The wheels creaked as the carriage rolled forward, pulled now by three sturdy horses over the packed dirt path. The wind carried the scent of grass—sun-warmed and dry—with only a faint memory of sand left behind them.

  Windstail faded into the distance, its squat stone buildings blurring into the gentle rise of rolling hills.

  They were heading west—and just a little south.

  The desert was gone. The dunes had given way to patches of grass and stubborn wildflowers. A few scattered trees stood like lone sentries, breaking the horizon in quiet silhouette. The air felt lighter now. Cooler. Softer.

  Inside the carriage, no one spoke at first.

  Zafran held the reins, gaze fixed ahead. He didn’t speak, but every so often, his grip would shift—tighten—then ease again. His eyes narrowed at nothing in particular, following some thought he didn’t want to admit he was chasing.

  Beside him, Karin sat with arms folded, cloak draped loosely around her shoulders. She wasn’t brooding anymore—just quiet. Watching the landscape change. Letting the silence pass without needing to fill it.

  Behind them, Elsha thumbed through her map journal, murmuring softly as she traced routes and margins. Ysar leaned against the carriage frame, one boot propped up, whistling an aimless tune.

  “You think they’ll have hot food when we get there?” Ysar asked eventually.

  Elsha didn’t glance up. “Depends on your ability to keep your mouth shut long enough to eat it.”

  “Thanks. I love soup,” he muttered, settling deeper into his seat.

  Karin cracked a small smile.

  Zafran’s eyes flicked her way—just for a breath—then turned back to the road.

  Elsha tapped her pencil against the edge of the map. “If the caravan kept pace, they should already be nearing Ocean Tide.”

  Zafran gave a short nod. “We’ll join them before they move on.”

  “About two weeks,” Elsha confirmed.

  Ysar groaned and threw his head back. “I thought ‘adventure’ would involve less sitting.”

  “Try walking instead,” Karin offered.

  “I would,” he said, “but I’ve grown fond of this new me—lazy, well-traveled, and slightly sunburnt.”

  A soft laugh stirred between them—not long, not loud, but warm. It passed like the breeze.

  Zafran didn’t join in.

  His eyes wandered toward a distant line of crooked trees. For a heartbeat, they softened. He blinked—and the look was gone.

  The carriage rolled on.

  Time passed—not quickly, not slowly. Just steadily.

  The wheels clattered on, creaking over dirt and stone. Days blurred together, marked not by landmarks but by the rhythm of camp and travel. Mornings began with the rustle of blankets, the scrape of boots, and quiet stretches of yawns and muted curses. Evenings ended with small fires, rough meals, and stars scattered like dust overhead.

  They didn’t stop anywhere. Just the road. Just each other.

  The group grew quieter—but not in a cold way. More like an unspoken understanding had settled between them. Fewer words. Fewer walls. The silence felt… earned.

  One evening, after supper, Karin knelt near the dying fire, stick in hand and dirt as her canvas.

  “Elsha,” she said with a nod. “Come here. This one you’ll get.”

  She drew a circle with branching symbols—planar connections, elemental relations. The basics of planar control. In other words, magic.

  Ysar raised a hand, still lounging by a rock. “I would like to get it too.”

  “You’d like to sleep,” Elsha murmured, settling beside Karin with a faint smile.

  Karin began explaining each symbol, one by one—how elemental forces connected to one’s planar energy, and how it stretched from within into the world around them.

  “I used to do this when I was little,” Elsha said, raising a finger. After a moment’s focus, a small flame bloomed at her fingertip—subtle, wavering.

  “It’s not so useful when you fight with blades. Loses focus,” she said, letting the flame flicker out.

  “Yeah, that’s why I never bothered,” Ysar added.

  “You’re just too dumb.”

  Karin laughed and continued, making her gestures more complex. Elsha followed, brow furrowed. A shimmer—this time not just flame, but a flick of wind mingled in it. Her eyes widened slightly.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “Wind and fire… together?”

  They both turned when Ysar grunted. His palm hovered in the same shape, brows tight in concentration.

  Nothing.

  “Maybe mine’s just invisible,” he said. “Ultra-elite level.”

  Karin rolled her eyes. “It’s there. Somewhere. Like a buried pebble.”

  “I’m a buried gem,” he replied, stretching back with a grin. “Just waiting to be found.”

  The next day, the carriage dipped into a muddy gully. Rain had passed through recently—enough to turn the dirt to sludge. One wheel sank with a squelch, jarring the whole carriage to a stop.

  Zafran was off it in seconds.

  “Elsha, take the front. Ysar—”

  “I’m pushing, I’m pushing,” Ysar groaned, already stumbling into the muck. “Every journey has to end with mud. It’s a rule.”

  Karin crouched beside the wheel, brow furrowed. “If we heat the mud here, just around the axle—it should loosen the pressure.”

  She channeled a narrow pulse of heat into the soil. Steam rose in soft curls.

  Zafran and Ysar heaved.

  “One—two—”

  The wheel snapped free with a groan, sending Ysar tumbling into the muck like a dropped sack.

  “I hate mud!” he yelled.

  The others laughed—Karin even offered a hand.

  They got back on the road. No cheering. Just nods. Quiet rhythm. Familiar, even in the dirt.

  That night, the campfire burned low.

  Karin sat at its edge, notebook in her lap, tracing slow lines. Elsha sharpened her blades. Ysar poked the coals, unusually quiet.

  Zafran sat apart. His eyes weren’t on the fire. Or them.

  His hand rested on his new blade—plain, sturdy. His gaze fixed on nothing in particular. On somewhere far.

  Not distant. Just… elsewhere.

  Elsha noticed.

  So did Karin.

  Ysar did too—but he covered it with a smirk. “Thinking about dinner?”

  Zafran didn’t answer.

  They all exchanged glances.

  Ysar grinned wider. “Or maybe… the girl in white?”

  Zafran blinked—snapped out of it.

  “What are you talking about?” He stood abruptly. “Why haven’t you set up your bedrolls yet?”

  He marched off, grumbling as he dealt with his own pack.

  Karin stifled a laugh. Ysar smirked like a child who’d won.

  The sun had begun its slow descent when the topic turned to Fyonar.

  Karin leaned against the window frame in the back of the carriage, arms crossed, eyes on the moving hills. Ysar sat across from her, one leg propped up, lazily tossing a pebble between his hands.

  “So,” he started, “what’s it called again? The glowing thing in a glass?”

  “Light bulb,” Karin answered.

  “Right. That heretical magic from Fyonar.”

  She snorted. “They call it technology.”

  “Same thing. Glows. Flickers. Breaks your magic. Definitely cursed.”

  Karin smirked. “You’ve never seen one?”

  “Nope. Never been to Fyonar.”

  “Really? You guys travel everywhere.”

  Up front, Zafran said nothing, but Elsha turned slightly. “Azure Wind avoids Fyonar. Too many regulations. Last time we camped near their capital, they banned us.”

  Karin raised a brow. “Why?”

  Elsha exhaled. “Because someone’s oxen wandered off and trampled their rail lines. Stopped an entire freight train for three days.”

  “I told you they wanted to race!” Ysar threw up his hands. “I didn’t expect them to win!”

  Karin burst out laughing. Even Zafran’s shoulders twitched slightly—maybe a suppressed smile.

  Shaking her head, Karin leaned back. “Honestly, I’m not even sure light bulbs are planar anymore. They said they work without magic at all.”

  “But they mess with magic, don’t they?” Ysar asked. “Didn’t you say spellcasting goes wild around them?”

  “It does. Makes planar energy unstable.” She tilted her head. “It’s why most cities ban it. Except Fyonar, obviously.”

  “That sounds worse than fireballs.”

  “Ask their engineers,” she muttered. “They’ll swear it’s the future.”

  “I’ll pass. I like my magic unpredictable, not broken.”

  “Same thing,” Elsha called from the front.

  The road creaked on beneath the wheels, the laughter fading into a shared quiet. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the road as they rode west.

  The road crested one final ridge.

  And there it was.

  Ocean Tide.

  The first thing they noticed was the air—salt-tanged and fresh, sweeping inland with a bracing coolness. It was a wind born of the sea, filled with whispers of distant voyages and endless horizons.

  The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the western sky into a cascade of molten gold and burning amber. Light spilled generously over the city’s rooftops—terraced domes and delicate towers shimmering like polished bronze beneath the dying day.

  Below, the vast harbor stretched wide, its waters a tapestry of reflected fire. Countless ships rocked gently at their moorings, their masts a dense forest of bare branches. Gulls circled lazily above, their distant cries blending with the rhythmic lap of waves against wooden piers.

  From this vantage, Ocean Tide sprawled grandly—layered districts spilling downward to the waterfront, threaded by graceful canals that shimmered in evening hues. Lanterns began to glow along stone bridges, casting delicate arcs of warmth across tranquil waters. Distant bells rang melodiously, signaling the day’s gentle farewell.

  Yet it wasn’t only ships that connected Ocean Tide to the world.

  To the north of the bustling port, railway tracks cut through the landscape—polished steel ribbons reflecting the fading sun. A steam engine, freshly arrived, puffed wisps of pale vapor skyward as it halted at the grand station. Workers bustled along the platform, unloading cargo destined to travel inland, dispersing the wealth of distant shores across the continent.

  But nearer still, just east of the city gates and nestled along the coast road, lay something even more welcoming—

  The Azure Wind Caravan.

  Its presence was unmistakable: rows of vibrant canvas tents blooming upon the open plain, clustered like petals cast upon the earth by a playful wind. Their banners fluttered proudly—deep azure and pristine white, each bearing the crest of a swirling gust of air, embroidered elegantly in silver thread.

  Wagons formed a graceful crescent around the camp’s perimeter, enclosing cookfires whose smoke drifted lazily upward, mingling with aromas of rich spices and roasting meat. Lanterns were just now ignited, their gentle glow painting the caravan in golden light.

  Sounds reached their ears next—the bright laughter of familiar voices, the faint melodies of a lute, and distant cheers as the evening’s entertainment began. Even from afar, the caravan exuded warmth and welcome, promising comfort and camaraderie after a long journey.

  Karin stood, gripping the carriage frame, her expression softened by quiet relief.

  “At last,” she whispered, her voice nearly carried away by the breeze.

  Ysar let out a low whistle, leaning forward, eyes wide. “I’d almost forgotten how grand it was.”

  Elsha smiled gently, a rare relaxation crossing her face as she pointed toward the inviting glow of the camp. “We’ll reach them by nightfall.”

  Zafran remained silent. His gaze lingered—drawn not by the caravan, nor even by the mesmerizing ocean beyond. Instead, his eyes rested briefly upon the golden city itself, shadowed by thoughts he didn’t speak aloud.

  A breath passed.

  Then, with a gentle flick of the reins, he urged the horses onward. “Let’s go.”

  The carriage rolled gently downhill, toward waiting firelight, familiar faces, and the promise of rest beneath a star-filled sky.