coming again.

Overhead strikes—fast, punishing. Kael blocked, barely. His arms trembled. His stance faltered. Blow after blow drove him back. Until he collapsed. Alaric lifted his blade.

Desperation surged. Kael lashed out with a kick, catching Alaric in the gut. The bard flew backward, crashing flat on the stone, breath knocked from him.

Kael scrambled to his feet, heart pounding, lungs burning. But Alaric rose too—already moving.

Kael struck while he could. A slash—blocked. A stab—deflected. Another—redirected. Even from the ground, Alaric moved like flowing water. Impossibly smooth. Impossibly fast.

Kael couldn’t touch him.

Still, he pressed on. Ignoring the fire in his face. Pushing through the pain. He had to prove he belonged here. And then he saw it. A flicker in Alaric’s eyes. This wasn’t just combat—it was judgment. The realization cut deeper than any blade.

Kael attacked with renewed fury. Alaric parried with thunderous force. The impact nearly tore the sword from Kael’s grasp. Then Alaric swept his legs.

Kael crashed to the floor.

Before he could rise, a heavy boot slammed into his chest. He skidded across the chamber, the stone tearing at his back, crashing into the wall with a brutal thud.

Pain pulsed through him. His breath came in ragged gasps. But he stood.

Dragging himself up with the wall, sword in hand, limbs shaking. Blood smeared his face. His chest ached. But he rose.

Alaric was ready.

They collided again—blades clashing with a roar. Blow after blow. Kael swung wide—blocked. Alaric countered—Kael barely parried.

Kael’s arms trembled. His vision blurred.

Alaric raised his sword high and brought it down. Kael caught the strike, dropping to one knee from the weight of it. Their swords locked.

Time froze.

“You fight well for a human of a single lifetime,” Alaric said, voice calm as ever.

Then came the storm.

Alaric broke the lock and unleashed a brutal flurry. Kael blocked two. The third hit his hand.

His sword flew from his grip.

Before Kael could move, Alaric sheathed his own blade.

Then punched him.

The blow slammed into Kael’s jaw, snapping his head sideways. Another strike—his ribs. Another—his stomach. The last—a hammering punch to the temple.

Kael hit the ground like a felled tree.

The pain swallowed him.

Darkness swept in, cold and absolute. And then, Alaric’s voice, distant and final:

“But you still have much to learn.”

Kael’s eyes snapped open.

A bolt of bright pain seared through his face, side, and chest—a brutal reminder of the beating he’d taken. The bard—no, not just a bard—had proven himself far more than a traveling performer. Whatever age Alaric wore on the outside meant nothing. His speed, precision, and strength defied it. Kael had never seen anything like it.

“Don’t move too much. I’m fairly certain I broke a few of your ribs with that last kick,” came Alaric’s voice from his right, light and laced with amusement. “I took the liberty of examining your soul while you were unconscious,” he continued, almost idly. “What I found there was… promising. I’m pleased I didn’t have to kill you.”

Something about the way he said it made the hairs on Kael’s arms rise. He couldn’t explain why, but the room suddenly felt colder, as if something unseen had brushed too close.

Kael, still disoriented and aching, tried to gather his thoughts. Instead, several questions spilled from his mouth at once.

“How long was I out?”

“Where am I?”

“What did you see?”

Another jolt of pain stabbed through his ribs, stealing his breath. He gritted his teeth and forced out one more question.

“How are you so old… and so deadly?”

Alaric chuckled—an audible, unbothered sound.

“The answer to your first question: a day and a half. Apologies—I really did hit you harder than I intended.” He said it cheerfully, as if Kael should be proud of surviving. “But the rest will have to wait until you’ve eaten.”

Kael blinked, taking in his surroundings for the first time. The room was small, windowless, and bare. Pale stone walls, a single chair—one Alaric hadn’t bothered to sit in—and a narrow table with nothing on it. His bedroll had been laid out on the floor, likely by Alaric himself.

The simplicity of it unsettled him more than if he’d woken in a dungeon.

Alaric stood and offered a hand.

Kael ignored it. Refusing to let pain dictate his movements, he forced himself upright with a wince. “Lead the way. I’m starving.”

Alaric nodded with quiet approval and turned, stepping into the hall beyond. Kael followed, each step a fresh reminder of the damage done to his ribs.

But any thought of pain fell away as they moved deeper into the structure. Whatever Kael had expected—rough-hewn tunnels, dripping stone, the remnants of some ancient ruin—this was not it.

The corridor stretched ahead, dimly lit by sconces of softly glowing crystal embedded in the walls—no flame, no heat, yet they cast a warm golden hue. The walls themselves were smooth- cut stone, veined with silver and violet minerals that shimmered faintly when the light hit them just right. Not natural stone—not entirely. There was a precision to the construction, an artistry that felt too elegant for a fortress, too purposeful for a ruin.

The air was clean and cool, with a faint scent he couldn’t place—like old parchment, iron, and the ghost of incense long burned away.

They passed through branching halls and vaulted corridors, each more ornate than the last. Though the structure was smaller than any proper castle Kael had seen, the craftsmanship rivaled the grandest halls of Aeldenwood. Alcoves housed ancient statues that lacked names or plaques, their features worn smooth with time or intentionally left ambiguous. Tapestries of deep indigo and silver adorned the walls at intervals, woven with swirling patterns that danced if stared at too long.

It was beautiful. And it exuded both loneliness and power.

Kael slowed slightly, eyes flicking from one detail to the next, the ache in his body momentarily forgotten. “This isn’t a cave,” he muttered, more to himself than to Alaric.

Alaric’s smile, seen only in profile, hinted at secrets. “You’re quick.”

They turned one final corner and came to a set of tall doors crafted from dark wood veined with metal—brass or gold, Kael couldn’t tell. The doors parted soundlessly at a gesture from Alaric, revealing a modest dining hall beyond.

It was no grand banquet chamber, but it still managed to feel regal. A long stone table stretched down the center of the room, flanked by mismatched chairs—some high-backed and carved with strange sigils, others plain and utilitarian. The walls were lined with narrow arched windows that revealed nothing but an endless wash of mist beyond, as if the world outside had been swallowed by fog.

Above, a chandelier floated without chains, its many glass orbs glowing softly in rhythm, pulsing like a heartbeat. The table was already set.

A bounty of food lay spread before him—steam curling from dishes that seemed pulled from a noble’s feast rather than the dwelling of a reclusive, ageless warrior. There were roasted root vegetables, honey-glazed and nestled beside thick slabs of dark meat crusted with herbs. A trencher of fresh bread sat near the center, golden and split to reveal a soft, fragrant interior.

Bowls of vibrant fruits—some familiar, others foreign—gleamed like gems under the

chandelier’s warm light. A thick stew simmered in a silver tureen, its aroma rich with spices Kael couldn’t name but instantly craved.

Kael’s stomach twisted violently, a raw, hollow pain rising through him. Nearly three days since his last meal, and only water to keep him alive since. His body had survived the beating, the healing, and the journey to this strange place—but the ache of hunger had only grown sharper, more insistent, until it throbbed behind his ribs like a second pulse.

He didn’t wait for permission.

Crossing the threshold, he collapsed into the nearest chair and snatched at the bread, tearing a

piece free as if every fiber of him had forgotten what hunger truly was. The bread’s warmth and the gentle softness ignited a forgotten sense of comfort, nearly drawing a low, almost animalistic groan from him. He tore off another piece, then spooned stew into a deep bowl, heedless of etiquette or presentation.

He devoured his food with a reckless intensity, as if every bite might be the last he would ever taste. Yet as he ate, an undercurrent of wariness pulsed beneath his hunger. This place—this meticulous luxury—felt out of place, as though each perfectly laid dish concealed another, darker intention.

Still, he kept eating. Whatever this place was, whatever Alaric was—it hadn’t killed him. Not yet.

And right now, that was enough.

While Kael reached for a second helping of stew, the steam curling lazily from the bowl, Alaric silently slid to the head of the table, his presence suddenly transforming the mood. He took a seat a few chairs away, not close enough to crowd, but near enough to observe. His hands folded in his lap, and though the table before him was set, he didn’t touch a single dish.

He simply watched.

Kael didn’t notice at first, too consumed by hunger. But when the edge began to dull—when the pain in his ribs stopped screaming and settled into a sullen throb—he slowed. His breathing steadied. The sounds of his eating echoed less sharply off the stone walls.

And then Alaric spoke.

“You asked where you are,” he said, his voice slicing through the silence like a sudden burst of lightning in a dark sky. “This was once the home of a lord… long dead.”

Kael flinched at the suddenness of it. He hadn’t realized how still the room had become—how much he’d allowed himself to forget he wasn’t alone. He swallowed hard, wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist, and looked around the hall with new eyes.

“Doesn’t look like this place belongs to a dead man,” Kael said, gesturing toward the immaculate feast, the gleaming table, the absence of even a speck of dust. “Place like this should’ve

crumbled to cobwebs by now.”

“I’ve kept care of it since his passing,” Alaric replied calmly. “It is not my home, but I have spent many years within its halls. Long enough to see it outlast its purpose.”

Kael studied him, chewing slower now, his hunger no longer the only thing gnawing at him.

“But now,” Alaric continued, his tone shifting—quiet, final—“I no longer need to.”

His eyes hadn’t moved from Kael. Not once.

“This house,” he said, “is now fully staffed. And it has a new owner.”

The words sank in slowly—each syllable a promise of change that both terrified and beckoned

him. Kael’s brow furrowed, the gears in his mind sluggish from pain and exhaustion. And yet, as he stared back across the table, watching the flicker of torchlight dance in Alaric’s eyes, understanding began to creep in.

“You mean…” Kael’s voice trailed off.

Alaric offered no nod, no smile—only silence.

But that silence spoke volumes.

Kael sat back in his chair, suddenly all too aware of the warmth in his belly, of the food he’d devoured, of the clean room, the waiting hallways, the perfection of the place. It hadn’t been done for Alaric.

It had been prepared for him. And now, he realized with a cold clarity, he wasn’t just a guest.

He was the heir to something he didn’t understand. Not yet. Kael stared at the man across from him, heart still pounding in the quiet that followed.

Alaric let him sit with the weight of it, as if he knew Kael needed a moment to absorb the shift beneath his feet. Then, gently, he leaned back in his chair, folding one leg over the other.

“When you complete your journey, when you return from the Frozen Edge, this hall will be waiting for you,” Alaric said softly. “A place not just to rest, but to rise. A seat among those who matter.” Kael said nothing. His fingers curled lightly around the rim of his bowl, not lifting it again. “You asked me about myself,” Alaric continued. “But before I tell you anything more, there are things you must understand. Things tied to your quest.”

He rose from his chair with a slow, deliberate grace, moving to one of the tall windows that framed the hall. Beyond the glass, twilight bled across the sky, washing the stones outside in bruised purples and ember-orange.

“Tell me, Kael,” he said, hands clasped behind his back, “what do you know of the Riftveil?”

Kael’s brow tightened. “ I know all the old tales. I know that every legend is rooted in some truth, and I know that people have a fondness for romanticizing legend. The fact that there is not a single trace of evidence for a person to find other than the world itself and its state almost as if the world is ashamed of something and did their best to bury it is enough reason to lend those tails little credibility.” Kael answered resolutely, adding “ I’ve studied magic to some degree rocking away a demon even in five pieces would have no connection to the state of the planet. Why did it destroy the world as as it was? It doesn’t add up, but then I received a letter from the twins and you came you sang your song….and a path to the truth opened or rather I was out on it. I won’t speculate as to what happened or what the truth is. I will find the truth and let it tell me.”

Alaric met his gaze, his expression unreadable. He didn’t seem rushed, didn’t seem to mind the weight of the silence stretching between them.

“Before the Riftveil, when the world was whole and the divine ruled the realms, the Goddess stood as the guardian of harmony. But an entity of unparalleled malice, or so Zarathorix, sought to unravel the very fabric of existence with his insatiable hunger for power. Or so the old tales say….

Kael listened intently, the weight of Alaric’s words drawing him deeper into the story.

“They tell us tha t in order to protect the world, the Goddess engaged Zarathorix in a battle so fierce it cracked the bones of the world. She knew that merely defeating him would not be enough, for his essence was too potent to be destroyed. Instead, she devised a plan to lock away his dark spirit and created five powerful gems to hold the aspects of Zarathorix’s malevolence. These gems were scattered across the now shattered planet so no single being could ever claim their full strength.”

Alaric’s voice grew more intense, his eyes reflecting the vivid images of the past.

“Each gem was imbued with a facet of Zarathorix’s essence:

Gem of Wrath: A violent red gem that pulses with fury, embodying Zarathorix’s insatiable rage and destructive force. It burns with the intensity of a thousand suns, capable of inciting war and chaos wherever it lies.

Gem of Fear: An inky black gem that exudes despair. It feeds on the darkest corners of the mind, sowing terror and dread. Those who come into contact with it are haunted by their deepest fears, unable to escape its grip.

Gem of Corruption: A sickly green gem swirling with the power of manipulation. It twists the hearts and minds of those who seek its influence, spreading deceit and moral decay. It erodes the very essence of integrity, leaving only a shell of corruption behind.

Gem of Deception: A gem of swirling gold and a silvery sheen, laced with false promises of grandeur and power. It entices with the allure of grandeur, leading its victims into a web of lies and illusions. Those who covet it are blinded by its deceit, unable to discern truth from falsehood.

Gem of Dominion: A deep purple gemstone that carries with it the will to subjugate all to its power. It emanates an oppressive force that seeks to dominate and control, bending the wills of those around it to serve its master.”

A chill crept down Kael’s spine as Alaric spoke, each word etching those cursed gems into his mind.

“Most are unaware,” Alaric continued in a hushed tone, “that Zarathorix was ready for the

Goddess’s plan. Using his dark magic, he merged two of his most insidious aspects into a single gem. The chosen aspects were Corruption and Deception. The resulting gem, known as the Gem of Spite, is a sickly green and gold, swirling with the power to manipulate and deceive, making it one of the most dangerous things in existence. This gem holds the essence of Zarathorix’s cunning and malevolence, capable of turning even the purest hearts to darkness.”

Alaric’s gaze intensified as he leaned forward.

Kael’s breath caught.

He looked down at his hands.

Two rings. Two stones.

One, a sickly green, its depths shifting like smoke in water—Corruption.

The other, gold veined with silver, the light bending subtly around it—Deception.

His chest tightened. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.

Alaric was already watching.

And with a single, near-imperceptible nod, he confirmed what Kael hadn’t dared ask.

“Yet, despite its power, the Gem of Spite still lacks the sheer dominance of the Gem of

Dominion. It is said that the Gem of Dominion holds the very core of Zarathorix’s essence, the primal force that fuels his will to control and conquer. As well as what remains of his consciousness.

Kael’s thoughts spun, a storm of implications thundering through him. The enormity of his quest, to find the Staff of the Goddess and the other relics, weighed heavily upon him.

Alaric paused, his eyes locking with Kael’s.

“As for the gem that was left empty,” Alaric murmured, “its fate remains shrouded in mystery. Some believe it shattered under the immense strain of Zarathorix’s dark magic, its fragments lost to time. Others whisper that the empty gem still exists, holding a purpose unknown but no less dangerous. It is said that this gem might one day reveal its true nature, a dormant force waiting for the right moment to awaken.”

A profound dread settled in Kael’s chest as the final piece was laid bare. The realization that Zarathorix had anticipated the Goddess’s actions and taken steps to counter them added a new layer of complexity and danger to his quest.

As Alaric’s tale hung in the air, the door to the dining hall suddenly burst open, startling both him and Kael. Two figures entered—a pair of twins, their identical features framed by cascading hair, their eyes sharp and discerning.

“That’s how the story goes,” one began, her voice laced with skepticism, “but fortunately you are at least intelligent enough to know already that the legend is not the truth.”

Her twin nodded in agreement, crossing her arms

Their sudden appearance and pointed declaration Alaric off guard, his usual composure faltering. He glanced between the twins and Kael, tension thickening the air.

Alaric cleared his throat, regaining his footing. “You raise a valid point,” he said, addressing the twins. “The legends often omit nuance. Perhaps it’s time we spoke of what lies beneath the

surface.”

The twins exchanged a look, their expressions softening. They moved to sit, a silent acknowledgement that the story was far from finished.

“No need for exploration, Alaric,” Syble interjected, her tone decisive as she turned her gaze toward him. “They are coming, and Kael should be on his way before they arrive.” Her voice carried urgency, and as she turned to Kael, her eyes burned with unspoken truth.

“The reason such measures were taken,” Setra said, her voice low and heavy with emotion, “is because Zarathorix was not merely a demon. He was a god—a brother, in fact, to the goddess who shattered his form and imprisoned him.”

Her words hung in the air, steeped in ancient grief and fury, rewriting the story Kael thought he knew.

In that moment, he was awestruck. It was so hard to believe, it flew in the face of every accepted truth and yet it made more sense than any other explanation. His heart raced as his obsession kicked in he was eager to hear more.

Alaric, though briefly surprised by the twins’ abrupt delivery, he,quickly masked it, his composure returning. He exchanged a knowing glance with Syble—something passed between them Kael didn’t yet understand, but he noted it.

His mind raced. A god? Zarathorix—embodiment of chaos and ruin—was divine? And the goddess, his sister, had torn him apart, bound him, and hidden the truth behind a tale of righteous victory. The line between good and evil didn’t just blur—it shifted, revealed as something far more intricate.

Beneath the ache in his ribs, something stirred—sharp, electric. Fascination took hold. Each revelation struck like flint to stone, igniting questions, theories, possibilities. The story he’d questioned for years was falling into place—but not as he’d expected. It wasn’t a lie. It was a framework, deliberately incomplete.

The truth rang like a fractured bell—distorted, yes, but unmistakably real.

Silence lingered, heavy and expectant.

Kael glanced down at his hands.

Two rings. Two stones.

Corruption shimmered with its sickly green pulse—dense, swirling, alive.

Deception caught the light in a shifting dance of gold and silver, its gleam too fluid to be trusted.

He stared at them, eyes narrowing. The bands… they weren’t symmetrical, not exactly. The edges curved in ways that suggested design, not flaw. A pattern meant to be completed.

He hesitated—then removed one and slid it beside the other, aligning both onto a single finger.

The moment they touched, a jolt snapped through the air.

A sharp light flared—green and gold and searing white—bright enough to burn through shadow. Heat surged over his skin, not painful, but charged, like the cusp of something ancient waking. The metal fused in an instant, seamless and unbreakable.

Now there was only one ring.

Its stone shimmered, the two colors locked in orbit, swirling as one. Not Corruption. Not Deception. Something else.

The Gem of Spite.

Kael stared at it, expression unreadable.

Setra’s smile deepened—not pride, not amusement. Satisfaction.

“Well done,” she said, tone cool. “You didn’t even scream.”

Kael looked up. “Why would I?”

Their silence was absolute—and deliberate.

Alaric inclined his head. “History is rarely written by clean hands. When gods go to war, mortals are left to carry the pieces—fractured, glorified, or buried.”

He began to circle the table, each step slow, deliberate. “What Avalyth believes isn’t a lie, Kael. But it’s… curated. A version fit for temples and bedtime stories. A version that comforts.”

Syble’s voice cut in, bitter and sharp. “In this case, it was buried beneath something more palatable.”

Kael’s eyes narrowed. “And you three know the actual events that occurred?”

“We do,” Syble said simply.

“Because,” Setra added.

“We were there,” Alaric finished.

Their eyes held sorrow, but Kael couldn’t summon pity. He wanted to. But all he felt was suspicion—and intrigue. For a moment, he wondered if truth was a curse—a burden that chipped away at certainty, reshaping everything it touched. As their revelations settled, he found no comfort, only a deeper interest. The tale was not what it seemed. And now, he wanted more.

Kael’s breath shook slightly his heart pounding against his bruised ribs. “That’s not possible.”

Alaric chuckled, but the sound was hollow. “Time means little.” His voice was quiet but vast, like an echo from another age. “What I am now is not what I was. And what I was… had many names. Some whispered, others erased.”

He stopped just beside Kael’s chair, eyes distant. “But there’s one truth you must hold above all others. Zarathorix is not now—nor has he ever been—a demon. And the goddess who bound him was not entirely merciful.”

Kael stared, blood cold.

Setra broke the silence next, voice quiet but unflinching.

“Divinity does not guarantee virtue. And vengeance is not the sole domain of the damned.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the soft crackle of a nearby torch. Kael felt the world tilt—his understanding slipping like sand through fractured fingers.

“And what does that make you three, are you divine or the damned?” he asked, his voice low.

“We are survivors,” Syble answered coolly.

Alaric turned away, walking back toward the arched windows, the mist outside beginning to thin, revealing jagged silhouettes beyond—a shattered skyline, remnants of towers half-swallowed by fog.

“The Riftveil was never meant to be possible. The power it took to unmake the god Zarathorix cost the goddess her life and nearly tore the world apart. Even now, its magic runs wild across the isles,” he called back over his shoulder.

“Tell him, Alaric. We haven’t much time,” Syble called hastily, looking at the door to the banquet hall.

“I watched from the shore the day of the final battle… My brother and sister stood against each other in a clash that shook oceans, burned the sky, and angered the elements. In the end, I watched her use the magic that led us to where we are now. I was struck by a bolt of lightning as the earth split. The bolt froze in place—and that was the moment time itself broke.”

Kael rose slowly from his seat, the weight of everything pressing down like a second gravity. “Then that means… you’re a god, too? And if the bolt is what broke time when it struck you, that means…”

The realization struck him like a ton of bricks.

“By the Aether… You’re the Architect of Time. The Creator. The one who wielded chronomancy!”

At this, Syble, Setra, and Alaric all laughed—a hollow, bitter sound.

“Formerly, yes. I’m surprised you even know the terms or learned of me—traces were so few,” Alaric said, nodding with approval. “When the bolt struck, I was severed from the timelines. In the aftermath, I found glass the lightning had made from the beach sand. I forged a sword from it—the very one I used in your test.”

“I still carry divine blood. I will live forever. My magic is rivaled by few, and I retain every physical gift of a god. I am fallen, but I am not mortal.”

“What you find at the Frozen Edge is just the beginning. There, you will find—”

Just then, the door burst open and six heavily armored men entered, clad in thick silver-and- black plate, their helmets fully concealing their faces.

Alaric drew his sword at the sight of them, and the twins stood, but otherwise made no move.

“Kael, you are in no condition to fight. I may be able to subvert bloodshed here, but I honestly doubt it. You have to go. Your things are in your room.”

You’ll find an exit through your room. Follow the map. It has been restored, Syble’s voice echoed—though her lips never moved. Kael realized only he could hear her.

Then Setra’s voice followed: There is much you don’t know, and now we cannot prepare you. You will find your answers at the Frozen Edge—in the place you saw in your vision.

Kael could see Alaric talking to the apparent leader of these armed men, but could hear nothing except the twins.

“Leave and head south, that’s the only guidance we can give you. Now go.”

The tone was final and sharp he did not stand to argue. He knew he’d be a liability in a fight right now.

He left the room, and his hearing returned. He could hear muffled talking as he entered the bare room he’d woken up in. He put on his armor and strapped his sword and dagger on. He had no idea what had happened to Eryndor, but as he fastened the last clasp, he heard battle erupt.

He drew his sword and rushed back to aid Alaric and the twins—despite their order to leave and the agony in his ribs. He arrived just in time to see the twins, unarmed, dodge fluidly around a slash aimed at their chest. Syble waved her hand and spoke a word Kael couldn’t hear. The attacker began convulsing violently, unable to fall—held upright by some vicious magic.

After a few seconds, the man’s mouth opened wide as if to scream, but it kept opening, his jaw unhinging as his head split in two. Bones snapped and skin tore, the ribcage turning outward like a grotesque blooming flower. Muscles writhed and reversed themselves, veins threading out like roots before shriveling in the open air. His body peeled itself inside out, flaying inch by inch until he collapsed in a steaming, unrecognizable heap. The other intruders, horrified, attacked again with renewed rage.

Alaric looked back and, seeing Kael’s expression of shock and disbelief, smiled—the smile of a blood-drunk warrior. Then he pointed to the doorway. It cracked and collapsed, sealing Kael off from the fight.

He now had no choice but to move forward—still with questions that no longer merely surrounded the Riftveil. He had been tested by a god. Dined with one. And though the twins remained a mystery—a terrifyingly powerful one—they had promised him truth at the Frozen Edge.

The truth wasn’t a light waiting to be uncovered.

And it was already burning.

Kael stepped out into the chill night air with heavy limbs and broken ribs, his mind still reeling from the revelations inside. The corridors of the fortress had led him to the outer courtyard, where several heavily armored men stood guard along the perimeter. Their silver-and-black plate gleamed in the moonlight, and their low voices confirmed a single purpose: to eliminate any escapee.

As Kael emerged from the doorway, one guard muttered, “Kill anyone who comes out—they know nothing of our orders.” The others grunted in agreement. With the fortress surrounded and his options dwindling, Kael knew he had no choice but to confront them.

Leaning heavily on his injured ribs, Kael deliberately accentuated his pain as if pleading for mercy. In that desperate moment, he felt an odd, inexplicable surge within him—a chill coursing from deep inside, urging him to appear utterly vulnerable. Unbeknownst to Kael, this strange internal stirring subtly altered the perception of the lethal guards waiting outside. Instead of readying themselves to carry out their deadly orders, they hesitated, their hostile intent clouded by an uncharacteristic compulsion to help. It was as if his desperate display had disarmed their aggression, luring them into believing that his flight was genuine and pitiful.

They rushed over to help him. As one would-be assailant turned would-be rescuer reached out to catch him and prevent his fall, another closed in aggressively, intent on keeping to his orders. Mid-fall, Kael twisted sharply and unsheathed his dagger in a single fluid motion—slicing the throat of the oncoming attacker. The guard who had attempted to keep him from falling, seeing what happened, suddenly dropped him. As Kael hit the ground, he gasped for air, the pain throbbing intensely through his chest. The sentry decisively drew his sword and made to stab Kael with a heavy downward thrust.

Reacting instinctively, Kael rolled, his dagger flashing as it sliced deep into the man’s Achilles tendon, forcing the guard to scream and fall. Kael sprang up and drove the blade through the attacker’s eye. The enemy convulsed, collapsing in a moment of brutal, pained agony. Kael fell over in pain from his ribs, laying across the body of the man he just killed. It was at that moment that the rest of the attacking party, drawn by the sudden violence and screams, finally took notice.

The brief lull was shattered as more voices and clanging metal announced that additional attackers were converging. With every labored breath and every searing pang from his broken ribs, Kael knew he couldn’t hold against these odds in perfect condition—let alone in his current state.

Hearing the approach of armored footsteps and angry shouts as the rest of the attack party closed in—some of them now on horseback—he saw the tree line was not far away. “Back into the Myrkviðr,” he thought to himself. He hoped against hope that Eryndor was a magical creature, or at least had somehow followed and was nearby.

Summoning what strength he had left, Kael forced himself to his feet and into a run. He was limping and slower than those chasing him. Another unknown feeling washed over him—he recognized it as fear, but he didn’t feel afraid. He was, however, overcome with the thought process of one who was afraid and in desperation for survival. He was running out of time.

Suddenly, he burst into a clearing in the woods. There, in the dim light and haunting stillness, the pain in his ribs threatened to overwhelm him. For a moment, he almost accepted that this clearing might be his grave.

In that desperate instant, he let out a loud, ragged whistle. The momentary panic faded as his calculation and his resolve reasserted themselves.

Drawing his blade one more time, Kael turned to face the direction his pursuers would approach from, ready to take as many with him as possible. The shadow of a large tree lay across the clearing. Kael stared over it as his enemies broke into the space on horseback, some of them having mounted before giving chase.

As they approached, the shadow of the tree seemed to come alive—rippling and writhing. In the Myrkviðr, anything could happen. The men on horses slowed, warily watching. Kael did the same.

The shadow began to roil violently, like a storm-tossed sea—and with a sudden, piercing neigh, Eryndor burst from it.

The horse tore into the clearing like a phantom born of wind and fury, his hooves striking the earth like drumbeats of war. Moonlight glinted off his sleek, dark coat as he surged forward, eyes wild with fire, mane trailing behind him like a banner. Kael staggered at the sheer force of the moment, a lump rising in his throat—not from fear or exhaustion, but something raw and rare: awe.

It was like watching salvation gallop out of a nightmare.

Kael limped with every fiber of his strength toward the incredible creature as the chasers renewed their pursuit.

He mounted—and they bolted into a frenzied chase through the dark, tangled woods.

The stallion tore across the clearing like a storm, hooves pounding the ground with thunderous urgency. His coat shimmered with an almost spectral sheen, muscles rippling as he galloped with unnatural speed and precision. Trees blurred past on either side as Eryndor charged through the dense forest, never once faltering. Branches that should have torn at his flanks missed by inches; roots that might have tripped another mount passed harmlessly beneath him. It was as though the forest itself bent away from his path, honoring his momentum.

The pursuit was chaos: pounding hooves, shouting voices, the distant clash of steel, and Kael’s ragged, painful breaths filled the air.

The massive steed galloped at an impossible speed, weaving through the trees with uncanny precision—never striking branch or root. Eryndor moved like a creature beyond nature’s laws, leaning into turns with the grace of a shadow, hooves thudding against earth and stone without hesitation. Low branches, jagged rocks, and treacherous roots became mere blurs beside them. Kael clung to the saddle, wind ripping past his ears, eyes stinging, heart pounding. He could barely process the speed, the madness of it—the way Eryndor seemed to dance through the chaos without effort.

Just as a fragile hope began to kindle, fate turned cruel.

A sudden, unseen force struck Kael violently in the face and chest at once, wrenching him from the saddle. He lost sight of Eryndor as he crashed to the ground.

His battered body fought to remain conscious. His vision wavered, the world tilting—blurring. The attackers encircled him, their torches bobbing like hungry specters.

And then, through the haze— A massive green dragon descended upon the clearing.

There was a burst of brilliant green light—a flash so intense it seemed to freeze the moment in time, suspending it in silence. Then: darkness.

Delivering news to the Witness was never easy. Even for Sterling—hardened, disciplined, and favored enough to have been promoted to captain just a few months ago—there was no comfort in standing before a being who had once been a god. The Witness had lived through the Riftveil—survived the cataclysm that shattered the known world and tore the divine from the heavens. Only he had returned. His generals, his warriors—none of them survived. The rest had become myth, lost to a void that no gods remained to fill.

Now, in the silence of the chamber, the weight of every word seemed to stretch time itself.

“It’s been confirmed. Alaric and the twins have been on the move,” Sterling said, his voice steady despite the gravity of the report.

The air thickened. The Witness leaned forward over his desk, the light catching the deep, jagged scar that ran across his face—a permanent reminder of the violence that had undone much of what he had once known.

“Where?” His voice was cold, distant—only the faintest trace of the god he had once been remained in it.

Sterling cleared his throat. “Sightings of the twins are scattered across the region. We can’t track them—they vanish like shadows. But reports suggest they’ll surface soon in Aldenwood. Alaric is traveling the main roads, disguised as a bard. Should we move to intercept?”

“No,” the Witness replied, his words hard as stone. “Do not approach him. I will not see even one more of us fall to that folly. It would be a wasted life.”

Sterling hesitated, pushing further. “With respect, sir, there’s only one of him. And he’s rarely seen now. This could be our chance. If I took a battalion—if we broke silence for once—we could capture him. Maybe… maybe you could make him see reason.”

The Witness tilted his head slightly, his eyes—those eyes that had witnessed the collapse of gods and the birth of a new world—examining Sterling with an intensity that could freeze a man in his tracks. “I forget how new you are to this post, Kept—so I’ll do you the courtesy of answering your questioning. But do not mistake your youth for wisdom.”

The tone was sharp, yet measured—so many ages of pain woven into every word.

“I will also spare myself the loss of a good soldier, and possibly a battalion, because you underestimate an enemy you cannot comprehend.”

Sterling’s breath caught. The words were as much a warning as a truth.

“Yes, sir.”

The Witness rarely spoke in such long passages. His orders were usually succinct—efficient. But when he spoke, it was always with purpose. And this time, his voice carried a weight Sterling could feel in the marrow of his bones.

“Come with me,” the Witness commanded, standing and leading Sterling toward the balcony that overlooked the hidden city nestled deep within the Western Isles.

The air outside was crisp, the sea winds carrying the scent of salt and forgotten dreams. Below, the city was shrouded in an eerie silence.

“The city is well-concealed. It must remain so. If Alaric ever discovered its location, he would obliterate it—and with it, any chance we have of stopping him.”

His voice had taken on the cadence of someone who had borne the weight of ancient secrets—someone who had seen too much, lost too much, to be swayed by idealism.

“When the Order first formed—nearly a thousand years after the Riftveil—it was because the world had begun to forget. People began searching for the Aspects under Alaric’s direction. The Aspects, you see, are the key to Zarathorix’s return. To releasing him from his prison.”

The Witness’s eyes burned with a mix of sorrow and steel. “If that happens, the world as we know it will burn. Even if we lose our lives in the effort, we cannot allow them to be found. We must kill or convert anyone searching for them.”

He paused for a moment, his gaze shifting to the horizon. For a fleeting moment, he was lost in thought—an eternal specter caught between past and future.

“I once led five hundred trained and blessed warriors to intercept Alaric. I was the only one who returned—and Alaric never even broke a sweat. Never once seemed winded. There is no fighting him. We move around him. We wait. We steal what we must if he finds an Aspect, but we do not engage.”

He paused, and for a moment, the weight of memory seemed to draw even his divine bearing into shadow.

“He was waiting for us. Not with armies. Not with walls or traps. He was simply… there. The battlefield itself was his weapon. He fractured time. Slowed it. Stopped it. Reversed it. I saw men struck down only to fall again moments later, their lives playing on repeat until they unraveled. Others withered to dust in seconds—aged by centuries in the blink of an eye. Some turned their blades on each other, convinced by illusions so real they bled from imagined wounds.”

His voice dropped lower.

“I reached him. I fought through it all and reached him. I struck. He never moved. I don’t even know if the blade touched him—or if that moment was taken from me. A memory stolen. Time bent around him like wind around a mountain. My every strategy was dust. My every command undone before it was given. He didn’t raise a hand. He didn’t have to.”

He straightened slightly, hands tightening against the railing.

“Even now, time no longer obeys him—not as it did when the stars whispered his name. But the bones of power remain. The god is dead—but the immortal man remembers.”

The Witness exhaled, slow and quiet. “I don’t give him a wide berth out of respect alone. I do so because I have looked into the eyes of the end and survived. Once.”

Sterling stood in stunned silence, the gravity of the Witness’s words pressing down on him like an anvil.

“The tragedy of this conflict is that the line between right and wrong has become a matter of perspective,” the Witness continued, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “Zarathorix was labeled a demon, a destroyer—but that lie persists because it must. The world cannot survive the truth. The truth, if unleashed, would unravel the very fabric of reality. We protect the lie not because we believe it, but because it is the only shield against annihilation.”

He turned toward Sterling, his eyes hardening with a finality that brooked no argument. “Send the Hunter—he will take three of our best. Their orders are to investigate, interfere, and kill if necessary. But above all, we need information. We must know what Alaric and the twins seek—and how they plan to release Zarathorix.”

Sterling bowed his head, understanding the weight of his mission. The Witness had spoken, and there was no questioning the depth of the god’s purpose.

“Yes, sir.”

And as Sterling turned to leave, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this mission—this search for answers—might be the beginning of something far darker than any of them had anticipated.

The Witness stood alone in the shadows, his eyes lingering on the horizon, where time and fate converged into an uncertain future.

Dust rose from the practice ring with every movement. Three combatants circled the lone figure at the center—each of them armed, armored, and already bleeding from shallow cuts.

The Hunter didn’t even seem winded.

Dreya Thorne moved like a shadow given form—silent, sure, and honed to a deadly edge. Her obsidian-black hair fell in a long braid down her back, often tied with a crimson ribbon—a subtle flare in an otherwise utilitarian appearance. Her eyes, a cold silver-gray, seemed forged from winter steel, sharp and unreadable. Her face was lean, angular, beautiful in a way that felt accidental, shaped more by function than vanity. A faint mark ran from her temple to her jaw—a faded scar, barely visible unless the light caught it just right. Clad in leathers black as pitch and trimmed in ash-gray, she bore the quiet weight of purpose, every breath measured every motion calculated—fluid, sharp, intentional. Her twin blades carved arcs through the air, deflecting strikes and creating openings before the attackers even realized they’d made mistakes.

Steel hissed past her cheek.

She twisted, dropped low, and swept the man’s legs from under him. Before he hit the dirt, her knee was at his throat, a blade pressed against his temple.

He froze.

A soft click of leather boots behind her.

She was already on her feet, the blade now pressed to the second attacker’s neck—just beneath the chin. Her breath steady. Her stance balanced.

The third man didn’t move. He raised both hands in mock surrender, smiling despite the bruise already forming beneath one eye.

“You’re dead,” she said quietly to both of them. Her voice was cool and calm—dispassionate, as if she were commenting on the weather.

“That’s not fair,” the third grunted. “You don’t even sweat.”

“You telegraphed your strike,” she said, stepping back and sheathing her blades with a clean, fluid motion. “And your stance was off-balance from the start.”

“Remind me never to spar with her again,” the first muttered, still rubbing his throat as he stood.

She didn’t respond. She was already walking away from the ring when the sound of boots on stone signaled a new arrival.

“Hunter,” said Captain Sterling, his voice clipped, urgent.

She slowed but didn’t stop.

“You’re being deployed.”

The others grew quiet. Even bruised and sore, they stood straighter. Orders from a captain—especially Sterling—were never casual.

She arched a brow over her shoulder. “Where?”

“Aldenwood. You’re taking three of your best. You leave by nightfall.”

She turned slightly now, not all the way. “Objective?”

“Alaric and the twins are on the move. Interfere where possible. Kill if necessary. But your priority is information. We need to know what they’re after—and how close they are to the truth.”

A pause.

“Understood,” she said, without hesitation.

Sterling gave a small nod, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re not to engage Alaric directly. If you encounter him, you fall back.”

She didn’t answer this time.

He frowned. “That’s an order, Hunter.”

Still, silence.

Then she took a step forward.

“If I see him, I’ll decide what’s necessary.”

Sterling’s jaw tightened. He took a step after her. “These orders come from the Witness himself.”

That stopped her cold.

He pressed on, voice hard now. “He left no room for interpretation. If you disobey, it won’t just be your life you lose. We’re not ready for a confrontation. You know that. He knows that.”

The silence that followed stretched—thick with the tension of pride, memory, and the ghosts they both carried.

Slowly, the Hunter turned to face him fully. Her eyes—usually sharp with calculation—now held something quieter beneath them. Not fear. Not deference. But a recognition that could only come from one who had seen the Witness’s will made manifest.

She gave a short nod, sharp as a blade. “Then I fall back.”

Sterling exhaled through his nose. “Good. Have your team ready within the hour.”

She turned again, this time without resistance, and made her way toward the armory. The dust of the sparring yard trailed behind her like smoke.

This time, she did not look back.

The corridor to her quarters was quiet—smooth stone lit by the dying sun through narrow, high windows. Dreya walked it alone, her steps unhurried but purposeful, her mind already moving ahead of her body.

Inside, her room was austere—monastic, almost. A narrow bed, a rack of weapons, a basin for washing. The only ornamentation sat at the foot of the bed: a dark wooden chest, iron-bound and worn smooth at the edges by her hands.

She shed the sparring gear without ceremony, the leather tunic marked by dust and shallow scrapes. Bare walls, no keepsakes. Just her blades, her armor, and the silence she never minded.

She stood bare to the waist for a moment, the last light of evening casting long shadows across her back, muscles honed by years of relentless training moving in fluid rhythm. Her new armor waited on the stand—obsidian leather with fitted plating, flexible at the joints, reinforced at the chest and shoulders. Light enough not to hinder her movement, strong enough to stop a blade. Its shape followed the curve of her frame with precision, form-fitting and elegant, every seam designed with intention. There was allure in it—and she’d turned that into a weapon, too.

The Witness had been thorough in his teaching. Every deception, every gambit, every strategy and technique—she had absorbed them all. When she completed her training and was named Hunter, he had given her his “blessing,” making her nearly immune to fatigue. She could go without sleep, food, or water, functioning at full strength for as long as needed. It did not increase her strength or speed—he didn’t believe in shortcuts. Only in balance. And discipline.

She secured the armor piece by piece, strapping the final greave to her leg and rising in one smooth motion. Then her eyes went to the amulet.

It rested where it always did—on the small black cloth at the edge of the stand. Silver, with etchings too fine to read, the gem at its center darker than blood. The Witness had given it to her after her first mission, placing it in her hand with a strange reverence.

“One day,” he had said, “I’ll tell you where it came from. When you’re ready.”

It was the only piece of her past she had. And it was enough.

She slipped it over her head and let it settle against her collarbone.

Then she turned to the door. She had one hour to assemble her team.

But she already knew the three she would take.

The barracks were loud when Dreya stepped in—laughter, sparring grunts, the clang of armor being checked and rechecked. It quieted fast.

She didn’t speak right away. Let them stew. Let the silence settle.

Then she said, “I need three.”

That was all it took. Every head turned. Conversations died mid-word. The air changed—sharpened.

From the benches, Andela gave a low whistle. “She’s picking teams like it’s a war game.”

Risha grinned. “Hope she picks me. I’ve been bored.”

“Only if you don’t slow her down,” Arden added, stretching where he leaned against a post.

Then came the voice that soured it.

“Three?” Veylan pushed up from a bench near the center, arms folded across his chest. “No commanding officer. No standing orders. Just you deciding who gets pulled?”

He smiled like it was a joke, but his eyes were mean with it.

“Cage,” he said, voice rising for the others to hear, “look who’s playing Hunter.”

A few of his friends snorted—one even gave a low whistle, mocking.

Dreya didn’t flinch.

“You want to spar again?” she asked, tone dry.

That killed the laughter. The last time, he left with a dislocated shoulder and a limp that took three weeks to shake.

Veylan’s mouth twisted, but he pressed on, louder now. “So the Witness just decided to let you lead a mission on your own? Guess the old man finally lost it.”

Andela’s boot tapped once against the bench leg. “He really wants to get hit,” she muttered.

“Two teeth says he does,” Arden replied, not bothering to hide his smirk.

Risha rose halfway from her seat, tension tight across her shoulders—but Dreya turned her head just slightly, eyes locking with hers. One look.

Risha smiled knowingly and eased back down. “I’ll take that bet,” she said to Arden. “You know… to keep it interesting.”

Dreya stepped forward, calm as dusk. “Careful, Veylan,” she said, her voice low. “You don’t follow orders unless they benefit you—and now you’re questioning the one man we all answer to?”

She hit him.

One strike—sharp, deliberate, and cruelly fast. The crack of bone against bone snapped through the room. He dropped, blood and two teeth skidding across the stone.

Dreya didn’t even glance down.

“Grow new ones before you open that mouth again.”

Andela let out a bark of laughter. Arden shook his head, grinning.

Then Dreya looked to them.

“Andela. Arden. Risha. You’re with me.”

No one else moved. No one dared.

As she turned for the door, Risha fell into step beside her. “So… when do we leave?”

“Soon,” Dreya said. “But first, you’re buying Arden a drink. She just won two teeth.”

The armory was quieter than the barracks—lit by amber glowstones that buzzed faintly overhead. Dreya moved between rows of armor stands and open crates, tossing a pair of shortblades to Arden. He caught them without looking.

“Travel light,” she said. “No heavy gear. We move fast, we stay unseen.”

Andela was already at a bench, checking the weight of throwing knives in her palm. “So what are we walking into?”

Dreya adjusted the strap across her chest and glanced back. “Syble and Setra.”

The room shifted. A pause. Even the soft metal-on-metal sounds seemed to hush.

“And Alaric.”

That landed harder.

Risha stood from where she’d been kneeling by a half-packed satchel. “All three?”

Dreya shook her head. “They’re not arriving together. But they’ll be in the same place. We don’t know if they’re working together—yet. That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Andela’s brow furrowed. “If they’re not already… you think they might?”

“I think we can’t afford to assume they’re not,” Dreya said. “And we can’t let any of them know we’re there.”

Arden snorted. “Just recon, then. Like a game of hide-and-don’t-die.”

Dreya gave him a look. “Exactly. We stay out of sight. No heroics. If we’re seen, it’s over. We’re not ready for a fight with any of them.”

Risha leaned her hip against the workbench, arms crossed. “And the others don’t know what Alaric really is.”

“They don’t need to,” Dreya said. “But you do. He’s not just a name. He’s the fallen god of time—and the fracture didn’t leave him powerless. The twins—”

“Are almost as old as Alaric, but a total mystery,” Arden interrupted, his voice low.

Dreya nodded, her expression grim. “We’re not walking into just a hunt. This is something else. And if they’re after the Aspects…”

Risha’s expression darkened. “We’re running a gauntlet.”

“Maybe,” Dreya said, her jaw tight. “But we stay focused. No matter what we find, we don’t engage unless we absolutely have to.”

She pulled her gauntlets from the bench and snapped them into place with practiced precision.

“We’ve got ten minutes to be in the Gateroom. This portal opens once. Miss it, and you find your own way back.”

Andela smirked. “That’s your version of a pep talk, isn’t it?”

Dreya turned just enough to flash her a half-smile. “You’re lucky I like you.”

She didn’t show it, but her mind was already spinning ahead. Recon wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It was supposed to be precise. Quiet. Clean.

But this wasn’t some rival guild or rogue sect sniffing at secrets they didn’t understand.

This was Alaric—the fallen god of time.

Like the Witness, he had seen the earth, sea, and sky shatter. He had survived the Riftveil, endured its unraveling. But where the Witness chose to preserve what remained, Alaric reached back toward what was lost. His vision of restoration—noble, even beautiful—would only birth another cataclysm.

She had studied him through the Witness’s tales, through the visions he’d shown her, teaching not through fear but understanding—what Alaric was capable of, and why he was best avoided. A being whose love for the world made him dangerous.

And it pained her. Because she was the only one who knew the truth: the Witness and Alaric had once been brothers, their bond shattered by the very catastrophe they had tried to stop. She carried that secret like like a hidden blade.

They weren’t meant to be enemies.

But Avalyth had no room for what should have been.

Excitement coiled in her gut.. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t safe. But there it was.

The Witness always said fear was a compass—it pointed to the edges of what you were meant to do. But that had never been why she followed it. If it scares me, it’s mine to do. If something felt too big, too dangerous, too far beyond her reach—she ran toward it. That was the measure of her. Always had been.

Still, this felt different.

He didn’t even know the Veilwardens existed. They operated in the folds of reality, cloaked in anonymity. A thousand missions, a thousand secrets, and not one trace left behind. They weren’t shadows. Shadows left outlines.

They were absence.

If that changed… if he saw them, sensed them…

The consequences would be absolute.

The Gateroom hummed with a low, constant resonance—magic coiled tight beneath the obsidian floor, veins of silver script pulsing toward the arched gate in the center like a heartbeat. Pale light shimmered across the curved walls, alive with warding runes and quiet menace.

Dreya stepped in first—and stopped.

The others almost collided into her.

He was already there.

The Witness stood at the far side of the gate, half-shadowed by the light radiating off the glyphs behind him. No fanfare. No guards. Just his presence—still, unnerving, absolute.

Every breath in the room changed.

It was like the air had thickened, memory clinging to every inhale. Arden straightened instinctively. Risha lowered her gaze. Even Andela, who never bowed to command without sarcasm, stood silent.

Dreya said nothing. She couldn’t. The last time she’d seen him this close, he was sending her off with a hand on her shoulder and a secret in his eyes.

For this.

The Witness looked at each of them in turn, gaze heavy as judgment.

“There’s been a convergence,” he said. His voice didn’t raise, but it filled the room like thunder kept politely on a leash. “Alaric will be in Aldenwood within the week. Syble and Setra as well. Whether by design or coincidence, we cannot say.”

He stepped forward, slow, controlled. “You are to determine whether they are working together—and if they are not, whether they will.”

Dreya didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.

“They may be hunting an Aspect. Or may already have one. We need to know which. We need to know what they know—and how they came to know it.”

He let the weight of that settle. No assumptions. No comfort.

“As for the twins,” he went on, “learn what you can. I do not expect much. But anything you uncover—pattern, allegiance, weakness—will be valuable.”

He turned then, facing Dreya directly. Not the captain. Not the soldier.

The chosen.

“Do not engage Alaric,” he said, his voice dipping low, final. “Not under any circumstance. If you are seen—retreat. If you are followed—disappear. If he leaves the city, follow from a distance. You do not confront him. You do not test him.”

He looked past her to the others.

“And you do not mistake the twins for lesser threats. They were shaped in the silence between gods. They are chaos dressed as myth. Do not treat them as mortal. If they sense you—vanish.”

A pause.

“There will be no extraction gate. This mission may take days. Weeks. Longer. You are not being sent into a warzone. You are being lowered into the quiet before it.”

Another pause. Deeper.

“Do not wake the storm.”

He let that linger. Then, with a glance toward Dreya’s companions—Arden, Risha, and Andela—his voice shifted, softening by degrees.

“You always choose the same three,” he said, more to her than to them. “I’ve noticed.”

His hand lifted, a faint glow gathering at his palm, threads of starlight woven through shadow.

“For your loyalty to her—for your willingness to follow without question—I grant you what I once gave only one.”

The blessing moved through the air like a breath, touching each of them in turn. Risha gasped. Andela blinked, stunned. Arden bowed his head, jaw clenched tight.

“You will not tire. You will not hunger. You will endure.”

Dreya didn’t react, but her chest tightened. She hadn’t asked for this. Had never thought he would offer it.

The others didn’t know what it cost him to give.

And she didn’t know why he had.

But somewhere behind his eyes, something flickered. Not strategy. Not command.

Something older. Sadder.

A quiet penance for the family he had taken from her—and the one he could never give back.

The glow of the gate intensified behind him, ready to open.

Dreya exhaled, only then realizing she hadn’t been.

And in the silence, she felt her fear again—her compass—quietly, insistently, pointing.

Toward him.

And this time, it wasn’t just her own reflection in its pull.

It was the weight of his eyes—the man who had shaped her, raised her, who was more than commander.

The only father she’d ever known.

And the one she was most afraid to disappoint.

The Witness’s voice cut through the hum of the gate, cold and sharp:

“If anyone is on the other side of this gate and sees you come through—kill them. We leave no trace.”

No hesitation followed.

“Yes, sir,” they all said in unison.

And then they stepped forward.

The gate flared to life—light bending inward as though the world itself recoiled. There was no sense of motion, only a wrenching shift, like being pulled through a seam in reality. For a breathless second, their bodies felt stretched thin, their souls echoing behind them—and then they were elsewhere.

A clearing. Quiet. Cold.

The scent of pine and wet loam greeted them as they emerged, grass flattening beneath their boots. Not far off, the road curled through the trees like a pale ribbon.

And someone had seen them.

A rider—lone, fast-moving—had turned his head just as the last shimmer of the gate faded. His eyes went wide, heels dug into the horse, and he shot toward the bend in the road like a man chasing salvation.

“Arden,” Dreya said.

Just his name. That was all.

He moved like instinct. One smooth motion—a throwing knife drawn, arm cocked back, released.

The blade sliced through the air, a glint of steel barely visible against the tree-dappled sky.

The rider crumpled mid-saddle.

They didn’t speak as they crossed the clearing, boots whispering through tall grass. The horse had kept running—spooked by the impact, reins dragging.

The man lay in a heap by the roadside, limbs tangled. Blood soaked into the dirt beneath him, slow and steady. His body had folded unnaturally, like something inside had been cut loose.

Dreya crouched first, fingers brushing the collar of his coat aside.

The knife had struck clean at the base of the neck, just above the spine—deep enough to sever everything that mattered. No struggle. No sound. Just lights out.

Andela crouched beside the corpse, tilting her head at the placement of the blade. “Damn,” she said. “There goes your high score.”

Arden smirked. “Still counts as a headshot if he thinks about it hard enough.”

She didn’t need to.

It was a ridiculous shot—well over one hundred and fifty yards, moving target, wind shifting through the clearing—and still, he’d hit precisely where he needed to.

It always struck her. The sheer accuracy. The ease.

Where she honed her body for close-quarters—the weight of a blade, the read of muscle and breath—Arden was the opposite. Cold distance, precise angles, and deadly reach. No wasted motion. No second tries.

She stood again, gaze flicking past the bend in the road.

Clean kill. No witnesses. Not a trace left behind.

They were in it now.

Risha shaded her eyes with one hand, scanning the horizon. “That’s Aldenwood,” she said. “Half a day’s ride—maybe most of a day walking. You can see the floating island from here.”

They followed her gaze—past the tree line, where the forest gave way to something stranger. The city didn’t sit within the woods so much as in a space carved from it. The trees had pulled back in a wide circle, like the forest itself had opened up a space for Aldenwood to exist. And floating above it all, massive and silent, was an island hung in the sky like a suspended breath. At its center, a great ash tree stood rooted in nothing, its pale branches stretched wide against the clouds.

“Well,” Dreya said, a grin tugging at her lips, “looks like we get to see the blessing in action.”

Risha gave her a sideways look. “You’re not suggesting we run the whole way.”

“I might be.”

“You do remember that’s miles, right?” Andela asked, incredulous. “Like actual, plural miles?”

Dreya turned to her, smile sharpening. “And you won’t even be out of breath when we get there.”

Andela snorted. “You think we’re just going to sprint through half a forest and not feel it?”

“I don’t think,” Dreya said. “I know. The blessing wasn’t meant to make us strong—it’s meant to show us what we already are when the limits are gone. I want you to feel that. I want you to know what it’s like to push hard, run far, and still feel exactly as fresh as you do standing here.”

Risha squinted toward the horizon again. “Still feels insane.”

Arden tilted his head thoughtfully. “Tell you what. If I win, I get to share your bed tonight.”

“You’re assuming you’d survive the attempt,” she said, aiming for menace—but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. A smile she didn’t mean to show. Quick, involuntary. Gone just as fast.

Arden caught it. Didn’t say a word. Just let the moment hang, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

Andela groaned. “Please try. I want to watch her kill you mid-snore.”

Arden grinned wider. “Worth it.”

With a playful smirk Dreya bolted knowing that her team would meet the challenge. The forest blurred past in shades of green and gold as they moved, boots thudding softly against earth still damp from the night’s rain. When they hit the road—narrow and winding through the trees like a forgotten vein—Dreya didn’t slow.

She ran.

Not a jog. Not a measured pace.

She ran.

And the others, blinking at first, followed.

The moment their feet hit the hardened path, the blessing revealed itself. No ache in their legs. No tightness in their lungs. Just speed—pure, effortless speed.

Andela let out a stunned laugh. “What the hell—this is insane!”

“I told you,” Dreya called over her shoulder, her voice steady, sharp with glee. “You’re not tired. You’re just used to pretending you are.”

Arden drew up alongside her, wind in his hair, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Remind me why we didn’t get this blessing sooner?”

Dreya smirked without slowing. “Because I didn’t know he would. And the Witness doesn’t give—he decides.”

She pulled ahead on the last word, long strides devouring the road.

Arden narrowed his eyes. “Is she actually racing us?”

Andela barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s racing. And she’s rubbing it in.”

“You owe me a bed, remember?” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth like a trumpet.

Dreya laughed, turning her head just enough to throw the next line like a knife over her shoulder:

“Better make other plans, Arden! You’ll need new sleep arrangements when I leave you behind!”

The road narrowed the closer they came to the city, pressed on either side by tall, moss-cloaked trees. Shafts of sunlight slipped through the canopy, turning the air golden. Slowly, the thick forest thinned, giving way to broad pines shaped by old magic and the stone markers of Aeldenwood’s outer boundary.

The capital emerged not all at once, but in pieces—a sound, a smell, the gleam of banners through the trees. Then the forest fell away, and Aeldenwood spread before them.

Dreya slowed, the others doing the same beside her as the road became crowded with carts and citizens, travelers and traders weaving their way toward the gates. Their boots struck cobblestone now, smooth and worn like polished bone. The scent of fire-roasted meats and wildflowers hung in the air, carried on the breeze.

The city pulsed with color and life. Stone buildings rose tall and elegant, balconies carved with ivy-like spirals. Market stalls clustered like flowers at the edges of broad plazas, hawkers calling above the din. Banners stretched overhead between rooftops—reds, golds, and deep forest green—casting shifting light across streets that twisted like the roots of some ancient thing.

Musicians played from shaded corners, and children darted past with fruit-stained fingers and pealing laughter. Nobles walked high balconies, sipping spiced wine and watching the crowd like gods of their own little courts.

And high above it all—Skyhold.

The floating island hovered in impossible stillness, a slab of earth suspended above the city by a web of shimmering arcane energy. Built into it—no, from it—was a castle of black and silver stone, rising out of the trunk of an ash tree so massive its gnarled bark formed the very foundation of the citadel. The tree’s bark gleamed faintly in the light, silver-white and veined like old marble, its pale green leaves glimmering like crystal. Roots curled along the underside of the floating island, not touching the city below but stretching wide as if reaching for something long lost.

Dreya stared. “That’s real?”

“It’s real,” Risha said softly, stepping up beside her. “That’s Skyhold. The Elder Council rules from there. No one knows how to reach it—only those they invite are ever taken up.”

Dreya’s eyes stayed fixed on the tree, its grandeur somehow heavier than the sky itself. “How long has it been up there?”

“Since the Riftveil,” Risha said. “The castle was once the home of the goddess who trapped Zarathorix. When the world fractured, something kept the tree standing. Some scholars believe it’s the oldest living thing in all Avalyth.”

Before Dreya could speak again, Risha’s tone turned more serious. She paused, glancing at Dreya. “The Elder Council—those in Skyhold—offer great rewards to anyone who brings them knowledge from before the Riftveil. They’ve been obsessed with the past for centuries, chasing scraps of history, trying to understand what was lost. They even promise a crown to anyone who can prove a claim to the bloodline of the old kings.”

Dreya’s gaze sharpened. “There’s still a bloodline?”

Risha shook her head. “No. It’s just a myth. The last king had no children—that much is known. But the Council still chases the idea, hoping someone shows up with the right name, the right relic. It’s been over a thousand years since anyone wore a crown in Avalyth.”

Dreya absorbed the words, her expression unreadable. Another ghost clung to power, another tragedy buried under time. Then she glanced at Risha again, her voice quiet but sincere.

“You always know these things,” she said. “Whole worlds in your head. It’s like you’ve read half the isles.”

Risha offered a faint smile. “Maybe just a third.”

A shout from the gate drew their attention—travelers were being ushered through in groups now, and the flow of foot traffic tightened into a crush.

They stepped forward, blending with the crowd.

Dreya walked in silence for a time, eyes scanning rooftops, alleys, faces. Her mind was already shifting gears, tightening into purpose. When the press of people finally loosened and the street opened wider, she pulled the others to the side of a shaded building and turned to face them.

“We spread out,” she said. “We’ll draw less attention and cover more ground.”

Her eyes flicked to Risha. “You take the residential sectors.”

Risha nodded. “They’re closest to the outer walls—the poorest district, tight streets and tighter community. Word travels fast there. If anything’s stirring below the noble eye, I’ll hear it first.”

Dreya looked to Arden. “You’re on the market lanes.”

Risha chimed in, “Merchants hear everything. You can talk your way out of as much trouble as your mouth gets you into. If there’s anything to learn, your silver tongue will get it faster than gold.”

Dreya turned to Andela. “You’ve got the arena district.”

“Figures,” Andela muttered, already adjusting her bracers.

Risha smirked. “You’ll blend in better than the rest of us there. Fighters talk when they sweat—and they brag when they bleed.”

“My kind of people,” Andela said with a wicked smile.

Dreya pulled her hood up. “I’ll take the taverns. Secure rooms. Ask questions. See who’s drinking too much to guard their tongue.”

“Scouting or drinking?” Arden asked with a grin.

“Both,” Dreya said without missing a beat.

“Back by nightfall?” Andela asked.

“If we can manage it,” Dreya said. “If you can’t return unseen—don’t.”

No more words were needed. They broke apart and slipped into the veins of the city, each headed toward their mark.

The tavern door groaned as it swung inward, spilling sunlight across a floor worn smooth by years of boots, spills, and brawls. Dreya stepped inside and let it close behind her, the noise of the street muffled in an instant. The air was warm—thick with the scent of hearth smoke, ale, and something sweet baking in the kitchens. Beneath it, a faint trace of damp wool and old wood lingered like memory.

Her eyes adjusted quickly. Shadows stretched long across the walls, lit by flickering lanterns and the steady fire behind the bar. Low music drifted from a corner where a man coaxed a tune from a lute with more strings than he had teeth. Voices filled the space—laughter, muttered bets, the steady hum of too much drink and not enough caution.

Dreya moved with purpose, skirting the edge of the room toward the barkeep. The woman behind the counter had dark, curly hair, a warm, inviting smile, and a quiet confidence about her. She didn’t ask questions when Dreya slid coin across the wood.

“Four rooms,” Dreya said. “Quiet, if you have them.”

“You’ll want the second floor, south hall,” the barkeep replied, tucking the coins away. “Keys are on the ring.”

Dreya took them, noting the numbers. Rooms eight through eleven. Across the hall, the numbers read backwards. She pocketed the keys.

With the rooms secured, she found a seat with her back to the wall and a wide view of the floor. Her hood stayed up, shadowing her face as she sipped something dark and bitter that passed for ale. She wasn’t here to drink. Not really.

To watch.

The conversation around the tavern was largely unhelpful. She learned of cheating husbands and disobedient children. Of stolen chickens and cursed weather. Of a card game gone wrong and a pig that wouldn’t stop screaming at dawn.

But she also learned that the elder council had been out of the city until two nights ago, and no one seemed to know where they’d gone. Apparently, that was normal. Still, Dreya noted it. Their search for lost history could put them on a path to the Aspects, and that would go in her report to the Witness.

The door to the tavern banged open again. A man strode in—broad-shouldered, flushed with urgency, clearly a local worker. He made straight for the bar.

“Elena!” he called to the barkeep. “You will never guess who I bumped into on the road here a few days ago! Oh, I can’t recall his name—I was so excited when he said he was coming I forgot to ask! But you know him! He hasn’t been here in ages! And he promised a story!”

Dreya’s brow knit.

Elena glanced up from cleaning a glass. “A bard?”

“Yes! Tall, lean fella, voice like winter. We were kids the last time he came. When I asked him if he’d be through Aldenwood, he said he had a story he’d never told here before—and it was time people remembered.”

The pieces slotted together in Dreya’s mind like blades into a sheath, fast and cold. Her grip tightened slightly on her mug, breath held just a moment too long.

He was coming. And soon.

As if fate had been listening—mocking her with timing—a chill swept across the room as the tavern door opened once more. Two figures entered in seamless tandem.

Syble and Setra.

The twins moved like dancers sharing one breath, joined at the shoulder beneath a flowing, shadow-colored cloak. One drow, one high elf—their contrast as striking as their synchronicity. They scanned the room without urgency. And when their gaze found Dreya, they moved toward her with quiet certainty.

They did not speak at first.

Instead, they settled into the seats beside her, moving as one. A barmaid passed, and they each ordered a drink—one deep red, the other clear and glittering with herbs.

“You’re early,” Syble said, finally breaking the silence. Her voice was soft, but carried something serrated underneath.

Dreya didn’t look at them. “Any need in pretending I have no idea what you’re talking about?” she asked, dryly. There was no insult in her tone—only resignation sharpened by caution. She knew better than to test the twins. The Witness had warned her well.

“None, Veilwarden,” Syble answered. Her voice dipped into a dangerous whisper.

Setra picked up smoothly. “It is fortunate that you are here.”

“Stay here,” Syble continued, tone flat. “Your team will learn nothing. But Alaric will be here in three days’ time. I’m sure you can guess that if we know you, he does—and we suggest you don’t let him catch wind of you.”

Something inside Dreya shifted—tight, unfamiliar.

The way they spoke in turns without pause, as if sharing one mind split between two bodies. Yet it wasn’t mimicry or echo. Each word carried the inflection of a separate intelligence, like two minds braided into one rhythm. It was unsettling in its precision. Not unnatural—something older than unnatural. Something rehearsed by blood and bound by design.

And it unnerved her. Not in the way danger usually did. It was colder. More intricate. Like standing before a clockwork machine whose ticking had already mapped her every move. It made her feel, for a moment, like a pawn in a game she hadn’t even realized she was playing.

Setra opened her mouth to speak again, but the door creaked once more and in walked a halfling—round-faced, ruddy-cheeked, and dressed in the work-stained leathers of a stablehand. He was the same man who had given Kael his horse days earlier, though Dreya had no way of knowing that. To her, he was just another local, albeit one with purpose in his step.

“There you are,” he said, striding up to the twins. “You said you had a horse for sale? Thought I’d come see for myself if it’s half as fine as you claimed.”

Syble and Setra stood, rising in perfect synchrony. Setra pulled her cloak tighter across the shared shoulder as Syble replied.

“Walk with us.”

Setra gestured toward the door. “We’ll speak outside.”

The halfling blinked, a bit startled, but turned and followed.

Dreya remained seated, her drink untouched now, eyes following the trio as they exited. She wasn’t part of that conversation. She was waiting—for Risha, for Arden, for Andela—to return from their reconnaissance. Alaric wasn’t here yet, but she couldn’t be sure whether the twins’ proclamation that her team would “learn nothing” was a warning, or a threat. As the minutes turned to hours, worry twisted slow and sharp in her gut.

The city had started speaking.

She just hoped her team returned before it began to scream.

The tavern door creaked open again, drawing the eyes of several patrons, but it was Andela who commanded attention. A slice below her eye, crimson already drying into a thin line, and a smear of blood on her cheek where it had trickled from her nose. But her grin was wide, bright—a warrior’s grin, one that seemed to say everything’s just fine.

Dreya straightened as she spotted her, offering a brief nod of acknowledgment, though she couldn’t suppress the flicker of concern that crossed her eyes. She knew Andela. Knew how hard the woman could push through the worst of situations. But this…

Andela didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she wiped the blood from her nose with the back of her hand and pulled a chair out with a flourish before settling into it with a deep sigh.

“The fighters here are amazing!” Andela said with a laugh, though it was tinged with exhaustion. “They don’t know much about things outside the arena, but they sure do know how to give a good scrap!”

Dreya’s mind wandered to their shared history—the countless hours spent sparring, the rhythmic thud of fists on flesh, the sound of blades slicing the air. Andela had always been her favorite partner in those training bouts, a whirlwind of force and energy. Even now, Dreya could still hear the crackle of their last sparring session echoing in her mind. Fighting was more than just muscle; it was about intuition, adaptation, and survival. Andela lived for it in a way that felt both reckless and pure.

And Dreya couldn’t deny it—Andela’s prowess as a fighter had been unmatched. It was something Dreya had admired and respected, even when their hands were locked in friendly combat.

“Just another day at the office,” Andela offered in explanation as she noticed Dreya’s look.

Dreya nodded, her gaze flicking over Andela’s face. She noticed the blood, but more than that, she noticed the faintest glimmer of excitement in Andela’s eyes. She was always a fighter—fists, feet, blade, or bo staff, combat was her thing. It was something Dreya knew well and loved about Andela.

Andela leaned forward, wiping blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. “Let’s just say, those fighters aren’t just throwing punches for fun. Nothing like fighting against someone when winning determines if they get a meal.”

Andela shrugged, carrying on in Dreya’s silence. “Other than that, I didn’t find much that would help us directly. A few new techniques, but nothing worth the risk. I tried talking to the arena master, but he’s tight-lipped. Nothing that leads anywhere useful. It’s all a dead end, Dreya.”

Dreya sat back in her chair and took a breath, allowing the silence to hang between them for a moment. Then, her voice was steady, though tinged with a deeper edge. “I think Alaric works from the same shadows we do. I’m beginning to doubt anyone here can tell us much. But when Arden and Risha get here, I’ll lay out what I know. You know how I hate repeating myself.”

She flagged down a passing server and ordered two drinks. When they arrived, she slid one across the table to Andela, her expression softening just slightly.

“Now tell me all about the men you bloodied for marking that pretty face.”

Andela snorted into her drink. “Only a few this time.”

The laughter came easy after that. Whatever else waited for them, for now they were just two warriors at a table—sisters in all but blood, sharing bruises, drinks, and the brief warmth of knowing they all had each other.

Arden pushed through the tavern’s main door with the weight of frustration riding his shoulders. Dust clung to the hem of his cloak, his jaw was tight, and his eyes went straight to Dreya and Andela. He joined them without a word, dropping into the seat beside Andela with a grunt and a shake of his head.

“Well?” Dreya asked, though her tone was already dry with expectation.

“Nothing,” Arden muttered. “Nothing that matters, anyway. The traders are all snarling about aetherstorms tearing through the northern lanes. Shipments from the Isles are delayed, costs are up, spice and silks are getting scarce.” He waved a hand. “It’ll go in the report. The captains might care.”

“But you don’t,” Andela said, not unkindly.

“No,” Arden admitted. “Because none of it gets us closer. No mention of Alaric, no word of any outsiders stirring the pot. Just grumbling merchants and supply lines stretched thin.”

Dreya leaned back slightly, studying him. “A dead end, then.”

“The cleanest kind,” Arden said. “Whatever’s moving here—it’s deeper than trade. Or too quiet for the streets to hear it.”

Dreya nodded. “I’m starting to think that’s by design.”

She didn’t elaborate, not yet. She’d wait for Risha—then decide how much to say.

For now, she signaled for another round. The table sat in a pocket of quiet, the three of them close in a world that didn’t know they existed.

It wasn’t long before Risha arrived, slipping through the tavern’s door like a shadow through fog. Her cloak was damp at the hem, her expression unreadable, but her eyes found the table in an instant. She moved with a dancer’s grace, fluid and quiet, and slid into the seat across from Dreya without ceremony.

Dreya arched a brow. “Tell me you brought something better than storm routes and spice prices.”

Risha gave a small shake of her head. “Nothing of use. No rumors, no movements, no whispers worth chasing. Either no one knows anything, or they’ve been paid well not to speak.”

She leaned back, stretching her gloves off finger by finger. “But I did learn a few things. Taxes are hitting hardest along the outer wall—worse than I expected. Poorer folk are being bled dry just for breathing the city’s air. The Wall District is crawling with collectors, loan sharks, and thugs dressed in bureaucracy.”

Andela let out a soft whistle. “Sounds like a lovely place to get stabbed.”

“Only if you can’t pay,” Risha replied dryly.

Arden snorted. “Another dead end, then.”

Risha nodded. “But a loud one.”

Dreya stared into her glass for a long moment, watching the way the amber liquid caught the low light. Then she leaned in, voice low but unmistakably sharp.

“The twins know we’re here.”

Arden stilled, the muscle in his jaw twitching. His fingers tightened around his drink, though he didn’t raise it. Andela blinked once, the grin she wore earlier vanishing like breath off glass. She leaned forward, elbows braced against the table, eyes narrowing. Risha’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came. Her expression stayed unreadable—but only just. A flicker of something passed through her eyes. Surprise. Worry. Recognition.

Dreya let the silence stretch a beat before speaking again, each word careful.

“And what’s more… they know who we are. As in Veilwardens.”

The weight of that truth sank in like a stone through still water.

“They knew Arden wouldn’t find anything. Knew the traders were just noise. Knew Risha’s ears would catch only silence. They either control the flow of information here, or they move as secretly as we do.” Her eyes flicked between them. “Maybe both.”

She took a slow sip of her drink, then set it down and continued, her tone shifting—less analytical now, more haunted.

“I watched them. Closely. The way they walked… it was like watching two shadows bound to a single flame. Perfectly in sync, but never quite the same. One leads with a step, the other finishes the thought with a smile. Their words loop into each other, not overlapping, not interrupting—just continuing.”

Dreya’s voice dipped lower.

“They speak like they’ve known every conversation before it’s said. Like they’re remembering it in real time. There’s no breath wasted. No hesitation. It’s unnerving.”

She paused again, and her hand unconsciously brushed the hilt of the dagger at her hip. Her voice dropped even further.

“They aren’t mortal. But they’re not quite divine, either. Whatever they are… they see things. Us. As if they’d already read our stories cover to cover.”

They confirmed it,” she said. “Alaric is coming. According to the twins, he’ll be here. In this tavern. Three days.”

The words landed like a hammer blow—quiet, but impossible to ignore.

Arden let out a sharp breath through his nose, shaking his head slowly. “Three days,” he muttered. “Just enough time to dig a grave or vanish.”

“They also warned he likely already knows who we are,” Dreya added. “If they do, then it stands to reason he might. Their words were… specific. And not just about us being here. They said we were early.”

Risha’s brow furrowed. “Early?” she echoed, a chill running under the word. “As if this was scheduled.”

“They didn’t say more,” Dreya went on. “Someone came to meet them. A stable master—wanted to buy a horse. They left without another glance. Just walked away like none of this mattered.”

Andela scoffed, though there was no humor in it. “We’re dancing on the edge of a blade, and they’re off selling horses?”

“Exactly,” Dreya said. “And that’s why I believe them.”

That silenced the table for a long moment. Only the dull murmur of the tavern around them kept the scene from falling into eerie stillness.

“I don’t trust them,” Dreya continued, voice tightening. “Not even a little. But I believe them. There’s a difference. If the Witness’s warnings are true—if the twins are what he says they are—then they could’ve killed me. Or any of you. But they didn’t. They were expecting us. They let me walk away.”

Arden’s jaw clenched. “Could be they’re waiting for something.”

“Or someone,” Risha added quietly.

“Maybe,” Dreya said. “But if Alaric is coming—if this is the same man the Witness fought and lost to—then we don’t have the luxury of maybes.”

She let her gaze sweep the group, lingering just long enough on each of them to make the silence between words carry weight.

“This isn’t a hunt anymore,” she said, finally. “It’s a countdown.”

Andela leaned back in her chair and drained the last of her drink, then set the mug down with a sharp clink.

“So,” she said, a grin tugging at the edge of her mouth, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Game of hide and don’t die begins in three days. Lovely.”

Arden groaned. “I hate that game.”

Risha said nothing, but the corner of her mouth curved—not quite a smile. Just an acknowledgment.

Dreya leaned back, picked up her drink, and took a slow sip.

“Good,” she murmured. “Then let’s make sure we don’t lose the first round.”

Risha’s eyes lingered on the worn surface of the table.

Her voice dropped—soft, deliberate.

“There’s one family I couldn’t stop thinking about,” she said. “Near the old breach in the wall. Four of them. Maren, the mother—keeps the hearth burning with barely enough fuel to boil water. Two sons, both too thin for their age. The younger one had bruises that didn’t come from play. And the father…” Her words slowed. “He’s a mason, but his hands are cracked and bleeding. Can’t find work anymore. Not the kind that pays honest coin.”

Andela’s posture changed—subtle, but sharp. She leaned in, jaw tightening.

“They borrowed to stay afloat,” Risha continued, her voice cool but brittle. “Just enough to get them through the last season. Then the taxmen came. Then the collectors. Their home’s in arrears, and the enforcers don’t wait long. I saw the badge on one of them—city sanctioned. The father’s got one week, maybe less, before they’re thrown out into the gutter.”

Dreya’s expression hardened.

“Why them?” Arden asked quietly. “Why tell us this?”

Risha met his gaze. “Because the father offered me his last apple. Said it wasn’t much, but that I looked like I needed it more than he did.” Pulling the apple from beneath her cloak and set it in the table.

A silence fell around the table.

Andela’s hands curled into fists beneath the wood. Her voice, when it came, was low and burning.

“What’s the younger boy’s name?”

“Jalen,” Risha answered, without hesitation.

Andela stared down into her drink. “Every damn poor place in this world’s got a Jalen—scraping by, praying no one notices them until it’s too late.”

Dreya didn’t speak, but she watched Andela carefully.

Risha leaned forward. “We came here chasing a storm, but the city’s already drowning, Dreya. Maybe not in blood or war—but in silence. In people forgotten.”

Andela pushed back from the table, her chair scraping across the floor as she stood.

“Then maybe it’s time someone remembered.”

Andela didn’t say another word—just turned and climbed the stairs with steady steps. No huff, no flare of temper. But the tightness in her shoulders spoke volumes. The tavern’s noise closed in behind her, but it didn’t follow her up.

The silence at the table stretched long after she was gone.

Risha glanced between Dreya and Arden, something curious flickering behind her eyes. “She seemed… shaken.”

Arden didn’t answer right away. He was watching the stairwell she’d disappeared through, his jaw clenched like he was grinding back words. Finally, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, and ran a hand over his face.

“She’ll be alright in the morning,” he said softly. “She always is.”

Dreya didn’t press, but her gaze held steady. So Arden continued, not out of obligation—but because the air felt like it needed filling with truth.

“We grew up in the Northern Isles,” he began, voice low. “Volcanic crags and endless ash storms. The soil was black as night, the air scorched and sulfurous. No green fields, no gentle rains—only the roar of lava and smoke. It wasn’t the kind of place you survived; it was the kind you endured.”

He paused, eyes distant.

“Our parents fell ill one season—ash fever, they called it. There were no healers who could help, no remedies we could buy. They burned out before the ash cleared.”

Arden’s hand tightened on his cup.

“I was still small. Andela… she wasn’t much older. But she made sure I ate. Stole food from supply caravans, bartered favors, did whatever she had to. I slept on that ashen ground hungry more nights than not, but never empty. I lived because she wouldn’t let me die.”

Risha shifted in her seat, attentive.

“That family Risha mentioned,” Arden said, voice rough, “they reminded her of home. Of everything she fought to escape—and to preserve. That’s why it hit her so hard.”

Dreya looked at the stairwell for a moment. With a short sigh she handed out keys. “First light tomorrow morning be here for orders. We have three days to kill with no leads I’ll want to make the most of them. Get some rest.”

With that they each left in turn so as not to draw attention waiting minuets in between before the next one went up.. Dreya was the last to leave.

Ok this is where we pick up. Just read this all back to me exactly the way it is

The sun hadn’t yet fully claimed the sky when Dreya descended into the quiet hush of the tavern’s main hall. The fire was low, embers still glowing from the night before, and the scent of old ale clung to the wood. She ordered breakfast for the others—simple, hearty fare—but asked for nothing herself.

The barkeep, sharp-eyed and weathered, gave her a once-over and wordlessly set about preparing something for her anyway. She didn’t argue.

Not five minutes later, Risha appeared, ever the early riser. Her hair was already braided back, armor half-fastened but clean, eyes bright and unbothered by the hour.

“Morning, Dreya,” she said, sliding into the bench beside her. “Food smells good.” She stretched with a groan. “We missed dinner in favor of drinks last night, and my stomach’s holding a grudge.” She grinned and let out a light giggle.

Then came Arden.

He shuffled down the stairs like a man returning from war, boots scuffing against each wooden step. He moved with the groggy resistance of someone who believed mornings were a punishment from the gods. But the smell of bacon and coffee hit him halfway down, and that was enough to stir life into his limbs.

“Well, well,” he said, slinking over to the table with a crooked grin. “A vision of beauty to greet me in the morning. Dreya, you shouldn’t have.”

She didn’t even look up. “I didn’t.”

Undeterred, he slid onto the bench across from her. “Your silence wounds me.”

“Then shut up and let me wound you more.”

He chuckled, unbothered, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Gods, I love mornings like this.”

“You love suffering,” Risha muttered around a bite of toast.

“And yet,” Arden said with a wink, “I’m still here.”

The last of the group to emerge was Andela. She came down the stairs with a measured pace, no storm in her eyes this morning, but something quieter—focused. Collected. The fire that had crackled behind her words the night before was banked now, replaced with something else.

Arden caught sight of her and raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his seat with his mug in hand. “I know that look,” he said. “That’s the ‘I’m planning something dangerous and I’m not telling you yet’ look.”

He said it with his usual smirk, but there was a thread of genuine concern woven into the tease.

Andela didn’t rise to it, not yet. “Morning,” she said to the group as she reached the table, her voice even. She gave Arden a sidelong glance and added, “I’ll tell you later.”

That was all he got.

She passed behind Risha and gave her a playful nudge. “Up with the sun again, little bird? You ever sleep in?”

“Once,” Risha said, “and I missed breakfast. Never again.”

Andela smirked and slipped into the seat beside her, her usual sharp wit and composed ease settling back into place like armor. Whatever had stirred her overnight, she wasn’t ready to share it. But for now, she was still theirs.

Plates clattered softly, steam rising from bowls and mugs as the group eased into the comfort of a shared meal. The barkeep had brought Dreya a plate despite her silent protest, sliding it in front of her with a grunt and a look that dared her not to eat it. She hadn’t touched it yet.

They talked while they ate—small talk, mostly. Risha complained about the stiffness in her shoulders from sleeping in armor. Arden claimed the coffee was so strong it could polish steel. Andela teased Risha for waking up early just to stare dramatically out the window like a war widow in a bad play.

Then came the real entertainment.

“I still can’t believe you knocked out Valyn’s teeth,” Arden said, grinning as he sopped up yolk with a piece of bread.

“Two teeth,” Andela corrected, pointing her spoon at Dreya. “And a molar. You hit him so hard I think his ancestors flinched.”

“I warned him,” Dreya said without looking up.

“He called her a ‘broodmare in armor,’” Risha added helpfully.

“He was drunk,” Arden offered.

“He was conscious,” Dreya said.

The table laughed—loud, easy, and warm. Even the barkeep cracked a grin as he passed by.

Conversation drifted after that—old stories, worse hangovers, the bacon being better than expected. For a while, it was just breakfast. Just them.

And then Dreya stood.

She didn’t speak at first. She didn’t have to.

The scrape of her chair, the shift in her posture, the sudden stillness of her frame—those were enough. Her team fell silent, mid-sentence and mid-chew, eyes lifting to her with instinctive attentiveness. Even Arden stopped smirking.

She cleared her throat.

The moment hung, the air drawn taut.

“We have to make the most of the three days we have before Alaric arrives,” she said. Her voice was calm, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. “Once he’s here, he will be our primary focus. But until then, we need to see what advantages we can find for the Veilwardens.”

She looked to Arden first.

“Arden, you’re going back to the market lanes. This time, you’re not just sniffing out rumors. You’re looking for opportunity. I want eyes on trade routes—places where we could quietly position agents. If people move through it, we need to be watching it.”

He gave a lazy salute with his fork. “Eyes open, mouth shut. Got it.”

Next, Dreya turned to Risha. “You’re going to the library. Gather as much information as you can—on anything. I know how you like to learn, but prioritize anything that might help the captains when they write their reports to the generals. Make it useful.”

Risha’s breath caught like a child being handed a whole cake. “The Lorekeeper’s Library…” she said, almost salivating. “The largest known collection of knowledge in all the Isles.” Her fingers twitched toward her satchel, already itching for ink and parchment.

Andela snorted softly, and Dreya turned to her next—expecting it.

“Hunter,” Andela said, sitting a bit straighter. “Request permission to return to the arena.”

Dreya hesitated. Just for a breath. Then, her gaze sharpened.

“Only if I go with you.”

Andela nodded once. “No objection.”

The moment hung again—charged now, but settled. The morning’s ease was gone, replaced by readiness. The team didn’t need a battlecry. They just needed orders. And Dreya had given them.

“Back by nightfall,” Dreya said. “We don’t wander the city after dark. People pay strangers closer attention when the sun goes down.”

She made the final command with quiet authority.

“Move out.”

Chairs scraped back. Plates were left half-finished. The team rose with martial efficiency and scattered to their assigned paths.

Dreya turned to Andela. “Alright. What are we up to?”

Andela didn’t answer right away. They walked in silence toward the arena, boots tapping steadily on cobbled stone.

“I’m going to use the city’s law to make a difference,” Andela finally said.

Dreya didn’t press. She just gave a short nod, and they kept walking.

The arena gates were still shut when they arrived. A few early spectators loitered nearby, urmuring about odds and favorites, trading coins and rumors.

Dreya scanned the crowd—and spotted him immediately.

The stablemaster stood out. Not many holdings moved through the city, and fewer still carried themselves like barkeepers with side hustles in bloodsport. He stood beside a wiry man with sharp green eyes and a scar that ran clean from ear to ear. That, more than anything, caught her attention. She couldn’t imagine how he’d survived a wound like that.

He noticed her watching and waved them over, broad grin splitting his face.

“I remember you!” he called. “From the tavern, right? Come to place a bet? I’ve got a list of sure things—and Kael here’s about to make me rich.” He laughed, clapping the scarred man’s shoulder.

Kael gave a faint smile, the kind that knew too much. It didn’t reach his eyes.

Andela stepped in, her tone sharp. “You take big bets?”

Dreya gave her a sidelong glance, already wary.

“Not personally,” the stablemaster said, “but I know the man who does. What are we talking about?”

“I’m invoking the city’s ‘keep what you kill’ law,” Andela said. “I’m challenging the highest office of the city guard. I’ve got ten thousand gold, and I want it on myself.”

The stablemaster let out a low whistle. “Now that’s a wager. I’ll give you five to one—and I’ll even be the first to bet against you.”

He pulled out a battered book and flipped it open, scratching in notes with quick strokes.

“Don’t figure you’ll last more than three minutes against Hale. Commander of the guard. Best fighter the city’s got. Not a crowd favorite, but gods, he’s good.”

“I’ve got five thousand,” Dreya said, voice cool and sure, “that says Andela snaps him like a twig.”

Kael studied Andela for a long moment, eyes narrowing. She recognized the look—it was how she weighed a foe before the first blow. He was doing the same.

“Tell you what,” Kael said at last. “I’ve only got five hundred. But five to one? I’m betting on the stranger.”

The stablemaster grinned wide, tallying it up. “Alright, then. Gates open soon. You lay your challenge before the first bout—they’ll give you a half-hour. Time enough for me to take the bets and get ready to pay out… if you win.”

A horn sounded—deep and brassy, echoing through the stone like the call of something ancient.

The arena gates creaked open.

Andela didn’t hesitate. She walked straight for the threshold, where city guards stood in crisp rows, spears gleaming beneath the morning sun. No words. No ceremony. She just strode in.

Dreya made to follow, but one of the guards held out a hand. “Challengers only. Spectators to the stands.”

Before she could argue, Kael’s voice cut in—low, smooth.

“Come with us,” he said, gesturing toward a private stairway tucked just off the main drag. “We’ve got a box. Good seats.”

Dreya hesitated, then nodded once.

She followed Kael and the stablemaster, winding up a narrow stairwell that opened into a shadowed balcony box. From here, she could see the entire arena floor—every grain of sand, every bloodstain not yet swept clean.

She found Andela immediately. The soldier stood alone in the center, a dark figure against the pale sun-washed pit.

Andela lifted her head. Their eyes met.

Dreya gave her a slow, sure nod.

And then she sat—shoulders tight, heart rising—utterly overtaken by the thrill of what she knew was coming.

Andela stepped forward, voice ringing out clear and sharp across the arena.

“I lay challenge by way of city law—here, in front of all of you as witnesses. Hale! I challenge you for your position—and all the luxury and pay that goes with it!”

A ripple passed through the gathering crowd. Whispers stirred. Eyes turned.

Then a man stepped forward.

He wasn’t towering, but every inch of him was forged in discipline and honed strength. Broad-shouldered, confident in his stride, with the kind of presence that told you he’d seen blood spilled and likely spilled it himself. His armor, though functional, had been customized—leather reinforced with steel plating at the joints and chest, worn smooth where sword strikes had glanced off in battles past. Scars crept from beneath the collar of his cuirass and down his forearms, one of them jagged and pale across his right cheek like a lightning bolt carved in flesh.

His head was shaved close, the remnants of silver-blond hair catching the light, and his eyes—ice-blue and cutting—scanned Andela not with contempt, but with calculation. He held himself like a man who’d never once hesitated in a fight—and never needed to.

“You want my post?” he called back, voice low and dangerous. “The attempt to take it will cost you your life. Challenge accepted.”

He paused—just long enough to let the weight of it settle—then added with a smirk, “Return here in one half hour. Make your funeral arrangements. Or maybe we’ll toss you to the vultures.”

The crowd hissed and murmured.

There was no bluff in him. No false bravado. He was a soldier, through and through—and he clearly enjoyed the risk.

Dreya, watching from the balcony, felt a tension coil in her chest.

She didn’t doubt Andela’s strength.

But something about Hale’s posture, the measured way he spoke, the calm of it—

Dreya silently began to worry.

watched the arena gates open once again, a harsh creak echoing in the heavy silence that had settled over the crowd. She was perched in the shadowed box with Kael and Finn, her eyes locked on the figures emerging from opposite sides of the arena.

Andela stood tall, her frame the image of readiness, but Dreya’s attention was quickly drawn to the figure across the pit. Hale stepped forward, the very air around him seeming to change with his presence.

The armor he wore was a far cry from the polished military armor he had donned when Andela first challenged him. This was different—darker, more worn, as though the years of combat had taken their toll. It wasn’t shiny or ceremonial. This armor was the mark of someone who had earned his place through survival, who had fought countless battles and lived to see the aftermath. It bore the scratches and dents of wars won and lost, each mark a testament to the blood he had spilled and the lives he had taken. The leather was cracked in places, the steel bits dulled, not glistening but worn with purpose.

And then Dreya noticed something—something that twisted in her gut, sending a chill through her spine. This wasn’t just the armor of a commander. This was the armor of a Draegard, the elite soldier class of Avalyth’s most renowned warriors—men and women handpicked from the finest fighters, skilled not only in battle but in strategy, in leadership, and in survival. The Draegard were not simply soldiers; they were living legends, renowned across the Isles. They wielded blades like artists, and their battle tactics had been studied by generals for centuries. Only a few earned this title, and they were known for their ability to outthink and outfight any opponent.

The name Draegard sent a ripple through Dreya’s thoughts, memories of the Witness’s voice slipping into her mind. “The Draegard,” the Witness had once said, “are the pinnacle of the warrior’s path. Few are chosen. Fewer still survive.” Dreya had never fully understood what that meant, but she knew now. This man before her—Hale—was not just any soldier. He was a Draegard. And that brought with it a weight of expectation, not just from his commanders, but from his very name.

She swallowed hard as the realization hit her. The Draegard were the inspiration behind her own name—Dreya. The Witness had named her in honor of those warriors. The Draegard were a symbol of strength, mastery, and survival, and now, standing before her, one of their own was about to face Andela in a fight to the death.

As the full weight of Hale’s true identity sank in, Dreya’s stomach twisted. A Draegard. He wasn’t just any soldier. He was a living nightmare for anyone who had ever faced him in combat.

Hale’s gaze swept over the arena, cold and calculating, before he raised his voice, deep and authoritative, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.

“I accept the challenge,” he said, his voice ringing out like a bell. “And I declare that the only way this fight ends is with death. No surrender. No mercy.”

Dreya’s heart stuttered in her chest. The words hung in the air, pregnant with the weight of the finality they carried. Only death would settle this.

Kael leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowed as he studied Hale. Finn’s expression was unreadable, but Dreya could feel the tension radiating off him as he locked eyes with her. She didn’t need to look at him to know that they were both thinking the same thing: Andela was facing an impossible foe.

Andela had no idea what she was up against—not fully. Dreya’s mind flashed back to the night before, when she had seen that fire in Andela’s eyes, that quiet, dangerous resolve. But now, with Hale standing before them in his Draegard armor, Dreya couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just a fight for the title or the challenge—it was a fight for Andela’s very life.

Hale’s challenge rang through the arena, his words casting a shadow over the crowd. The murmurs swelled, whispers of disbelief and anticipation filling the stands. This wasn’t just any contest. This was a battle of life and death.

Dreya’s jaw clenched, and her eyes flicked to Andela. The soldier stood resolute, her back straight, the fire of defiance in her eyes. But Dreya couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling that gnawed at her insides. Andela had always faced danger with unwavering confidence, but this was different.

The Draegard were not just men who fought. They were living legends. And if Andela wasn’t careful—if she didn’t see through the layers of deceit and cunning Hale would surely bring to the fight—then this wouldn’t just be a challenge. It would be her end.

The arena had fallen silent, the tension in the air palpable as the two warriors locked eyes across the bloodied sands. Andela stood poised, her muscles coiled with anticipation. Her sword was gripped tightly in her hands, but her gaze was fixed not just on Hale, but on the aura of fearsome legend that surrounded him. She had heard the whispers, the stories, but seeing him in the flesh—feeling the weight of his presence—was something entirely different. This was not a man; this was a Draegard, a living weapon forged in the fires of war and conflict.

Across from her, Hale remained still, a monolith of quiet power. The shadow of his helm hid his face, but the glint of cold steel was unmistakable. His armor was a testament to the battles he had fought, battered yet unbroken. He didn’t need to make a grand gesture; his very stance, casual but confident, was enough to strike fear into anyone who dared to challenge him.

The horn sounded, the signal to begin, and Andela moved first. Her body surged forward with explosive speed, a blur of motion as she aimed for his legs, intent on taking him off balance. But Hale was already anticipating her move. He shifted to the side effortlessly, his movements fluid, like water flowing around a rock. The sound of steel scraping against armor rang out harshly as her blade missed, the force of her strike dissipating against his unyielding defenses.

Hale didn’t waste time. His sword came up in a vicious arc aimed directly at her midsection. Andela blocked the strike, her muscles straining as the impact reverberated through her arms. She staggered back, her feet sliding in the dirt, but Hale was relentless. Before she could regain her footing, another strike came, faster this time, crashing against her blade with a force that pushed her further back.

She feinted left, her blade flashing in a deceptive arc, but Hale was already on the move. His sword intercepted hers mid-strike, the clash ringing out, the shock of it traveling through her arm. She spun away, narrowly avoiding the follow-up strike aimed at her throat. The crowd was silent, watching with bated breath.

She lunged again, this time with a feint that sent Hale momentarily off balance. His sword met hers with a resounding clang, but she twisted out of his grasp, sidestepping his counterattack. Her blade sliced through the air, narrowly missing his face. The crowd gasped at the near miss, and for a split second, Andela thought she had finally made a breakthrough.

Andela’s next strike came fast, but Hale was faster. His sword slashed across her shoulder, and she staggered, the force of the blow leaving her arm numb. The pain was sharp, but she didn’t falter. She gritted her teeth, pressing forward, her sword an extension of her will. But every attack she launched was met with his impenetrable defense, his strikes relentless.

She spun to avoid another of his attacks, her movements fluid, but Hale’s sword was already there, intercepting hers with devastating precision. The force of his blows pushed her back, step by step, and she could feel her strength beginning to wane. She was tiring, her breath coming in ragged gasps, while Hale remained as steady and unyielding as ever.

The clash of steel echoed across the arena as they circled each other, the crowd frozen in anticipation. Andela could feel the weight of the battle bearing down on her, the blood from her shoulder staining her tunic.

She dropped low again, aiming for the vulnerable gap in his armor near his knee. It was a risky move, one that could either end the fight or leave her wide open. But she had no choice. She had to make this work.

Her sword connected, a sharp pain in Hale’s leg making him stagger. For the briefest moment, Andela thought she had gained the upper hand. But it wasn’t enough. Hale recovered with terrifying speed, his sword flashing toward her once more. She barely managed to parry the strike, the force of it knocking her off balance.

With one last surge of energy, Andela darted beneath his guard again, her sword cutting through the air toward his throat. The arena held its breath as the tip of her blade neared its target. For a split second, it seemed as though the fight was hers.

But Hale’s reflexes were inhuman. His arm shot up, grabbing her wrist with a vice-like grip. With a violent twist, he sent her spinning to the ground. Her sword flew from her hand, landing several feet away as she lay there, gasping for air. The finality of it struck her with an overwhelming force. She had lost.

Andela looked up, her vision blurry, her body spent. Hale stood over her, his sword raised for the final strike. The crowd was still, waiting for the end. But before he could bring his sword down, a blur of motion appeared between them.

Kael.

His figure flashed into view, his eyes burning with fury as he grabbed Hale’s wrist mid-swing. The Draegard’s surprised grunt was barely audible over the roar of the crowd as Kael twisted Hale’s arm, halting the strike.

The arena, which had held its breath in silence for the majority of the fight watched on no challenge had ever been interrupted this way they weren’t sure what was happening. Andela could barely comprehend what had just happened. Kael had intervened—and in doing so, saved her life, putting his at risk for a complete stranger.

Kael’s sudden entrance had frozen everything—time, breath, expectation. He stood between Hale and Andela like a ghost risen from ash and shadow, eyes cold, voice unflinching.

Dreya’s heart skipped, her mind racing as she tried to process the impossible speed of it all. How had he crossed the arena so quickly? How had he moved so silently? He had been right there, beside her, and now, he stood between Andela and death with the stillness of a man who belonged to both worlds.

“I’ll have you in irons for this,” Hale snapped, his blade still hovering inches from Andela’s chest.

Kael tilted his head slightly, a hint of something like amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. “Oh no,” he said quietly. “You keep what you kill, right?”

A pause—then Hale’s eyes flickered, a recognition sparking behind the iron. A grin followed, dry and dangerous. Slowly, almost ceremonially, he lowered his blade.

Kael stepped forward without hesitation, kneeling beside the fallen woman. His hand hovered over her shoulder a moment, then gently touched the wound. His expression never changed. No anger. No pity. Just purpose.

“I challenge you,” he said to her quietly, but clear enough for those listening, “for your place in this fight.”

Then he struck her—quick, clean, a blow to the side of the head that dropped her into unconsciousness. It wasn’t cruelty. It was mercy. A gesture of strange, emotionless kindness.

Rising, Kael turned his gaze to Hale.

“This is the first time anyone here has seen you wear that armor,” he said, voice calm. “You laid a great trap for an unwitting warrior.” His eyes sharpened. “She faced what she didn’t understand,” Kael said. “I’ve already survived it.”

Hale’s brow lifted. He studied Kael for a moment longer, sword still gripped loosely in one hand.

The Draegard circled once, considering. “What’s your name, boy? I want to know what name we set on your gravestone.”

Kael’s answer came without delay. “Kael Moren.”

Dreya looked at Finn. A look of terror and grief was already on his face as if he just watched his best friend die twice.

“Moren?” Hale echoed, now pacing a slow arc across from Kael. “You were rejected for the guard—labeled unfit.” His voice darkened, intrigued. “But you later trained under…” He trailed off, a smile twisting on his face. “Well. This will be interesting.”

He lifted his sword again.

“I accept,” he said. “If you win—she gets the reward. You get nothing. If you lose, I kill you both. Fair?”

Kael nodded once.

He stepped over to where Andela’s sword had fallen. For a moment, he just stared at it.

It looked awkward in his hands—not his blade, not his weight. Andela’s sword had been forged for someone else, its balance tuned to a different rhythm. But as he adjusted his grip, Dreya noticed something shift. His stance settled. The steel no longer fought him. It wasn’t familiarity—it was instinct. Like muscle remembering something the mind never learned. Like he’d done this before, in another life.

Hale watched him silently, then held out his free hand, gesturing to the rack. “Shield?”

Kael shook his head. “None.”

And that was it. No more words.

They began to circle.

Two men—one armored and tested, the other scarred and unreadable—measuring the space between them. The crowd leaned forward, barely daring to breathe.

And above, from her perch in the shadows, Dreya watched—as a Veilwarden, as the Hunter— and as Andelas sister in all but blood. Watching a man worth remembering step into the ring of fate.

Hale struck first—a heavy, brutal slash meant to end the fight quickly. Kael didn’t meet it head-on. He slipped aside, the tip of his borrowed blade flicking out, catching Hale’s exposed gauntlet with a sharp, punishing tap. A counter, fast and precise. Not meant to wound—meant to remind.

Hale grunted, adjusting, but Kael was already reacting to the shift in his weight. The Draegard stepped forward to press the attack—and Kael answered by pivoting low, driving the pommel of his sword into the ribs of Hale’s armor as he passed. A hollow clang echoed across the arena. The blow wasn’t enough to drop him, but it knocked Hale’s momentum off center.

Kael didn’t stay to trade blows. He retreated a half step, hands loose on the hilt, waiting—inviting—the next strike.

It came. Hale lashed out, faster this time, a vicious chop aimed at Kael’s shoulder. Kael twisted under it, one boot sliding across the dust, and as he came up, he drove a knee into the soft gap behind Hale’s thigh—a brutal shot meant to buckle the bigger man’s balance.

Hale staggered again, his sword swinging wide to recover. The Draegard’s frustration was a living thing now, sparking in every heavy breath, every tightened grip.

Kael’s face stayed blank. Not triumphant—measured.

He wasn’t beating Hale with strength. He was dismantling him.

Every counter, every slip, every small strike was another thread pulled from the myth of the Draegard—and Hale was beginning to feel it.

Across the arena, Dreya leaned forward, reading the rhythm of the fight with sharp eyes. She knew what she was seeing, even if the crowd didn’t yet. Kael wasn’t surviving.

He was breaking Hale.

But Hale was no ordinary opponent.

He had been forged in the crucible of real war, not just the pageantry of the arena. Pain and frustration didn’t break men like him — they sharpened them.

The next time Kael slipped aside, Hale didn’t overcommit. He feinted high, reading the twitch of Kael’s weight, and when Kael moved to counter, Hale pivoted sharply, driving a brutal elbow toward Kael’s temple.

Kael ducked just in time. The elbow skimmed past his hair, close enough to stir the air.

For the first time, Kael’s balance faltered. Just a fraction — but enough.

Hale saw it.

He pressed in ruthlessly, his sword flashing in tight, relentless arcs, battering at Kael’s defenses. The easy rhythm Kael had used to pick him apart was under siege now, and he was forced to give ground, parrying blow after blow in a storm of ringing steel.

The crowd found its voice again, roaring with each clash.

Hale wasn’t just adapting. He was hunting.

Kael’s feet slid across the sand, searching for an opening, refusing to be trapped against the arena wall. Every time Hale struck, Kael answered — barely. A glance off the edge of his blade. A narrow sidestep. A deflection just shy of perfect.

But survival wasn’t defeat.

Kael let the tempo spiral, let Hale believe he had the advantage. He needed a crack — a single breath’s hesitation — and when it came, when Hale overreached just slightly on a downward strike, Kael stepped inside.

A vicious headbutt caught Hale across the bridge of the nose.

The Draegard reeled back half a step, blood trickling from beneath the rim of his helm.

Kael didn’t press. He didn’t rush. He reset, light on his feet, breathing steady. Waiting.

Across the arena, Dreya’s fingers tightened around the stone wall, her heart hammering.

This wasn’t luck. It wasn’t desperation.

Kael was fighting like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

And Hale —

Hale was beginning to realize it.

Hale wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his gauntlet, his lips twisting into something that was not quite a smile.

And a promise.

He adjusted his grip on his sword, setting his feet differently — narrower, lower. The stance of a man who had stopped seeing Kael as a nuisance and started seeing him as a true opponent.

The next strike wasn’t brute force. It was calculated. A shallow feint toward Kael’s shoulder that transitioned mid-motion into a low sweep aimed at his legs — a veteran’s trick, designed to catch a faster fighter mid-step.

Kael barely cleared it, leaping back. His heel brushed the arena’s outer ring of stone.

Hale was already moving, giving him no space to breathe.

The Draegard shifted from raw assault to tactical pressure — boxing Kael in with surgical precision, forcing him into tighter and tighter circles. Every swing, every step was a threat designed not just to wound, but to corner.

Kael parried a brutal overhead strike and pivoted, but Hale anticipated, twisting with him, slamming the flat of his blade into Kael’s ribs.

The impact rattled Kael’s lungs. He staggered sideways — not falling, but close.

The crowd roared at the shift in momentum, sensing blood.

Dreya leaned forward, her fists clenched tight against the stone ledge.

This was Hale in his element now — no longer brute force, but cold, methodical dismantling.

Kael knew it, too.

He drew a sharp breath, forcing the pain down, recalibrating. He couldn’t outpower Hale. He couldn’t outpace him forever.

If he was going to survive this, he would have to outthink him.

Again.

Hale circled closer, reading him, measuring him — waiting for Kael to panic.

Kael didn’t.

He sank lower, blade loose in his hand, letting the world narrow to just Hale’s eyes, his shoulders, the faint twitch of muscle that would give him the next move.

The next clash wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t a brawl.

It was a blade sliding against another blade — two predators circling, neither giving ground without a cost.

A fight not of strength alone, but of minds.

Around them, the arena shifted.

The crowd, which had begun the fight howling for blood, had gone quieter — not silent, but different.

The roar of violence had given way to something rarer, sharper.

Awe.

They knew, even if they didn’t fully understand, that this was no ordinary duel. They were watching two masters at work — a game of inches, of seconds, where one mistake would mean death.

Above them, Dreya watched with the taut stillness of a bowstring drawn tight.

Her sharp eyes read the language of every small movement — the micro-faints of Hale’s shoulders, the subtle angling of Kael’s stance. She could see the thought behind each strike, the traps hidden in every shift of weight.

Dreya had seen great fights before.

This was rare.

This was the kind of battle that people would tell stories about long after the dust had settled.

She gripped the edge of the stone rail until her knuckles turned white, breathing slow and steady through her nose.

She knew Kael was outmatched in experience. In reputation.

But something in the way he moved — the way he learned Hale with every exchange — made her gut say the outcome was far from certain.

Down in the pit, Kael let Hale close again, their blades clashing in a bright, sharp chorus.

He wasn’t winning every exchange.

But he wasn’t losing them cleanly either.

Waiting for his moment.

Kael slipped another heavy strike, the blade hissing past his ribs.

He adjusted — fast.

Where a lesser fighter might have pressed forward in anger, Hale pulled back half a step, realigning his stance, his sword coming up in a tighter guard.

No panic.

The Draegard’s mind was catching up to the danger Kael posed, and he was adapting.

Their blades met again — steel kissing steel with sharp, brutal force. Kael twisted aside, angling for another counter, but Hale was ready this time. His guard dropped low to catch the thrust, and his shoulder rolled into a brutal shove that nearly knocked Kael off his feet.

The crowd roared at the clash, the tension rippling through them like a live wire.

But Kael didn’t stumble.

He turned the momentum, letting the shove carry him into a pivot that brought him inside Hale’s guard — close enough to see the narrow glint of calculation behind the Draegard’s eyes.

Kael’s knee snapped up, driving hard into the inside of Hale’s thigh again — another sharp, surgical blow aimed to wear down the bigger man’s foundation.

Hale grunted, shifting his weight instinctively to absorb it — but Kael was already moving, striking low with the flat of his blade across the damaged leg, forcing Hale to take another step back.

It was small. Barely visible.

But in a fight like this, every inch mattered.

Dreya leaned forward from her place in the stands, hardly breathing.

The crowd around her was divided — half roaring Hale’s name, the other half stunned into silence.

They were seeing it now, those sharp enough to understand:

Kael wasn’t just surviving.

He was building something. Strike by strike, breath by breath.

Tearing down a legend the only way you could — not with strength, but with precision and patience.

Below, Kael pressed forward again, feinting another high cut.

Hale parried — but this time, Kael wasn’t there. He dropped low, swept Hale’s feet with a brutal kick, and the Draegard stumbled, forced to catch himself with his free hand on the bloodstained sand.

Another gasp rippled through the arena.

For the first time, Hale was on the back foot — visibly, undeniably.

Didn’t gloat.

He waited, sword poised, giving Hale the space to stand.

This wasn’t over.

Kael waited, his sword steady, his breathing controlled. He saw the frustration in Hale’s eyes, the shift in his stance that marked the Draegard’s recalibration. For the first time in this fight, the arena fell eerily still — even the crowd seemed to sense the change. Kael hadn’t just been landing blows; he’d been chiseling away at Hale’s legendary composure.

But Hale wasn’t broken. Not even close.

The Draegard’s posture grew more deliberate, his eyes narrowing with focus. In that moment, Kael saw the shift — the calm before the storm. Hale wasn’t just going to fight; he was going to teach Kael why this wasn’t a battle he could win.

No warning.

Just a brutal, precise assault of strikes — each one crafted to dismantle Kael’s defenses, not just pierce them.

Kael parried the first blow, barely deflecting the deadly arc of Hale’s blade. The impact reverberated through his arms, the force of it stealing a fraction of his momentum. Then came the second strike, faster than Kael expected. He twisted to avoid it, but Hale wasn’t letting up. The Draegard was on him now — every movement crisp, controlled, and brutal.

Kael’s heart raced, his mind spinning for a response, but Hale’s sword came down in a vicious vertical slash, catching Kael’s guard off balance. The blade cut through the air like a falling guillotine, its edge gleaming with deadly intent.

The hit landed — the flat of Hale’s blade slammed into Kael’s side, sending a shock of pain through his ribs. A gasp escaped Kael’s lips as the blow knocked him sideways. His feet skidded in the sand, but before he could fully recover, Hale was already on him again.

Hale’s eyes never left him — focused, calculating. Each strike was a test of Kael’s reflexes, his endurance. The Draegard was not only attacking Kael’s body; he was probing for weaknesses in his defenses.

Kael barely dodged a high cut, the blade hissing past his ear, but the next strike found its mark — a quick, precise jab aimed at his abdomen, forcing him to step back with a grunt.

For the first time, Kael felt the pressure of Hale’s experience and raw strength. The Draegard wasn’t giving him space to breathe anymore. There were no counters, no breaks in the rhythm — just relentless forward motion. It was a different kind of battle now. Not the calculated match Kael had been playing, but a raw test of endurance.

Kael’s chest heaved as he fought to maintain his composure. Each strike that landed rattled him, each blow a reminder that Hale wasn’t just a warrior; he was the warrior. A symbol of Avalyth’s fighting elite.

The next strike came, faster than the last. Kael ducked, but Hale’s blade swept low, cutting across his ribs with a painful hiss. Kael staggered, breath catching in his chest. His side burned from the blow.

It was no longer just about skill. It was about who could survive the longest.

Across the arena, Dreya clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing. She could see it now — Hale wasn’t just fighting Kael. He was pulling him into a game of attrition. A fight where only one would emerge standing, and Hale wasn’t used to losing.

She could feel the tension in the air as the tide shifted.

Hale’s strikes came harder now. Kael’s defenses, once so sharp, were beginning to fray. His steps became heavier, slower. His movements, still agile, lacked the precision they had before.

And Hale saw it.

In a heartbeat, the Draegard changed tactics again — no more wasted movements. No more testing. He was going to end it.

With a roar, Hale surged forward, his sword moving faster than Kael could react. Kael twisted, but Hale was already on top of him. The blade crashed against Kael’s chest, knocking the wind from him. His legs buckled under the force, and he collapsed to the ground.

The crowd erupted, but Kael’s mind was still sharp. His hand gripped the sword’s hilt tightly, and he pushed himself back to his feet. But Hale wasn’t done. He moved in, striking with a precise flurry — each blow aimed at disarming Kael, each one striking faster, harder, with the single intent to break him.

Kael managed to parry, but only just. He was pushed back again, and his feet slid in the sand. His vision blurred slightly from the blows to his head, but he stayed upright — barely.

Kael steadied himself, breath ragged, ribs screaming with every inhalation. Across from him, Hale advanced—not rushing, not reckless—just inevitable.

Another clash erupted — Kael caught the first strike high, their blades screeching together, sparks flashing between them. Hale followed up instantly, hammering a low cut toward Kael’s side. Kael shifted his stance, absorbing the blow against the flat of his sword, using the momentum to drive his shoulder into Hale’s.

It bought him inches, not more.

Hale adapted immediately, reversing his swing mid-motion. Kael answered with a deft step back, snapping his blade forward in a counter thrust toward Hale’s midsection — only for Hale to twist aside, deflecting it with a sharp flick of his wrist.

Another exchange — brutal, fast — both men probing, striking, reacting with deadly precision. There was no wasted movement now, no desperate gasping for advantage. Only sharp, efficient violence.

Then Kael saw the opening. Hale shifted just slightly too much on his lead foot.

Kael snapped his knee up, aiming for the soft inner thigh just above the greave. At the exact same instant, Hale drove his own boot forward, targeting the gap in Kael’s defense.

The strikes landed together — a brutal, jarring collision that sent both men sliding backward in the dirt, grunting with pain and exertion.

The crowd roared at the spectacle, half-rising from their seats, the tension electric.

Dreya’s hands tightened on the railing where she watched, her knuckles white. She could see it clearly now—neither was willing to yield. This wasn’t just a fight. It was a reckoning.

Kael and Hale straightened slowly, battered but unbowed. Without speaking, without even needing a signal, they began moving toward the center of the arena.

When they met, it was with the crisp, brutal finality of two blades colliding in perfect rhythm.

Steel screamed against steel.

They planted their feet firm in the bloodstained earth — neither giving an inch — and unleashed a flurry of strikes.

Kael’s blade whipped forward, met instantly by Hale’s parry. Hale countered with a downward chop, caught and deflected by Kael’s rising guard. A sideways slash — a twist of the wrist to block. A thrust — a pivot and a riposte.

The only things that moved were their arms, their blades, and the sparks of friction between them.

The air rang with each impact, the blows so rapid that even the trained eyes in the crowd struggled to follow.

It was no longer about strength. It was no longer about speed. It was about will.

Steel clashed in perfect time, a brutal, beautiful rhythm that neither dared break first. Each was waiting, searching for that single mistake—the slight overreach, the flicker of hesitation—that would end it.

But there was none.

For now, it was two masters locked in dead heat, every ounce of training, instinct, and fury focused through the narrow line where their blades met.

And still neither yielded.

Their blades clashed again, the sound sharper now, harsher, as exhaustion and will stripped away anything unnecessary.

Hale parried a cut from Kael and immediately lunged into a vicious riposte, his blade flashing straight for Kael’s chest—fast, clean, a killing thrust.

Kael reacted, not with panic, but with deadly calm.

He twisted at the waist, letting the point of Hale’s sword whistle past him by inches. In the same breath, Kael’s own blade came up in a sharp, brutal arc.

There was no hesitation. No mercy.

Steel bit through flesh and bone in a single, devastating stroke.

Hale’s sword clattered to the ground, his severed hand still gripping the hilt as it fell. Blood sprayed, dark against the pale sand.

For a heartbeat, the world stood still.

Hale staggered back a step, staring at the ruin of his wrist with something almost like disbelief.

The crowd didn’t even react at first—too stunned to process what had happened.

Dreya’s mouth parted slightly, reading the scene with sharp, horrified clarity. She had seen death before. But never delivered with such ruthless precision.

Kael stood where he had struck, blade steady in his hand, face unreadable. No triumph. No anger. Only cold, measured finality.

He had waited for the mistake.

He had made Hale pay for it.

Hale dropped to one knee, blood pouring from his severed wrist. His face twisted, not in pain, but in a snarl of pure, defiant rage.

With a roar, he lunged—one last desperate charge, his body surging forward on instinct and pride alone.

Kael was ready.

He stepped into the charge, pivoting on his heel, and with a single fluid motion, he spun. His blade arced through the air, singing a low, lethal note.

Steel met flesh.

Hale’s momentum carried him two more steps before his body crumpled, head rolling free across the sand.

The arena was silent.

For a long, terrible moment, there was only the wind and the slow drip of blood onto the ground.

Kael straightened, lowering his sword with quiet finality. His face remained impassive, as if he had simply closed a door rather than ended a legend.

Across the arena, Dreya stared, heart hammering in her chest. She could barely breathe.

Not just because Hale—the Draegard, the undefeated—had fallen.

But because Kael had made it look inevitable.

A storm of noise erupted, the crowd surging to its feet, voices clashing between awe, horror, and wild, disbelieving cheers.

Kael stood unmoving in the center of it all, the eye of the storm.

The roar of the crowd didn’t reach him.

Kael moved through the broken sand, not toward the exit, but to where Andela lay. He didn’t glance at the spectators or acknowledge the noise still pulsing from the arena. His attention was singular. Sharp.

Andela pushed herself up on one elbow, jaw tight against the pain. Blood soaked her tunic. Her right arm hung limp, but her eyes didn’t waver when they met his.

“You took your time,” she said, voice hoarse.

He crouched beside her without reply, checking the wound with cool precision. His touch was clinical. Detached. Not rough—just stripped of anything unnecessary.

“You’ll live,” he said.

Then he moved.

One arm slid behind her shoulders, the other beneath her legs, and he lifted her in a single, effortless motion.

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t broad like the usual brutes, but his strength was undeniable—quiet, tightly coiled beneath his skin. He carried her like she weighed nothing at all.

Gentle, but not tender. Controlled. Sure.

There was a strange comfort in the way he moved—total command, untouched by hesitation. It shouldn’t have affected her. But it did. That control struck deeper than she expected, lighting something sharp and physical low in her belly.

The press of his chest against her side, the way his hands held her without tremble or tension, the subtle shift of his muscles beneath her—she felt all of it. Noticed all of it. And despite everything, her body responded.

But it was real.

Kael gave no sign he noticed. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

“This place won’t be safe until the council speaks,” he said, voice low. “And they will. Soon.”

She shifted slightly, testing the tight pull in her ribs. His grip adjusted instantly—firm, sure, like he’d done this a hundred times before.

“I can walk,” she said, though she already knew it wouldn’t matter.

“You’d limp,” he said. “They’d see.”

No emotion. Just fact. Just certainty.

She didn’t argue.

He moved with the same ruthless precision he’d shown in the ring—measured, quiet, unshakable. And now she was part of that motion. Held by it.

The roar behind them dimmed, but the heat under her skin didn’t.

She didn’t trust him. Barely knew him.

But the way he carried her—like she was a task already solved—was doing things to her she couldn’t ignore. That calm certainty, the power under control, the quiet dominance of it all…

It shouldn’t have thrilled her.

And yet, gods help her, it did.

They passed under the archway of the inner gate, where the shade cut the sun and the stone began to cool.

Boots echoed behind them—quick, purposeful. Dreya’s voice followed. “Wait.”

Kael didn’t stop. Just kept moving, footfalls steady against the stone.

“Stop,” Dreya said again, closer now. “I’m not letting you vanish into the alleys with her.”

He turned his head slightly. Just enough to see her. Just enough to register the weight in her words.

“I’m not vanishing,” he said.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He slowed—not for her, but because the gate up ahead was partially barred. Two guards shifted aside as he approached, their eyes dragging over the blood on Andela’s sleeve and the man carrying her like it was nothing.

Dreya caught up, breath even, face hard. Her gaze flicked to Andela, then to him. “Where are you taking her?”

“A healer.”

“Which one?”

“She’s far from the arena. Private. No one will look there.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

Andela didn’t move. Her body lay still in his arms, save for the faint stirring of her breath, shallow but steady.

“She needs rest,” Kael said. “Not an interrogation.”

“I’m not interrogating,” Dreya said. “I’m assessing.”

Andela gave a rough little laugh, though it was barely a sound. “You always this friendly with your saviors?”

Dreya didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed on Kael. Measuring. “We don’t even know your full name.”

“Kael Moren.”

Dreya blinked. Just a flicker. She made a mental note, tucked it away, then moved on. The name meant nothing—but he’d given it freely, and that mattered more.

Andela shifted again, just enough to glance toward Dreya. “Hale destroyed me. I was as good as dead.”

“I saw,” Dreya said. And she had. The way Andela lay now—bruised, slow, pain stitched into every breath—wasn’t something easily forgotten.

Kael kept walking. The street opened wider here—less noise, more dust. He took a turn down a quieter lane, and they followed. Dreya wasn’t letting this go.

“You fight like someone trained. Not just trained—drilled. That wasn’t chance in there.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You kill often?”

“Only when it’s legal.”

“Convenient answer.”

“True one.”

She stepped beside him now, close enough to observe his hold. His arms didn’t strain. His grip didn’t shift. He carried Andela like she weighed nothing—like she was something fragile, but not heavy.

Finally, Dreya asked, “You from around here?”

“Yes.”

“Where, then?”

“By the wall. I have a place there.”

She raised a brow, surprised at the answer. He didn’t elaborate.

Kael spoke before she could press. “You move like military. Precise, but you check your flank too often. Andela’s spacing is textbook, even when she’s winded. Your eyes tracked the exits before you ever called out to me. I’m not asking what you’re here for—and I’m not looking for trust.”

He glanced at her. “But if I meant harm, I’d have let Hale kill her and walked away.”

Dreya didn’t answer at first. Not aloud. Her expression barely shifted—but something in her posture did. A thread of unease pulling tighter, not from fear, but from what she was starting to suspect.

Andela had defended him too quickly. Looked at him too long. There was a line somewhere—professional, necessary—and Andela was drifting near it. Maybe past it.

If she started seeing Kael as a man instead of a tool or an ally, that changed things. For the mission. For all of them.

Kael’s voice cut back in, steady. “She won the duel. That means something here. But it also means people will come looking to take what she just earned. Until the elder council makes it official, she’s a threat worth eliminating.”

He shifted Andela slightly in his arms, more secure than before. “So no, I’m not vanishing. But it matters that she’s hard to find. For now.”

Andela’s hand flexed faintly against his chest. Her voice was soft but clear. “Let him take me, Dreya. I’m tired of bleeding in the street.”

That stopped Dreya for a beat. The tone wasn’t sarcasm. Wasn’t humor. Just truth, worn thin.

Kael didn’t look at her, but he felt the weight of the moment anyway. Not emotion—just understanding. The way he remembered it used to feel.

Dreya exhaled, keeping pace beside them, no longer pushing.

The arena was behind them now, its thunder fading.

Whatever came next—it had already begun.

The streets narrowed as they walked, the din of the arena far behind them now. Stone gave way to dirt, sun slipping lower behind the wall, casting long shadows across their path.

None of them spoke.

Kael moved with that same silent purpose—measured, efficient, untouched by fatigue. Andela hadn’t taken her eyes off him. Not once. Even when her head tilted against his shoulder, even when her breath turned shallow with pain—she watched him. Like he was something she hadn’t decided on yet. Or already had, and didn’t want to admit it.

Dreya noticed. She didn’t say anything. But she noticed.

She wasn’t drawn to him herself. Not like that. But she could see it—why someone would be. He was striking in the kind of way that made people nervous before they realized they were staring. That angled jaw, the lean strength in his frame, the intensity in those green eyes—sharp, suspicious, always reading the next move before it happened.

There was something feral about his stillness. He didn’t pose like a man who knew he was good-looking—he simply existed in a way that demanded attention. He held space like he owned it. Quiet dominance, the kind that didn’t need to raise its voice. The kind that made people check themselves before speaking.

But it was the scar across his throat that stayed with her.

Pale. Jagged. Old.

It told all it needed to, and Dreya didn’t need the details.

She’d seen enough broken things in her time to know that kind of silence didn’t come from peace.

It came from survival.

Whatever gave him that scar… it had shaped the rest. The control. The stillness. The unshakable calm.

She glanced at Andela again.

No, Dreya didn’t trust him. But she didn’t doubt the way he carried her. Or the fact that Andela hadn’t looked away once.

They were nearing the edge of the district now—toward the massive stone wall that marked the city’s outer boundary. Dreya tensed slightly, half-expecting him to make for the gate leading into Aldenwood’s poorest quarter.

He didn’t.

Just before the arch, Kael turned down a side path instead. Narrower. Less traveled.

The house they stopped at was set back from the street, half-shadowed by the slant of the wall and the overgrown vines creeping up the stone. The windows were shuttered, vines climbing crooked up one side, but the place didn’t feel abandoned.

It felt lived in. Settled.

Kael shifted Andela’s weight slightly and raised a hand, knocking twice—firm, precise.

They waited. One minute. Two.

Dreya glanced at him. “You sure this—”

He knocked again, harder.

This time, a muffled voice shot back through the door, raspy and irritated. “If someone’s dying, come back tomorrow. I’m busy not giving a damn today.”

A beat.

Then a loud groan, wood creaking behind it. “Of course it is. Only you’d show up with a corpse that’s still breathing.”

The door cracked open, hinges protesting. The old woman behind it was small, wiry, and wore a shawl two sizes too large, layered like armor. Her hair was white and wild, bound in places by copper rings. Her eyes—sharp as needles—narrowed the moment they landed on Kael.

She didn’t look at the girl in his arms first. She looked at him. At the scar on his throat. At the steadiness in his face.

“Well, shit,” she muttered. “Still alive. That’s inconvenient.”

Kael gave her the faintest flicker of something that might’ve been a smile—or just a shift in the cold.

“You’re losing your touch,” he said.

“I must be. Thought for sure you’d be buried by now. What happened this time?”

“She did,” he said, tilting his head toward Andela.

The healer’s eyes finally moved. She took in the blood, the bruises, the way Andela barely held herself upright in his arms.

“Well,” she huffed. “Bring her in, then. And don’t drip on the rug. I just imagined I cleaned it.”

She turned and walked back inside without waiting.

Dreya hesitated at the threshold.

“Don’t worry,” the woman called over her shoulder. “I only bite if you’re slow or stupid. And you don’t look stupid. Slow, maybe.”

Dreya’s brow lifted, but she stepped in anyway.

The door creaked shut behind them.

Inside, the house smelled of dried herbs and smoke. The air was warm, cluttered, lined with jars and strange little bundles tied with twine. The healer led them to a back room with a single bed and motioned for Kael to lay Andela down.

Once he had, she hovered beside the girl, sharp eyes tracking every shallow breath, every twitch of pain. But her words weren’t for her patient. Not really.

“You know, I found this one at the city gate once,” she said, speaking to Andela as if Kael and Dreya weren’t even there. “Collapsed in the dirt. So much blood I almost didn’t check if he was breathing. Thought he was already gone.”

Kael didn’t look up. “You know you enjoy my visits. Who else comes just to be tormented?”

The old woman snorted. “Mm. Love a man who bleeds on my rug and flatters me in the same breath.”

She reached to feel Andela’s pulse. Her expression sharpened.

“What happened?”

Andela’s voice was faint. “I challenged him. In the arena. Hale.”

The old woman froze.

“You did what?” she barked. “Are you stupid? Challenging a Draegard is a death sentence.”

Andela winced.

“She didn’t know what he was,” Dreya said, stepping in. “Hale beat her down quick. He was about to kill her.”

The healer arched a brow. “Obviously.”

Dreya continued, nodding toward Kael. “He stepped in. Took her place before Hale could finish it.”

There was silence for a breath too long. The old woman looked at Kael again—really looked at him this time.

“You?” she said, slowly. “You fought Hale?”

He didn’t answer.

“He killed him,” Dreya added.

The old woman’s brows rose, but she said nothing at first. Just looked Kael over like she was remembering a version of him that hadn’t walked in for years.

Finally, she muttered, “Well. I’ll be damned. That’s new.”

She squinted at him, tilting her head like a bird trying to decide if a shiny object was worth stealing. “You were taught well—fought like someone who knew where to put the blade before the body even moved, I’ll bet. But you? Sticking your neck out for someone? A stranger, no less? That’s not like you. Not at all.” She clicked her tongue, then added with a squint, “Are you dying and forgot to tell me? Is this one of those deathbed redemption things? Because I swear if you croak in my house, I’m charging extra.”

Kael didn’t blink. “I couldn’t afford to lose my bet.”

The old woman let out a dry, raspy laugh—sharp and knowing. “Mm. We’ll let that lie stand.”

She glanced between him and Andela, something flickering in her eyes—not warmth, exactly. But recognition.

Then she turned abruptly to Dreya. “You. Go to the market lanes. There’s an apothecary with a blue door and a cat that hisses at everyone but me. Tell him I need widowroot, veyla bark, and three sprigs of fireleaf. If he tries to charge more than seven coppers, bite him. Not hard. Just enough to make him think.”

Dreya frowned. “Why not send him?” She nodded toward Kael.

The healer snorted. “Send a man to shop for anything other than weapons or women? That’s about as smart as this one”—she jabbed a thumb at Andela—“challenging a Draegard to a fight.”

She turned back to her work without waiting for a reply.

Dreya huffed through her nose. “You’re probably right about that.”

“I usually am,” the healer muttered, already turning to rummage through a set of dusty jars.

Dreya looked over at Andela. The girl was propped up against the pillow, pale but more alert now. Kael had stayed across the room—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, silent—but the healer had kept herself physically between him and the bed the entire time. Deliberate. Protective, maybe. Though Andela didn’t seem bothered by his presence at all.

There was no wariness in it. Just quiet attention—something in the way Andela kept looking at him, like she couldn’t help it. Not just curiosity. Something warmer, slower. Like the start of a burn.

Andela caught Dreya’s eyes and gave a faint smile. “I’ll be fine. Go.”

Dreya studied her for another breath. Then nodded. “Alright.”

She turned toward the door, thinking to herself: she could stop by the market lanes, grab the damn ingredients—and maybe catch Arden for a quick status report while she was at it. No point wasting the trip.

Things seemed to have a way of changing in Aldenwood, fast and quiet.

And she needed to know what was changing in the trade routes.

The door latched shut behind Dreya, and the healer gave a satisfied little hum, like a stage had cleared just the way she liked it.

“Well,” she said, already moving, sleeves shoved up and muttering to herself, “she’ll be gone a while. Market’s far, and if she’s got sense, she’ll haggle—poorly. Then she’ll learn she needs to hit three shops for what I asked, and one of them’s not even in the market lanes. That’ll be the fun bit.”

She chuckled, shaking her head as she filled a dented kettle from a barrel in the corner and set it over a small iron stove. “Maybe she’ll be back by sunset. Maybe not.”

Andela tried to sit up straighter, but the healer’s hand caught her with the kind of firmness that didn’t allow argument.

“Mm. Don’t.” Her tone shifted, less eccentric now—steady, clinical. “You’ve got bruises and scrapes mostly. Surface damage. But that shoulder? Hale really tried to ruin your arm. Needs stitching. And I have to boil rags.”

She looked over her shoulder at Kael, eyes narrowing. “Suture kit’s still in the same drawer. Top of the shelf to the left, wrapped in blue cloth. Go fetch. And don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what I taught you.”

She smirked. “Though I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve fumbled something sharp.”

Kael moved, slow and sure. “It’s been quite some time since I’ve actually bled, you know. Even longer since I’ve stitched anyone—even myself.”

He glanced at her, a faint glint behind his steady tone. “I assure you, though—I haven’t forgotten. You have a way of making things hard to forget.”

The old woman cackled at that, pleased. “Damn right I do.”

Andela shifted slightly as Kael pulled the stool closer, setting the suture kit on the table beside her. The old healer muttered something about boiling rags and disappeared into the other room, leaving the two of them alone but not entirely unwatched.

Andela’s jaw tensed as she looked down at her shoulder. “If it had been anyone else,” she said, quiet but certain, “I don’t lose. I don’t even know what a Draegard is.”

Kael didn’t respond immediately. He unwound a fresh length of thread, slid the needle through it with practiced ease. His movements were calm, methodical—hands steady, eyes focused.

“I don’t doubt that,” he said finally. “You move like someone who’s used to winning. Confident. Clean technique. But Hale…”

He glanced at her, then back to his work. “A Draegard—it’s a title given to Avalyth’s greatest warriors. If one proves themselves worthy, they can be taken for training by a Draegard.”

He reached for a cloth to wipe away more of the blood. His voice remained low. “They’re taught to see everything—openings, angles, rhythm. Every breath the enemy takes becomes data. They react before you act. Force mistakes. Make you pay for them.”

He paused, meeting her eyes. “They are few in number, as not many survive the training. You have to be prepared to die to attain that level of mastery.”

There was no pride in his voice. Just fact.

“You didn’t lose because you weren’t good,” he said. “You lost because no one told you what you were walking into.”

Andela was quiet for a moment, turning his words over.

Then: “Were you a Draegard?”

Her gaze lifted to his throat. “Is that how you got your scar?”

For the first time since they’d entered the room, Kael stilled in a different way. His head turned slowly—no flicker, no shadow across his face. He just looked at her.

Andela felt it. Like pressure under her skin. His eyes—green, piercing—settled on her as if they could strip away all the noise in her mind. It wasn’t just scrutiny. It was seeing. Understanding. The quiet kind that didn’t ask permission.

Her breath hitched before she could stop it.

“No,” he said. “I’m not a Draegard.”

His voice was quieter now. Not softer—just… pulled from somewhere deeper.

“I’ve only ever told one person what really happened.” His eyes flicked toward the healer across the room. “Lysa.”

The woman gave no sign she’d heard. She was still fussing over her brew, tossing in another handful of dried roots with a muttered curse. But Kael’s mouth curved slightly—not quite a smile.

“She pretends she’s forgotten. But she hasn’t.”

Andela opened her mouth—to apologize, maybe, to say she hadn’t meant to press—but Kael kept speaking. Not unkindly. Just steadily. Like the words had waited too long already.

“I got this scar from the man I once called my brother.”

The words hit like cold iron.

Andela didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. That shift in his tone—sharp, too clean—told her this wasn’t a story he told often.

If ever.

“I grew up in the Aldenwood orphanage. Small. Brutal. You learned fast or you didn’t last.”

A pause.

“Harlan and I were there together. Older. Smarter. Meaner, too. But we were close. My best friend. My brother.”

The name sat between them like a blade unsheathed.

“His name was Harlan.”

Andela’s grip tightened on the blanket. She could feel the thread bite into her palm.

“I was thrown out ten years ago. No job. No family. No one to take me in. The guard passed on me—said I was too weak. No use to them.”

She said nothing. Just listened—fully, fiercely.

There was weight in every word. Pain layered beneath discipline. The way he spoke was too steady, too measured.

Like a wound he’d stitched shut himself—

and reopened now, not for healing,

but for honesty.

Just for her.

And the old healer? She already knew.

That much was clear from the way she clattered about her pot and herbs, pretending she was alone.

As if this story had been spoken in her presence before—

and left to hang in the air like smoke no one dared breathe in.

“The only person who helped me was a bartender at the Swaying Lantern. Elena. Gave me a room for the night, made sure I had a meal.”

He paused, jaw tight.

“That night… I woke to find Harlan in my room.”

Her breath caught.

“He’d vanished a year earlier. Slipped out before the guards could come draft him. No one had seen him since. But there he was—grinning like nothing had changed. Said he had work. Good work. One thousand gold for five days of guard duty at a dig site outside the city.”

Kael’s voice lowered.

“Five days. Easy money. I took it.”

Andela could almost see it—the desperation, the relief. The betrayal still lodged beneath his calm.

“The last night, I was on watch at the gate. He walked up behind me… leaned in… and said, ‘No hard feelings.’ Then he cut my throat.”

The silence that followed was sharp enough to slice through the steam rising from Lysa’s pot.

“He left me there. On the stone steps of a ruin. Bleeding into the cracks.” Kael’s lips twisted slightly. “Guess he didn’t cut deep enough.”

Andela didn’t speak. She couldn’t. The weight of it settled over her chest—his voice, his eyes, the cold restraint that somehow made it worse.

She looked at him—not just at the scar now, but at the man who’d carried it this long.

And still survived.

“Like hell he didn’t!” Lysa’s voice cracked through the silence, sharp as a knife. She looked up from her work, eyes narrowing at Andela. “I saw the wound and treated it. I tell you, young lady, by all rights this man should be a corpse. For all I know, he might be.”

Kael’s lips twitched, but his expression remained unreadable.

Lysa huffed and returned to her pot, muttering something under her breath about stubborn fools.

The silence stretched, heavy with everything he’d said.

Andela stared down at the bandages, heart still tugging against the quiet, careful space between them. Something about the way he spoke—measured, stripped of pretense—made her feel exposed in ways she hadn’t expected. Like he wasn’t just telling her a story. He was letting her see something no one else had.

It made her aware of him again. The breadth of his shoulders where he leaned just slightly forward. The steadiness in his voice, the shadowed edge behind his calm. Dangerous. Controlled.

Strangely compelling.

“You grew up poor,” Kael said.

Her eyes snapped back to his.

“I can see it in how you move. What you prioritize. And you’re from the volcanic north. Your stance, your build—it’s different. Balanced like someone used to uneven terrain.”

He wasn’t guessing. He was certain. His words wrapped around her, careful and exacting.

“And you’re not from here. Neither is your friend. You didn’t come to stay.”

His gaze held hers, quiet and unreadable.

“So why choose the guard captain when you decided to claim a place? Of all the faces in the arena… why him?”

Andela was quiet for a beat, eyes flicking down, then back to his. Something in her chest tightened. She didn’t know why it felt harder to speak now—just that it did.

“I was born in the north,” she said finally. “Out in the Crags.”

She didn’t need to explain it—most people didn’t know the region, but from the look in Kael’s eyes, she suspected he did. Still, the words came.

“No green fields. No gentle rains. Just black soil and sulfur in the air. Ash storms that could strip bark off trees if they lasted long enough. The only sound some days was lava flowing in the distance and smoke hissing up into the sky.”

She paused, swallowing against the rough edge in her voice.

“My parents caught ash fever during a bad eruption. Weeks of ash raining down, thick enough to choke the sun. We didn’t have money for medicine. By the time the sky cleared, they were already gone.”

She didn’t say burned out. But the way she said it—flat, quiet, finished—left no need to.

“My brother was eight. I was twelve.”

Her voice stayed level, but her fingers had curled slightly in the blanket, knuckles pale.

“I won’t tell you the things I had to do to make sure Arden ate. I don’t think I could even say them out loud.” Her mouth tightened. “But I’d do them all again.”

She let the silence stretch for a moment, the weight of it settling into the room.

“We had a hard life. Cold, hungry, dangerous. Until we were found.”

Her gaze flicked toward the window, not really seeing it. “It’s not really less hard now. Just… different. But at least it’s not a bad life anymore.”

“The reason I picked Hale,” she said finally, “is because I had a plan.”

Her voice had settled again—steady, clear.

“All the winnings from the fight will go to the wall district. Distributed where it’s needed most.”

She didn’t look at Kael as she said it. Just kept her eyes on some distant thought.

“There’s a family near the old breach. They’ve been on the verge of losing everything. Man’s done everything he can to keep them afloat, but debts… they don’t wait. Doesn’t matter how hard you work when the math’s against you.”

Her lips curved faintly—not soft, not sentimental. But real.

“My plan is to name him as my successor. Guard captain, once this is done. And then I’m done.”

She looked over at Kael now, expression calm but bright with something like defiance. Or pride.

“I’m retiring. Officially. Guard commander no more.”

And that was when Kael’s grin began to crawl across his face—slow and sharp, like it had been waiting to show itself. Not mockery. Just that deep, glinting satisfaction that came when something impossible had just become real.

Kael let out a quiet, surprised breath—almost a laugh.

“Do you have any idea the uproar that’ll cause?”

His eyes gleamed—not with doubt, but with a kind of approving excitement. Like he was watching someone light a fuse he’d always hoped would catch.

“You’re going to shift the whole political landscape, you know that?” he said. “A move like that… it doesn’t just shake titles. It gives the wall district something they haven’t had in a long time.”

Hope.

He leaned back slightly, arms folding.

“I know the family you’re talking about. The father’s name is Rellan. He used to serve in the city guard.”

Kael’s voice lost some of its edge, settling lower.

“Good man. Quiet, but solid. He lost his post when his youngest took ill. Could’ve kept his rank—could’ve left the kid to fend for herself like so many do—but he didn’t. Stayed home. Took care of her himself.”

His jaw tightened just a little.

“She pulled through. But the family never recovered. He turned mason after that. Paid the bills for a while, but the jobs dried up. And the debts didn’t.”

Kael shook his head once. “They deserved better.”

He looked back at her, something sharp and thoughtful in his gaze.

“And you just handed them a future.”

Kael looked at her a beat longer, then exhaled—like something settled behind his eyes.

“And you’ve done more than help that family.”

His voice dropped lower. Intentional. Weighted.

“This move… it’ll stir enough dust that what happened in the arena—between you and Hale, between him and me—gets buried. Forgotten in days.”

A faint, wry tilt touched the corner of his mouth.

“Most in this city don’t really know me. The few that do? They don’t know what I’m capable of. And I want to keep it that way.”

He glanced away briefly, the line of his jaw tightening.

“I don’t want to be known for what I did in a pit. That’s not how I plan to earn my name.”

Then he looked at her again—direct, clear.

“So thank you. For that.”

From across the room, Lysa’s voice cut in, dry as kindling:

“Oh, stars save us. He’s being grateful. Somebody write it down before he chokes on it.”

Kael didn’t even look her way. “Careful, old woman. I’ve still got your needles.”

“And I’ve still got your secrets,” Lysa shot back. “Which one of us do you think bleeds first?”

Kael laughed. Not a scoff. Not one of those low, sardonic huffs he passed off as amusement. A real, rough-edged laugh that pulled from somewhere deep and surprised even him a little.

“Your wit grows sharper by the day,” he said, shaking his head, “despite your age.”

Lysa snorted, utterly unoffended. “Good. Means I’ve still got weapons left when my knees give out. And gods know you’ve given me reason to sharpen them.”

She turned back to her pot with a smug little sniff, talking indecipherably to herself.

Lysa crossed the room with her usual brusque energy, squinting at Kael’s handiwork on Andela’s shoulder. She leaned in close, muttering as she poked gently at the sutures.

“Hmph. You’ve got a steadier hand than I gave you credit for,” she said. Then, louder, “Stitches are clean. Shame about the shoulder—you sew like a medic but tie off like a sailor.”

Kael didn’t respond. Just gave her a look.

Lysa snorted. “Don’t get cocky, boy. You still don’t know how to use a damn wrap to save your life.”

She tugged a blanket higher over Andela’s chest with a practiced hand, smoothing the edge down with surprising gentleness. “She’s going to ache like a cursed mule in the morning. But she’ll live.”

Then she turned and pointed a crooked finger at Kael. “She needs sleep. Not conversation. Not moon-eyed staring. Sleep.”

“I wasn’t—” he began.

“Don’t care. Out.” She shooed him with both hands like swatting at chickens. “You too, bright eyes,” she added to Andela, seeing the girl’s half-lidded gaze still watching them. “Close ‘em. I want rest. Not flirtation disguised as concern.”

Andela smirked, but didn’t protest. Her head sank deeper into the pillow.

Kael turned to go, stepping toward the curtain.

“Wait,” Andela said softly.

He paused, looking back.

“When I’m finished with the promotion ceremony tomorrow,” she said, “come to the Swaying Lantern. Buy me a drink. You owe me one.”

Kael’s mouth lifted slightly. “Alright.”

Lysa made a sound like a snort and a laugh at the same time. “Gods save us. She’s not even out of the bed and already trying to corrupt you.”

She waved him toward the door again. “Off with you. And you—” she added walking up to stand in front of him head high to his chest. jabbing a finger into his chest as he passed, “come back in a few days. We’ve got things to talk about. And take this with you. Someone dropped it off for you. I suggest you make it clear I don’t fly around with letters in my beak.”

She jammed a piece of paper in Kael’s hand who took it without looking at it.

He gave her a nod, eyes steady. “I will.”

Then he slipped through the curtain, footsteps fading into the quiet beyond. A beat later, the front door clicked shut with a solid thunk.

Lysa stood there a moment, arms crossed, listening to the silence that followed. Then she grunted.

“Stars help me,” she muttered, turning back toward the bed. “I’ll deny it with my last breath, but I don’t blame you. If I were your age and still had two good knees, I’d be climbing that man like a tree.”

Andela flushed. “I didn’t think he noticed.”

Lysa barked a laugh. “Oh, he noticed. Believe that. If there’s something to pick up on, Kael picks it up. He just doesn’t show it like normal people. Doesn’t mean he’s blind.”

She walked over, tugged the blanket up a little more, fussing even though it didn’t need fussing.

“He’s distant, not dead. That boy may not feel the way we do—but he understands it. And what I saw tonight?” She gave Andela a look. “That wasn’t nothing. He’s never shown that kind of care for anyone but himself. And, on rare occasions, my husband—usually after Darian put him through a wall.”

Andela bit back a smile, eyes drifting toward the curtain. “He’s… different.”

“Mmh.” Lysa straightened, brushing off her hands. “Different’s not always bad. Just don’t expect him to come running with flowers and poetry. If Kael cares, it won’t be loud. But it’ll be real.”

She reached over, dimmed the lantern with a soft twist of the wick.

“Now get some damn sleep before I knock you out myself. You’ll need your strength if you’re planning to make good on that drink.”

Andela murmured something under her breath that might’ve been agreement, and finally let her eyes fall closed.

Lysa gave one last satisfied grunt and shuffled toward the door, muttering as she went, “Flirtation, promotions, and soul-shy swordsmen. Gods save me, this house used to be quiet.”

The market lanes were dense with sound—voices bartering, carts rumbling, the occasional snap of cloth in the breeze—but Dreya moved through it all like water finding its course.

The satchel on her shoulder was packed with widowroot, veyla bark, and fireleaf—exactly what the old healer had asked for, plus a few extra herbs she’d bartered down on principle. She didn’t mind the errand, not really. It gave her an excuse to scout the lanes again.

And she had a second task.

Arden.

She scanned the movement of merchants, the crooked sprawl of booths and awnings, looking for a familiar figure in the crowd. He was good at disappearing—but not from her. Not when she was looking.

They were here on Veilwarden orders, after all. Information first. Positioning second. That meant knowing where goods moved—legit and otherwise. If Alaric was due to arrive in three days, that left precious little time to identify pressure points in the city’s trade. The main routes were obvious, but the black market trails were where trouble would bloom.

And Dreya wanted to know if Aldenwood’s supply veins bled secrets.

Arden had gone to sniff out the pulse beneath the commerce—see who pulled the real strings. She needed his eyes. His instincts.

And his judgment.

Especially now, after what happened in the arena.

Her mind flicked back to Kael’s expressionless face as he walked away with Andela in his arms. That stillness. The control. Andela had tried to keep it casual, but Dreya had seen the way she looked at him. Like she was trying not to.

They’d talk about it. Later.

First, she needed Arden. And answers.

She turned down a narrow split between spice carts and a jeweler with mismatched earrings laid out in careful rows.

“Come on,” she muttered under her breath, scanning the crowd. “Where are you, you slippery bastard?”

She spotted him near a shadowed alcove at the edge of the lane, half-hidden beneath the faded green canopy of a weapons vendor. Arden stood like he always did when gathering—relaxed, unreadable, as if he were part of the background.

But Dreya knew better. He missed nothing.

She cut across the crowd and slipped in beside him.

Arden’s eyes flicked to the satchel in her hand. “What’s in the bag?”

“Herbs,” Dreya replied. “For Lysa. Had to haggle with a man who looked like a turnip and smelled worse.”

Arden blinked. “Who the hell is Lysa?”

“The healer,” she said. “Looking after Andela.”

That got his full attention. His stance shifted, sharp now. “Why does Andela need a healer?”

“She’s alive,” Dreya said, meeting his gaze. “But it was close. She challenged a Draegard in the arena.”

Arden froze.

“A what?”

“Name was Hale.”

“The hell’s a Draegard?” Arden asked, furrowing his brow.

“They’re not common knowledge. Not even up north,” she said. “Elite warriors—trained beyond anything normal soldiers get. Kael told me they’re taught to read a fight like a book. See openings before they happen. They don’t just fight—they dismantle.”

She paused, then added, “Kael explained it to me. Draegard aren’t just trained—they’re made. Put through some kind of crucible. They don’t fight like soldiers. They see everything—movement, rhythm, breath patterns. They force mistakes. Then punish them.”

“They’re practically built to kill without wasting energy.”

“She didn’t stand a chance,” Dreya said. “And he was going to kill her. No theatrics. Just… finish it.”

Arden’s voice dropped, tight. “But she’s still breathing. Why?”

“Because Kael stepped in. Took her place. Fought him in her stead.”

Arden stared at her. “And won?”

Dreya nodded once. “Killed him.”

“That fast?”

“No.” Her gaze darkened. “It was a fight. The kind you don’t forget. I watched Hale get dismantled by a man no one’s heard of. Kael didn’t fight with strength—he fought with strategy. Calm. Clean. Like it was just another task.”

Arden’s jaw tightened. “And you just let him take her?”

“She was bleeding out. Barely conscious. He carried her out of the pit while the crowd went wild and took her to a healer on the edge of the city.”

Dreya’s voice stayed level, but there was steel under it.

“He’s not careless. He’s precise. Controlled. He knew we weren’t from here within a minute of meeting us. Knew we had a purpose but asked no questions.”

“That doesn’t make him safe,” Arden retorted, still fuming.

“No,” Dreya agreed. “But he had no reason to help her. No stake in the fight. And still, he carried her out of the ring while the crowd lost its mind.”

She paused.

“I watched how he moved. How he looked at her—didn’t look at her. No gloating. No bravado. Just… done.”

Arden was quiet for a moment. The tension in his jaw hadn’t eased, but his posture shifted—slightly. Not in surrender, but in acknowledgment. He didn’t like what he was hearing.

But he believed it.

Dreya gave him a moment, then nodded toward the stalls. “So,” she said, quieter now. “Tell me what you found.”

Arden dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Main market’s clean. Too clean. Merchants are polished, prices steady, nothing out of place. No talk, no tension. They’re used to being watched.”

“Guard presence?” she asked.

“Predictable. Rote patrols. No sense of threat. But the black market—” he gave a low grunt, “—that’s where things get interesting.”

Dreya’s brow lifted.

“There’s movement,” Arden continued. “New faces. Fast turnover. Someone’s pumping coin into it—probably looking to build favor or start rumors. Either way, there’s more money flowing through backroom deals than upstanding ones. And people down here?”

He gestured with a tilt of his chin toward the alleys. “They don’t talk to strangers unless they want something. But secrets? Secrets sell easy.”

Dreya nodded slowly. “Information market?”

He met her eyes. “Promising. No direct talk of Alaric, but there’s a net being pulled in. People fishing for names, origins, travel patterns. Quiet, but focused. If someone’s hunting anything specific—cargo, relics, people—that’s where we’ll hear it first.”

Dreya folded her arms, thoughtful. “Could be nothing. Could be someone stirring the pot just to see who bites.”

“Or someone using the chaos of festival season to cover their own tracks.”

She grimaced. “We don’t have enough yet.”

“No,” Arden agreed. “But it’s a start.”

She glanced at the satchel again, then back toward the southern edge of the lane where the healer’s hut would be—just out of view.

“I want to keep the pressure on,” she said. “If we can’t trace the movement, we trace the mouths. Find out who’s whispering and why.”

“I’ll dig deeper,” Arden said. “Tonight, if I have to.”

Dreya paused. “Don’t get caught.”

He smirked, the tension finally easing just a notch. “Haven’t yet.”

“Come on, let’s call it a day come with me to see Andela and then we can wait for Risha at the tavern.” Dreya said starting to walk away before she finished talking.

By the time Dreya and Arden rounded the corner toward the old healer’s hut, the sun had dipped low enough to cast long amber streaks across the rooftops.

Kael.

He stepped down from the stoop, the door swinging shut behind him. His coat was unfastened at the throat, his head low, pace measured. He didn’t look up, didn’t break stride.

Dreya slowed.

Kael’s eyes flicked toward her just once, acknowledging her with a small, silent nod—then continued down the lane without a word.

Arden squinted. “Oi!” he called. “Kael, wait!”

Kael didn’t stop.

He just kept walking. Unbothered. Untouched. Like a man who’d already given what he intended to and saw no reason to linger.

Arden took a step after him, visibly irritated, but Dreya caught his arm. “Let it go,” she murmured.

He frowned, but didn’t argue.

They turned back to the door. Arden knocked once—sharp and impatient.

No answer.

He knocked again, louder this time.

From within came a grumble. Muffled. Indignant.

“Oh for the love of old bones—what in nine hells is it now? I swear, if it’s one of you boys selling balm again, I’ll feed you to my cat—”

Dreya leaned close to the door and said, in her best Kael impression, “It’s me.”

A pause.

Then, more annoyed than surprised: “About damn time. Thought you’d be lost till morning, slow as you are. Door’s open. And wipe your feet—I’m not sweeping twice in one day.”

Dreya pushed the door open with a smirk and stepped inside, Arden close behind her.

The scent of herbs hit instantly—sharp and clean. The same old warmth from earlier still lingered in the air, mingling with the low hiss of a kettle heating over the coals.

And just past the curtain, the edge of Andela’s blanket peeked from the bed.

Dreya let the door fall shut behind them with a soft click.

Lysa’s voice rang out from the other room the moment Dreya stepped inside. “You wipe your feet?”

“Yes,” Dreya called back, pausing in the doorway.

“You always say that,” Lysa grumbled. “Still manage to track half the street through my rugs.”

Dreya blinked. She’d only been here once, and not for long. The woman had either mistaken her for someone else—or she’d lost a few marbles somewhere behind the herb shelf.

She stepped fully inside as Lysa pushed back the curtain, eyes already narrowing at the sight of Arden.

“And who’s this then?” she barked, glaring at him like a moldy root. “Another stray?”

Arden opened his mouth, but she didn’t wait.

“You bring home all the broody ones, or is this a new hobby?” she snapped at Dreya.

Dreya sighed. “He’s with me.”

“Obviously. My runner doesn’t have the sense to leave trouble where she found it.”

“I’m not your runner.”

“You are until I finish brewing, and your friend finishes healing. Then we’ll renegotiate.”

She turned back to Arden, lips pursed like she was measuring him for a slap or a cure. “Well? You got a name, or should I keep calling you the quiet one?”

“Arden,” he said stiffly.

Lysa sniffed. “Hmph. Sounds fake, but I’ll allow it. Long as you don’t bleed on anything or knock over my jars.”

She turned and shuffled back toward the rear room, muttering to herself. “I swear, next person through that door better be food or gods help me I’m gonna start swinging my ladle like a warhammer…”

Arden leaned toward Dreya as they followed. “She always like this?”

Dreya smirked. “Only when she likes you.”

“Charming.”

Lysa shot Arden a sideways glance as she shuffled to the hearth, already dropping herbs into the chipped kettle. “You family to the loud one?”

Arden blinked. “You mean Andela?”

“She got another loud one stashed somewhere I don’t know about?” Lysa snapped, pouring water with theatrical slowness. “Yes, her. You blood or just the kind that sticks?”

Arden straightened a little. “She’s my sister in all the ways that count.”

“Hmph,” Lysa muttered. “Good. Girl could use someone in her corner.”

She began stoking the fire beneath the kettle, muttering to herself about people who don’t know how to sit still long enough to heal.

Arden watched her a moment longer, then asked, “That man we saw leaving… Kael. What’s his story?”

Just stirred the brew.

Then: “A quiet storm, that one.”

She glanced over her shoulder at them, eyes sharp. “You looking for trouble or trying to keep it from finding you?”

Arden held her gaze. “Trying to understand the man who saved my sister.”

Lysa grunted. “You won’t. Not all the way.”

She turned back to the kettle.

“But I’ll tell you what I can.”

Lysa didn’t look up from the tea. Just stirred once, then twice.

“Whatever I don’t tell you is his business,” she said plainly. “If you want to know more, you’ll have to ask him yourself. And good luck getting more than a grunt.”

She reached for a smaller jar on the shelf, tossing in a pinch of something sharp-smelling. “What I will tell you is this—I found him years ago, damn near bled out at the gates of the city. Throat slashed, face ghost-pale, laying in the dust like the gods had tossed him aside.”

She snorted. “And stubborn even then. Clinging to life like it owed him something.”

Arden blinked. Dreya said nothing, just listened.

“I patched him up,” Lysa went on. “Took days. Had to stitch him together like a tapestry. Boy didn’t speak for two weeks—not ‘cause he couldn’t. Just didn’t want to. Never thanked me, either. Just nodded and stole my bread.”

She grabbed the kettle with a cloth and set it to steep, waving her free hand like swatting off a bad memory. “He grew up in the city orphanage. Aldenwood eats its own, and he had nothing but fists and fire. But Darian—my husband—he saw something in him.”

Her voice lowered just a notch. Not gentler, but with a flicker of weight.

“Darian wasn’t just some brawler. He was a philosopher. A thinker. Could quote war texts and outdrink a noble in the same breath. Knew how to fight, sure—but more important, knew why to fight. What it costs. What it means.”

She jabbed a finger toward the door Kael had disappeared through. “He taught Kael all of it. Swordplay, discipline, reading people, asking the right questions. Drilled it into him till it stuck.”

Then she huffed. “Kael still turned out broody and half-feral, mind you. But smart. Calculating. Quieter than a shadow and twice as sharp.”

She turned back to the tea, pouring into chipped mugs with no ceremony.

“Man’s got ghosts, and most of them don’t speak. But he’s never lifted a hand without cause—and I’ve never seen him give a damn about anyone, not really. Not till her.”

She passed a mug to Dreya. “So. You can worry all you want, but I’d wager your sister’s in better hands than most.”

Then to Arden, raising a brow: “You gonna drink this or stand there brooding like a statue?”

Arden scowled into his tea, barely sipping. “Andela—what did she think of him?”

Lysa didn’t look up. “What’s it matter what she thought?”

“She’s my sister,” he shot back, jaw tight. “I wasn’t there. I want to know what she saw.”

That made Lysa glance his way. Not unkindly. Just… sharper.

“She saw someone who didn’t hesitate to bleed for her,” Lysa said. “That tends to make an impression.”

Arden’s mouth pressed into a flat line. “What did they talk about?”

Lysa’s eyes narrowed.

“He told her things,” she said evenly. “Things that weren’t mine to repeat. That’s what trust looks like.”

She stirred her tea once, then set the spoon down with a soft clink.

“He was respectful. Careful with her shoulder. Didn’t leer. Didn’t gloat. Stitched her up himself, clean as you please. You want the truth?” Her voice lowered, just slightly. “I think she’s quite taken with him.”

That made Arden stiffen.

Lysa shrugged, as if the conversation bored her now. “Wouldn’t be the strangest thing I’ve seen in this city. People fall harder for less.”

Didn’t have to.

The silence that followed said more than enough.

“I think I’d like a word with him,” Arden said, voice low. Intent clear. The kind of intent that didn’t care whether it came off as a threat.

Lysa stopped mid-stir and looked up at him—really looked. Then, to his surprise, she laughed.

Not a chuckle. Not a huff.

A full, raspy, belly-deep laugh that seemed to shake the whole damn room.

“Oh, boy,” she wheezed, wiping her eye with the back of her hand. “Boy.”

She leaned back on her stool like she was settling in to enjoy the wreckage. “Of all the people you could’ve picked a fight with in this city, you’re thinking about picking one with him?”

She shook her head, still half-laughing. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. Not a drop of sense, but plenty of guts.”

Arden stiffened. “I’m not looking for a fight.”

“Sure you’re not,” Lysa said, smirking. “That’s why you sound like you want to run him out of town on principle.”

She leaned forward now, eyes sharp, humor fading.

“Let me tell you something. Kael doesn’t like to fight. Not because he’s soft. Not because he’s scared. Because he knows what happens when he does.”

She let the silence hang for half a breath.

“There’s a distance in him, sure. Something gone quiet inside. But needless killing?” She shook her head. “It’s one of the few things that still bothers him.”

She pointed one bony finger at Arden. “You think you see a threat? He sees noise. And Kael doesn’t like noise. He keeps things quiet.”

Then she turned slightly, gesturing toward Dreya and the still-sleeping Andela.

“But if you push him… if you decide to start something—”

Her voice turned razor-sharp.

“—the only thing they are going to remember him for… is killing you.”

Final.

Arden didn’t speak. Not right away. His jaw was tight, hands clenched at his sides—but he said nothing.

Because deep down, he knew Lysa wasn’t bluffing in her belief.

But he figured she was exaggerating. Kael had saved Andela’s life—fine. Maybe he could fight, maybe he was dangerous. But this? This felt like a friend defending another friend with too much fire and not enough reason.

He gave a tight exhale. “You’re close to him. I get it. Probably see him better than the rest of us.”

Lysa just shook her head, sharp and knowing. “I’m sure you’ll get the chance. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Then Dreya spoke, her voice lower than before. “I saw him fight Hale.”

Arden looked over, eyes narrowing, waiting for her to say more.

But she didn’t.

Whatever she’d seen, she left it hanging there—half a warning, half a weight. It was enough to make something shift behind Arden’s eyes.

He didn’t back off. But his posture changed. Less certain. More calculating.

Because Dreya didn’t offer praise lightly.

And Arden, for all his fury, wanted that praise. From her.

He rolled his shoulders once and looked toward the door Kael had vanished through, jaw tight.

“Fine,” he muttered. “We’ll see.”

Lysa clapped her hands once—sharp and final. “Alright, enough brooding and posturing. Visiting hours are over.”

Arden blinked. “But—”

“But nothing,” she snapped, already moving to pluck the kettle off the stove. “She’ll be asleep soon, and if either of you wakes her before her shoulder sets, I’ll test my stitches on you.”

Dreya opened her mouth to argue, but Lysa shot her a look that could sour milk.

“You can come back tomorrow. She won’t even have an injury left by then. No excuses.”

She crossed to the door, flung it open, and gestured dramatically. “Out. Go walk off your testosterone. Take a nap. Trip in the street for all I care.”

Arden hesitated—just long enough to get swatted on the shoulder with a rolled-up dish rag.

“Out.”

Dreya threw up her hands. “Alright, alright.”

They stepped into the night air, the door swinging shut behind them with a solid thud and the snick of the lock sliding home.

Arden muttered under his breath, rubbing his shoulder. “Old woman’s got no manners.”

Dreya gave him a sideways glance. “No. But she’s got Andela in one piece. And that’s more than you were ready to manage.”

Arden grunted, but didn’t argue.

They walked off into the darkened street, the lanterns glowing low in the distance, and behind them, Lysa’s voice carried faintly through the door:

“And don’t come back till sunrise! I’m not a damn inn!”

The Swaying Lantern was quieter tonight. The clamor of the festival had shifted elsewhere—out toward the plazas and music halls, where lanterns bobbed and strings hummed like threads of lightning. But here, in the dim-lit warmth of Aldenwood’s oldest tavern, the air held a softer tension.

Risha sat waiting at the same table they’d claimed the night before, her hood down, silver hair braided back, fingers drumming idly along the rim of a half-finished drink.

She looked up the moment Dreya and Arden stepped through the door.

“Well,” she said, arching a brow. “You look like you’ve had a day.”

Dreya didn’t answer at first. Just crossed the room, dropped the satchel beside the bench, and sat down across from her with a long exhale. Arden followed, slower, still simmering just beneath the surface.

Between them, they told her everything.

Not all at once—but in the sharp, efficient rhythm of people trained to relay what matters. Andela. The arena. Kael. The healer. The black market leads. Risha listened in silence, eyes narrowing slightly, lips pressed in a thoughtful line. She didn’t interrupt. But when Dreya finally fell quiet, Risha nodded once, letting the weight of it settle.

“Well,” she said again. “That’s not at all the update I expected over a cup of ale.”

Dreya gave a dry chuckle. “Welcome to Aldenwood.”

Risha’s expression softened, just a touch. “Is she alright?”

“She will be,” Arden said. Still tense. Still not quite convinced.

Risha glanced between them, then leaned forward, eyes sparking with her usual quiet excitement. “While you were off making new friends and nearly dying—again—I was busy myself.”

“Oh?” Dreya said, her tone lifting.

“I’ve been working out of the Lorekeeper’s Hall,” Risha said, lowering her voice as a barmaid passed. “It’s everything I hoped—old scrolls, unmarked histories, diagrams so layered they breathe with magic. They don’t even guard it well. Just lots of trust and an inflated sense of their own obscurity.”

Arden raised an eyebrow. “And what exactly were you doing with all that trust?”

Risha grinned. Then pulled a thin, slate-bound book from her satchel and laid it gently on the table.

“Copying it,” she said simply.

Dreya blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even close.” She tapped the cover. “Enchanted codex. Bound with shadow-ink. Every page I copy folds into this one—never expands, never distorts. Infinite space. It’ll hold every scrap of lore in that building, and no one will ever know it left.”

Arden gave a low whistle.

“I’ve gotten through about half of it,” Risha continued. “They closed for the evening, so I’ll go back tomorrow. But gods, Dreya—you wouldn’t believe what’s tucked into the older annex. Pre-fall maps. Temple keys. There’s even a theory on lunar drift tied to the aether currents that suggests there are more efficient ways to cross it than sailing.”

Dreya leaned back with a slow, impressed smile. “Risha. That’s… godsdamn brilliant.”

Risha’s grin widened, pleased. “I thought you’d like it.”

“You’ve got creativity and tenacity—and you’re cute enough no one questions your intentions.”

“Oh, they question them,” Risha said, sipping her drink. “They’re just too polite to ask.”

Arden chuckled, finally relaxing enough to take a seat. “Remind me never to underestimate you.”

“Please do,” Risha said. “It makes the results so much more dramatic.”

The fire crackled nearby. A plate clattered in the kitchen. Outside, the festival pressed on without them—but here at the table, the mission pulled tighter. The circle held. And tomorrow, they’d press further.

The night settled in around them, heavy with wear and warmth. They shared a drink—one each, no more. No wild tales or reckless laughter, just the quiet kind of companionship that comes after surviving a long day. No one said it, but they were tired. All of them.

Even Arden, though he’d never admit it, nursed his drink slower than usual. His shoulders stayed taut, jaw still set like he was ready to act—but when Dreya finally suggested they call it, he didn’t argue. Just rose, nodded once, and followed her up the narrow stairs to the rented rooms above the Lantern.

Risha lingered a bit longer. Lost in her notes. Muttering quietly to herself as she cross-referenced something etched into the corner of her enchanted codex. By the time Dreya’s door clicked shut, the soft rustle of pages was the last sound in the tavern save the fire’s steady crackle.

But she remembered waking.

The pale light of morning pushed through the wooden slats of her window, and for once, no voices stirred below. She sat up slowly, eyes still heavy, and reached for her boots with one hand while rubbing at her temple with the other.

Risha’s bed was already empty.

The blanket folded, the corner of her pillow still faintly creased. But she was gone.

A slow smile crept onto Dreya’s face.

Of course she was.

“Good,” she murmured to herself. “Don’t wait on us.”

She crossed the room in a few strides, knocked twice on Arden’s door across the hall, and pushed it open without waiting.

He was already awake—half-dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed with one boot on and the other in his hand. Alert. Tense. But not surprised.

He glanced up at her with a lopsided grin. “If you wanted to see me shirtless, you could’ve just asked.”

Dreya rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Don’t flatter yourself. If I wanted to see something worth staring at, I’d go back to bed and dream it.”

Arden chuckled and finished pulling on his boot. “Savage this early. I must’ve done something right.”

“She gone?” he asked as he stood.

Dreya nodded. “Yeah. Probably halfway to the Lorekeeper’s Hall by now.”

Arden grunted. “Figured.”

“Come on,” she said, already turning away. “Let’s go get Andela.”

He followed, no complaint in his step. Just a quiet readiness that had nothing to do with sleep.

The streets of Aldenwood were quieter in the early light—carts creaking over worn cobbles, shutters cracking open, voices still low with sleep. The scent of baking bread drifted from a corner stall, mixing with damp stone and the ever-present tang of smoke from the lower forges.

Dreya moved with purpose, but her pace wasn’t rushed. Arden matched her stride, boots thudding softly beside hers.

“For today,” she said, glancing sideways, “we do nothing unless we’re all together. We get Andela. We stay with her.”

Arden frowned. “You think she’s a target?”

“She’s the guard captain now. Technically,” Dreya said. “Kael won the fight. That makes her claim hard to challenge. But Aldenwood isn’t going to make that easy.”

“She planned it,” Arden muttered.

Dreya gave a small nod. “She had a motive. We don’t know what it is yet—but we’re not going to find out by scattering.”

They passed a pair of street cleaners murmuring about the mess in the arena. No mention of names. Just vague tones of disbelief and “someone finally dropped Hale.”

Arden gave a small shake of his head. “People already talking like it was bound to happen.”

Dreya smirked. “People rewrite stories fast when there’s gold on the line.”

Arden didn’t smile.

After a pause, he said, “You trust him?”

“Kael?” Dreya shrugged. “No. But I don’t distrust him either.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got right now.”

They turned the final corner. The healer’s hut came into view—weathered stone tucked between two crooked buildings, smoke curling from a thin chimney.

Dreya slowed her steps, eyes narrowing slightly. “Stay sharp. Lysa’s probably armed with a soup spoon and bad attitude.”

“I’ll brace myself,” Arden muttered.

Then they stepped up to the door.

The first knock brought silence.

The second earned a rustle, a chair leg scraping across wood, and a muttered curse that grew louder with every footstep.

“By the stars, you again?” came Lysa’s voice from behind the door, sharp as ever. “If you’ve come to sell me another bag of herbs or ask for more soup, I swear to every pantheon left, I’ll teach you what this ladle is really for.”

Dreya leaned closer, voice dry. “It’s just us.”

A pause.

Then the bolt slid open with a clack, and the door creaked inward.

Lysa stood there in her usual state of frayed disapproval, arms crossed, one brow raised high enough to scrape the sky.

“Took you long enough,” she muttered. “I was about five minutes from sending your sister home with a note pinned to her coat.”

“She’s ready to go?” Dreya asked.

“She’s fine,” Lysa huffed, waving them inside. “Already fussed over her more than I ever did my own bones. She’s stubborn, that one. Sat up too fast this morning and nearly passed out—but did she listen when I told her to lie down?”

Dreya stepped inside, followed by Arden, who earned a long, assessing look from the old healer.

“You again,” Lysa said, squinting. “You bleed in my house yet?”

“No,” Arden muttered.

“Shame. Would’ve given me something to do.”

She turned on her heel and barked toward the back room. “Girl, your entourage’s here. If you’re not dressed, throw a blanket over yourself and pretend.”

From beyond the curtain came the sound of movement—footsteps, fabric shifting, the low creak of a stool.

And then Andela’s voice, dry but steady: “I’m decent. Don’t get your robes in a knot.”

Andela stepped into view a moment later—and both Dreya and Arden stilled.

Andela stood tall, armored in dark leather shaped to movement and war. Her chestplate, matte black with crimson-edged seams, fit like it had been forged to her exact form—sleek, deliberate, dangerous. Her midsection was bare, muscles coiled and bruised beneath the light, and the split battle skirt hung low on her hips, reinforced but agile, made for speed and reach. Bracers gripped her arms, and dark straps wrapped snug around her thighs. Her long braid fell over one shoulder, tight and utilitarian.

She looked like she’d stepped out of a mural meant to warn invaders.

And whatever toll the arena had taken yesterday, it hadn’t dulled the fire behind her eyes.

Lysa snorted and stepped aside. “She’s all yours. Try not to let her get impaled again before sundown.”

Arden let out a low whistle. “Gods, Andela. You planning to kill someone or seduce them into surrender?”

Andela arched a brow. “Mind your tone. That’s ‘Captain of the Guard’ to you now.”

That made Arden blink. “You’re joking.”

She crossed her arms, the movement making her armor creak just slightly. “Council made it official this morning. Papers, seal, the whole bit. I’m calling an assembly of the city’s top officers in an hour. We’re going to the wall.”

Dreya straightened. “What for?”

“You’ll see,” Andela said. “But first—”

Her gaze turned toward Lysa. “I need to find Kael.”

Lysa, already returning to her kettle, snorted again. “He’s probably with Finn.”

Arden frowned. “Who’s Finn?”

“Half-sized nuisance with twice the mouth of any man I’ve ever met,” Lysa muttered, but her tone carried fondness under the bite. “Owns the stables east of the square. Smells like a goat, curses like a bard, and owes me a chicken.”

She looked over her shoulder. “If Kael’s not cashing in his winnings with that pint-sized pirate, I’ll eat my own damn boots.”

Andela grinned. “Then that’s where we’re going.”

“Directions?” Dreya asked.

Lysa waved a hand toward the window. “Head east till you smell hay, sweat, and something vaguely criminal. The sign says ‘Finn’s Lot’ but half the letters fell off last winter. You’ll know it when you see it.”

Andela was already moving, braid swinging behind her. “Let’s go, then.”

As they stepped out into the sun-drenched street, Dreya paused at the door and turned back.

“Thank you, Lysa,” she said sincerely.

Lysa snorted. “If you want to thank me, next time bring me a jar of pickled skyshrooms and a man who knows how to shut up. And not another bleeding half-corpse.”

She shut the door with a thud, muttering something about boiling water and people with no sense.

“Finn’s lot should be this way,” Andela said, mostly to herself. “He’s holding a hefty sum of mine, and I’d rather collect it before he forgets he owes me.”

They turned east, weaving through narrower streets where the clamor of the square faded behind them. The scent of hay lingered in the air—clean, sun-warmed—and somewhere ahead, a faint braying carried on the breeze.

“Lysa made it sound like a den of thieves,” Dreya murmured.

Andela smirked. “Maybe it is. But if so, it’s a very tidy one.”

They rounded the final corner and found themselves in a quieter stretch of the city, where stone and timber gave way to low, thatched roofs and neat fencing. The sign overhead read ‘F _ _ N’S LOT’, the missing letters long gone—but the grounds were immaculate. Fences were freshly mended. The stalls swept. Buckets and tack hung in tidy rows. It wasn’t grand. But it was cared for.

Laughter drifted to them on the breeze as they rounded the last fence.

They followed the sound, passing a hitching post and a row of empty stalls, until they reached a small open yard. There, Kael leaned against the frame of a stall, arms crossed, half in shadow. Finn crouched a few feet away by a bay mare’s hoof, hammer in hand, grinning like a man halfway through a story he could barely believe himself.

“Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” Finn was saying. “Had half the square crying foul and the other half looking for payback. Good thing no one knows your name, friend—someone might’ve tried to have you gelded. You cost a lot of people a lot of money.”

He barked a laugh and slapped the mare’s flank. She twitched her tail but didn’t spook.

Kael didn’t laugh, but a ghost of a smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

Andela stepped ahead without needing to be asked, her stride purposeful, braid swinging at her back. Dreya didn’t follow immediately. She watched the movement, the way Andela squared her shoulders—like a woman walking into something planned, not stumbled into—and allowed the distance to grow.

Clearly, Andela had a reason for coming here first.

“Morning, Finn,” Andela called as she entered the yard, voice confident, easy.

Finn glanced up from the mare’s hoof, squinting against the sunlight. His grin widened. “Well, look at that. Captain of the Guard, in my stable. Thought I heard a rumor.”

He stood, stretching his back with a theatrical groan. “People around here don’t know much, but they know Hale was a tough one. You lasted longer than most thought you would.” He shot her a wink. “And didn’t get disemboweled. Good start.”

Andela chuckled, brushing a loose strand of hair back. “I’ll take the compliment, even if I’m not sure I deserve it.”

“Sure you do,” Finn said, returning to his tools. “Your name’s getting around—for better or worse.”

Her smile faltered slightly at that, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she turned toward the stall where Kael still leaned, watching her.

Their eyes met—and whatever easy confidence she’d worn slipped just a fraction.

“Kael,” she said, softer now.

He said nothing at first. Just studied her with that unreadable stillness of his, gaze fixed, unwavering.

Andela swallowed and crossed the final few steps. “You look better than yesterday.”

Still, Kael didn’t speak—but his eyes didn’t leave hers.

Andela’s posture held—but her voice came gentler now. “I came to find you.”

Kael’s gaze remained steady. “Well, you found me. What can I do for you?”

Andela took a step closer, just ahead of the others, her expression lightening with a crooked grin. “I wondered if you’d like to come to the wall with me.”

Kael’s eyes flicked to hers—sharp, unreadable. He already knew what she meant. What she was planning.

He shook his head. “I’ve got things to attend to.”

Her smile faltered slightly, but before the silence could settle too long,his tone shifted—lighter, with a thread of familiarity.

“But don’t forget—you still owe me a drink at the Swaying Lantern.”

Dreya blinked. “You two are having a drink?”

Arden crossed his arms, stiffening. “Since when?” He whispered to Dreya clearly displeased.

Dreya said nothing just shook her head, a subtle warning. Kael noticed. He didn’t look away, didn’t explain. His attention remained fixed on Andela.

She blushed slightly, a flicker of color high on her cheeks, but held her ground.

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said over her shoulder with a grin. “But you’re buying. I like expensive.”

Kael’s eyes lingered. “Then you’d better show up.”

Her grin widened. “Don’t be late.”

Finn watched the exchange with barely concealed amusement.

"Well," he drawled, slapping the mare's hindquarters one final time. "Seems I've missed a few chapters of this particular tale."

He turned fully now, wiping his hands on a rag that had seen better decades. His stature was compact—halfling through and through—but his presence filled the yard like smoke fills a room. Easy. Pervasive. Impossible to ignore.

"Captain of the Guard," he continued, rolling the words like he was tasting them. "And here I thought you were just another pretty face with a death wish."

Andela's armor creaked as she shifted her weight. "I prefer to think of it as a promotion earned through aggressive persistence."

"Aggressive is one word for it." Finn glanced at Kael. "She always this charming, or is it just when she wants something?"

Kael's expression didn't change. "Both."

Finn barked a laugh—sharp and genuine. "I like her already."

Dreya stepped forward, her gaze moving between the group with the careful attention of someone cataloging details for later. "You mentioned the wall," she said to Andela. "What's there?"

Andela's grin faded. Her hand drifted to the hilt at her side—an unconscious gesture, but telling.

"Something that shouldn't be," she said. "The scouts reported it two nights ago. Movement beyond the eastern perimeter. Not beasts. Not bandits."

She paused, letting the silence do its work.

"Something organized. Something waiting."

Arden's jaw tightened. "And the Council wants you to investigate?"

"The Council wants me to handle it," Andela corrected. "There's a difference."

Finn whistled low. "Handle it. That's a polite way of saying they want you to poke whatever it is with a very sharp stick and see if it bleeds."

"More or less."

Kael pushed off from the stall frame, his movements unhurried but deliberate. "And you came here because...?"

Andela met his gaze. Held it.

"Because whatever's out there, I'd rather face it with people I trust at my back."

The words hung in the air. Simple. Heavy.

Finn muttered something under his breath that might have been 'gods help us all.'

Kael didn't answer immediately.

He studied Andela with the same quiet intensity he'd worn since she arrived—measuring, calculating, searching for the catch. There was always a catch.

But when he spoke, his voice was level. "I told you. I have things to attend to."

"And I told you," Andela said, stepping closer. "The wall isn't going anywhere. But this—whatever's out there—it might."

Finn snorted. "She's got a point, friend. Things that lurk at borders tend to stop lurking eventually. Usually when you least expect it."

Kael's gaze flicked to the halfling. "You volunteering?"

"Absolutely not." Finn grinned, teeth flashing. "I run a stable. I leave the heroics to fools with death wishes and pretty captains."

Andela's lips twitched. "Flatterer."

"Realist." Finn turned back to the mare, but his voice carried. "But if you're heading out there, take the black gelding in stall three. Fast. Quiet. Won't spook at shadows."

He glanced over his shoulder. "Consider it a loan. Bring him back in one piece, and we'll call it even for that thing with the barrel last spring."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "I thought we agreed never to speak of that."

"We did. I lied."

Despite himself, Kael's mouth curved—just slightly. The first real expression Dreya had seen from him since they arrived.

"Fine," he said at last. "I'll come. But I'm not promising anything beyond the wall."

Andela's grin returned, sharp and victorious. "That's all I'm asking."

Dreya exchanged a look with Arden. His expression remained carefully neutral, but she caught the tension in his shoulders, the set of his jaw.

He didn't like this. She wasn't sure she did either.

But they were in it now—all of them. Bound by circumstance and curiosity and something deeper she couldn't quite name.

"How long until we leave?" Dreya asked.

Andela checked the angle of the sun. "Assembly's in an hour. After that, we ride."

She turned toward the stable's entrance, braid swinging. "Gear up. It's going to be a long day."

The hour passed faster than any of them expected.

Dreya spent most of it watching.

Watching Andela speak with guards in hushed, clipped tones. Watching Arden check his weapons—once, twice, three times—with the methodical focus of a man who'd learned the hard way what happened when you weren't prepared. Watching Kael drift to the edge of the group, always present but never quite within reach.

He was an enigma, that one. Every time she thought she'd glimpsed something beneath the surface, he'd withdraw again—like a tide that never fully committed to shore.

Finn, to his credit, made himself useful. He brought the horses around, checked their tack with practiced efficiency, and offered unsolicited advice to anyone who'd listen.

"Keep your weight centered," he told Arden, who looked like he wanted to throttle the halfling. "You ride like a sack of wet grain."

"I ride fine."

"You ride like someone who learned on a practice dummy." Finn patted the horse's neck. "This one will forgive you. Barely."

When the assembly concluded, they numbered seven—Andela at the lead, flanked by two officers Dreya didn't recognize. Then came Dreya and Arden, with Kael trailing behind like a shadow that refused to be shaken.

The seventh was a scout named Renna—lean, quiet, with eyes that never stopped moving. She'd been the one to spot the movement at the wall. Her report had been terse. Professional. And deeply unsettling.

"We ride in formation," Andela announced as they gathered at the eastern gate. "No one breaks rank unless I give the order. Questions?"

Silence.

"Good."

She swung onto her horse with the ease of someone born to command. The armor caught the fading light, edges gleaming crimson.

For a moment—just a moment—Dreya saw something in her that reminded her of the stories. The old ones. The ones about warriors who stood against the darkness when all hope had failed.

Then Andela clicked her tongue, and the spell broke.

"Move out."

They rode east, toward the wall.

Toward whatever waited beyond.