The road curved with the coastline now—flat and dusted with salt. The sea wasn’t yet visible, but its scent drifted on the breeze.

  The carriage rattled over worn stones, pulled by a pair of tired mules. After nearly two weeks of travel, the air inside smelled like wool, smoke, and travel-stale bread. Ysar had been asleep for the last hour, slumped with his head against the sideboard. Elsha sat opposite Karin, arms folded, eyes on the horizon.

  Karin leaned forward and tapped the wagon wall.

  The driver’s shutter slid open.

  “We’ll stop here,” she said.

  The man blinked, then leaned out and squinted ahead.

  “Azure Wind, huh?” he muttered. “Figured as much.”

  Elsha raised an eyebrow. “What gave us away?”

  He nodded toward her and Ysar. “Hair, skin, the way you dress. You two have that look—Nomadic, right?”

  Elsha gave a faint smile. “That obvious?”

  “Only to someone who’s spent too long behind a mule.”

  He tugged the reins, and the wagon began to slow.

  “Thanks for the ride,” Karin said as she hopped down. Elsha followed, and Ysar eased out last, groaning as his feet hit the ground.

  Beyond the rise, the Azure Wind Caravan stretched in a wide crescent—tents and wagons clustered along the hillside, banners fluttering in the sea wind. Smoke curled from cookfires. Hammering echoed faintly. Laughter rolled between cloth walls.

  They were still here.

  Ysar blinked at the view. “Is it just me, or did this place always look this good?”

  “Don’t romanticize it,” Karin said. “It still smells like damp wool and bad stew.”

  Elsha exhaled through her nose. “But we’re back.”

  Together, they started the walk down into the camp.

  The walk through camp was slow. Familiar wagons. Familiar smells. And unfamiliar silence.

  People noticed them. Eyes followed. Quiet conversations paused—but no one called out. They’d left with four. They came back with three.

  The central fire still burned. A kettle hissed above the flames, and Kivas stood nearby, cloak slung back, mid-conversation with a merchant runner—hands moving, face half-scowl.

  He looked up mid-gesture—and stopped cold.

  “You’re back,” he said, voice low but steady as he stepped toward them. “Three of you.”

  A pause.

  “Where’s Zafran?”

  Karin kept walking.

  Elsha’s eyes followed her but said nothing.

  Ysar scratched the back of his neck. “He followed a beautiful stranger.”

  Kivas blinked. “What?”

  Elsha sighed. “She’s not a stranger.”

  Kivas stared. “You serious?”

  Ysar nodded. “She had that calm, smart, deadly kind of elegance. You know the type. If it were me, I’d have followed her into a volcano. Probably left a note first. Probably.”

  Kivas ran a hand down his face. “Gods. And here I thought the boy had discipline.”

  Elsha exhaled again. “He made a call. And he sent us back. Said we were too injured to keep going.”

  Kivas looked them over—Elsha’s stiff posture, the tightness in her breath, Ysar’s slow movements and worn steps.

  “You both look like hell.”

  “Better than we did two weeks ago,” Ysar offered.

  “You need to see Wren,” Kivas said.

  Ysar groaned. “Gods. Not her.”

  Elsha smirked. “Want me to do the healing?”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Ysar took a full step back. “No. Absolutely not. She’s annoying, but she doesn’t stab by accident.”

  Kivas snorted. “Then quit whining and go. Before she finds you first.”

  Ysar sighed and trudged off.

  Kivas turned to Elsha, voice lower now. “And Karin?”

  “She’s… not talking much. But she’s not exploding either.”

  “Yet,” Kivas muttered.

  He looked toward the line of wagons where she’d vanished. The fire behind him popped softly, its flame low and steady.

  “Well,” he murmured, “being young’s a damn headache.”

  The medic’s tent sat near the center of camp—easy to spot by the red-thread charms clinking gently in the sea breeze. Strips of cloth and beads hung from the pole like wind-markers, faded but carefully kept.

  Elsha ducked through the flap first. Ysar followed, dragging his feet like someone approaching a storm.

  Inside, the air smelled of dried mint, boiled linen, and salve. A long table sat cleared near the back. Jars lined one shelf. A cot waited in the corner, sheets crisp, untouched.

  Wren didn’t look up. “Sit.”

  She stood behind a table sorting gauze and powdered roots. Her hair was tied back with the usual red cloth, same as the stitching on her sleeves. Tall, wiry, sharp-jawed—always with that look like she’d already warned you once.

  Not born to the Azure Wind, but no one questioned her place anymore. She’d walked in during storm season years ago and simply stayed. No stories. No explanation.

  “I haven’t even said hello,” Ysar muttered as he dropped onto the cot.

  “You want a hello or working lungs?”

  He sighed dramatically. “Why not both?”

  Wren finally looked at him—and frowned.

  “You walked on that for two weeks?”

  He blinked. “It’s not that—”

  “You’ve got bruising deep enough to be named. Lift your shirt.”

  Elsha leaned against a support post, arms crossed.

  Wren knelt. One poke to the side, and Ysar winced hard.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “How bad is it?” he asked.

  Wren’s tone shifted, flat and professional. “Infected. You’re lucky it hasn’t gone deeper.”

  “I—what?”

  “You’re staying. I’ll prep the cot. You’re not moving until I say so.”

  “But I feel—”

  “You look like someone who survived out of sheer stupidity.”

  Ysar groaned. “You always this charming?”

  Wren ignored him and turned to Elsha. “Lift.”

  Ysar didn’t move.

  She snapped her fingers without looking. “Out. Or turn around.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Unless you want to explain to her sword why your eyes wandered.”

  Elsha smirked faintly. “Go breathe into a wall.”

  Ysar turned away, grumbling.

  Elsha loosened her belt, lifting her tunic just enough to reveal the bruise along her ribs. Wren said nothing, just cleaned the area, replaced the wrap, and fastened it down tight with practiced hands.

  “You always this quiet?” Wren asked without looking up.

  “She saves her voice for when I’m wrong,” Ysar offered from the far side of the tent.

  Wren muttered, “Then you must be talkative.”

  Elsha gave the smallest smile.

  Wren stepped back and wiped her hands. “You’re clear,” she said to Elsha. “Don’t spar, don’t lift, don’t pretend you’re healed. And you—” she jabbed a finger toward Ysar, “—stay right here.”

  He groaned. “Do I at least get a snack?”

  Wren didn’t miss a beat. “You get bed rest and boiled roots. If you behave, I’ll let you sniff garlic.”

  Ysar raised his hands. “Okay, okay. Mercy.”

  She turned toward her jars, already moving. “Next time you mutter ‘not her’ behind my back, I’ll wrap your ribs with nettles and say it was treatment.”

  Ysar immediately shut his mouth.

  Wren glanced over her shoulder. “Good.”

  Elsha smirked faintly as she ducked out through the tent flap.

  Wren motioned to the cot in the corner. “Lie down. Don’t argue.”

  Ysar obeyed, grumbling as he dragged his feet across the floor.

  Another figure already lay in the neighboring cot—blanket up to his ears, one arm bandaged to the shoulder. His hair stuck out like he’d lost a fight with wind and pillow fluff.

  He turned slightly and squinted at Ysar. “You too, huh?”

  Ysar flopped onto his back with a sigh. “Tav. What happened this time?”

  “Fell during sparring,” Tav said flatly. “Landed on my own blade.”

  Ysar blinked. “Yikes.”

  Tav nodded, face serious. “Wren told me I stabbed myself just to avoid cleanup duty.”

  Ysar winced. “That… sounds like her.”

  From across the tent, Wren called without looking, “Because it’s true.”

  They both fell quiet immediately.

  After a long beat, Ysar muttered, “This is gonna be a long night.”

  Tav groaned in agreement.

  The clang of metal rang through the morning air, steady and clean.

  The sun had barely cleared the hills, but Karin was already at work near the forge—sleeves rolled, hands black with soot, eyes narrowed in quiet focus. Her coat was tossed over a hook, boots planted wide as she braced a dented wheel rim against the anvil.

  Each strike was sharp. Controlled. Measured.

  But the flames didn’t behave like normal coals. There was an orange flicker in the glow, a deeper, more intense heat—sharp and focused, like a flare of fire within the forge. Karin’s hands hovered just above the embers, guiding the temperature, a soft hum of control coming from her as she adjusted the flame with barely perceptible movements.

  The flames flickered higher with each controlled breath she took, only to settle back as she exhaled. She wasn’t just shaping metal. She was shaping herself.

  Nearby, Elsha sat on an overturned crate with her arm still wrapped, a mug of something warm cupped in her lap. She watched quietly, but there was something in her gaze that wasn’t just observation—she was listening to the rhythm of the strikes, feeling the tension in the air.

  “You’re not supposed to be doing that,” Elsha said eventually.

  “I’m not on Wren’s list,” Karin muttered, not looking up.

  “You’re not not on it.”

  Karin lifted the rim, turned it, reset it.

  Another sharp strike.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  Elsha tilted her head. “Are you?”

  Karin stopped—not dramatically, just long enough to breathe. Her eyes flicked up to meet Elsha’s, calm but tired.

  “No,” she said.

  Another strike.

  “That’s why I’m working.”

  The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—it was understood.

  Elsha nodded slowly, then took a sip from her cup.

  “That’s new,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “You saying it. Out loud.”

  Karin gave the faintest smile. “Trying something different.”

  “Does it help?”

  Karin lifted the rim again. The metal caught the light, red in its curve, flames dancing higher with her steady breath.

  “It keeps the fire somewhere useful.”

  Elsha leaned back slightly, resting her uninjured arm across her knee.

  “Well. You look like you’re winning against that wheel.”

  “Barely,” Karin said. “It fought back earlier.”

  From farther down the row, Kivas passed by with a satchel slung over one shoulder. He glanced at the scene—Elsha idle, Karin hammering like her soul depended on it.

  He muttered, “That girl’s gonna fix the whole caravan out of spite.”

  Karin’s next swing was a little cleaner. The flames receded and flared back in sync with her controlled rhythm.