The midday sun hung soft over the Azure Wind Caravan. Canvas shifted in the breeze. Banners rippled overhead. The forge rang out in measured strikes, and the scent of roasting stew clung thick in the air.

  Then the riders came.

  Two horses. Blue cloaks. The crest of Ocean Tide stitched near the shoulder—faded, travel-worn, but unmistakable.

  Karin noticed first. She was setting down a crate when the camp stilled—just slightly. Heads turned. Voices quieted.

  Kivas stepped out from the main tent, brow already furrowed.

  Seren dismounted first—calm, casual, confident. Her boots hit the ground lightly, and she pulled her hood back with a flick of her wrist. No guards. No fanfare. Just presence.

  Ealden followed behind, broader in frame and armor, his gaze sweeping across the camp. Not suspicious—just instinct.

  “Master Kivas,” Seren said, offering a warm, familiar smile. “We heard some of yours made it back. Thought we’d drop in.”

  Kivas gave a half-bow—more out of habit than formality. “Your Highness.”

  Karin approached slowly, hands still dusted from work, posture straight but tense.

  “Zafran,” Seren said gently. “Is he here?”

  Kivas shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “Not yet?” Ealden echoed.

  “He sent the other three back,” Kivas clarified, “but continued on—to Cloudspeak.”

  Seren raised a brow. “Cloudspeak? Alone?”

  Karin stepped in. “He went with someone. Isolde.”

  Seren turned to her. “You’re…?”

  “Karin, Your Highness.” Karin offered a bow, stiff but respectful. Seren returned it with ease.

  “Isolde…” Seren glanced at Ealden. “Familiar name?”

  “There are lots of Isoldes, Your Highness,” Ealden began, “which one—?”

  “One who used to belong to a noble house in Fyonar,” Karin interjected. “Erased from the records.”

  Seren’s expression shifted—thoughtful. “Might be that Isolde…”

  “Familiar, Your Highness?” Ealden asked.

  “Maybe. I think I met a girl by that name when I was younger,” Seren replied. “But that was a long time ago.”

  She turned back. “Why did you return ahead of him?”

  Elsha joined them then, brushing soot from her sleeves. She gave Seren a small bow.

  “We got into a fight with the Crimson Hand,” Elsha said calmly. “Took a bad hit. He sent us back.”

  Seren paused. “The Crimson Hand? Are you alright? What about him?”

  “One of us was badly injured, but we’re healing now,” Karin replied. “Zafran came through better than we did.”

  Seren studied them both for a moment. Then exhaled. “That’s a relief. I shouldn’t have sent him in the first place.”

  “It was the right call, Your Highness,” Elsha said. “He wanted it.”

  Ealden crossed his arms. “Any leads?”

  Elsha nodded. “Isolde believes one of her father’s informants fled to Cloudspeak. Zafran thinks it might be the same contact your highness mentioned.”

  Seren looked toward the wagons, lips pressed together in thought.

  “Well,” she said at last, brushing a braid over her shoulder, “if he’s not here, no point pacing.”

  She turned back to Kivas with a light smile. “Mind if we look around? Maybe shop a bit?”

  Kivas smirked faintly. “So long as you’re not expecting royal treatment.”

  Seren grinned, glancing sideways at Ealden. “I never do.”

  He muttered, “She just gets it anyway.”

  And with that, they walked off toward the market row—shoulders easing, conversation soft. The tension settled, for now.

  Kivas watched Seren and Ealden disappear down the market row, their cloaks catching the breeze. Above, the canvas creaked gently, worn ropes swaying like lazy pendulums.

  “First a caravan blade,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. “Then a fire-flinging headache. A runaway noble. And now the princess of Ocean Tide.”

  He let out a long breath, somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

  “That boy’s either cursed or charmed—can’t decide which.”

  Elsha didn’t break stride. “It’s not like that.”

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  Karin crossed her arms. “Definitely cursed.”

  Kivas glanced between them, lifting an eyebrow. “So neither of you is even slightly interested?”

  “Please,” Elsha said, already walking. “I have better things to do.”

  “Didn’t Wren order you to sit tight and do no work?” Kivas called after her.

  She waved a hand over her shoulder without looking back.

  Karin stayed a moment longer. “Guess it’s still better than listening to your romantic fiction.”

  “Oh, of all the girls here,” Kivas said, pulling out a dented old pipe, “you’re the most romantic one.”

  Karin raised an eyebrow, then snapped her fingers toward the pipe. A short flame burst from her palm—a little too high, just enough to singe the hairs on Kivas’s knuckles.

  He yanked his hand back with a sharp hiss. “Hey—do you mind?”

  She smirked. “You said romantic. I thought dramatic flair was required.”

  “Next time try less flair,” he muttered, shaking his fingers.

  “I might accidentally burn a tent or two,” she added casually, already turning away.

  Kivas watched her go, chuckling under his breath as he puffed the pipe back to life.

  “Gods help him,” he said. “He’s not built for this kind of storm.”

  The silence after Thalos’s last words hung like smoke.

  Zafran sat at the edge of the stool, jaw tight, eyes locked on nothing. The name echoed in his chest like a blade dragged through stone.

  Karin.

  She was the thread. The piece Lucian didn’t have. And now… she was the target.

  Isolde folded the diagram Thalos had drawn, slow and deliberate. Her face gave nothing away—but she hadn’t blinked in a while.

  “How long ago did the last test fail?” she asked.

  Thalos shrugged. “A month ago. Maybe less. If Lucian’s desperate, he won’t wait much longer.”

  Zafran stood.

  “I’m leaving tonight.”

  He didn’t look at her when he said it.

  Isolde stood as well.

  Zafran glanced over. “You don’t have to come.”

  She didn’t answer at first. Just adjusted the collar of her coat, movements slow and precise.

  Then, without looking at him, she said, “We’re not done.”

  Zafran blinked.

  “With Lucian. And all of them,” she added, calm but clear. “I’ll gladly go to great lengths just to ruin any plan they have.”

  Her voice held the echo of revenge—but the eyes that met his weren’t as cold as they once were.

  Zafran exhaled, just once. Short.

  “Right,” he said. Then, quieter, “…Thank you.”

  “Not necessary.”

  She looked up—just for a moment. Her mouth didn’t smile. But her eyes didn’t harden, either.

  Thalos poured them both a drink and slid the glasses across the bar.

  “You’ll want the dawn line,” he said. “Quietest route south. Doesn’t stop in Fyonar.”

  Zafran took a sip.

  Isolde took hers and drank it all in one go.

  The train creaked steadily down the southern line, steam hissing in slow rhythm. Outside the window, hills rolled by in shades of brown and frostbitten green. The early light had stretched into a pale gray morning, thin as worn parchment.

  Zafran sat forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the passing blur.

  Across from him, Isolde sat with arms folded, one shoulder resting against the wall. She didn’t speak—just let the silence settle and breathe.

  Then—

  “You have a reputation, you know,” she said, almost offhand.

  Zafran blinked, turned slightly. “For what?”

  “Running after women,” she replied, eyes drifting to the window. “First me. Now her.”

  He stared at her for a moment, unreadable.

  She shrugged. “No judgment. Just curious where you draw the line.”

  Zafran leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “I don’t run after people.”

  “You look like you’d jump off this train if it got you there five minutes faster.”

  “It’s not about chasing,” he said quietly. “If they reach her first—if they know where she is—it’s not a maybe. She’ll die. That’s how Lucian’s experiments work, right?”

  Isolde didn’t answer at first. Just gave a small sound—somewhere between a breath and a hum. Not agreement. Not argument. Just recognition.

  The train rattled on, steady, unbothered.

  She shifted in her seat. “This is the fastest way south, Ocean Tide.”

  Zafran didn’t reply. His hands had clenched without him noticing.

  The train rattled on, steady, unbothered.

  She shifted in her seat. “It’s a week until we reach Ocean Tide. Hope you don’t jump off the train midway,” she muttered, then leaned her head against the wall beside her, eyes already half-lidded.

  Zafran didn’t answer.

  She was still bruised. Still healing. He could see it in the way her breath slowed—controlled, but shallow. In the way her shoulder tensed even as she tried to rest.

  And somehow… that steadied him. Not comfort. Not relief. Just clarity.

  Rushing wouldn’t get them there any faster.

  He leaned back against the seat.

  And let the train carry them forward.

  The chamber pulsed with heat. Not warmth—pressure. Metallic veins ran across the floor, glowing faintly with arcane current. Machinery hissed and muttered in the shadows, steam curling through grated vents like the breath of a slumbering beast.

  Lucian stood at the center, gloves on, coat immaculate, face unreadable in the flickering red light.

  Then the door creaked open.

  Varzen stepped through—limping, robes torn and blood-crusted, his skin pale under the grime. He looked like a ruin, but walked like someone unfinished.

  Lucian turned slightly. “I never imagined I’d see you like this.”

  Varzen grinned, teeth pink with dried blood. “You wouldn’t believe what I found.”

  Lucian waited.

  “I met a flame-touched,” Varzen said, voice low, edged with something like awe. “Strong enough to strip my magic mid-cast. One surge—and I was down.”

  Lucian’s gaze narrowed. “Where?”

  “She was traveling with the Ice Wolf. That one who’s been shadowing us for years.”

  Lucian stilled. “And?”

  Varzen reached into his robes and drew something out—a gem, red and twisted, pulsing faintly with inner flame. Not smooth. Not perfect. Like something half-formed… or half-awake.

  “This reacted to her,” he said. “Didn’t glow until she let loose.”

  Lucian stepped closer. And for the first time in hours, something shifted behind his eyes.

  Not surprise. Not fear.

  Wonder.

  “This might stabilize the core,” he whispered. “It could be the key. We may finally complete the shell.”

  Varzen leaned against a console, arms folded. “Yeah. But there’s a problem.”

  Lucian didn’t look away. “What is it?”

  “I tagged her,” Varzen said. “Quiet glyphwork. Subtle. She didn’t notice.”

  Lucian looked up.

  “She’s in Ocean Tide.”

  A pause.

  Lucian clicked his tongue. “Of all places.”

  “Capital city,” Varzen muttered. “Foreign banners, treaty zones, witnesses. So—what now?”

  Lucian didn’t answer immediately. He turned and walked to the wall, pressing his palm to a copper rune and flipping a switch beside it.

  With a low groan, the wall shifted open.

  Behind it stood rows of armored bodies—identical, faceless, bronze and black. Arcane circuits traced down their limbs like veins. In each chest, a crystalline core glowed with restrained light—planar-souls, torn from once-living mages, sealed into silent frames.

  They didn’t breathe.

  They didn’t blink.

  They simply waited.

  Lucian studied them.

  Then, almost to himself:

  “Their sacrifice will be proven worthy.”

  He didn’t raise his voice. But the chamber heard.

  “Ready the Hollowbound.”

  Varzen smirked. “They’ll be glad to stretch.”

  Lucian didn’t return the smile. He watched the stillness before command.

  “Also,” he said, “prepare my armor.”

  Varzen blinked. “You’ll go? Yourself?”

  Lucian’s voice remained even. “It’s time.”

  Varzen’s grin widened. “This is going to be fun.”

  Lucian didn’t smile. He was already thinking further ahead—past the strike, past the girl, past even the Hollowbound.

  To something no one else in the room could see.

  Something only he understood.