The caravan lurched into motion, the rhythmic creak of wooden wheels blending with the muffled murmurs of weary travelers and the soft crunch of boots against the dirt road. Though exhaustion hung heavy over the survivors, they moved with quiet determination, securing supplies, tending to the injured, and ensuring that the hammocks carrying the fallen swayed as gently as possible with each turn of the path. The road back was long, but its significance was undeniable—it led toward a turning point that would shape humanity's fate. Beyond the Eastern Border, Calaedria stood as the continent's first bulwark against the Darkborn, a lone beacon in the encroaching gloom.

  At the heart of the procession, Kurt and Gavin occupied a solitary carriage, its sparse interior offering little in comfort but granting them something far more valuable—privacy. No one had questioned Kurt when he stepped inside, his expression guarded yet purposeful, nor had they spoken when Gavin followed in his silent, measured way. Though unease still lingered among the adventurers regarding the enigmatic figure, they trusted Kurt enough to let the moment unfold.

  Outside, Daphne moved with a quiet authority, her sharp gaze sweeping over the caravan as she directed the adventurers stationed along its perimeter. She had taken the mantle of leadership with an unspoken resolve, ensuring that their retreat remained orderly and that no further threats would catch them unprepared.

  Pierce and Wanda prowled the convoy's perimeter, their sharp gazes sweeping the darkened horizon. Near the heart of the caravan, Swan lingered, her usual awkwardness tempered by the quiet worry in her eyes. Will rode atop a supply-laden wagon, his shield resting beside him as the vehicle's steady jostle did little to ease the lingering tremors in his limbs. Dralok's power still echoed in his frame, a phantom charge he could not shake. Yet even as his fingers twitched with residual energy, he met Swan's concern with a lopsided grin, his voice carrying that same unshaken bravado.

  Nearby, Holly worked in silence, perched on the edge of the wagon as she traced glowing patterns over his skin, mending what willpower alone could not.

  The caravan’s protection was in capable hands, granting Kurt and Gavin a rare moment that belonged to them alone.

  Inside the carriage, a quiet understanding settled between them—a weight neither acknowledged, yet both felt. The road stretched long ahead, each jolt of the wheels against the uneven terrain punctuating the silence, yet this time, it was not the silence of strangers but of two who had already begun to bridge the years between them.

  Gavin sat motionless, his form obscured beneath the Mask of Shadows, an enigma even now. To most, he was untouched by the trials he’d endured, his presence as unwavering as ever. But Jonny—Kurt—had learned to see past such illusions. The subtle tension in Gavin’s frame, the near-imperceptible rigidity of his movements, spoke of something beneath the mask, beneath the machine. Strain. Wear. The echoes of battles fought long before this one.

  Yet, for now, neither pressed the matter.

  Kurt’s fingers idly brushed against the hilt of Noctisbane at his side, while across from him, Gavin’s optics dimmed as he gazed out the small, dust-streaked window. The road was long, and for the first time in years, they had time.

  ---

  Inside the carriage, the rhythmic creak of wooden wheels filled the silence, the world outside reduced to blurred greens and grays as the caravan pressed forward. The gentle sway of the vehicle mirrored the quiet unease between its two passengers.

  Gavin sat upright, his posture precise yet oddly weary, hands resting on his knees as his mechanical fingers twitched with subtle, unconscious motions. They were gestures born of habit—battle instincts ingrained through countless skirmishes. The illusion of the Mask of Shadows concealed the scars of time, yet Jonny could see past it. He could hear it in the faint whir of recalibrating servos, the measured deliberation in Gavin’s movements that hadn’t been there before.

  For a long moment, neither spoke. There was no rush—only the weight of four years between them, settling into the quiet space.

  Jonny broke the silence first. “You’ve… changed,” he observed, his voice steady, though laced with an undeniable curiosity. He studied Gavin as if trying to reconcile the figure before him with the one he had once known.

  Gavin inclined his head slightly, his optics flickering as he considered the statement. “You’ve said something similar,” he replied, his tone calm, almost clinical. But Jonny’s gaze lingered, unrelenting, urging more from him.

  After a pause, Gavin continued, his words deliberate. “My body has been… modified.”

  He raised a hand, and for a moment, the illusion flickered, revealing faintly glowing runes embedded beneath the metal surface. They pulsed dimly, like dying embers.

  “After we parted, I analyzed one of the daggers—Dave’s daggers—the ones you entrusted to me.” He turned his hand slowly, letting the light catch the runes. “It wasn’t just a tool for repair; it was a blueprint. A lesson in rebuilding.”

  Jonny leaned forward slightly, his gaze narrowing. He didn’t speak, but the question was clear in his eyes.

  Gavin obliged. “These runes… they are derived from the enchantments within that blade. They sustain me. But that alone wasn’t enough.”

  His fingers curled slightly as he hesitated, searching for the right words. “I scavenged what I could from Darkborn territory—metal, fibers, anything to replace what was failing. But the materials… they weren’t pure.” His optics dimmed faintly. “Some carried traces of abyssal energy. Corruption. Faint, but persistent.”

  Jonny’s jaw tightened, his hands pressing against his knees. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”

  “I know the risks,” Gavin admitted, his voice quiet. “But there were no alternatives. If I wanted to return my functionalities, to continue…” He let the words hang, unfinished, but Jonny understood.

  A silence stretched between them. Outside, the caravan moved with purpose, Daphne’s voice ringing out in the distance—steady, commanding. She was ensuring the others stayed in formation, keeping them moving forward, away from danger. Even now, she was leading. Protecting.

  Gavin broke the silence first. “There’s more.”

  Jonny’s focus snapped back to him as Gavin raised his arm, revealing another flicker of illusion. This time, a shard—iridescent, embedded seamlessly into his frame—gleamed in the dim light.

  “I found this,” Gavin stated, his tone carefully measured. “It augments my systems. Provides additional energy. But it’s… different. Alive, in some way. And it holds fragments—traces of Darkborn communication.”

  Jonny’s brows furrowed, his hand instinctively drifting toward Noctisbane’s hilt. Gavin caught the motion and raised a hand in a calming gesture.

  “They aren’t complete,” he clarified. “The messages are fragmented—patterns, words, commands. I’ve been deciphering them since we began traveling westward.”

  He hesitated, his optics narrowing as if warring with an internal conflict. “There’s more I could say,” he admitted, his voice softer now. “But I need more time before drawing conclusions.” Then, almost imperceptibly, his posture shifted—just enough to signal something else.

  “Your turn.”

  Jonny recognized it immediately—the pragmatist yielding to the friend who still knew how to listen.

  He exhaled, shifting his grip on Noctisbane. “When you left…” He hesitated, then pushed forward. “Dave was still recovering. After Jessie… and after losing his arm and leg…” His voice faltered, but he forced himself to continue. “He struggled for a long time, but he didn't just survive—he learned to stand again, in more ways than one. It wasn't easy, but he never let it break him.”

  Gavin said nothing, but his optics flickered, listening.

  “And Coral…” Jonny gave a bitter chuckle. “They stripped him of his titles. Locked him in his own home. The Paladin Council and the Cleric Order called it ‘assigned duties’ in the archives, but it was just house arrest. Maybe it was mercy, given everything.”

  Jonny’s fingers tightened around his gloves. “I wanted to follow you. Gods, I wanted it so badly. But Dave and Coral convinced me to stay. Said I had to grow. The Barkers—they took me in. Gave me a place. Lessons. Swordsmanship. Magic theory. Geography.” He smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It was more than I’d ever had before. But I didn’t belong there.”

  He exhaled sharply. “So I became Kurt again. Took commissions. Made my mark. People started calling me ‘Shadowblade.’” There was the faintest flicker of pride in his voice, but it was quickly swallowed by something heavier.

  “For four years, I honed myself,” Jonny continued, his voice quieter now. “Swore I wouldn’t let losses like Helena’s, or Jessie’s, happen again. But after what just happened… after the Wardens…” He shook his head, his grip tightening. “I still couldn’t save everyone.”

  A silence stretched between them—not cold, not distant, but thick with shared understanding.

  Jonny exhaled, forcing a lighter tone. “You know, it’s the year 1012 E-D?r now. A thousand years since the Darkborn first appeared. The elves call them Edenedh D?r—‘Darkborn.’” He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “It’s funny how much you pick up when you’re trying to distract yourself.”

  Gavin didn’t respond immediately, but there was a shift—something in his optics, a quiet acknowledgment.

  Jonny leaned back, letting his gaze drift to the carriage window. The blurred landscape passed in streaks of muted color, but amidst the motion, his eyes caught something—Daphne.

  She moved with her usual, purposeful stride, her presence as unwavering as the road itself. She was keeping them together. Keeping them moving.

  Jonny watched her for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Respect, maybe. Familiarity.

  Gavin’s optics flickered, narrowing as he observed Jonny with the same meticulous scrutiny he applied to a battlefield or a machine in need of repair. His gaze shifted momentarily to the window, where Daphne walked with her usual unhurried confidence, keeping pace with the caravan. Then, with the same precision, he turned his attention back to Jonny.

  “Is she your bonded companion?” he inquired, his voice devoid of anything but quiet pragmatism, as though assessing the specifications of a weapon rather than the intricacies of human relationships.

  Jonny nearly choked. “What?” He jerked upright so suddenly that he nearly struck the carriage wall. “Gods, don’t ever phrase it like that again.” He raked a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Where in the hells did you even learn to ask something like that?”

  Gavin tilted his head slightly, his posture betraying the faintest trace of curiosity. “I’ve observed the patterns. When humans form close ties, they often seek companionship. Given your proximity to Daphne, it seemed a reasonable deduction.” He paused, studying Jonny’s reaction. “Was I mistaken?”

  “Yes—no—I mean—” Jonny groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose as though trying to physically ward off the conversation. “It’s not like that. She’s a trusted ally, nothing more.” His gaze flickered to the window again, where Daphne remained ever vigilant, scanning the horizon for unseen threats. His voice softened, losing some of its flustered edge. “Besides, Daphne loves Doyle.”

  Gavin processed the answer in silence, but something about Jonny’s shift in tone made him pause. The subtle way Jonny’s shoulders had tensed. The way his hand hovered near the hilt of Noctisbane, not out of reflex, but out of habit. A gesture of thought, not of readiness.

  “The healer, then,” Gavin stated. It wasn’t a question, nor an accusation. Just an observation, spoken with the same measured tone he used when calculating trajectories or analyzing battle formations. "The look on your face was born of desperation just moments before Dralok—"

  Gavin stopped as Jonny stiffened, lips parted, but no words came, his expression flickering between irritation and something heavier, something unreadable. Then, his gaze sharpened, suspicion threading through his voice.

  “Why are you even asking this?”

  Gavin didn’t answer immediately. He tilted his head slightly, a movement more contemplative than mechanical, the hum of his internal systems filling the pause. “I am… uncertain.” His voice, though still even, had a rare edge of quiet introspection. “I have seen many things. Kingdoms rise and crumble. Victories paid in blood. Helena, after Alex’s death. Dave, after Jessie.” His optics flickered, dimming briefly as if recalling stored data. “I have observed love—witnessed the weight of it, the destruction it leaves behind when torn away. And yet, I cannot grasp what makes it so… vital.”

  Jonny’s expression shifted, the sharpness fading into something more guarded, more thoughtful. He studied Gavin as if seeing him anew—not just a machine built for war, but something else. Something searching.

  For a moment, silence stretched between them, not heavy with tension but filled with something unspoken, an understanding neither of them could quite name.

  Then, the carriage jolted to a stop.

  Gavin straightened, his optics adjusting to the shift in movement. “We’ve halted,” he remarked, the introspective moment slipping away as easily as sand through fingers. “Noon.”

  Jonny leaned forward, peering out the window. Outside, the caravan was slowing, wagons drawing into a loose formation as adventurers dismounted, their movements weary but disciplined. The air carried the hushed murmurs of preparation—the tending of wounds, the quiet distribution of rations, the reverent care of the dead.

  Gavin’s voice cut through the ambient noise, quieter this time. “The mask.” He lifted a hand to his face, fingers grazing the illusion that concealed the Mask of Shadows. “It is a fusion of lost technology and arcane craftsmanship. And…” He hesitated, tilting his head as if recalibrating his words. Then, with a measured finality, he said, “We will speak of it later.”

  Jonny nodded once, short and firm, his expression unreadable. As the carriage door groaned open, they stepped out into the weighty stillness of the camp, leaving unfinished conversations for another time.

  ---

  The carriage door groaned as it swung open, revealing the encampment beyond. Dust hung in the air, stirred by the slow, methodical movement of the caravan’s occupants. The scent of sweat, earth, and roasted meats mingled on the breeze, carried from the simmering cookfires scattered across the camp.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Jonny stepped out first, his boots hitting the packed dirt with the quiet assurance of someone who had long since learned to move with purpose. Gavin followed, his form unnaturally still as he took in the surroundings with a sweeping, analytical gaze. His optics flickered briefly over the House Powder insignia emblazoned on the carriage—intricate silver and blue, an emblem of status. He noted how the sigil caught the light, gleaming even amidst the wear of long travel.

  The driver, a middle-aged man with calloused hands and a soldier’s posture, dipped his head as Jonny disembarked. “Lord Kurt,” he greeted with a reverence that carried the weight of recognition. “Your presence here honors us. House Powder remains in your debt.”

  Jonny stilled, his fingers tightening briefly at his sides before he turned, leveling the man with a calm but firm gaze. “No need for formalities,” he corrected, his tone polite but leaving no room for debate. “That title belongs to another.”

  The driver hesitated, then gave a respectful nod. “Understood.”

  Satisfied, Jonny inclined his head in thanks before shifting his attention back to the camp. Nearby, adventurers moved with quiet efficiency, tending to the wounded, securing supplies, and checking on their companions. The dead were laid out beneath preservation wards, their still forms covered with cloths that shimmered faintly under the touch of residual magic. He caught a glimpse of Holly amidst the healers, her movements purposeful, precise—yet something about her felt different now, as if Gavin's words had uncovered a perspective he hadn't considered before. A thought for later.

  He refocused as he spotted the rest of his companions.

  Will stood with his arms crossed, appearing recovered from his previous injuries. There was no sign of the bruising or the sluggish movements that had marked him after Dralok’s attack. His posture was as steady as ever, the image of a fortress given form—his presence a silent reassurance to those around him.

  Swan, in contrast, was a striking contradiction to the destruction she had unleashed several days ago. Her violet eyes still held a flicker of something restless, an energy just beneath the surface. She had fallen into her usual measured silence, the chaos of her earlier display seemingly forgotten, as if the storm had never been.

  Pierce, ever the watchful marksman, was the first to acknowledge their approach. His sharp gaze flicked between Jonny and Gavin, pausing for a moment as he caught Jonny's gaze on Holly. A flicker of realization passed over his face, but it quickly faded as he chose not to comment—respect had been earned through their shared trials. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

  “So,” he drawled, “this is the mystery figure you’ve been hunting all this time?”

  Will unfolded his arms, his expression unreadable as he took in Gavin’s presence. “You never mentioned he was... not human.”

  Jonny exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “Didn’t seem important.”

  Swan tilted her head, studying Gavin with open curiosity, her fingers twitching as though itching to test the magic in the air around him. “He’s… fascinating.” She grinned. “You’re fascinating.”

  Will, watching the exchange with a knowing smirk, chuckled lightly. "Careful, Swan," he teased, raising an eyebrow. "You're making me jealous." His tone was light, understanding her fascination with the mysterious, as he shot a glance at Gavin. "Just don't zap the pretty boy by accident, yeah?"

  Gavin regarded them all in silence for a moment, his optics adjusting, processing. Then, at last, he spoke, his voice calm and deliberate. “Your conjuration. Electrifying.”

  Swan only smiled.

  Jonny rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage her.”

  Gavin’s optics adjusted slightly, the subtle narrowing of their light betraying the calculation behind his next words. He turned toward Jonny, his tone even and deliberate. “Jonny,” he began, “is there a reason you have not pursued a—”

  “No,” Jonny cut him off before the question could fully form, his voice firm. He didn’t even bother looking at Gavin, instead focusing on unfastening the straps of his gauntlet. The message was clear—whatever assumption Gavin was about to make, it wasn’t worth entertaining.

  Gavin, to his credit, merely tilted his head, filing away whatever inquiry had been left unfinished.

  The rest of the group, however, was not so quick to let it pass.

  Pierce’s brow lifted at the name, his sharp gaze flicking between them. “Jonny?” he echoed, testing the sound of it. His usual smirk twitched at the corner of his lips. “Now, that’s interesting. All this time, we’ve been calling you Kurt.”

  Jonny exhaled through his nose, finally looking up. “Kurt’s just the name I go by when I’m adventuring.” His tone was dismissive, the words clipped. The message was clear—this wasn’t a conversation he wanted to dwell on.

  Pierce, for once, let it slide, though the look in his eyes suggested he was storing the information away for later use.

  Before anyone else could pry, the arrival of new figures shifted their attention.

  Daphne and Doyle approached, their movements steady despite the fatigue that clung to the caravan like an unshakable weight. Daphne carried herself with the same quiet confidence she always did, her golden hair drawn back in a loose braid, her expression unreadable. Doyle, by contrast, radiated an easy warmth despite the exhaustion in his features, the kind of presence that steadied a room without effort.

  “Mind if we join you?” Daphne asked, her tone polite but leaving little room for rejection.

  Jonny gestured vaguely toward the sparse seating—a cluster of overturned crates and a few patches of flattened earth that had been deemed acceptable for rest. “Go ahead.”

  They settled in, and soon, the meal began. It was a simple affair—roasted meats, hard bread, whatever stew the caravan’s cooks had managed to prepare. But after the nights they had recently endured, it might as well have been a feast.

  For the first time since the battle, the tension that had clung to them all began to ease.

  James, Ethan, and Wanda sat a little ways off, their conversation hushed but not somber. Further still, Hayley, Leon, and Sooji observed the gathering, their expressions unreadable, but there was no mistaking the weight that had lifted, if only for a moment.

  The loss of their fellow adventurers still lingered in the air, unspoken yet ever-present. But here, in the quiet lull between battles, there was something resembling peace.

  A breeze stirred the dust, carrying with it the scent of burning wood and the distant murmur of the camp.

  Above them, a lone messenger bird cut across the sky, its wings gilded by the afternoon sun as it flew eastward.

  Most who glanced up saw nothing more than a bird on its errand, its purpose known only to those who had sent it.

  Jonny, however, did not look up.

  Instead, he reached for his waterskin, exhaling as he listened to the conversation around him, the quiet hum of voices that—for the first time in what felt like too long—carried something other than orders, grief, or battle plans.

  They would resume their journey away from Darkborn territory.

  But for now, they would sit, eat, and exist in this fleeting moment of stillness.

  ---

  The air hung heavy with the scent of preservation incense, the acrid yet oddly soothing aroma mingling with the scent of food wafting nearby. Beneath the muted light of the late afternoon sun, Holly moved with quiet precision, her hands tracing the final runes along the cloth-shrouded bodies. Beside her, Claire mirrored the motion, though there was a hesitance to her touch—a weight that went beyond the duty they were performing.

  Around them, the other healers followed suit, murmuring incantations under their breath, their voices weaving together into something almost like a lament. The air grew heavy with the rhythm of whispered magic, carrying a faint, otherworldly hum that seemed to brush against the edges of consciousness. Shadows flickered along the ground, cast by the waning light and the glow of runic symbols etched in their hands.

  Lisa and York stood nearby, their presence steady, silent sentinels keeping watch over the proceedings. Lisa’s sharp eyes flicked from healer to healer, a silent guardian ensuring their focus did not waver, while York, arms crossed and posture relaxed, carried an aura of quiet assurance, as though he trusted fully in Holly’s leadership and the resolve of those under her guidance.

  But Claire’s attention wasn’t entirely on their work.

  Her gaze flitted toward Holly with subtle frequency, betraying an internal struggle, and after a brief but telling hesitation, she moved toward her. The words didn’t come at first, caught somewhere between uncertainty and urgency, and Claire, who was rarely one to pause, seemed momentarily lost.

  “Holly,” Claire began, her voice steady but gentler than usual, almost disarming in its softness. It was a tone Holly had come to associate with Claire’s more careful words, the ones she wielded when treading sensitive ground. “I wanted to speak with you about—” She hesitated, her gaze briefly dropping to the ground, as though anchoring herself before continuing. “Your father—”

  “No.” Holly’s response was swift, as though she had been expecting it, her tone a shield raised in preemptive defense. “I will live my life the way I want.”

  Claire exhaled softly, her expression tightening, but there was no flash of irritation or offense. Instead, she simply nodded, as if she had anticipated the resistance. “I know you will,” she said, meeting Holly’s gaze directly. “But the choices we make have echoes, Holly. Ripples. I just—” She faltered, unusual for her. “I just don’t want those echoes to turn into regrets.”

  Holly’s eyes narrowed slightly, her posture firm. “Regrets? Whose regrets, Claire? Yours? I think I can handle my own.”

  Claire allowed a faint, wry smile to touch her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m not questioning your strength. I’ve seen it—more than anyone else here, perhaps. But even the strongest among us carry burdens they don’t need to, burdens they could share.”

  Holly scoffed, the sound sharp but not dismissive. “And what? You think I should share mine with you? You, of all people?”

  “I think you should trust someone,” Claire countered calmly, though there was a flicker of something deeper in her tone—perhaps pain, or a memory left unspoken. “It doesn’t have to be me. But shutting everyone out, trying to stand alone, is a path I’ve seen before.”

  Holly hesitated, the sharpness in her expression wavering. “I know what I'm doing,” she said after a moment, though her tone lacked the same edge it had before.

  Claire’s smile returned, this time tempered with something warmer, almost fond. “I’m well aware of that. And I respect you more than you know. But even the most capable of us sometimes need someone to remind us that we don’t have to face everything alone.”

  Holly glanced away, her jaw tightening as if to guard her emotions. “I’ve felt alone these past four years. It’s not exactly a choice anymore.”

  “You haven’t been alone as much as you think,” Claire replied gently. “And you’re not alone now. No matter what you decide, Holly, I’ll stand with you. Not because I have to, but because I care.”

  For a long moment, Holly said nothing, her expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh, she muttered, “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

  Claire chuckled softly, the sound lightening the tension in the air. “I’ve been called worse.”

  Holly allowed herself the faintest smile, though it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Fine. You’ve said your piece. Can we drop it now?”

  A voice, firm but not unkind, broke through the solemn air.

  “That’s enough work for now,” came the interruption. A figure stepped closer, his expression one of mild exasperation as he surveyed the gathered healers. “You’re all overworking yourselves. Preservation magic or not, the living still need to eat.”

  The interruption gave Holly the perfect out.

  She wiped her hands clean on a cloth, exhaling slowly before turning to Claire with a look that ended the conversation before it could continue.

  “For now,” Claire agreed, her tone carrying a note of calm reassurance. “But I’ll always be around when you’re ready to pick it up again.”

  ---

  The sun hung high overhead, casting dappled patterns through the trees as the adventurers settled into the waning moments of their reprieve. Despite the weight of their losses, there was an undeniable shift in the air—an almost fragile sense of relief, of survival.

  At the center of this tenuous peace stood Mes, the bard draped in his usual motley garb, a lute resting easily in his hands. His voice, smooth as river stones, carried through the gathering, weaving a tale of defiance against the abyss.

  They stood where none had dared before,

  Against the dark, against the storm.

  Two shadows fell, but one remained,

  A hunter unseen, a blade untamed.

  The adventurers listened, some leaning in, others nodding in quiet recognition. The song carried images of their battle against the Dread Wardens, the clash of steel and sorcery against the relentless tide of the abyss. And then, almost imperceptibly, the story turned.

  Before the rest, before the fray,

  One alone did meet their gaze.

  A man yet not, with silver sight,

  Clad in dusk, a wraith in light.

  Gavin’s fingers flexed at his side, a subtle twitch, but a telling one. Beneath the illusion woven by the Mask of Shadows, he was just another face in the crowd—though one that did not belong. By mortal reckoning, his features were striking, almost otherworldly: long and silken hair, luminous eyes like burnished gold, a beauty that might have belonged to a deity rather than a wanderer. A far cry from the battered machine that had carved its way through the Dread Wardens. Yet here was Mes, weaving a song of things the bard had no right to know.

  Gavin had been alone when the first of the Dread Wardens fell. Even in his damaged state, he had registered the others approaching only as echoes in the periphery. So how?

  His gaze flickered toward Mes, watching the bard’s fingers dance over the strings of his lute, watching the way his gaze never quite settled on anyone, as if he saw something else altogether. But Gavin held his questions. For now.

  As the last notes of the song faded, the moment began to shift. The adventurers, weary yet determined, turned to the task of clearing their makeshift camp. Lunch was ending, and with it, the brief respite from the reality of their journey.

  Tables were folded, supplies repacked, and soon, the caravan was stirring to life once more.

  Before moving onto their respective roles, Gavin waited for a quiet moment between just the two of them before he spoke.

  “Jonny.”

  Jonny’s eyes flicked toward him, guarded yet expectant.

  Gavin tilted his head slightly, the movement slow, measured. “You and Swan—”

  “Stop.”

  Jonny’s response was instant, cutting through whatever Gavin had been about to say. His expression darkened, though there was no true anger behind it—only exasperation.

  Gavin considered this, then gave the smallest of nods, as if filing the information away.

  With the meal behind them and the caravan settling back into motion, Daphne resumed her role at the head of the company, organizing the adventurers into formations to guard their long journey back to Calaedria. Gavin and Jonny, unwilling to remain idle, took to their own tasks.

  While the others fell into their patrols, Gavin drifted to the edges of the caravan, where the lantern light met the encroaching dusk. He preferred solitude, and scouting suited him well—silent, unseen, more effective than even Pierce and Wanda. Where they relied on keen eyes and sharpened instincts, Gavin’s perception reached beyond human limits, picking up the subtlest shifts in the terrain, the faintest hints of movement in the dark.

  But his vigilance was not his only focus. Between each measured step, his mind turned inward, working through the cipher of the shard he had taken from the Darkborn citadel. It pulsed with hidden knowledge, the weight of its secrets pressing against his thoughts, demanding to be unraveled.

  As the caravan pressed onward, the road stretched long and uncertain, shadowed by what lay ahead. But Gavin moved without pause—watchful, calculating, caught between protecting what remained and deciphering the truths that could shape what was yet to come.

  ***

  The council chamber stretched wide beneath its vaulted ceiling, where murals of bygone wars and triumphs loomed above the gathering. The air held the weight of solemn tradition, thick with the scent of burning incense and old parchment. Along the chamber’s edges, towering stone pillars bore intricate carvings of knights and champions, their immortalized visages cast in flickering relief by the great braziers hanging overhead. Shadows danced across the crescent-shaped table at the chamber’s heart, where nine seats stood arranged in quiet authority, though only four were presently occupied.

  Victor Quinn, Head of the Council, cast a measured gaze over the chamber, his expression schooled into neutrality, though the shadows played long across the empty seats. The hush that followed was thick with unspoken concerns. A faint crease marred his brow, the only sign of his unease, before he finally spoke—his voice steady, yet edged with grim acceptance.

  “Five absent from an emergency council. That alone speaks to the weight of what we face—if even they could not be spared.”

  Chescott Calderan, the Knight Commander, shifted slightly in his seat, the worn leather creaking beneath his armored frame. The dim light caught the nicks and dents upon his pauldrons as he exhaled, his voice steady, measured.

  “Victor speaks true. Enjuneau and Reynolds yet toil to mend relations with Laurelin'miril beyond mere coin and contract, while Roland remains in the north, lending his sword to the clans still reeling from the great blizzard.” His voice carried no judgment, only practicality. “As for Jasper and Logan… their reasons are their own.”

  Danika Keaton’s scarred visage tightened briefly, her sharp eyes cutting through the low light. “And yet, the urgency of this meeting demands focus, no matter who answers the call. Four of nine will have to suffice,” she said, her tone brisk but laced with a quiet edge. Her words hung in the air, punctuating the already solemn atmosphere.

  Victor inclined his head at Danika’s words, the faintest nod of acknowledgment before he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. “We proceed with what we have. A message arrived at dawn,” he said, his voice steady, practiced in the art of measured authority. “The report confirms significant losses among the adventurers who ventured past the Eastern Border. The loss is a heavy burden, but graver still is what it portends for the kingdom.” He let the words linger, drawing the room’s collective attention back to him. “The Darkborn stir once more… and among the survivors, an unfamiliar presence was noted.”

  Danika’s brow arched slightly, though her expression remained unreadable. “The Cleric Order has been informed,” she said, her words clipped. “Kelvin was particularly vocal in his distress. Though I suspect his concerns lie more with his daughter’s welfare than with the implications of this report.”

  Chescott exhaled slowly, his voice edged with the tempered steel of caution. “The Cleric Order has lost its focus in the past four years, understandably so. However, if these Wardens are as formidable as the reports suggest, then we are no longer speaking of scattered remnants—we are witnessing a resurgence.” He leaned forward, his gaze flicking toward Victor. “We cannot afford to dismiss this.”

  Victor nodded once, his gaze shifting to the man seated at the lower end of the crescent—the only one not adorned in council robes. Sir André Barker sat stiff-backed, his eyes shadowed beneath his brow, but the flicker of understanding in them did not go unnoticed.

  Victor’s voice lowered, though the words carried the weight of a blade unsheathed. “The report mentions a name we have not spoken of in this chamber for many years.”

  He let the silence stretch, heavy with unspoken history. Then, at last, he spoke it.

  “Duskrender.”

  The chamber fell still. Even the crackling of the braziers seemed to hush, as if the room itself recoiled from the name.

  André’s jaw tightened. He straightened in his seat, but his hands curled into fists against the polished wood of the table.

  Chescott Calderan leaned forward, the polished steel of his gauntlets reflecting the firelight as he rested his forearms upon the council table. The flickering glow caught on the engravings of his armor, illuminating the silent accusation in his gaze. “You gave Noctisbane to the boy—Jonny—after Alex’s death.” His voice carried no venom, only the tempered weight of a reprimand spoken too many times. “That was not your decision to make.”

  Across from him, Sir André Barker sat unmoving, his jaw set, his expression shadowed beneath the dim torchlight. “It was Jonny's inheritance,” he said, his voice measured, but edged with something unyielding. “Alex trusted him.”

  Danika Keaton scoffed softly, the faintest shake of her head accompanying her words. “Alex trusted you,” she corrected, tilting her head just enough for the firelight to catch on the deep scar that ran along her cheek. “But he never so much as even laid eyes on the boy.” Her tone was not unkind, but it was merciless. “You let sentiment cloud your judgment. Noctisbane was forged with a singular purpose—to stand against the Darkborn. It was never meant to wander aimlessly. Least of all into the hands of a boy who was barely past sixteen.”

  Victor Quinn raised a hand, and the chamber fell silent. The firelight cast deep lines upon his face, his eyes holding the weight of decades. “Noctisbane is an enigma,” he said at last, his voice calm, deliberate. “Even our most learned scholars cannot trace its origin, nor divine its true nature. But what is done, is done. The blade is Jonny’s now, and for four years, he has wielded it well—if sparingly.” He let his gaze sweep across the chamber, his tone sharpening. “What concerns us now is the report from the Eastern Border… and the figure named therein.”

  Chescott inclined his head, his voice quiet but firm. “Gavin.”

  The name lingered in the air, unfamiliar to most—but not to André. His fingers curled, ever so slightly, against the polished wood of the table. A tide of memories surfaced: the blood-corner of Helena’s cottage, the silent stranger that arrived and quickly dispatched the Lieutenant Rylkoth. Gavin had been an enigma then—an outsider, more shadow than man. But the report painted a different picture now. Something greater.

  André exhaled, steady but slow. “Gavin was there four years ago,” he murmured. “The night Helena…” He stopped, swallowing the name before it could steal his composure. “Back then, he was unassuming. Watchful, but not imposing.” His brow furrowed. “What’s described in that report—it’s something else entirely.”

  Danika studied him, her expression unreadable. “Power changes people,” she said at last. “But what troubles me most is what the report details about these ‘Dread Wardens.’” She leaned back, her arms crossing over her chest. “They are no mere shadowspawn or minions. Not even Lieutenants. They are something older. Something that may have been growing in strength for generations while we remained blind to it.” Her gaze flicked to Victor. “For half a century, we have sent no expeditions beyond the chasm. Perhaps that was a mistake.”

  Victor inclined his head slightly. “Almost a decade ago, we fought to hold the Eastern Border. That effort succeeded. But if the Darkborn’s resurgence is upon us, we may need to prepare once more.” He exhaled slowly, his fingers steepled before him. “Before we decide our next course… there is one question that must be answered.”

  Chescott’s voice was grim as he supplied it. “Duskrender.”

  His gaze locked onto André, unrelenting. “When Alex wielded Noctisbane, no weapon was more feared by the Darkborn. But Jonny…” His voice did not soften, but there was no cruelty in it. Only the weight of hard truth. “Jonny struggled against the Lieutenant he faced. If the blade is not as it once was, we must understand why.”

  Danika’s fingers tapped against the table, her thoughts already moving ahead. “It’s possible Noctisbane draws its strength from its wielder,” she mused. “Or perhaps its true power lies dormant, waiting for the right adversary… or the right purpose.”

  Victor leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant, his mind already navigating the path ahead. “We will have answers soon. The caravan carrying the survivors is already en route to Calaedria.” His tone was firm, decisive. “When they arrive, we will question them. Until then, the matter of Noctisbane and Gavin remain unresolved.”

  The four continued their deliberations, their voices rising and falling as the conversation shifted to the growing threat of the Darkborn. Danika pressed for action, her sharp tone cutting through the dim chamber as she argued for mobilizing forces along the Eastern Border. Chescott countered with measured pragmatism, insisting they confirm the full extent of the Dread Wardens’ strength before committing soldiers to an uncertain front.

  Time slipped by unnoticed, the steady drip of a wall-mounted hour candle marking its quiet passage. Shadows lengthened as the chamber’s torches burned lower, the air growing thick with the weight of discourse. André spoke less than the others, his words measured, reflective. His focus lingered on the implications of Gavin’s transformation. What did it mean for the kingdom? For the world beyond their borders?

  Victor remained the arbiter, his gaze flicking between them as he weighed their arguments, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Fatigue crept into their features, but none moved to call an end to the session. Though no final resolutions were reached, the gravity of their concerns settled upon them like an unseen weight, pressing deep into the marrow of their thoughts.

  Outside the high windows, the city stretched into the quiet hours of the night, but within these walls, the work of the realm had yet to cease.

  Beyond these walls, something stirred.

  And soon, the past and present would collide.