THE HEALER'S JOURNEY

A MEN’S FANTASY ROMANCE

ANNABELLE HAWTHORNE

COLIN GOLD

Copyright © 2025 by Royal Guard Publishing LLC

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CHAPTER ONE

The caravan was twelve miles out of Darnath's Hollow, the tradepost where Karzon had secured the last of his wares, when a gripping sense of unease twisted in his gut. It was the kind of instinct traders ignored at their peril. He straightened in his saddle, his keen, hazel eyes scanning the string of wagons trailing behind him to figure out what was wrong.

Each wagon was packed high with bolts of fine cloth, crates of dried herbs, jars of preserved oils, and a few shards of magic gemstones. The goods represented months of negotiation, hard labor, and risk to their lives. A single mistake could easily shatter the profit he'd scraped together to keep his business running.

The trail ahead narrowed as the caravan wound deeper into the Trithan Forest. Here, the road was little more than a scar in the earth, carved by years of merchant wheels and stubborn determination. Towering pines loomed over the trail, their branches weaving a canopy that turned the afternoon light into dim, shifting patterns.

Karzon's fingers tightened on the reins. The deeper they went, the harder it was to shake the feeling that he'd made a mistake. As a trader working with slim margins, Karzon had no room for luxuries—like mercenary companies or the King's Knights to protect his goods.

The guards he had been able to hire were rough, sturdy folk, their armor mismatched and their swords sharp but nicked. Drenna, close beside him, was the caravan's medic. She was also one of the best warriors of the group and had a face seasoned with scars to show for it. Karzon had met the woman years ago, during a disastrous spice run through the Ironswept Highlands beyond Haldrim—a region where the roads were thin, the payoffs were high, and the bandits never played fair.

Karzon's caravan had been ambushed at dusk. The guards were green and the terrain unforgiving. By nightfall, half his stock was gone, and he'd been left bleeding out beside an overturned cart.

Drenna had stumbled onto the scene just as the last raiders were finishing their sweep. She wasn't part of any company back then—just a seasoned battlefield medic trying to cross the highlands on her own after a mercenary job turned sour. The ambush had hit her camp, too. She'd lost her horse and taken a crossbow bolt to the thigh, but she'd still had enough fight in her to drive off what was left of the raiding party.

She could have looted what remained and moved on. Instead, she'd dragged Karzon out of the wreckage, set his dislocated shoulder, and packed his wounds with wildroot paste she'd found nearby. In return, he'd given her the only thing he had left, a silver coin from the Eastern Archipelago, and promised her a place in whatever came next.

Since then, she'd come and gone, appearing when things got dangerous and vanishing when the road quieted. What mattered was that when she was there, people lived who otherwise wouldn't have. She couldn't work miracles, but she knew how to tend a wound and always showed up when it counted. Which was why, once this latest haul had been secured, Karzon had sought her out without hesitation. This time, he'd asked her to stay—not just for the job, but for the long road ahead. Drenna had agreed.

Though Karzon knew that life on the road with his caravan was never dull and rarely safe, Drenna had expressed that it suited her very well. Their friendship was steadfast. Even though Karzon didn't trust most humans, Drenna had long since earned her place outside that rule.

And then there was Briena.

The mysterious elf rode near the back of the wagons, her slender figure draped in a dark green cloak that teased at the curves hidden beneath. She was the only person here who was not with the convoy for gold or camaraderie.

She had joined two months ago, after Karzon had found her bloodied and battered, trapped in the ruins of a goblin-ravaged village. She hadn't begged for his help, her pride evident even in her pain. Sensing a rare vulnerability in the elf, he had taken her in and offered her a job.

Despite her usual silence, broken only by the occasional sharp remark, her presence alone demanded attention. The fabric of her cloak shifted with every sway of her hips as her horse moved, hinting at the soft contours of her breasts and the graceful curves of her body. Her silver hair, tied back in a simple braid, shimmered faintly as it caught the sparse rays of light filtering through the canopy.

Her hood concealed much of her face, but Karzon didn't need to see it to recall her striking features—sharp, delicate lines, high cheekbones, and piercing emerald eyes that could burn through a man's resolve with a single glance.

Even though their relationship was strictly professional, it was impossible not to notice how beautiful she was. He wasn't the only one, either. Other members of his team would occasionally sneak a glance, especially when the local scenery was lacking anything of interest.

Now if only he could notice what was bothering him so much, he would feel a lot better.

Drenna rode up beside him, her gelding snorting as it matched his mare's pace. "You've got that look again."

"What look?"

"The one that says, ‘Maybe I shouldn't have chosen a route through monster country.’"

Karzon chuckled, though the sound carried little humor. "It wasn't much of a choice."

"Sure." Drenna glanced around the shadowed forest. "But every path has consequences."

Karzon's gaze swept the thick undergrowth, his mind racing through the calculations he'd made before choosing this road. It wasn't just the fastest route to their destination of Dunmarch; it was the only one that avoided crossing through territories controlled by rival clans and mercenary bands—places where his convoy might not have made it through without bloodshed.

This forest was dangerous, yes, but at least here the threats weren't carrying grudges.

He released a long, slow breath. "This path means we avoid people who would've torn us apart just for what's in our wagons. Monsters you can fight. People?" His jaw tightened. "People are messier."

Drenna nodded and fell back, barking orders to the guards. Everyone knew she was Karzon's second, and no one questioned it.

The wagons shifted positions to accommodate the narrowing trail, the wood creaking as drivers muttered soft words to their horses. The caravan pressed deeper into the trees.

Briena caught his eye as he glanced back. Her hood had fallen slightly, revealing the curve of her jaw and a sliver of her cheek.

She didn't smile—she rarely did—but there was a hint of curiosity in her gaze, as though she could read his thoughts. "You're tense," she said, her voice soft but sharp enough to carry. "Not afraid, though."

"Should I be?"

Her lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You should always be afraid, Karzon. It keeps you alive."

He shook his head, forcing his attention back to the road ahead. The trail wound deeper into a shallow valley, and here the forest came alive in a way that was both captivating and unsettling.

The trees were impossibly tall, their trunks twisted into strange, elegant shapes, like ancient sculptures carved by a long-forgotten hand. Their canopies intertwined overhead, a lattice of leaves that filtered the waning sunlight into beams of ethereal gold and emerald, casting the path in an almost dreamlike glow.

The undergrowth pressed in at the edges of the trail, lush and vibrant with colors that seemed too vivid to belong to the natural world—deep purples, fiery reds, and an almost iridescent green that caught the light in ways that made it shimmer unnaturally. Flowers with delicate, crystalline petals bloomed in clusters, their beauty too precise, too perfect, as if designed to lure the unwary closer.

Karzon felt it before he truly understood it—a shift in the air, something undeniably wrong. The tension wasn't the familiar warning of a predator lying in wait. No, this was different—seductive and beguiling. The very shadows seemed to move with a purpose, their edges softening, as if coaxing him to look deeper.

The horses slowed, their steps tentative, and even the creak of the wagons seemed quieter here, muted by the thick carpet of moss that swallowed the sound.

Karzon's gaze swept the woods, taking in the unnatural symmetry of the branches, the almost human curve of certain roots that emerged from the earth like grasping hands. He pulled his mare to a stop, raising a hand. The wagons groaned to a halt behind him, the guards exchanging wary glances.

"What is it?" Drenna asked, riding up again.

Karzon dismounted, his boots sinking into the soft earth. He crouched by the side of the trail, his fingers brushing against a deep gouge in the dirt. Easily missable, the mark was wide with sharp, jagged edges—a hoofprint, but not from any horse he could think of. It was too narrow, with thickened edges. The beast that had left it was roughly man-sized and heavy, which meant…

"Minotaurs," he said, his voice low.

Drenna swore under her breath. "You're sure?"

Karzon stood, scanning the dense treeline. The shadows seemed alive now, shifting too much for the faint breeze. He looked down at the gouge again, noting that the soil was still damp and had yet to dry out. "The tracks are fresh. They're close."

Behind them, Briena dismounted, her bow in hand. She didn't speak, but her body was tense, every movement precise as she nocked an arrow and glanced toward the trees.

"They don't usually come this far south." Drenna narrowed her eyes at the route ahead.

Karzon nodded in agreement. "Something's pushed them out. Or drawn them here."

All of a sudden, the formerly quiet forest trembled as a sound ripped through the stillness. A low, resonant hiss slithered through the dense and humid air, like a phantom touch brushing against Karzon's skin, causing goosebumps to rise.

Drenna's sword hissed free of its scabbard. She turned toward the wagons. "Form up! Tighten the line around the cargo!"

The dozen guards scrambled into action, drawing weapons and clustering around the wagons. The drivers muttered nervously. The horses tossed their heads, their ears pinned flat against their skulls.

Karzon's voice cut through the chaos, calm and commanding. "Stay with the wagons!"

He turned to Briena, who was already moving toward the treeline with her readied weapon. "Briena, eyes up. We need to see it before it sees us."

She nodded as she scanned the forest. Every muscle in her body was coiled like a spring, her silver hair shimmering in the faint light as she moved with deliberate grace. Karzon couldn't help but admire her beauty, but he shoved that thought aside.

This wasn't the time.

A branch cracked, sharp and sudden, off to their left. All heads snapped toward the sound.

Karzon moved quickly, his sword clearing its sheath in one smooth motion. The familiar weight of the blade steadied him, its edge gleaming faintly in the scattered light. He advanced a few paces, his boots crunching softly on the dirt and his eyes narrowing as he peered into the shifting shadows.

Another growl, closer this time.

"Drenna." He didn't look back, keeping his tone low. "Get the wagons moving again. Slow and steady. Be ready to run if needed."

"What about you?"

"Don't worry about me. I'll buy you time if it comes to that."

She hesitated, but only for a moment. "Guards, to the wagons! Keep them moving!"

The convoy creaked into motion again, the wheels groaning as the drivers urged the reluctant horses forward. The guards tightened their formation, shields raised and weapons ready.

Karzon didn't move. His gaze stayed fixed on the treeline, his pulse steady despite the tension thrumming in the air. Briena stood a few paces ahead of him, her fingers steady on the taut bowstring.

The undergrowth rustled, branches swaying where no wind stirred. Karzon's grip tightened on his sword. Whatever was out there was circling, testing them.

"It's not just one minotaur," Brienna murmured.

Karzon's stomach sank. "How many?"

She tilted her head slightly, listening with her elven ears—far more powerful and sensitive to sound than their mortal counterparts. "Three. Maybe four."

He winced. "Are you certain they're all minotaurs?"

She nodded tightly. "Too heavy to be anything else."

Karzon suppressed a groan. A single minotaur was a challenge even for a trained adventurer. Three or four? That was the kind of fight you avoided if you wanted to live.

The rustling grew louder, coming from multiple directions now. The beasts were closing in.

Karzon sighed. "Briena, fall back to the wagons. Stay high, keep your shots clean."

Her eyes flashed with something like defiance, but she knew better than to argue with Karzon, especially when he spoke reason. She moved quickly, retreating toward the convoy and climbing onto the lead wagon. Her bow was up again in seconds as she scanned the forest for targets.

Karzon stayed where he was, his sword held steady. The first minotaur stepped into view from around a tree. The creature was ghastly, its hulking frame covered in coarse, matted fur the color of rust. Its muscular arms ended in clawed hands. Massive horns curved outward like twin scythes from its forehead. Its eyes burned like heated coals, locked on Karzon with predatory hunger.

The second emerged moments later, this one larger, its black fur streaked with scars. It carried a jagged club, a crude thing made of dark wood and studded with nails. A third appeared to the left, its hulking body barely visible through the trees.

Karzon exhaled slowly. "Three it is, then."

The lead minotaur bellowed, the sound shaking the air and making Karzon's ears ring. It charged, hooves pounding the earth as it barreled toward him.

Karzon moved, quick as lightning. He sidestepped at the last moment, his sword flashing as he slashed across the beast's side. The blade bit deep, dark blood spraying onto the forest floor.

The minotaur stumbled, but its momentum carried it forward. It crashed into a tree with a bone-jarring thud. Karzon didn't hesitate. He turned to face the second beast, which was already closing the distance.

It swung its club in a wide arc, aiming to crush him where he stood. Karzon ducked low, the wind of the swing rushing over his head. He came up fast, driving his sword into the beast's stomach. The minotaur roared in pain, lashing out with its claws. Karzon twisted away, yanking his blade free as he moved.

From behind, Briena's arrow whistled through the air, striking the third minotaur in the neck. The creature snarled, snapping the shaft with one clawed hand, but it staggered.

Karzon spared her a quick glance. "Good shot!"

She didn't respond, already nocking another arrow.

The first minotaur, still bleeding from its side, had recovered. It charged again, slower but no less dangerous. Karzon planted his feet, his sword raised.

The clash was brutal. The beast's claws raked against his shoulder, tearing through leather and grazing flesh. Karzon gritted his teeth, slamming his blade into the creature's chest. It howled, collapsing to its knees before falling face-first into the dirt.

The victory was short-lived. Karzon felt it before he saw it—the rush of air like a sudden gale, the ground trembling with the heavy thud of hooves closing in. His instincts screamed just a moment too late.

The last minotaur had managed to extract the arrow. Wounded and all the more vengeful for it, it crashed into him with the force of a falling boulder, one jagged horn ripping into his lower back.

Pain erupted through his body. His vision flashed white, his breath catching in his throat as if the blow had knocked his soul loose from its anchor. He staggered forward, his knees buckling as ground rushed up to meet him.

He hit the earth hard, the impact rattling his ribs and jarring his senses. Dust and the coppery tang of blood filled his mouth as he gasped for air, his lungs burning. Time fractured into jagged moments: the shouts of the guards dimming into muffled echoes, the distant snap of Briena's bowstring, the pounding rhythm of his own heartbeat, impossibly loud.

The world dulled at the edges, pain folding in on itself until only the echo of it remained. Karzon wasn't sure if he was dying or dreaming. Everything slowed. He saw Briena in the sunlit fields outside Marrow's Glen, her hair loose, laughter spilling from her lips as she turned to look at him. The warmth of that moment nearly undid him. Then came the bitter tang of firewine, the weight of a mug in his hand, Drenna laughing across a battered tavern table, her scars catching the light like old silver.

The vision shifted again. Arlenia stretched before him, vast and gleaming, every road and river alive with movement. And there he was, high above it all, standing still as stone with the weight of something he couldn't name settling around him. It felt like peace. It felt like purpose. His heart twisted, unsure if this was memory, illusion, or something that waited on the other side.

Blinding light engulfed him, wrapping around his body like a cocoon.

It wasn't harsh or searing but an embrace, soft and unyielding, cradling him in a warmth so profound that it felt like sinking into the most inviting depths of a sunlit sea. He sank into the dark void, his thoughts fading.

Instead of death, something else came for him in the gloom.

CHAPTER TWO

A radiance, as though the very heart of a star had burst forth, enveloped Karzon. It pierced the shattered fragments of his form, bathing him in a searing yet strangely comforting luminescence. He felt the warmth penetrate his being, a golden fire that mended and molded, weaving anew the tapestry of his broken flesh.

The sharp agony in his back, where the minotaur's jagged horn had torn into him, began to recede. It wasn't gradual. It vanished all at once, replaced by a soothing pulse that surged through his veins, stronger and more alive than anything he'd ever felt.

Karzon heard Drenna and Briena shouting his name. He knew then that they hadn't stopped fighting, and he hadn't stopped living. His lungs expanded sharply, drawing in a ragged breath that felt like fire and ice all at once.

The roaring in his ears dulled, replaced by the sound of his heart pounding furiously. Karzon tried to stagger to his feet, his knees buckling beneath him as the light faded. It receded into his skin like embers cooling after a flame.

He dropped to one knee, planting a trembling hand on the mossy ground to steady himself. His other hand instinctively reached behind him, his fingers brushing the spot where the horn had pierced his back, expecting to feel torn leather, shattered ribs, or blood—anything.

There was nothing.

Where the horn of the beast had rent his flesh asunder, now there was only the smoothness of unmarred skin, as though the very memory of the wound had been swallowed by the earth.

More than this, his frame was wholly renewed, knit back together by unseen hands. It felt as if every sinew and bone had been restored to its former vigor. Strength flowed through him, a vitality that surpassed even the resilience of youth.

As the wondrous mending took hold, the clamor of battle pierced the veil of his healing. He took in a scene of heightened peril, seeing that the minotaurs had multiplied in number while he lay senseless. None of these new enemies seemed aware of him, believing that his wounds had been mortal.

He, too, had believed it.

Briena, fair and fearless, stood defiant, her bow a weapon of light in the deepening gloom. With a twang of the string, she loosed another shaft, swift and true as it found its mark in the thick throat of a monstrous brute. The creature roared, its mighty limbs flailing beneath it as it crashed to the ground. Its dark blood mingled with the emerald tapestry of the forest floor.

Karzon's eyes, keen and newly awakened, sought out the fiend that had struck him down. It stood not a stone's throw distant, shaking its gruesome head, the gore of battle still dripping from a cruel horn. It had recovered from the confused haze of Karzon's awakening, and was now intent on finishing what it had started.

With hooves that tore at the earth and eyes that blazed like embers in the twilight, it radiated a fury that knew no bounds. A sound like the rending of mountains issued from its throat, a bellow that shook the ancient trees and sent a cloud of black birds swirling into the heavens.

Emboldened by the magic that coursed through him, Karzon rose. Though his legs trembled with an echo of pain, the lingering warmth of the healing imbued him with a strength that defied the weariness of his flesh. He grasped the hilt of his sword, its cold steel a familiar solace in his grip.

The minotaur charged, its hooves thundering over the earth like the advance of a storm. Its horns, sharp as shards of obsidian, gleamed menacingly in the fading light.

With legs thick as tree trunks, it lowered its head, intent on delivering a final, crushing blow.

Karzon stood firm, his hazel eyes ablaze with defiance as he raised his sword aloft. He tightened his grip on the hilt, the worn leather scraping his flesh.

He would not yield, not while Briena and his loyal band fought with valor behind him.

Then, with a speed that belied its monstrous bulk, the beast was upon him, its snarling maw a gaping chasm of teeth and fury.

Karzon, nimble as a shadow in the twilight, swayed aside at the very brink of the attack, his sword whistling through the air like a vengeful spirit. The keen edge found its mark, cleaving through thick hide and muscle with a sickening crunch that echoed through the ancient wood.

A roar like the rending of the very earth burst from the creature's throat, its charge faltering as agony wracked its frame. Karzon, seizing the moment, spun with the grace of a seasoned warrior, his blade rising in a shimmering arc.

It struck the minotaur's haunch, severing sinew and bone with a sound that mingled the clang of steel with the crack of thunder. The beast buckled, its mighty form crashing to the earth in a tumult of dust and despair, its clawing hands finding no purchase in the yielding soil.

Karzon's breaths came in ragged gasps, his vision swimming for a moment as the strain of the fight caught up to him. He steadied himself, gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands as he moved in for the killing blow.

The minotaur turned its head, its bloodshot eyes blazing with rage and desperation. It swung a clawed hand toward him, the movement clumsy but powerful. Karzon jumped back, the swipe missing him by inches, and then darted forward before the creature could recover.

With a shout, he drove his sword downward, the blade plunging into the minotaur's exposed neck. Blood spurted in a hot, dark spray, coating his arms as the creature's roar turned into a wet gurgle. It collapsed fully, its massive body slamming into the earth and shaking the ground one final time.

Karzon staggered back, his sword still clutched in his hands, his chest heaving as he stared at the lifeless body. The metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils, mixing with the damp, mossy scent of the forest.

For one very long moment, Karzon couldn't think or act. Drenna's voice cut through the haze. She was shouting orders, her blade slick with gore as she held the line near the wagons. Guards clustered around her, forming a tight defensive ring as they fended off the remaining beasts.

"Karzon!" Drenna's voice reached him. She was breathing hard, her armor dented and streaked with blood. "Are you—what in the gods' names—" Her words faltered as her gaze swept over him.

"You were—" she started, her voice trailing off again.

"I know." Karzon swallowed hard, his mouth dry as he forced his body to steady. "I know."

Briena turned sharply, her emerald eyes narrowing as they locked onto him. "You should be dead." Her tone was sharp but laced with something deeper—shock, perhaps, or even awe. "Or, perhaps…you were dead."

Karzon didn't answer. He couldn't. There was no explanation, no logic that made sense of what had just happened. "Later. We'll talk later. Right now, let's focus on getting out of here as quickly as possible."

Briena blinked, her fingers tightening around her bow as she turned back toward the treeline. "The rest are retreating," she said. "For now, anyway."

Drenna gave Karzon one last, sharp look before turning back to the guards. "Hold formation!" she barked, her blade glinting in the dim light. "Keep the wagons moving. We don't want to be targets when they decide to come back."

Karzon moved to help, every step more sure than the last as the warmth of the magic faded, leaving only the memory of its power. Whatever had happened to him had saved his life.

He flexed his fingers, testing the range of motion in his arms. There was no pain or weakness, only an unfamiliar warmth humming beneath his skin.

Briena glanced over her shoulder, her emerald eyes sharp even as she nocked another arrow. "In case you're wondering, what you performed was healing magic. It's rare, but not unheard of."

Healing magic. He'd heard stories of it—often the subject of whispered tavern tales and bedtime myths. It wasn't the kind of magic common folk wielded; it was the stuff of legends, associated with ancient heroes and long-lost bloodlines.

Karzon's mind spiraled back to the stories he'd heard as a boy. He could still see himself sitting cross-legged on the threadbare rug of his childhood home, his mother's voice filling the dimly lit room as she wove tales of healers who could stitch a man's flesh together with a touch, mend shattered bones with a whispered word, or even pull someone back from the brink of death. There were once ten, until, following the cataclysm that destroyed the old world, there were none.

"Don't envy them," she had said, kneeling down to brush her soft hands against his face. "Power like that always comes with a cost, my shining star. A piece of yourself goes with it every time you use it. And sometimes, you don't get it back."

Karzon hadn't understood what she'd meant back then. To a wide-eyed boy, it had sounded like magic was a blessing, something only a lucky few were born with. He'd imagined himself as one of those heroes, standing tall as knights and kings sought him out for his gifts. But those were childish dreams, far removed from the gritty reality of adulthood. He'd long since dismissed those tales as just that—stories.

Until now, anyway.

Was that what had just happened to him? Had he tapped into something dangerous, something he didn't understand and couldn't control?

A distinct growl rumbled from the trees, dragging him back to the present. Unexpectedly, another minotaur burst through the undergrowth, its massive horns aimed directly at Briena.

"Move!" Karzon shouted, his legs already in motion. He shoved her aside just as the beast barreled by, its claws raking the air where she'd been standing.

Missing its mark, the creature stumbled forward, its momentum carrying it past them. It crashed through the undergrowth in a blur of snapping branches and flying leaves.

Briena hit the ground with a grunt, her hood falling back to reveal the full sweep of her silver hair. She pushed herself up quickly, her gaze darting to Karzon. "I had it under control," she snapped, though her breathless tone betrayed her.

Karzon turned, his sword still raised, watching as the minotaur righted itself in the distance. It lingered at the edge of his sight, half-hidden in the shadows, nostrils flaring as if testing the air. Then, without another sound, it turned and lumbered back into the depths of the forest.

Karzon knew better than to question this. The forest was a strange place, and its creatures were stranger.

Briena approached slowly, her bow still in hand and her gaze flicking to the bloodied mess on the ground. "You're so reckless." There was no heat in her words this time. Her eyes softened, lingering on him for a moment longer than necessary. "But… thank you."

Karzon managed a bleak chuckle. "Get used to it."

Drenna strode up, wiping her blade on a scrap of cloth. "The wagons are moving. We should not stay here." Her gaze shifted to Karzon, her scarred face unreadable. "Whatever that was back there, it's the only reason you're still standing."

He shrugged, though his legs felt like lead. "Lucky me."

Briena's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Lucky for all of us." Her gaze stayed on him, inscrutable, before she finally turned away, adjusting her cloak to shield her silver hair from the damp forest air.

Karzon glanced at the wagons—miraculously intact despite the chaos—and the guards who were clustering protectively around them. The tension in their faces matched the wary sidelong glances they cast toward him, and Karzon couldn't blame them.

Magic like his didn't appear out of nowhere without raising questions.

"There's a clearing up ahead. I saw it on the map." He spoke slowly, the weariness threatening to pull him under. "We'll make camp there for the night. The wagons won't hold up if we try to push through the forest in the dark."

Drenna didn't argue. She motioned to the guards, her commands crisp and efficient, and the convoy groaned back into motion. The wagons creaked and swayed on the uneven trail, the horses' hooves squelching against the damp, mossy ground.

Briena fell in step beside Karzon, her bow resting loosely in her hand. She said nothing more, letting the silence stretch between them as they walked.

The clearing came into view just as the last light of the day began to fade, the fiery hues of dusk giving way to the deep purples of night. Nestled against a jagged, rocky outcropping jutting up to split the night sky, it was a rare, flat patch of ground in the uneven terrain of the Trithan Forest.

Though it wasn't their intended stop for the night, it was a necessity, born of exhaustion and dwindling light. The original plan had been to push further along the winding route that cut through the Trithan Forest, aiming for a larger rest point marked on Karzon's map.

That spot, known as Stoneford Crossing, was a well-used stopover for traders, located where the forest trail met the shallow rivers of Dunmarch's eastern borderlands. Stoneford Crossing wasn't just a place to rest; it was an essential waypoint. The crossing offered fresh water, a chance to resupply from the small villages clustered near the riverbanks, and most importantly, safety.

The border patrols of Dunmarch were known to watch the area, deterring raiders and wild creatures from venturing too close. But the ambush by the minotaurs had thrown their plans into chaos. The caravan had already lost valuable time fighting for their lives, and now they were too far behind schedule to reach Stoneford before nightfall.

The Trithan Forest was treacherous even in daylight. At night, it became a death trap, crawling with creatures that were far worse than minotaurs.

Karzon had spotted the clearing on the map earlier in the day, marking it as a fallback point in case something went wrong. It wasn't ideal, but it was the best option they had.

As the caravan rolled into the clearing, Karzon dismounted, his boots hitting the mossy ground with a heavy thud. He scanned the area with sharp eyes, taking in every detail.

The trees surrounding the clearing were thinner here, their gnarled branches arching overhead to form a natural barrier that blocked out most of the darkening sky. It left just enough room for faint starlight to seep through.

It was a small, sheltered space—just large enough for the wagons to circle tightly around the center, creating a defensive formation. The rocky outcropping provided one solid wall, protecting their rear, while the dense undergrowth around the clearing would make it difficult for anything—or anyone—to sneak up on them unnoticed.

A single fire could light the camp without drawing too much attention, but even with these small comforts, the clearing felt exposed.

The two trails that fed into the clearing—one to the east, leading further into the Trithan, and one to the west, leading back toward the forest's edge—were weak points.

"We'll rest here for the night." He stifled a yawn. "Circle the wagons, keep the fire low, and no one sleeps without a guard shift."

Karzon directed the wagons into position, his voice calm and steady as he worked. The guards moved quickly, unloading supplies and setting up crude barriers along the perimeter. Drenna oversaw the effort, her sharp commands ensuring that nothing was overlooked.

Briena, meanwhile, had climbed onto one of the rocks, her silhouette sharp against the darkening sky as she kept watch. Her bow was at the ready, but Karzon caught the occasional fleeting glances she sent his way.

Once the camp was secure, Karzon settled by the fire, his sword resting across his lap.

He stared into the flames, lost in thought. The warmth was welcome, but it couldn't quite chase away the chill that had settled in his bones.

"You should eat." Drenna dropped a hunk of bread and a piece of salted meat onto his lap. She crouched beside him and for a heartbeat, a whisper of warmth stirred in her gaze. It turned impassive yet again. "You're no good to us dead on your feet."

Karzon chuckled as he broke the bread in half. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"It's not confidence. It's practicality." She leaned back against a nearby log. "Whatever you did back there—it's going to be of use to us."

He didn't respond right away, chewing his bread with slow, distracted movements. The taste of it was warm and plain, but his mind was elsewhere, caught in the memory of that blinding light. It had come without warning, without thought. One heartbeat he was dying, the next he was something else entirely. Alive. Whole. Touched by something vast and bright.

"It's not exactly the kind of skill I can rely on," he said finally. "The truth is, I don't even know what I did. It just... happened. I didn't call it. I didn't shape it. It moved through me like it already knew what to do."

He glanced at his hands, turning one over slowly, as if expecting to see some trace of that power still clinging to his skin. "If it's magic, it's deeper than anything I've seen before. It felt right. Like it belonged. But I don't know how to reach for it again. I don't even know where it came from."

The fire crackled quietly between them. He looked into it, trying to find answers in the flame. "I'm not afraid of it. But it's like being given a key without knowing which door it fits."

"Then learn to rely on it," Drenna said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You're a trader. You adapt. That's why we're not rotting in a minotaur's belly right now."

Karzon chuckled, though the sound was low and tired. "Fair point."

Across the camp, Briena descended from her perch atop the rocks. Her bow rested against her shoulder, though her sharp emerald eyes continued to scan the treeline. She crossed the camp to stand near the fire, her silver hair catching the light as she came to a stop beside Karzon.

"The forest is too quiet," she murmured, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "No birds, no insects. Nothing."

Karzon paused mid-chew, his gaze lifting to meet hers. He hadn't noticed it until now, but she was right. The usual hum of nocturnal life was conspicuously absent, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence that stretched into the shadows.

Drenna straightened from where she sat, leaning against the log. "Something's got the forest spooked. We need to be ready to move at first light."

"We will." Karzon hid the worry he felt. "Get some sleep while you can. I'll keep watch."

The minotaur ambush had already cost them precious time. If something else was out there, waiting for them between the clearing and Stoneford Crossing, they might not make it through the forest unscathed.

CHAPTER THREE

Karzon sat by the dwindling fire, its embers smoldering softly, casting jagged shadows that crawled across the rocky outcropping shielding their camp. The air was cool, carrying the faint bite of smoke as leaves murmured in the distance. Overhead, the night stretched out vast and endless, stars glinting like scattered fragments of ice against the dark.

The wagons were circled tightly, the guards on rotation keeping quiet vigil at the edges of the clearing. But Karzon's focus wasn't on the wagons, the fire or the stars. It was on Briena.

She sat cross-legged on one of the moss-covered rocks, her silver hair freed from its usual braid, spilling over her shoulders in soft waves. The firelight caught those loose strands, making them shimmer like molten silver.

Her cloak was draped loosely around her shoulders, revealing the slender curve of her neck and the fitted leather tunic that hugged her lean figure. She rested her bow across her knees, absentmindedly running her fingers along the string, her green eyes fixed on the middle distance as if lost in thought.

Karzon didn't try to hide that he was admiring her. He wasn't one for subtlety, and Briena had already proven she wasn't shy about speaking her mind. But this time, she didn't seem to notice—or perhaps she didn't care.

"You're not sleeping." He broke the silence, his voice pitched just loud enough to reach her.

Briena tilted her head slightly, the sharp lines of her sculpted cheekbones easing into a lovely softness. "Neither are you."

He shrugged, leaning back against his saddle. "I have an excuse."

She raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"

"I was gored by a minotaur a few hours ago." He chuckled wryly. "Tends to keep a man awake."

A small, almost reluctant smile curved her lips. "Fair enough."

Silence settled between them again, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional rustle of leaves.

Karzon let it stretch, knowing that Briena wasn't the type to fill the quiet with unnecessary words. But a while later, too many questions pressed down on him, and they demanded answers. Or perhaps he simply needed to hear her speak, needed a voice to quiet the roaring chaos in his mind.

"What do you want to do once we get to Dunmarch?" he asked, his tone casual, though his hazel eyes stayed fixed on her.

Briena's shoulders drew back, her fingers stilling on the bowstring. "What makes you think I have something to do there?"

"Everyone has a reason for going somewhere." He shrugged. "Even if it's just to get away from something. You actually seemed interested in Dunmarch when I mentioned our destination a while back. You never seem to care where we go, so now you have my curiosity."

For a moment, she didn't respond. Her gaze dropped to the bow in her lap, her fingers resuming their slow, rhythmic motion along the string. When she finally spoke, it was in a whisper. "I need a mount."

Karzon raised an eyebrow. "A mount?"

"A proper one," she clarified, her tone firm. "Not just a borrowed horse, although you've told me many times that Tyrcel is as good as my own. It's not that Tyrcel is unloved, but… he is aging. I need to give him the rest he deserves. If I'm going to keep doing this—" she gestured toward the wagons and the weapons scattered around the camp. "I need to be able to move quickly. To cover the necessary distance, take the high ground, or get out of danger."

He tilted his head slightly, studying her. "And Dunmarch is where you're planning to find one?"

She nodded and searched his face intently. "Dunmarch is famous for its warhorses, bred to withstand everything from open battlefields to harsh terrain. They're strong enough to carry a rider with full armor, fast enough to outrun most dangers, and smart enough to obey on instinct." She paused, her voice taking on a rare note of admiration. "The breeders there are the best in the kingdom."

"So… that's it? A mount?"

Briena's chin lifted slightly—he'd hit on a touchy subject. "What's wrong with wanting that?"

"Nothing." Karzon paused for a moment. "It's practical. Just seems... small, for someone like you."

Her expression hardened, a flash of defiance sparking in her eyes. "Not everyone has the luxury of dreaming big, Karzon. Some of us have to start small."

He held up a hand, his smile faint but genuine. "Fair enough. I didn't mean to insult you."

She studied him for a moment longer, as if weighing his sincerity, before relaxing slightly. "What about you? What happens after Dunmarch?"

Karzon raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the question. "After Dunmarch?"

Briena nodded. "Once your business there is done. What do you plan to do?"

He tilted his head slightly, considering her. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you don't strike me as the kind of man who's content to just run trade routes forever." She gave him a small smile. "You're good at this, but I've seen the way you fight. The way you handle yourself. There's more to you than just hauling goods from one city to the next. Especially after what happened today. Magic can be a portent of good tidings… or of doom."

Karzon chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I didn't realize you were so worried about me."

"Don't flatter yourself." Her tone was dry, but her petal-like lips still held a smile. "I'm just curious. You've got a plan, don't you?"

He sighed. "Right now, the plan is to make it to Dunmarch in one piece and sell the goods we've managed to keep intact. After that…" He trailed off, his gaze drifting to the dying fire.

Briena waited, her silence encouraging him to continue.

"After that…" He spoke slowly. "I think I need to figure out more about what this magic is. You're absolutely right about it. It's not something I can just ignore."

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze locked on the fire as it crackled low in the ring of stones. Threads of smoke curled into the night air.

"I'm thinking of getting new gear." His voice was rough from the long day.

Briena tilted her head. "Gear?"

"For healing." He glanced down and traced his fingers along what remained of his armor. The leather was torn across the chest, the shoulder straps frayed and burned at the edges. A ragged hole along the ribs still carried the faint outline of the blow that had nearly killed him. "This didn't hold up," he said quietly. "Not when it counted."

His fingers stilled. "My mother used to tell me stories about the old-world healers. Back before the Cataclysms, when magic was still a part of the armies, not just buried in ruins or traded in secret. She said healers didn't stay behind the lines. They moved with the fighters, kept them alive long enough to win. Their gear wasn't ceremonial—it was built for speed, for protection, and for magic."

He let the silence settle for a breath, the firelight dancing across his face.

"There were different kinds. Basic field kits, stitched with minor wards—things like padded coats, reinforced boots, gauntlets etched with sigils that made herbs bind faster or slowed bleeding on a touch. Most of those were common enough in the old corps. If you knew where to look, you could still find pieces today, scattered in black markets or locked in ruined outposts."

Briena leaned forward slightly, listening.

"But then there were the rare sets. The ones forged for gifted healers," Karzon continued. "They were tailor-made. Each piece attuned to the wearer. Fortified with Aetherglass or memory-bound cloth. They could channel spells faster, pull energy from the earth itself, even anchor a dying soul just long enough for help to reach them."

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of a cracked vambrace.

"The most famous set was called the Seventyfold Veil. Seven pieces, each crafted by a different mage-artisan. Tunic, boots, belt, shoulder guards, cloak, mask—and the gauntlets. The gauntlets were always the heart of it. Forged in the Sanctum at Elthendar using core-embedded Aetherglass, and inscribed by the last highblood healer before the war tore that place apart."

Karzon let out a breath. "Most of it's probably rusting in the dust. But traders remember stories. Merchants hoard things they don't understand. Soldiers bury what they can't sell. And if even one piece is still out there, I need to find it."

He looked across the fire at Briena.

"Most people are chasing power they don't know how to use. I don't plan to be one of them. If this magic is going to keep showing up... I need to be ready for it."

Briena's expression melted, growing gentler, the tension in her features easing like a tide retreating from the shore. "You're serious about this."

"Why wouldn't I be?" he asked, his tone even. "Healing magic is one of a kind, right? You said it yourself. That makes it valuable. And if I'm going to keep risking my neck on these roads, I might as well make sure it's worth something."

For a moment, she said nothing, her eyes searching his face as if looking for something she hadn't noticed before. Then she gave him the tiniest of nods. "Makes sense. But the kind of gear you speak of is even rarer, considering there aren't supposed to be any healers left. Only few places in Arlenia are known to still craft gauntlets that can amplify this kind of magic. How will you afford such a thing, unless…" She sucked in a breath. "Karzon, are you planning something dumb?"

A throaty chuckle escaped his throat, and Karzon looked deep into her eyes. "Why do you think I'm always up to no good?"

Briena gave him her most sincere glare. "I know you."

"Fair enough." A low laugh rumbled forth from Karzon. "But I'm not planning anything risky right now. At least not until we sell our wares."

Her chest rose and fell softly as she exhaled. "Okay. Good."

"Oh, to have the fair elf's elusive approval," he said with a faint smile, making Briena blush. "If I do decide to chase down some better armor, it means I won't be working as a trader for a bit. So I wondered if maybe…" He flexed his fingers, half expecting magical sparks to leap out from them. "Maybe you would come with me?" He planned to ask Drenna the same thing in the morning, but felt like he already knew her answer. Between her and Briena, he felt like they could tackle anything.

Briena's eyes softened. "Go with you?"

Karzon nodded slightly. "You need the mount, and that won't come cheap either. And I have a feeling you're not in a hurry to go back to whatever you left behind. Both of us can figure things out as we go."

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. He watched as she hesitated. "You're not wrong," she finally admitted. "I'm not in a hurry to go back. But I don't want to be tied down, either."

"Then don't be," he said simply. "Think of it as a partnership."

Briena fell silent, her gaze dropping to the fire. When she looked up again, her eyes shone gently. "Fine. I'll stick around. For now."

Karzon leaned back, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips. "That's all I ask."

The conversation between Karzon and Briena faded into a quiet lull, their words drifting between them, rising into the night like wisps of smoke. Most of the camp had already fallen into a deep, exhausted slumber, the guards rotating their shifts in silence. The wagons sat huddled together like sleeping beasts, their cargo hidden beneath thick tarps that glistened faintly with dew.

Karzon stretched his legs out and crossed his arms behind his head. His hazel eyes stayed on Briena, who still sat perched on her rock, her bow resting lazily in her lap. She wasn't looking at him, not directly, but he caught the way her gaze fell toward him every now and then, quick and fleeting, like a moth testing the edges of a flame.

"You should get some rest." He spoke low so as to not disturb the guards.

Briena tilted her head, her silver hair catching the faint glow of the dying fire. "And miss the thrill of listening to you snore?"

He smirked, his tone playful. "If you think I'm loud, you should hear Drenna. Sounds like she's choking on a war horn."

That earned him a soft laugh. She shifted slightly, her cloak slipping off one shoulder to reveal the delicate curve of her collarbone. The firelight kissed her skin, turning it golden, and Karzon found himself momentarily distracted by the way she absently tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Are you always this charming, or is this just for me?"

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Karzon didn't look away, and neither did she. She seemed to search his face for something—though whether it was trust, sincerity, or something else entirely, he couldn't tell. Finally, Briena broke the silence. "I'll sleep when you do."

Karzon chuckled, shaking his head. "Suit yourself." He adjusted his position, settling deeper against his saddle, but even as he closed his eyes he could feel her watching him. He wasn't sure how long it was before sleep claimed him, but when it did, it came with dreams of silver hair and emerald eyes.

Karzon woke to the slow unraveling of morning—footsteps pressing into damp earth, the soft clatter of gear being shifted, the low murmur of voices thick with sleep. The air was rich with woodsmoke, laced with the briny tang of salted meat warming over the fire.

He blinked against the pale morning light, his body aching but functional. For a moment, he lay still, letting the remnants of sleep fade as he took stock of his surroundings.

The clearing was bathed in soft, golden light. Dew clung to the moss and grass, glittering like tiny jewels, and the rocky outcropping cast a long shadow over the wagons, which were already being readied by the guards. The tension from the night before had eased, though it hadn't entirely disappeared.

Karzon sat up, running a hand through his dark hair before glancing around the camp. Briena was already awake—of course she was. She stood near the edge of the clearing, her bow slung across her back and her arms crossed as she stared out toward the eastern trail.

"Morning," he called, his voice still rough with sleep.

She turned, one eyebrow arched. "You snore."

He smirked back. "Told you it's Drenna."

As if summoned, Drenna appeared from behind one of the wagons, her shortsword strapped to her belt and her scarred face set in its usual no-nonsense expression. "We're ready to move," she said without preamble, glancing between Karzon and Briena. "Stoneford's not far. If we keep up the pace, we'll make it before the sun's at its peak."

Karzon nodded, pushing himself to his feet. "Good. Let's get moving."

The camp broke down quickly, the guards and drivers working with practiced efficiency to load the wagons and hitch the horses. Karzon helped where he could, his sharp eyes scanning the surrounding forest as they worked. Briena fell into step beside him as the convoy started moving, her bow resting lightly in her hand. "Do you think we'll run into more trouble?" she asked, her voice quiet enough that only he could hear.

"Not if we're lucky," he said, though his tone was cautious. "But luck hasn't exactly been on our side lately."

She nodded. "Then let's hope it's due for a change."

Taking a deep breath, Karzon turned to look back at Drenna, who was following in his footsteps. "Speaking of change…"

"Yes, I'll come with you." She turned his direction and raised an eyebrow. "You talk too loud."

"Oh." He chuckled. "How much did you hear?"

"Plenty." Her lips twisted into a smirk. "Almost like you were speaking through a warhorn, you ass."

"Maybe you should take the lead for now," he suggested, moving to the side to let her pass.

"But then I can't contemplate stabbing you in the ass."

"You wouldn't."

"Why not?" An evil grin sprouted on her face. "It wouldn't be nearly as bad as a minotaur's horn."

Karzon looked at Briena. "You wouldn't let her stab me, would you?"

Briena kept her eyes forward. "Why not? It would let you practice your new magic." Her eyes slid in his direction. "We could take turns. You could learn a lot."

Karzon cleared his throat and chuckled, hoping they were just joking.

Mercifully, they did not run into any more monsters. The rolling hills of the borderlands stretched out before them, the Trithan Forest finally giving way to open skies and the soft murmur of the Stoneford River. The trading post came into view as the convoy crested a low ridge, its cluster of buildings nestled against the water like a welcome oasis. Smoke curled from the chimneys of the small tavern, and the metallic ring of a blacksmith's hammer carried on the breeze.

Other caravans had gathered near the riverbank, their wagons forming loose circles as traders and drivers mingled, their voices carrying over the sound of the rushing water. The convoy rolled into Stoneford Crossing, the wagons creaking as they settled in a loose semicircle near the riverbank. Traders haggled over goods at makeshift stalls, their voices rising in a chaotic symphony of barter. The smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread wafted from the tavern, mingling with the metallic tang of the blacksmith's forge.

It was a small, bustling haven that served a reminder that civilization, no matter how tenuous, could still thrive even on the edges of danger.

Karzon dismounted, handing the reins of his mare to one of the guards before stretching out the stiffness in his back. His hazel eyes swept over the trading post, cataloging every detail—the guards stationed at the tavern's entrance, the weight of coin purses tied to traders' belts, the wary glances exchanged between those who carried weapons. It was a place of opportunity, but also of risk.

Behind him, Briena dismounted with practiced ease, her silver hair catching the sunlight as she adjusted her bow. "Not exactly Haldrim," she remarked, her eyes scanning the crowd.

Haldrim had been Karzon's hometown, a city of endless motion and layered contradictions. Its markets buzzed with the ceaseless hum of trade—colorful stalls crammed together like competing voices, each one hawking wares from across the kingdom and beyond. But behind the bustling façades lay the quieter shadows: alleyways steeped in whispers, deals struck with a firm handshake or the subtle slide of a dagger. It was a dangerous place to come from, but it had taught Karzon well.

"Not exactly," Karzon agreed. "But it'll do."

Drenna approached cautiously. Karzon gave her a sidelong glance, and noticed the uneasiness on her face. He felt it too. While being back in civilization was a relief, he wanted to get to Dunmarch as soon as possible. "We'll resupply and rest the horses. But I'd say it's best not to linger too long."

His attention drifted toward the trading post at the edge of the square, a squat structure half-swallowed by creeping ivy and slanted timber, its awning sagging slightly beneath the weight of the dust and years. A lantern swung gently above the entrance, its warm glow casting uneven light over the cobbled ground.

Karzon's gaze caught on a figure standing just beneath the awning. At first glance, there was nothing remarkable about the man; he was still, unmoving, his arms loosely folded across his chest and his posture relaxed. But something about him refused to sit right with Karzon. The crowd seemed to move around him, unconsciously parting as they passed, as if none dared get too close.

A quiet pressure curled around his spine, an unease that settled in his bones without reason or cause. The man hadn't moved an inch, yet there was a sense of anticipation in the way he stood, as though he were waiting for something—perhaps someone—and not kindly.

The wind stirred, tugging faintly at Karzon's cloak, and with it came a strange sensation across his skin. It was soft at first, almost like warmth—then sharper, like pins brushing just beneath the surface of his nerves. His body reacted before his mind could place it. His magic, still unfamiliar and barely understood, shifted like it had been stirred awake. It wasn't painful, but it was alert, aware, and that awareness came with a quiet warning.

He brought his attention fully back to the figure. The man was clad in dark, weathered armor, the kind not meant for show or ceremony. The plates were scratched and worn in a way that spoke of real use rather than fashion, and the edges of his cloak trailed in the dust like a forgotten shadow. His face remained hidden beneath the cowl of his hood, but it was the armor that held Karzon's eye.

Centered on the chestplate, carved into the metal with brutal precision, was a sigil. Jagged in design, the shape was unmistakable once seen—a fractured gem, black as pitch, its shards branching outward like a wound that had never healed.

Karzon felt a painful twisting deep in his gut, born not from fear, but from a recognition that he couldn't explain. The sight of the symbol pressed against some locked corner of memory or instinct. It wasn't just that it was wrong. It was that his body seemed to remember what his mind had no words for.

The man shifted, just barely, as though acknowledging Karzon's attention. And though the hood concealed everything, Karzon felt the burn of eyes gazing deep into his.

There was good reason behind his discomfort, and it had to do with more than his magic reacting to the stranger. Another sigil etched into the man's bracer—a jagged spiral enclosed in a circle—was unmistakable. He had seen it before, not in person, but in the margins of a forbidden trade ledger he'd once handled years ago.

It had been during a deal gone wrong in the back alleys of Haldrim, when he'd stumbled into a black market auction while looking for rare dyes and exotic goods. Among the items being traded that day was a fragment of a dungeon gem, its dark surface thrumming with eerie energy.

The artifact had come wrapped in silk, and scrawled along the edges of the inventory was that same twisted sigil. He had walked away from the deal, and for good reason. Dungeon gems were remnants of the Alderdeep Cataclysm, a calamity that had scarred the world of Arlenia centuries ago.

Long before the great cities of Haldrim and Dunmarch rose to prominence, Arlenia had been dominated by untamed magic and fractured kingdoms. The dungeon gems were crystalline shards of dark power born from that chaos, forming deep beneath the earth where the magical ruptures from Alderdeep had never fully healed.

Dungeon gems were, in essence, unstable cores of condensed magic. They were both a curse and a resource, capable of spilling endless waves of monsters into the world if left unchecked.

Each gem contained cores of energy known as Aetherglass that were capable of luring beasts from beneath the bedrock and spawning new horrors. The most dangerous dungeons, those of the Deep Ruptures, were said to house gems as large as a man's torso, powerful enough to summon entire armies of monsters.

But these gems weren't just seen as threats; they were also valuable. Aetherglass, when harvested and refined through proper channels, fueled everything from enchanted weaponry to magical forges, and it was the lifeblood of Arlenia's greatest trade hubs. Haldrim and Dunmarch, though very different cities, were linked by this trade.

Haldrim, with its sprawling markets and underbelly of thieves and black-market traders, was where adventurers often sold shattered gem shards for fast coin. It was a place of opportunity, though rarely honest. Anything that glittered, whether gold or gem dust, could be moved in Haldrim, especially if you didn't ask too many questions.

Dunmarch, by contrast, was Arlenia's industrial heart, the kingdom's shining example of advancement and stability. It was where Aetherglass was refined into tools, weapons, and artifacts.

Unlike Haldrim, Dunmarch operated under the watchful eye of the kingdom's elite, its markets policed and its dealings "legitimate." Yet Karzon knew better than most that wealth brought corruption, no matter how carefully gilded it was.

The two cities were bound together by necessity, a river of goods and gold flowing between them. Adventurers and traders like Karzon often ferried shattered gem shards from the outskirts and wilds into Haldrim, where they were exchanged for coin.

From there, caravans carried the shards to Dunmarch, where they were refined into priceless tools and weapons that kept Arlenia's economy thriving.

Karzon's role in this ecosystem had always been simple: move goods, avoid trouble, and take his cut. But that fateful day in Haldrim, something deep in his core had told him that the shattered fragment of dungeon gem would never be used to make Aetherglass, because its magic was inherently dark. He'd felt a sense of dread deep within his bones, so profound that it almost broke him. And it had been tied to that sigil, somehow.

Now, years later, the sigil stared back at him from the bracer of the hooded figure in the marketplace, and the unease he'd felt that day in Haldrim surged back with a vengeance. The man's head tilted slightly, and Karzon was certain that he had not stopped studying him. A sudden wave of fury took root deep within his chest.

Karzon stepped forward, weaving through the clusters of people gathered around the stalls. He kept his eyes fixed on the figure, who hadn't moved or flinched. His presence felt almost anchored to the earth, too still for someone standing in the middle of a bustling square. With every step, the tension in Karzon's gut coiled tighter, his hand brushing the edge of his belt more out of instinct than fear.

But when he reached the far end of the square and pushed through the last of the crowd, the figure was gone.

There was no sound of footsteps, no rustle of a cloak turning a corner, no sign of anyone having passed through the space. The only thing that remained was the emptiness where he had stood, and the unmistakable feeling that Karzon had just walked into something he couldn't yet see.

He stood there for a moment, the noise of the market slowly filtering back in around him, voices rising and carts rattling over the stone. But it all felt distant. Thin. As if a veil had just been lifted and quickly dropped again.

The figure was gone, but not truly. Karzon could feel it in his blood, in the faint pressure of something unseen brushing along the edges of his magic. He hadn't imagined it. He hadn't mistaken it.

He had been seen. And something he didn't understand had looked back.

CHAPTER FOUR

Karzon's feet remained planted in the churned dirt of the marketplace, but his mind wandered far from Stoneford Crossing. The sigil he'd seen on the bracer of the hooded figure lingered in his thoughts like a shard of ice wedged into his mind. He didn't trust the timing, given the minotaur ambush, his healing magic coming to life, and now… this?

He swallowed and rolled his shoulders back, trying to regain an iota of composure. The fear he felt wasn't tied to the shattered gem-glass, necessarily. If used for good, it was invaluable. But what if it wasn't? What if that sigil meant that someone was trying to weaponize the gems?

That would lead to utter chaos, he thought with great dismay. If the gems were weaponized, Arlenia would be shattered. The monsters spilling from them would destabilize villages and wildlands alike, and the kingdoms that relied on adventurers and merchants to keep the economy alive would find themselves overwhelmed.

Karzon shook himself from his thoughts, his gaze drifting back to the bustling marketplace. Heat clung to the sun-drenched stones, curling around the golden spice of roasting almonds and the faint metallic trace of freshly minted coins. A lingering sweetness hung in the air, evoking memories of honey and a summer long past.

Wagon wheels murmured over uneven cobblestones, their passage sending up slow swirls of dust, each speck catching the light like drifting embers. Traders called out their wares in voices rich as old parchment, their words twisting through the streets, some coaxing, some commanding, all threading into the marketplace's steady, living breath. A bray echoed through the air, and this was not from a mere mule, but a horned drake tethered to a merchant's cart, steam curling from its nostrils as it stamped its taloned feet.

Karzon's hand drifted to the hilt of his sword, and he scanned the square again, trying to pick out the figure in the crowd. But he was gone, if he'd ever truly been there. Karzon made his way back to the company, who were looking around, fascinated by the bustling town around them.

"Karzon!" Drenna's voice broke through the fog in his head. She stood near the wagons, arms crossed, her sharp eyes narrowed. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Not a ghost." He grimaced. "Something worse."

Drenna frowned but didn't press. She knew better than to try to pry answers from Karzon when he wasn't ready to give them. Instead, she gestured toward the group. "The men are starving, and so are the horses. We need a place to eat, and they need rest."

Karzon turned his attention to the rest of the convoy. His hired guards were leaning against the wagons or milling about, their mismatched armor dusty and dented from days of wear.

Most of them carried the look of seasoned laborers rather than trained fighters, but they'd proven capable enough during the ambush. Still, fatigue was etched into every line of their faces.

The drivers weren't much better, being two older men with wiry builds and patchy beards, their sun-darkened skin slick with sweat. They fussed over the horses with tired hands, muttering to the animals as if convincing them to stay upright just a little longer. Briena stood a little apart from the rest of the group, but she looked just as exhausted.

"Fine," he said, forcing himself to push the sigil from his mind. "We'll find a place to eat."

The inn they chose was a modest affair tucked at the edge of the square, its sign swinging lazily in the breeze. The Lame Rooster, it read in faded paint, the lettering half-obscured by years of grime. The building itself was crooked, leaning slightly to one side as though it had grown weary of holding itself up.

A thin stream of smoke curled from its chimney, carrying with it the faint scent of charred wood and something savory.

Karzon and his company stepped inside, and there was a collective exhale of relief as the heat from the hearth wrapped around them. Although small, the common room was inviting, its walls lined with uneven wooden beams gleaming subtly in the firelight. Worn tables and chairs dominated the space, their surfaces scarred with knife marks and rings from countless tankards.

The innkeeper was a stout woman with a round face and forearms like tree trunks. She looked up from where she was wiping down the bar. Her apron was stained with flour and grease, and a strand of graying hair had escaped the tight bun at the nape of her neck. She gave Karzon's company a once-over, her eyes stilling momentarily on their weapons and armor, before breaking into a gap-toothed smile.

"Welcome to the Rooster," she said, her voice as warm as the hearth. "You lot look like you've been dragged through the forest backward."

"Not far off." Karzon stepped forward. "We'll need a table for... twelve. Food for everyone, and a place to rest the horses if you have it."

The woman's eyes widened slightly at the number, but she nodded. "Plenty of room in the stable out back, though the hay's not fresh. As for food..." She rubbed her hands together, glancing toward the kitchen door. "We've got stew on the fire, fresh bread, and some roast duck left over from lunch. Might even have a few turntail eggs, if you don't mind the smell."

Karzon caught Briena's faint grimace at the mention of turntail eggs, which were bright orange things that smelled faintly of sulfur but were prized for their creamy texture, and suppressed a chuckle. "We'll take what you've got," he said. "The men aren't picky."

"Good," the innkeeper said. "Because picky eaters starve around here. Go on, find yourselves a table. I'll bring the food out shortly."

Karzon nodded and turned back to his group, gesturing for them to sit. As the guards and drivers began to fill the space, their weary faces lighting up at the prospect of a hot meal, he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. These men and women had followed him into danger, risking their lives for a payday that might not even be worth it. The least he could do was keep them fed.

He slid into a chair at the head of one of the larger tables, Briena taking the seat to his left and Drenna to his right. The rest of the group settled around them, the hum of quiet conversation filling the room as they waited.

The innkeeper returned moments later with a tray balanced on one broad arm, the other cradling a mismatched collection of wooden bowls and tankards. The atmosphere brightened as the scent of the food preceded her—rich, meaty, and generously spiced. Every head at the table turned as she approached, the weariness in the convoy's faces momentarily replaced by hunger.

"Here you go." She plunked down a steaming clay pot in the center of the table. "Duck stew. Don't burn yourselves. Bread's comin' next."

Karzon leaned forward, peering into the pot as she ladled a serving into the first bowl. Thick chunks of tender, roasted meat floated in a deep, golden broth laced with herbs. He caught the earthy scent of thyme and sage, mingling with something sharp and sweet—perhaps a drizzle of honey or some kind of wild root he couldn't place. Bits of roasted turnips and dark greens bobbed alongside the meat, their edges caramelized to a glistening brown.

Drenna, sitting to his right, let out a low whistle. "If it tastes half as good as it smells, I might forgive you for dragging us through that cursed forest."

"You're welcome," Karzon muttered dryly, though he couldn't stop the faint grin that tugged at the corner of his mouth. He handed the first bowl to Drenna, who wasted no time digging in, her spoon clinking softly against the wood.

Briena took the next bowl, her sharp emerald eyes scanning the contents before taking a cautious sip of the broth. For a moment, she simply closed her eyes, savoring the warmth spreading through her chest as if the food had stoked an ember inside her. When she finally leaned back, the taut line of her spine relaxed, her muscles uncoiling. "It's very good," she said simply, her voice just loud enough to carry.

Karzon chuckled, taking his own serving and letting the warmth of the bowl seep into his palms. The first spoonful of stew was a revelation, bringing a perfect balance of richness and spice, the duck meat melting on his tongue. He hadn't eaten this well in weeks, maybe months.

Around the table, the others dug in with a fervor that bordered on desperation. One of the older wagon drivers, a wiry man named Harren, let out an exaggerated groan of pleasure as he wiped his bowl clean with a hunk of bread the innkeeper had just delivered. "By the gods, this is what living tastes like," he exclaimed, crumbs tumbling from his beard.

"Don't waste it," Drenna quipped between bites, her spoon still halfway to her mouth. "You'll want every scrap if we're back on salted meat tomorrow."

Harren raised his bowl in a mock toast. "To better food and fewer minotaurs, eh?"

That earned him a few chuckles from the guards, though the laughter quickly gave way to the sound of slurping and chewing. As more bowls made their way around the table, the innkeeper reappeared with a second tray, this one holding a crusty round of bread, a wedge of sharp-smelling cheese, and—nestled in a small wooden bowl—three unmistakable turntail eggs. Their bright orange shells gleamed as if they had been plucked straight from the heart of a dying fire.

Drenna eyed them with curiosity. "Never had turntail eggs before," she mused, reaching for one. "How bad could they be?"

Briena, still sipping her stew, made a vague noise of warning, but Drenna either ignored it or took it as a challenge. She cracked the shell with a firm tap against the edge of her bowl, peeling it away to reveal the creamy, golden center. The moment the shell broke, a sulfuric wave rolled over the table like a curse unleashed, thick and pungent enough to make at least two of the guards gag.

"By the gods—" Karzon recoiled, clamping a hand over his nose.

Briena turned slightly green and angled away as Drenna, unbothered, popped half the egg into her mouth. For a moment, her expression remained neutral. Then her eyes widened.

A beat of silence. Then she coughed, choked, and made a strangled sound somewhere between a wheeze and a curse. "It's—it's good," she gasped, though her watering eyes and the way she flapped a hand at her throat suggested otherwise.

Karzon smirked. "Oh? Then have another."

Drenna shot him a glare as she reached for her ale, gulping it down in an attempt to cleanse her mouth of whatever lingering torment the egg had inflicted. "Not a chance," she croaked. "That was an attack, not a food."

The innkeeper, watching with amusement from the doorway, chuckled. "Told you not to mind the smell."

The table erupted into laughter as Drenna waved off any further attempts to push the eggs on her, muttering about betrayal and possibly reconsidering her entire life's choices.

Briena set her empty bowl down gently, her fingertips resting on the edge as she watched Karzon from across the table. "You're still distracted," she said quietly, her voice cutting through the warm din of conversation.

Karzon met her gaze, his spoon hovering over the pot as he considered his response. "You noticed," he replied lightly.

"Hard not to." She leaned forward slightly. The firelight caught the strands of her silver hair, turning them to molten streaks that framed her sharp features.

Karzon sighed, setting his spoon down and rubbing a hand over his face. The food had dulled the edge of his unease but hadn't erased it entirely. "I saw something," he admitted. "Someone, actually."

Briena arched an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "A man wearing a sigil. It was shaped like a shattered gem. I've seen it before, years ago, in Haldrim. It wasn't the good kind of trade, more like a black-market dealing. Something told me the shattered fragment being auctioned there was trouble, so I didn't want any part of it. But now… I wonder if something like that is being sold through here. A gem corrupted with malice."

That caught her attention. She sat back, her hand drifting to the hilt of her knife as her gaze darted to the shadows at the edges of the room. "Here?" she asked softly, her voice sharp.

Karzon shook his head. "Earlier, out in the square. He disappeared before I could follow him."

Briena's lips pressed into a thin line. "You think it's connected to the ambush?"

He shrugged. "I won't say it is, but I also don't believe in coincidences." Bad luck, like wolves, traveled in packs.

Before Briena could respond, the innkeeper returned with a second pot, this one smaller but no less aromatic. She plunked it down with a grin. "Dessert," she announced. "And before you ask, no, it's not on the house."

The convoy collectively paused, curiosity overriding their appetites for just a moment. Karzon leaned forward, lifting the lid to reveal a bubbling, amber concoction studded with chunks of fruit. The smell was intoxicating… warm cinnamon, a hint of nutmeg, and the unmistakable tang of dried plums.

"Stickyfruit pudding." The innkeeper brimmed with pride. "Best in Stoneford, if I do say so myself. And don't worry, no turntail eggs this time."

Harren was the first to dig in, his spoon scraping at the edges of the pot as he served himself a generous portion. "I'm going to regret this in the morning," he muttered, though the grin on his face said otherwise.

Karzon took a smaller helping. It wasn't a dish he'd had before, but he could see why it was popular. The plums practically melted in his mouth, their tartness tempered by the honeyed glaze that coated them. Even Briena, who rarely indulged in anything beyond what was practical, allowed herself a few bites.

As the meal wound down and the noise of the room began to settle, Karzon found himself scanning the windows and door again. The food had been good, the company tolerable, but the shadow of the shattered-gem sigil loomed over everything. Whatever was happening, he couldn't ignore it.

The common room of The Lame Rooster was quieter now, most of the convoy drifting into satisfied stupors or nursing tankards of the inn's watery ale. The warmth of the fire and the heavy meal had done its job, lulling the group into a rare moment of calm after days of tension. Karzon, however, couldn't shake the coiling unease in his gut.

While the others chatted or rested, he sat at the corner of the table, his mind chewing on the shattered-gem sigil like a dog with an old bone.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a shadow loomed over his table. Karzon glanced up sharply, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword, only to relax slightly when he recognized the figure.

A wiry man in a patchwork coat of faded blues and browns stood there, a glint of mischief in his eye. His face was sharp and weathered, his smile revealing a set of uneven teeth. Karzon didn't know his name, but he'd noticed the man flitting between traders all evening like a moth chasing lamplight.

"You're a busy one," the man said, his voice low and greasy. "But not too busy to notice certain things, eh?" He tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing. "Overheard what you were saying earlier. You're sharper than most of the dullards that pass through this place."

Karzon leaned back in his chair, forcing his tone to remain even. "And you're more talkative than most. What do you want?"

The man chuckled, leaning in closer. The smell of stale beer and pipe smoke wafted from him. "Not about what I want. It's what I know. Saw you watching the square earlier. Thought maybe you'd be interested in a little… information."

Karzon arched an eyebrow, but didn't reply immediately. He didn't trust men like this—men who made their living selling secrets and half-truths. But something about the glint in the trader's eye told him he might know something important.

"Go on," Karzon said finally, slipping the man some coin.

The man smirked, pulling out a small flask and taking a swig before continuing. "There's a lot of strange things passing through Stoneford these days—more than usual. Dungeon gems, for one."

Karzon's hand froze mid-reach for his tankard. He kept his expression neutral, but his pulse quickened. "Dungeon gems?"

The trader nodded, his grin widening. "Aye. Not the regular kind, though. These ones… they're different. New. Powerful. And dangerous as hell." He leaned in even closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I hear they're being made. Crafted, not mined. Someone out there's figured out how to do it, and they're selling them to whoever's got enough coin to pay."

Karzon's stomach dropped. The implications of that were staggering. Dungeon gems were already dangerous enough as they were natural spawn points for monsters that had been the bane of adventurers and common folk alike for centuries. But the idea of someone deliberately crafting them? That was a disaster waiting to happen.

"Who's behind it?"

The stranger shrugged. "That's the thing. No one knows. Whoever's doing it is staying real quiet. But..." He paused, his eyes darting toward the door as if checking to make sure no one else was listening. "There's a man. A buyer. He's been spotted here a few times. Wears a sigil. Shaped like a shattered gem."

"You've seen him?"

The man nodded. "Once or twice. He's slippery, though. Never stays long, and he's got the kind of presence that makes you want to look the other way. You know the type."

Karzon did. Too well. The memory of the hooded figure from earlier that evening flashed through his mind, and his unease deepened into something closer to dread. If this man was connected to the crafted dungeon gems, then he was more dangerous than he'd originally suspected.

"What else do you know?" Karzon pressed.

The wiry old man spread his hands, feigning innocence, but his eyes glittered slyly. "Men like him? They're never alone. There's always a bigger game afoot."

He paused, letting the implication hang in the air.

"Of course," he added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "that's just tavern gossip. Could be smoke and shadows, nothin' more. But if I were you, I'd keep my eyes open. The kind of people who deal in dungeon gems aren't the kind you want to cross. Unless..." His grin turned wolfish. "You've got a death wish."

Karzon's gaze hardened, and the stranger raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. No need to get touchy. Just thought I'd share what I know. Consider it a favor."

"Favor?" Karzon scoffed. "I gave you coin. You're not doing this out of the goodness of your heart."

His grin widened. "True enough. Let's just say I have a nose for opportunity, and you seem like someone who's about to get tangled up in something interesting. Might as well keep an ear to the ground, eh?"

"Karzon?"

He looked up to see Briena approaching. Karzon stood up after nodding briefly at the trader.

"I overheard." Briena's tone was quiet. "You've got your feelings, I've got mine. We shouldn't stay here a moment longer than we need to."

She was right. Whatever was happening in Stoneford, it wasn't safe to stay.

CHAPTER FIVE

Karzon's fingers drummed restlessly against the wooden table as he leaned back in his chair, the shadow of the shattered-gem sigil still burning in his thoughts.

In the heart of The Lame Rooster, the weary travelers had found a temporary sanctuary. Firelight, like a golden tapestry, adorned the rough-hewn walls, while the scent of burning logs soothed their travel-worn souls.

Around him, the convoy was finally beginning to relax, laughter and banter softening the sharp edges of their exhaustion. But Karzon's focus wasn't on them.

Briena's voice, a silken thread laced with steel, unspooled across the table."You're quiet. Is everything..." she began, then hesitated, choosing silence instead. Her deep woodland eyes shimmered in the firelight.

Karzon didn't look up right away, instead tracing the rim of his empty tankard with a calloused thumb. "Quiet's better than the alternative."

Drenna's rough chuckle punctuated the space between them as she leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "Depends on the alternative. Quiet just gives the enemy time to think."

Her words settled over him like a shroud. A chilling foreboding wrapped around him, tight and unrelenting. As if sensing his need for something soft, like a moonflower unfolding in the twilight, Briena leaned towards the fading firelight, her silver hair shimmering gently. "We've done what we needed here. We should move on now."

Karzon stole a glance her way, and felt his breath leave his lungs. The subtle play of light and shadow had somehow made the elf-woman even more beautiful, but in an impossibly tender and unreachable way. The shadows cast by the fire painted her delicate, high cheekbones with soft gold and darkened the hollow of her throat, where her pulse beat faintly beneath flawless skin.

His gaze betrayed him, slipping downward to the gentle swell of her breasts beneath her dark tunic. The fabric clung faintly, hinting at the curves beneath without revealing them entirely. The motion of her chest was rhythmic, almost hypnotic, as though the night itself bent to the cadence of her breath. It wasn't a display of vanity, nor was it deliberate, just the effortless kind of allure that could shatter a man's composure without her ever realizing.

Her hands, slender and strong, rested lightly on her bow. Long, graceful fingers traced idle patterns along the smooth wood, brushing over the string in a way that seemed both thoughtless and deliberate. Those hands were a paradox, being capable of the swift, deadly precision that had felled minotaurs, yet gentle enough to cradle something fragile.

Briena shifted slightly, and the motion pulled the firelight over her shoulders and down her spine, accentuating the lines of her body in a way that was maddeningly subtle. Her cloak had slipped, falling open just enough to bare the curve of her collarbone, the hollow at its base a place that begged for touch.

She wasn't aware of the effect she had, Karzon realized, and that made it all the more devastating. There was nothing calculated about her beauty, no artifice to her movements or the way the firelight kissed her skin. It was just who she was, fierce and untouchable, and yet somehow so achingly present that it left him reeling.

A heat rose in his chest that had nothing to do with the fire crackling between them. She wasn't just beautiful; she was disarming. A force of nature wrapped in soft skin and silver strands, a woman who could both destroy and captivate with a single glance.

He drew a breath through his teeth, the sound hissing between clenched jaws. The motion caught Briena's attention, and her emerald eyes snapped to his, locking him in place like a blade pressed to his throat. For a moment, there was something in them, almost a mirroring of what he felt, what he craved. Then, it was gone.

Not one for subtleties, Drena cleared her throat loudly and frowned at Karzon. "The men are spent, the horses are worse off, and you look like the wind could knock you over." Her scarred face twisted in a grimace. "One night. They'll rest, we'll rest, and we'll leave before the sun even thinks about rising."

Karzon exhaled through his nose. "We rest," he said finally. He met Briena's gaze, his tone steady. "One night. No more. If we keep pushing now, we'll break before we even reach Dunmarch."

Briena didn't argue, though her fingers twitched against the edge of the table. She gave a single, brief nod and pushed back from her seat. "Fine. One night."

The inn's modest rooms were cramped and poorly lit, musty with the scent of old wood and too many strangers passing through. Karzon assigned the guards two to a room, knowing full well they'd likely collapse into their beds the moment they hit the straw-filled mattresses.

Briena insisted on taking a room closest to the stairs. Drenna, ever practical, chose the smallest room, grumbling something about preferring quiet over comfort. Karzon shared a room with one of Harren, who started snoring the moment his head hit the pillow.

But sleep wouldn't come for Karzon.

The sigil gnawed at the edges of his thoughts, each recollection of it bringing back the same sickening sense of familiarity. The words of the wiry trader echoed in his mind: Dungeon gems… crafted, not mined.

Eventually, exhaustion gained the upper hand. The restless churn of his mind dulled, and the next thing he knew, the sharp crow of a rooster cut through the morning stillness, dragging him back to wakefulness.

He groaned, sitting up slowly, the stiffness in his muscles a reminder of the battles fought both on the road and in his thoughts. The inn's air was damp with the smell of woodsmoke and stale ale, mingling with the faint tang of earth carried on a morning draft that crept in through the warped wooden shutters. For a moment, he simply sat on the edge of the bed, his hazel eyes fixed on nothing, his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths.

Deciding the air outside might do him good, he splashed cold water from a cracked basin onto his face, the shock waking him fully. A change into a fresh shirt, well, fresher than most of what he carried, left him looking slightly less road-worn, though the faint shadows under his eyes betrayed the weight of the past few days.

He stepped outside and into a world alive with the quiet hum of dawn. The marketplace of Stoneford Crossing stretched before him like a painting unfurling in real-time, bathed in the soft amber light of the rising sun. A chill lingered in the air, sharp and bracing against his skin, as though the night had yet to fully surrender to the day.

The village was caught in that fleeting moment between waking and working, a delicate balance of stillness and motion. Wisps of smoke curled from chimneys, twisting lazily into the pale sky, while the scent of fresh bread wafted from a baker's stall nestled near the center of the square. A pair of traders stood beside their wagon, yawning as they lashed their goods into place, their voices low and rough with sleep.

Nearby, a thin man with weathered hands arranged crates of gleaming red apples, stacking them in precise pyramids that caught the light like polished rubies. A tanner unrolled bolts of leather on a creaking table, the hides still bearing the faint, acrid scent of the curing process. His apprentice stood behind him, scratching at his nose with a nervous energy that betrayed his youth.

Horses stamped and snorted in their harnesses, their breath misting in the cool air. The rhythmic clink of tack and the squeak of wagon wheels provided a muted soundtrack to the waking square. A mule brayed stubbornly as its owner wrestled with a crooked cart, muttering curses under his breath, while two children dashed by, chasing each other with the wild abandon of youth. Their laughter rang out, bright and carefree, a stark contrast to the weight knotting in Karzon's chest.

He moved further into the square, his boots crunching against the packed dirt. The sharp tang of fish guts reached his nose as he passed a weathered fisherman unloading his haul, scales glinting like coins in the rising light. A cluster of older women haggled over a bundle of wild herbs, their voices quick and sharp, punctuated by the occasional bark of laughter.

In the center of it all, a traveling bard tuned his lute, his fingers plucking at the strings to coax out a melody that never quite formed. A young woman, perhaps a merchant's daughter, lingered nearby, her cheeks flushed as she stole glances at him between stolen sips from a steaming mug.

Karzon lingered in the marketplace, letting the rhythm of Stoneford Crossing swirl around him. The sights, the sounds, the smells, felt grounding, even if just for a moment. Yet beneath the surface, his thoughts churned relentlessly. The sigil burned like a phantom in the back of his mind, its presence as vivid as the red apples stacked on the crates beside him.

The soft sound of footsteps pulled him from his thoughts. Briena approached from behind, her steps so quiet he almost didn't hear her. She moved like a shadow, the light catching faintly on her silver hair as it spilled over her shoulders.

"You're up early."

Karzon didn't turn to face her immediately. Instead, he let his eyes wander across the square, to the clusters of traders unloading their wares and the small conversations weaving through the crisp morning air. "I couldn't sleep," he admitted, his voice low. "Too much on my mind."

She turned her gaze to the bustling market. "So, what's the plan?"

"You stay here, keep watch for me. I'm going to go around for a bit. Ask some questions," Karzon answered. "Quietly."

Briena frowned and opened her mouth, closing it again at the last moment. She adjusted the bow slung across her back and moved to take a position near the wagons. Karzon knew she'd be watching.

Karzon started with the blacksmith, a grizzled dwarf with arms like tree trunks and a permanent scowl etched into his face. The man was busy hammering out a horseshoe when Karzon approached, his words barely audible over the rhythmic clang of metal on metal.

He leaned against the rough-hewn timber frame of the forge, trying to project an air of casual curiosity. "Say," he began, "I happen to be looking for someone. A man with a sigil—shaped like a shattered gem. Ring any bells?"

The blacksmith didn't pause in his work, his eyes focused on the glowing iron beneath his hammer. "Plenty of folk pass through Stoneford. Some with sigils, some without. What makes this one so special?"

"Reputation." Karzon leaned against the forge's wooden frame. "I hear he deals in dangerous artifacts."

That got the blacksmith's attention. The hammer stilled mid-swing, and the dwarf's eyes rose up to meet Karzon's. "Dangerous, you say?"

Karzon nodded. "He could be tied to a larger group—something powerful."

The blacksmith grunted, setting the horseshoe aside as he wiped his hands on a soot-stained cloth. "You're talking about Whisper."

Karzon's heart skipped a beat. "Whisper?"

"Aye." The dwarf leaned closer, his voice dropping. "The man's a ghost—appears, disappears, and no one truly knows his face. All we've ever glimpsed is the cloak. If he's in Stoneford, you've got a big problem."

Karzon frowned. "What does he deal in?"

"Anything that'll make someone rich… or dead." The blacksmith averted his gaze. "Dungeon gems. Cursed artifacts. Things that ought to stay buried."

"And the organization he works for?"

The blacksmith shook his head. "Nobody knows for sure. They've got no name, no banners, just that sigil. But if Whisper's involved, it's not good news. My advice? Forget you saw him and get out of Stoneford while you still can."

Karzon gave a curt nod, slipping the dwarf a coin for his trouble. "Thanks."

Over the next hour, Karzon pieced together fragments of information from other traders and locals. Whisper was a name spoken in hushed tones, always accompanied by nervous glances. He was a broker of chaos, a man who thrived in the shadows and dealt in goods no sane person would touch.

Two common threads of information emerged: he had ties to a powerful group, and they were behind the crafted gems.

As he retreated toward the inn, Briena caught up with him. Her gaze darted to the edge of the square, where the shadows seemed to writhe and coil, stretching unnaturally long in the fading light. "We're being watched."

Karzon followed her line of sight, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword. He couldn't see anyone, but the prickling sensation at the back of his neck told him she was right.

A bone-chilling gust of wind swept through the marketplace, stealing the warmth from their skin and the breath from their lungs. Karzon's hand instinctively tightened on the hilt of his sword, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"We need to move." Briena's brows furrowed with urgency as she spotted Drenna, who was just coming outside.

"Agreed," Karzon murmured, his voice low. "Drenna, get the wagons ready. Briena, take point. We're leaving."

The convoy rolled out of Stoneford Crossing under the pretense of normalcy.

Karzon rode at the front, his hazel eyes scanning the road ahead, while Briena kept to the treeline further back, her bow held loosely in her grip but her senses alert. Elven eyes, sharp and far-seeing, swept the landscape, taking in every detail—the sway of the branches, the subtle shifts in the undergrowth, the faint shift of movement against the muted colors of the forest.

The first sign of trouble came as they reached the outskirts of town. Hoofbeats echoed faintly behind them, the rhythm too steady to be random.

Briena's head snapped up, her elven ears twitching, attuned to the nuances of sound that escaped human perception. She moved to the front to report to Karzon.

"I knew it. We're being followed." Briena's voice was hushed, her pulse quickening beneath the delicate skin of her neck.

Karzon didn't look back. "How many?"

"Three, maybe four." Her ears twitched once more. "They're keeping their distance for now, but they're closing in."

Drenna rode up beside him, her expression grim. "What's the play?"

Karzon's mind raced. The road ahead was narrow and hemmed in by dense forest and it was perfect for an ambush. He glanced at Briena. "Take the rear. Slow them down if they get too close."

She nodded and fell back without a word, her silver hair gleaming in the dappled light as she readied her bow.

The pursuers didn't wait long to make their move. A sharp whistle tore through the air like a blade, shrill and merciless, slicing through the uneasy silence. The sound of hoofbeats multiplied and grew thunderous and rhythmic.

Shadows poured from the treeline in the shape of dark figures in jagged, mismatched armor surging toward the convoy like predators descending on wounded prey.

Karzon's stomach dropped as a primal instinct screamed danger, but there was no time to dwell on fear. He drew his sword as the world around him slowed, every detail sharpening into focus—the dull gleam on the attackers' weapons, the ragged breaths of the guards, the trembling tension of the horses' flanks as they snorted and pawed the ground in panic.

"Hold the line!" Karzon's bellow was raw with urgency, cutting through the chaos of hoofbeats and war cries.

The first raider broke from the pack, a wild gleam in his eyes as he raised a rusted axe overhead. Briena's bowstring twanged. An arrow buried itself in the man's chest, piercing leather and ribs alike.

He let out a strangled gasp, blood blooming across his jerkin like a grotesque flower as he slumped sideways off his horse. The beast whinnied, its hooves skidding on the dirt as it bolted into the trees, leaving the lifeless rider behind.

Another whistle sounded, and more raiders emerged, ten, fifteen, maybe more, their faces obscured by helmets and shadows.

Drenna leapt from her horse, her scarred face set in a grim mask of determination. With a guttural roar, she intercepted a burly attacker wielding a jagged blade. Steel met steel with a bone-shaking clash, sparks flaring in the dim light. Drenna's blade was a blur, her strikes relentless and precise, driving her opponent back.

She feinted left, then brought her sword down in a vicious arc, slicing through the man's exposed forearm. His scream tore through the night, primal and ragged, as blood fanned out in a crimson arc and stained the dirt road. He stumbled, grasping at his shattered arm before collapsing to his knees.

Karzon spurred his horse forward, his heart hammering against his ribs like a drumbeat of war. A raider surged toward him, their blade raised high. Karzon met the attack head-on, their swords colliding in a burst of sparks that lit the space between them.

The impact jarred his arm, but he held firm, twisting his blade to deflect the next strike. The raider snarled, lunging again, but Karzon sidestepped, his sword finding an opening beneath the man's ribs. The blade bit deep, meeting flesh with a wet, gristly schlck. A strangled gasp tore from the raider's throat, half a cry, half a gurgle, as his eyes flared wide with the sudden realization of death. His fingers twitched, grasping at nothing, before his body sagged and slid bonelessly from the saddle, hitting the ground with a dull, final thud.

Karzon's mind raced, every instinct focused on survival. He turned, just in time to parry a blade aimed at his neck. The force of the blow sent pain lancing through his shoulder, the wound shallow but burning hot.

He roared in fury and drove his sword into the gut of his attacker. The man's breath hitched, his body jerking once before collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut.

Out of the corner of his eye, Karzon saw Briena. She was balanced effortlessly atop her horse, her silver braid glinting under the moonlight as she let arrows fly with lethal accuracy. But even the keenest gaze couldn't see everything.

A shadow moved behind her, quick and silent, the glint of steel flashing in the dim light.

"Briena!" Karzon's shout was raw, but the warning came too late.

The attacker's blade carved across her shoulder, and Briena cried out, the force wrenching her from the saddle.

She crashed to the ground with a jarring thud. A heartbeat later, her bow struck the dirt with a sharp crack, its wooden frame bouncing against the stones with a hollow clatter.

She struggled to push herself up. Her fingers trembled, reaching instinctively for her fallen weapon, but her strength was faltering.

She was exposed, vulnerable, and the attacker knew it.

The raider loomed over her, his sword raised high, the gleam of anticipation in his eyes. Everything faded into the background as the blade arced downward, poised to end her life.

CHAPTER SIX

The blade descended, its edge gleaming in the moonlight, thirsty for Briena's life. Time slowed down, every detail burning itself into Karzon's mind—the desperation in those eyes, the blood trickling from her shoulder, the way her hand weakly reached for her fallen bow but couldn't quite grasp it.

A war-cry tore from Karzon's throat as he surged forward. His hand shot out, not for his sword, but for a deeper power, burning within him. In that moment, he felt the same force that had saved him from the minotaur's horn.

The world exploded into light.

A blinding, golden radiance erupted from Karzon's outstretched hand, illuminating the battlefield as if the sun itself had descended into their midst. The raider faltered mid-strike, his shadow stretching grotesquely in the searing glow. He let out a guttural scream as the light engulfed him, his body flung backward as if struck by an invisible wave.

Karzon reached Briena's side in an instant, dropping to his knees. The warmth of the magic coursed through him, so intense it was almost unbearable, like a fire raging beneath his skin. He pressed his hands to her wounded shoulder, his voice low and urgent. "Stay with me."

The light shifted, narrowing into a focused stream that poured from his hands into Briena's body. Her eyes widened as the warmth enveloped her, a sharp intake of breath escaping her lips. The gash on her shoulder began to close before Karzon's eyes, the torn flesh knitting itself together as if time had reversed. Her pale skin shimmered faintly in the light, whole and unbroken once more.

Briena gasped, her chest rising sharply as strength surged back into her limbs. She stared at Karzon, her eyes wide with shock and a deeper emotion.

"Karzon…" she whispered. Then, a moment later, she mustered a little smile. "I could have taken care of myself."

That drew a chuckle from Karzon, but there was no time for words. The light dimmed as Karzon's energy ebbed, leaving him swaying on his knees. He forced himself to his feet, pulling Briena up with him. "Can you fight?"

Briena blinked, the question tugging her from the haze of battle. Her fingers found her bow, tracing along the splintered wood, feeling the break like an open wound. Gone.

Karzon noticed the brief tremor of anguish, the unsteady breath—then nothing. No hesitation. No grief. Only the cold, exacting movement of a killer.

She drew her daggers in a single, fluid motion, flipping them in her palms until the hilts sat firm in her grasp. Good steel. Reliable.

Her gaze lifted, no longer distant but burning. "No one breaks my bow and lives."

And then she moved. A blur of silver and shadow, she slipped between them like smoke, her blades whispering death. A flick of her wrist and one blade opened a throat. Then, with a twist, a dagger found a joint, tearing muscle from bone. Blood sprayed, dark against the moonlit clearing, but she was already gone, turning, striking, always three steps ahead.

Then the battle erupted anew, with chaos and fury colliding in the moonlit clearing.

A raider charged Karzon, swinging his blade with manic fervor. Karzon parried, the impact reverberating up his arm. He twisted his wrist, sending the raider's sword clattering to the ground before driving his blade into the man's chest. The raider crumpled with a wet gasp, and Karzon spun to face the next threat.

Briena moved like a wraith, her silver hair shimmering with an ethereal glow in the rapidly fading moonlight.

She was a whirlwind of motion, weaving through the chaos of the battle with an almost supernatural grace. Her daggers sang a song of death, each swish finding its mark with chilling precision.

One dagger punched into a raider's throat, the blade sinking deep as his head jerked back, a gurgling rasp escaping his lips. Another found the narrow gap between helmet and breastplate, sliding in effortlessly before twisting, ripping a strangled gasp from the warrior's lungs.

A third dagger, thrown with lethal precision, buried itself in the thick muscle of a charging warhorse's neck. The beast let out a shrill, choking scream, its legs folding beneath it as blood frothed from the wound. It collapsed in a shuddering heap, hurling its rider forward. He hit the ground hard, and even Karzon winced at the sickening crack of bone breaking audibly beneath the weight of the rider’s armor.

"On your left!" Briena's voice was a whip crack, urgency lacing every syllable.

Karzon turned just in time to block a raider's axe, the force of the blow driving him back a step. He gritted his teeth, his muscles burning as he shoved the man away and slashed his sword across the raider's chest. Blood sprayed, and the man fell with a strangled cry.

Drenna's blade cleaved through raiders as she fought like a woman possessed, her scarred face twisted into a fierce snarl. A raider lunged at her with a spear, but she sidestepped, her sword flashing as she severed the weapon's shaft before plunging her blade into the man's gut.

The guards held the line around the wagons, their shields locked together as they fended off the raiders. The clang of steel on steel echoed through the clearing, punctuated by shouts and screams. The drivers crouched behind the wagons as they readied makeshift weapons—clubs, daggers, anything they could wield to defend themselves.

Karzon's breath came in ragged gasps, his body screaming in protest as he fought. His sword felt heavier with each swing, his muscles trembling from the strain. But he didn't stop. He couldn't.

Briena's daggers flew like viper fangs, swift and merciless, each one a silent promise of death as they found their targets.

With relentless fury, she moved, a blur of motion as her daggers found flesh again and again. Each throw, each strike, was fast, brutal, and final. Blood slicked her blades, sprayed across the dirt, but she never stopped.

Across the tumult, her eyes met Karzon's, and a spark ignited between them. She tilted her chin defiantly. "Don't give up on me, Karzon Wyndale! We've got this!"

Karzon nodded, a fierce grin splitting his bloodied face. "We do."

The tide began to turn. The raiders, once so confident, faltered and began falling back. Their numbers dwindled, their attacks growing desperate and uncoordinated.

The last raider standing was a hulking brute, his armor pieced together from mismatched scraps. He roared, charging at Karzon with a massive warhammer. Karzon braced himself, his grip tightening on his sword.

The brute swung the hammer in a wide arc, the air whistling with its passage. Karzon ducked, the weapon missing him by inches and smashing into the ground with enough force to send dirt and rocks flying. He surged forward, his blade flashing as he drove it into the man's side.

The brute bellowed in pain, his hammer dropping from his grasp as he staggered. Karzon didn't give him a chance to recover. He tore his sword free and swung again, the blade biting deep into the raider's neck.

The man fell to his knees, blood pouring from the wound, before collapsing face-first into the dirt.

Silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the ragged breathing of the survivors and the distant cries of retreating raiders.

Karzon lowered his sword, the tip sinking into the ground as he leaned on it for support. His body ached, his wounds stinging and his muscles trembling, but they had won.

Briena approached him, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, she allowed her shoulders to sag. "Thanks." Her lower lip quivered.

Karzon nodded, tactful enough to know when he shouldn't gloat. "Anytime."

Around him, broken blades and splintered shields lay scattered across the trampled grass. A few guards sat slumped beside the wagons, clutching wounds or resting against the wheels with dazed expressions. Others moved in stiff, limping motions, helping the more injured find their footing. The silence that followed the battle was never complete. It buzzed with pain and breath and the tremor of survival.

Karzon swallowed hard against the copper taste in the air. They couldn't afford to stay. Not with blood soaking the ground. The scent would bring scavengers—wolves, bone-crows, and even worse things if they waited too long.

"We need to move," he said, voice rough but steady. He turned to Briena and Drenna, already weighing their next steps. "We can't rest here."

Briena did not answer immediately, for her heart was broken. With gentle hands, she tore a strip from her undershirt, binding the broken halves of her bow with slow, deliberate care. The fabric pulled snug, holding the splintered edges together. It was not enough to mend it, nor enough to make it whole again, but enough to keep it from falling apart any further.

She traced the familiar shape, the worn grip molded to her palm by years of use, by memories too deep to name. Then, with quiet reverence, she slid it into the leather strap along her back, where it had always belonged, tucking it beside her quiver as if nothing had changed.

Her silver hair, now freed from its braid, framed her face like a moonlit waterfall. Drenna swiped a gloved hand across her brow, leaving a smear of grime against her weathered skin.

"Drenna." Karzon's eyes searched hers. Although he felt deeply for Briena, the safety of his company was his first priority. "Did you see anywhere nearby where we can set up camp?"

Drenna rubbed her temple as if the very thought of walking that far was a burden. "There's a place where the sea meets a grove—not too far from Dunmarch. But with the amount of injuries we've got⁠—"

Karzon raised a hand to cut her off. "I'll see what I can do about that."

There was no bravado in his tone, only a quiet determination to get everyone's morale up.

He turned to face the remaining guards and wagon drivers, many of whom were slumped against the wagons or sitting in the dirt, clutching wounds or simply trying to catch their breath.

"Form a circle," Karzon instructed. "I'll get to everyone."

He knelt by the first wounded guard, a stocky man named Deyrin whose arm had been slashed deeply by a raider's blade. Karzon placed a hand over the gash, his fingers trembling slightly.

Though this wasn't the first time he'd used his newfound healing magic, the memory of its power—the way it surged through him like molten light—still left him uncertain. He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, focusing on the rhythm of his heartbeat.

The warmth came again, almost instantly. It flowed from somewhere deep within him, rising like a tide, gathering in his chest before pouring into his hands.

A soft, golden light enveloped Deyrin's arm, illuminating the raw wound as it began to knit itself back together. The guard let out a sharp gasp, his eyes wide as he watched the flesh mend before his very eyes.

"By the gods…" Deyrin whispered, flexing his newly healed arm. He looked at Karzon as if the man had plucked the stars from the sky and handed them to him. "I don't know how you did that, but… thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Karzon muttered, already moving to the next injured party member.

One by one, he worked his way through the group, channeling his magic into bruised ribs, broken bones, and slashed flesh. Each time, the sensation was the same: a burning heat that surged through him, tinged with an odd sense of fragility, as if this magic wasn't entirely his own, but something borrowed.

By the time he was done, his hands trembled from exertion, and sweat had beaded on his forehead despite the night's chill.

The guards and drivers, now healed of their injuries, began murmuring amongst themselves. Words of awe, gratitude, and—perhaps most unsettling to Karzon—reverence.

He ignored the way their eyes lingered on him as if he were something more than human. He wasn't comfortable with the attention, but he had no time to address it now. Instead he focused on the mundane comfort of actions and wiped his damp hands on his cloak. His voice was hoarse, his exhaustion plain, but his resolve was unshaken. "Gather what you can. We leave now."

They pressed on, their weariness forgotten as the scent of salt air mingled with the earthy fragrance of the forest. The moon, a silver coin in the velvet sky, cast its glow upon the path, guiding them towards the promised sanctuary.

As they emerged from the trees, the sea stretched before them, a vast expanse of shimmering silver beneath the star-dusted sky. The waves whispered against the shore, a gentle lullaby that eased their troubled minds.

The cove was a hidden pocket of peace touched by the scents of salt and seaweed, nestled between towering cliffs that rose like slumbering giants, their rocky faces etched with the stories of forgotten ages.

Here, beneath the watchful gaze of the moon and the silent symphony of the waves, they sat in a loose circle to eat. The innkeeper of the Lame Rooster had graciously packed them enough food for one night. There was crusty bread, golden-brown and crackling with each bite. It had been baked to perfection, a hearty loaf with a faint aroma of roasted grain and a hint of salted butter baked into its cracks.

Paired with thick slices of roast meat, still tender and fragrant from the smoky spices rubbed into its surface, the meal was rustic but rich in flavor. The meat's juices seeped into the bread as they ate, a delightful mingling of textures and tastes that felt far more luxurious than it had any right to be.

They washed it down with cool, crisp water drawn from the inn's deep well. Karzon ate his meal in silence, and once it was over, he moved away. He needed time to think, to process everything that was happening to and around him.

He walked for a while before his eyes fell on Briena.

She sat on a moss-covered rock at the edge of the clearing, looking for all the world like it belonged to her, like the very world bent around her to frame her beauty. Her long, graceful neck arched slightly as she tilted her head toward the distant trees. Her silver braid was still undone, strands spilling over her shoulder, framing her face and cascading down toward the swell of her breasts.

Karzon's eyes lingered, tracing the gentle slope of her shoulders down to where the fabric of her tunic clung stubbornly to her damp skin.

When she turned her head, catching him watching her, her lips curved into the faintest of smirks. "You're staring."

"Can you blame me?" Karzon approached her, his boots crunching softly over the dirt. "You alright?" His voice was low, rough from shouting during the battle.

Briena dipped her head. "Thanks to you." She lifted a hand to touch her shoulder, now fully healed, her fingers brushing over the unbroken skin.

He crouched down in front of her, his hands resting on his knees. "I wasn't going to let you die."

She simply looked at him. "You're a reckless idiot, you know that?"

Karzon chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I've been told."

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant sounds of the guards tending to the wagons.

Briena's gaze dropped to the ground. "I thought it was over," she admitted quietly. "When I was on the ground, and he was coming at me… I thought that was it."

Karzon reached out without thinking, his hand resting lightly on hers. Her fingers stilled under his touch, and she looked up at him, her sharp features softening.

"It wasn't," he said firmly. "And as long as I'm around, it won't be."

For a moment, her eyes searched his. Then she gave a small nod, her hand turning slightly beneath his so that their fingers brushed. "Just… don't get yourself killed trying to be a hero."

Karzon smirked, his voice light. "I'll try."

Around them, the camp settled into a lull, the guards taking shifts to keep watch while the rest of the convoy drifted into an exhausted sleep.

Karzon glanced at Briena, her profile lit by the firelight. He wanted to say more, to ask her about the look in her eyes when he'd healed her, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, he simply sat beside her, letting the silence speak for them.

And so the night deepened, its velvet shadows stretching long across the earth, until, one by one, most of the weary company succumbed to the pull of well-earned rest.

CHAPTER SEVEN

That night, long after the campfire had burned low and the others had drifted off to sleep, Karzon sat apart from the wagons, his hands curled around Briena's broken bow.

The same one she hadn't been able to leave behind, despite its shattered state. The same one she had bound so carefully, as if holding it together with fabric and sheer will alone could make it whole again.

He hadn't meant to take it. He had seen it tucked beside her quiver, its splintered edges jutting out in silent testament to what had been lost. And before he knew it, he had lifted it from its place and carried it with him into the quiet of the night.

Now, as he traced the jagged break with his fingers, he could still feel the warmth of her hands lingering on the wood. The healing light that had erupted from him before—it had come without thought, a reflex as natural as breathing. But this time, he wasn't reacting. He was reaching.

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply.

I want to fix this.

The magic stirred beneath his skin, slow and uncertain, like the first flickers of dawn. It coiled in his chest, unfamiliar but waiting, always waiting. He let it rise, let it pour into his hands, into the broken bow, into the pieces Briena had refused to abandon.

Warmth spread through his palms, threading into the splintered wood like roots seeking soil. Light bled into the fractures, golden and pulsing like a heartbeat. He could feel the bow's history—every draw of the string, every arrow loosed, every moment it had been an extension of her.

And then, just as softly as it had begun, the glow faded. Karzon parted his lips, letting a slow breath slip free as he opened his eyes. The bow lay whole in his hands.

He ran his fingers over the place where it had once been broken, but the damage was gone, the wood smooth and strong once more. A faint shimmer clung to it, as if the magic had left something of itself behind.

A quiet breath, a shift of air, and Briena was there.

She stood a few steps away, wrapped in her cloak, silver hair a loose cascade over her shoulders. Her gaze traveled from him to the bow, and something in her expression cracked wide open. "Karzon…?"

He swallowed, suddenly unsure. "I⁠—"

She closed the distance between them before he could finish.

Carefully, as if afraid it might vanish, she took the bow from his hands, her fingers ghosting over the place where it had once been broken. She turned it over, inspected the grain of the wood, tested its weight in her palm.

Then, without warning, she pulled him into a fierce embrace.

He stiffened, caught off guard. But when her fingers curled into the back of his tunic, holding on like he had just given her something she hadn't dared to hope for, he let himself sink into it.

"Thank you," she whispered against his shoulder.

Karzon let out a shaky breath, the lingering warmth of magic still thrumming beneath his skin. "Anytime."

She pulled back, just enough to meet his eyes. "You healed it."

He nodded. "Looks like it."

Briena's gaze searched his face. "No. Not just that. You restored it." She ran her fingers along the bow's length again, her voice quieter now. "This… this is more than just fixing what was broken."

Karzon had no words for that, no way to explain what had just happened, not even to himself. He wasn't sure how he'd done it, only that he had. But when Briena looked at him, her eyes shining with quiet wonder, with gratitude and a touch of awe, he realized maybe he didn't need to understand. Maybe, for once, understanding wasn't the point. Silence stretched between them, comfortable and full. He reached out, giving her arm a brief, grounding squeeze before he murmured a few words about needing sleep. Then, without waiting for a reply, he stepped away, retreating toward his tent.

From the parting in the canvas, he watched her. She hadn't moved, still standing where he'd left her, fingers absently tracing the curve of her bow. Her gaze was distant, lost in thought, but her smile remained.

Only when she finally turned and walked away did Karzon let himself rest.

Dawn broke over the horizon in hues of muted amber and silver, the first rays of sunlight piercing the tree line and scattering across the convoy. The camp stirred to life slowly, bodies aching and minds heavy with the aftermath of the battle. The wagons creaked and groaned as the drivers prepared them for the day's journey, the horses snorting in protest as they were hitched into place.

Karzon stood near the edge of the camp, his back to the rising sun. His sword hung at his hip, but his focus wasn't on the weapon or the journey ahead—it was on his hands. He turned them over slowly, studying the faint scars etched across his calloused palms, searching for some sign, some explanation for what had happened the night before.

The healing light that had burst forth when he'd touched Briena and repaired her bow… it hadn't just been instinctive, it had been alive. He could still feel the lingering warmth of it beneath his skin, like embers smoldering quietly in the dark. But it was more than that. The magic wasn't just residual; it was waiting. Waiting for him to call on it again.

He clenched his fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. How could something so powerful come from him, a trader with no history of magic? He wasn't an adventurer, or a mage, or one of the legendary healers from the old tales. He was just… Karzon.

"Trying to summon the light again?"

Briena's voice broke through his thoughts, soft but tinged with curiosity. He turned to find her leaning against a tree a few paces away, her silver hair catching the morning rays like threads of spun moonlight. Her eyes shone brightly, taking in his posture and expression with unnerving accuracy.

"Something like that," he admitted, lowering his hands.

She pushed off the tree and crossed the distance between them, her movements graceful despite the lingering stiffness in her shoulders. She stopped just short of him, tilting her head slightly as she studied his face.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

Karzon shook his head. "No. It feels… warm. Almost like it's alive."

Briena crossed her arms, her gaze drifting to his hands. "Healing magic isn't like other forms of magic," she said, her voice thoughtful. "It doesn't come from the same place as fire or ice or wind. It's… deeper. More personal."

He frowned, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly. "What do you mean?"

She hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "I've heard stories. Healing magic is tied to will. To the desire to protect or save someone. It's not something you can just learn or practice—it's something you are. That's why it's so rare."

Karzon absorbed her words in silence, his gaze drifting back to his hands. Something he was. The thought made him uneasy. He didn't feel special, didn't feel like someone who was destined for greatness or magic or anything beyond the life of a trader.

"So, what now?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Briena shrugged and gave him a rueful smile. "You figure it out. Trial and error, probably."

Karzon chuckled softly. "Trial and error it is."

Briena's smile stayed for a moment longer before she turned, gesturing toward the wagons. "We should get moving. Dunmarch isn't going to wait for us."

Karzon nodded, following her back to the camp. But even as he helped load the last of the supplies back onto the wagons and checked the horses' harnesses, his thoughts remained on the magic. On the light.

The road to Dunmarch twisted through a landscape that could have been pulled from a dream, every turn offering something more striking than the last. It began in the emerald embrace of rolling hills, their grassy slopes rippling like the folds of a great green quilt stretched out to meet the horizon.

Wildflowers dotted the landscape, their colors bold and unapologetic, crimson poppies, delicate bluebells, and tiny yellow starbursts swaying gently in the breeze. The perfume of crushed grass mingled with the warm, earthy scent of sun-drenched soil.

To the east, the sea emerged sporadically, glimpsed between the hills in dazzling flashes of light. The waves, visible even from this distance, shimmered under the golden afternoon sun, their crests catching the light like scattered diamonds.

A salty tang rode the air currents, sharp and bracing, mingling with the faint cry of seabirds that wheeled far overhead. Occasionally, a fishing boat bobbed on the azure expanse of the sea, its sails stark white against the endless, shifting blues.

As the convoy descended into the low valleys, the hills gave way to dense patches of forest. The trees here were giants, their trunks thick and gnarled, the bark scored with deep grooves that seemed to tell stories of centuries past. Their canopies arched overhead, a living cathedral of leaves that dappled the road in shifting patterns of light and shadow.

Shafts of sunlight pierced through in places, illuminating patches of moss that clung stubbornly to the roots snaking across the ground. It was cooler under the trees, heavy with the smell of damp earth, pine resin, and the coppery undertone of water trickling through unseen streams.

The undergrowth was lush and alive, an intricate tangle of ferns, thorny brambles, and wild mint that released its sharp scent when crushed underfoot.

Birds flitted between the branches, their bright plumage catching the sunlight in fleeting flashes of color. Their songs layered over the natural symphony of the forest—the rustle of leaves, the occasional snap of a twig, and the low, bubbling murmur of streams winding their way toward the distant sea.

Karzon rode at the front of the convoy, scanning the horizon for signs of trouble. His horse's hooves clopped against the uneven path, the sound muffled by the soft layer of pine needles and damp moss that carpeted the forest floor.

Briena rode slightly behind, her lithe body swaying gently with her horse's movements. She looked as much a part of the wild beauty as the trees and the rolling hills, her presence a living extension of the land itself.

Drenna rode in the middle of the convoy, barking sharp instructions to the guards as they maneuvered the wagons over treacherous sections of the trail.

The road wound on, climbing steadily toward a ridge that offered a sweeping view of the landscape below. The convoy paused briefly at the summit, the horses snorting and pawing at the dirt as they caught their breath.

From this vantage point, the sea dominated the eastern horizon. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the hills and painting the water in streaks of gold and crimson.

To the west, the forest thickened, its edges blurring into a dark, impenetrable mass of trees that seemed to stretch forever.

Beyond that lay the faint haze of Dunmarch, its towering walls just visible in the far distance. The city glimmered like a mirage, its stone spires catching the last light of the day and gleaming faintly against the encroaching twilight.

As the convoy descended from the ridge and pressed onward, the path grew narrower, hemmed in by the forest on one side and the steep drop of the coastal cliffs on the other. The sea, so far below, sent up a constant spray of mist that drifted over the trail like a ghostly veil, dampening the air and clinging to the travelers' skin.

And so they pressed on, the convoy a small, determined thread winding through the vast, untamed landscape, inching ever closer to Dunmarch and the answers that waited there.

When the convoy stopped to water the horses at a shallow stream, Karzon saw his chance. He dismounted and stepped a short distance from the group, his gaze shifting to Briena and Drenna to make sure they were occupied.

Crouching by the water's edge, he drew his knife from his belt. The blade glinted in the sunlight as he turned it over in his hand, his reflection staring back at him from the polished steel.

"Alright," he muttered to himself. "Let's see what you are."

He pressed the edge of the blade against his palm, just hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. The pain was sharp, but fleeting, and he focused on the wound, on the way the blood welled up in a single crimson bead before dripping into the dirt.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated. He remembered the warmth he'd felt when he'd healed Briena, the way it had surged through him like a river bursting its banks. He reached for that feeling now, willing it to rise, to respond.

At first, nothing happened. The magic remained dormant, silent. Karzon's brow furrowed in frustration, his jaw clenching as he tried again, this time focusing on the wound itself—the pain, the blood, the need to mend it.

And then, like a burst of light in the darkness, he felt it. The warmth began to build, slow and tentative, like a flame struggling to catch. It spread through his chest, down his arm, and into his hand, filling him with a strange mix of relief and exhilaration.

Opening his eyes, he watched as the light emerged soft and golden, swirling around his hand like smoke caught in a sunbeam. It was beautiful… mesmerizing.

The cut on his palm began to close, the torn skin knitting itself back together with a faint shimmer of light. Within seconds, it was gone, leaving only a faint line of dried blood as proof it had ever been there.

Karzon exhaled, his shoulders sagging as the light faded. It hadn't been perfect, for the magic had taken effort, concentration, but it had worked.

"You're going to exhaust yourself if you keep practicing like that." The voice startled him, and he turned sharply to find Briena standing a few paces away, her arms crossed and an amused smile tugging at her lips.

"How long have you been watching?" he asked, rising to his feet.

"Long enough," she said, nodding toward his hand. "That was impressive. Clumsy, but impressive."

Karzon frowned. "Clumsy?"

She smirked. "You were trying too hard. Magic isn't something you force, Karzon, it's something you guide. Like drawing a bowstring. Too much pressure, and it snaps."

He considered her words, his gaze dropping to his healed hand. "I'm not exactly used to this."

"Clearly." Briena stepped closer, scanning his face. "But you're learning. And that's what matters."

For a moment, they stood in silence, the stream babbling softly behind them. Then Briena reached out, her fingers brushing his arm lightly.

"Just don't push yourself too hard," she said, her voice quieter now. "We need you in one piece."

Karzon met her gaze, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I'll try."

Satisfied, Briena stepped back. "Come on. The others will start to wonder if we've run off."

Karzon chuckled as he fell into step beside her. "Don't tempt me."

They passed through a narrow gorge just before midday, the walls of rock towering over them like ancient sentinels. The path here was treacherous, the loose gravel crunching under the wagon wheels and the echo of hooves bouncing off the stone.

It was the kind of place where sound carried too far, and Karzon found himself straining to catch anything unusual.

He heard a faint sound akin to the distant rumble of thunder. As the convoy pressed on, the sound grew distinctly louder. Hoofbeats.

Karzon turned in his saddle, his eyes locking onto Briena, who had already drawn her bow. "How many?" he called.

She inclined her head slightly, listening. "Too many."

Drenna rode forward, her face grim. "It's not the ones from last night, because they wouldn't have regrouped this fast. These are new."

Karzon cursed under his breath. "Keep the wagons moving. Briena, take the high ground. Drenna, with me."

The convoy picked up speed, the drivers urging the horses forward even as their nervous glances darted to the cliffs above. Karzon and Drenna flanked the wagons, their weapons drawn, while Briena urged her horse up a narrow path to gain a better vantage point.

The sound of hoofbeats grew louder, closer, until it filled the gorge like the roar of an oncoming storm. Shadows moved along the ridges above them—riders on horseback, their forms silhouetted against the sun.

Karzon's heart sank. These weren't common raiders. Their armor was dark and uniform, their movements disciplined. They rode in tight formation, their weapons gleaming in the light. And emblazoned on their breastplates, clear as day, was the sigil of the shattered gem.

"They're with Whisper," Karzon muttered, his grip tightening on his sword.

Drenna spat into the dirt. "Perfect."

The riders didn't charge immediately. They fanned out along the ridges, their horses snorting and pawing at the ground as they waited for some unseen signal. Karzon's mind raced, calculating their odds. They were outnumbered and out-positioned, the gorge offering no cover and no clear escape route.

And then the signal came. A single arrow, loosed from somewhere high above, streaked through the air and struck the lead wagon's wheel with a sharp thunk.

The attack began.

The riders descended like a black tide, their horses kicking up a storm of dust and gravel as they surged toward the convoy. Karzon spurred his horse forward, meeting the charge head-on.

The first rider came at him with a wickedly curved blade, the edge gleaming with a dark, oily sheen. Karzon ducked low, his own sword flashing upward to catch the man across the chest. The rider toppled from his horse, his body crashing to the ground with a sickening thud.

Drenna fought like a force of nature, her scarred face twisted in grim focus as she hacked and parried, her blows precise and unrelenting.

Above them, Briena's arrows rained down from the cliffs. One rider fell with an arrow through his throat, his body crumpling in the saddle before sliding to the ground. Another screamed as an arrow pierced his leg, his horse rearing and throwing him into the dust.

But the riders kept coming. For every one they cut down, two more seemed to take their place.

A crazed rider charged toward the wagons, his spear aimed at one of the drivers.

"Drenna!" Karzon shouted, but she was too far away to intervene.

The spear was a breath away from striking when Briena's arrow cut through the air, piercing the attacker's wrist. The spear fell harmlessly to the ground as the man let out a howl of pain, clutching his wounded arm.

Karzon glanced up at her, a silent thank you passing between them, but there was no time to linger.

The riders were relentless, their attacks coordinated and precise. Karzon could feel the tide turning against them, the weight of the enemy pressing down like a vice.

And then it happened again.

The light surged through him, unbidden and unstoppable. It flooded his veins, his skin, his very soul, until it felt as though he might burst from the sheer intensity of it. He didn't think—he couldn't think. He just moved.

The light burst outward, a blinding wave of gold sweeping across the battlefield. The riders nearest to him faltered, their horses rearing in panic as the light seared through the air. Karzon raised his hand instinctively, the light coalescing into a brilliant shield that deflected an incoming arrow.

He turned toward the convoy, his voice booming with an authority that wasn't entirely his own. "Stand together!"

The guards rallied, their fear replaced by a newfound resolve as the light continued to pulse around Karzon. He charged forward, his sword cutting through the enemy with an ease that felt almost unnatural, the light guiding his strikes with unerring precision.

The riders hesitated, their formation breaking under the sheer force of the counterattack. One by one, they began to retreat, their confidence shattered by the overwhelming display of magic.

But Karzon wasn't done. He pushed forward, his focus narrowing on the figure at the rear of the enemy formation—a rider clad in darker armor, his face obscured by a hood. The man carried a standard marked with the sigil of the shattered gem.

The hooded rider turned, his gaze locking with Karzon's across the ravaged clearing. There was no fear in those shadowed eyes, only a chilling calculation that sent a shiver down Karzon's spine.

Then, with a gesture both subtle and commanding, the rider raised a hand.

A swirling mist erupted from the ground, enveloping the attackers in a shroud of gray. The air crackled with an unnatural energy, and the figures within the mist seemed to distort and shimmer, their forms growing hazy and indistinct.

As quickly as it had appeared, the mist dissipated, leaving behind only the echo of hoofbeats and the lingering scent of ozone. The attackers were gone. They'd vanished without a trace.

Karzon's breath came in ragged gasps, the light fading from his body as the adrenaline ebbed. He stared at the empty clearing, his mind reeling.

What had he just witnessed? He turned toward Briena, who was dismounting from her perch, her face pale.

"Who was he?" she asked, her voice tight.

Karzon shook his head, his hazel eyes still fixed on the empty horizon. "I don't know… but I have a feeling we'll see him again."

CHAPTER EIGHT

A slow sunset bathed the sky in shades of deep tamarind and lavender as the exhausted convoy trudged down the final stretch of the winding road toward Dunmarch, the city's arching spires now clearly visible in the distance. The sight brought a poignant blend of relief and foreboding—it was a beacon of rest and refuge on the horizon, yet shadowed by the unseen perils that awaited beyond its welcoming glow.

For now, though, the group's thoughts weren't on battles, conspiracies, or shadowy figures—they were on campfires, warm food, and a night without raiders breathing down their necks.

As the twilight deepened, casting long, dancing shadows across the land, they were fortunate enough to stumble upon a secluded haven a mere league from Dunmarch's imposing gates. It was a diminutive grove, an intimate gathering of ancient trees, their gnarled branches intertwined like conspirators whispering secrets in the fading light.

The dense canopy, embroidered with leaves of emerald and jade, formed a natural sanctuary from the encroaching chill of the evening breeze. Within this verdant embrace, the weary travelers found a momentary reprieve. A pocket of stillness, in the vast expanse of their journey.

Karzon, his own body weary from the relentless rhythm of the road, raised a hand, signaling the convoy to a halt. He recognized the telltale signs of exhaustion etched on the faces of his companions—slumped shoulders, heavy-lidded eyes, listless movements.

The horses, too, exhaled tiredly, their heads drooping with fatigue. It was time to yield to the demands of the flesh and grant both man and beast a respite from the journey.

"We'll camp here tonight." Karzon called out. "Dunmarch can wait until morning."

From the wagons, groans of relief rose like a chorus.

"You're a saint, Karzon," Deyrin called out, his arm slung around the neck of another guard as they began to unload gear.

"I'm a trader." Karzon slid down from his horse. "But I'll take ‘saint' if it gets me out of setting up the tents."

Briena passed him, rolling her eyes as she adjusted her bow. "Oh, don't worry. We'll put you on dish duty instead. Heroes wash the pots, right?"

Karzon shot her a mock glare. "Only if archers do the cooking."

Briena arched a brow, her lips curving into a sly smile. "Careful. The last time I cooked, the stew gained sentience and tried to run away."

Drenna snorted as she set down a heavy pack. "That's not fair to the stew. It didn't stand a chance against your seasoning."

"Or lack of it," Harren chimed in, dropping an armful of firewood with a thud.

Briena opened her mouth to retort, but Karzon held up a hand. "Enough. If the stew tries to rebel tonight, it'll be all of our faults. Let's get the fire going before we start assigning blame."

The group fell into their usual rhythm, setting up camp with a practiced ease that spoke of necessity rather than enthusiasm. Briena helped pitch the tents with her usual flair, tossing instructions like arrows—quick, sharp, and occasionally too pointed.

"Karzon, that pole goes there, not there." Exasperation crept into her voice as he struggled with one of the tent frames.

He straightened up, glaring at her with mock indignation. "Why don't you handle the tent, and I'll handle sitting over there doing nothing?"

"Tempting," Briena replied dryly. "But I'd probably end up doing your job, too."

As the fire crackled to life in the center of the camp, the mood began to lighten. For the first time in what felt like days, there were no immediate threats, no frantic shouts, and no blood-soaked chaos. Even the shadows of the looming city seemed to retreat, giving the group a rare moment of peace.

Deyrin pulled out a battered lute, plucking a cheerful tune that clashed hilariously with its out-of-tune strings. He hummed along, making up ridiculous lyrics about their recent battles:

"Oh, the healer glows like sunlight,

His magic's golden bright!

But try to make him pitch a tent,

And it'll take all night!"

The guards and drivers burst into laughter, and even Drenna cracked a smile as she gnawed on a strip of dried meat.

"Keep it up, Deyrin," Karzon warned with a grin, tossing a small stone in his direction. "I'll let Briena handle you the next time you need healing."

"Oh, please." Briena leaned back against a tree. "I'd just finish him and save us all the trouble."

The banter continued late into the evening, the group buoyed by their shared exhaustion and the sheer relief of surviving another day. Plates of stew—a surprisingly edible concoction made by Drenna—were passed around, and the conversation ebbed and flowed like the firelight shimmering against the trees.

Eventually, the guards and drivers drifted off to their tents, one by one, until only Karzon and Briena remained by the dying embers of the fire.

Karzon stared into the flames, his expression unreadable. Briena sat a few feet away, her knees drawn up and her arms resting loosely on them. For a while, neither of them spoke, the quiet settling comfortably between them.

"What's going on in that head of yours?" Briena asked at last.

Karzon glanced at her, the firelight casting warm shadows across his face. "Just… thinking."

"Dangerous habit," she teased gently.

Karzon shrugged. "It's this magic. I don't understand it. I don't understand why I have it, or what I'm supposed to do with it. It feels… bigger than me."

It was common knowledge, passed down through villages and trading posts, written into fading temple records and whispered by travelers over long roads. There hadn't always been just ten healers. In the earliest days, before fear took root and history began rewriting itself, there had been many. Healing magic had once run through entire bloodlines, common as rain. Children were born with it as naturally as others were born with sharp sight or strong hands. They lived among the people as menders of flesh, balancers of breath, tenders of field and garden. Their gifts were quiet, humble, and trusted.

But as kingdoms rose and power shifted, magic began to trouble those who did not possess it. People grew wary. Rulers grew suspicious. Slowly, the world turned on the very ones who had once been its caretakers. The simpler healers vanished first—those who could ease pain or draw out infection. Some were cast out, others silenced, and soon only the strongest remained. Ten in total. The Tenfold Healers.

Unlike the others, they had learned not only to mend but to reshape. Their power could move through stone and water as easily as through bone and blood. They could renew the land, draw rot from the roots of orchards, knit cracked walls back into form, even calm the quaking of earth beneath cities. Their magic had once been woven into the world itself, not separate from it but part of its breath and rhythm.

In time, they vanished from public life, retreating into sanctuaries and keeping to oaths that bound them to secrecy. They became legend, sought only by those desperate or wise enough to know their worth. Then the Alderdeep Cataclysm came.

No one knew what caused it. The ground tore open. The skies dimmed. Lakes turned to dust, and entire cities emptied in days. Panic spread faster than understanding. Kings called for armies, and priests for prayer, but it was the people who cried out to the Ten. And the Ten, though silent for decades, answered.

They went into the ruins of Alderdeep, all ten together, to search for the source of what had begun. They were never seen again. The stories said the black earth swallowed them whole. No scream. No battle. Only silence. And after that, healing magic faded from the world like a dream lost after waking. No one had seen magic like theirs since—until a minotaur gored Karzon Wyndale.

Briena studied him for a moment before shifting closer, her movement unhurried. She understood his uncertainty, and she shared the unease that came with magic no one could fully explain. But now was not the time for doubt. Karzon needed to hear what was true; that whatever his gift became, however strange or vast, he would never have to face it alone. "You're overthinking it."

Karzon raised a brow. "Am I?"

She nodded, her lips curving into a faint smile. "You saved many lives on the way. Mine included. That's what matters."

Her words hung in the space between them. Karzon met her gaze, his hazel eyes searching hers, piercing through the cracks in her armor. "I don't think I could have handled losing you." His voice was rough, filled with quiet anguish.

Briena's breath caught in her throat, her chest rising sharply as her composure faltered. There was no sarcasm, no sharp retort to deflect the weight of what he'd just said. Vulnerability hung between them like an unspoken promise, and for the first time in a long time, she didn't know how to shield herself from it.

Her hand moved almost on instinct, her slender fingers brushing against his. The touch was feather-light, hesitant—but it burned like fire against his skin, and everything else narrowed to just that point of contact. Karzon's breath hitched as he turned his hand, his calloused fingers curling around hers with deliberate care, as though afraid she might pull away.

Briena closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, her lips crashing against his in a kiss that stole the air from his lungs. It wasn't soft or hesitant—it was fierce and raw, a clash of passion and longing that had been held back for far too long.

The moment their lips met, it was as though the air ignited between them. Karzon reacted immediately, his free hand sliding to her waist, his grip firm as he pulled her closer. She felt the heat of his palm even through the rough fabric of her tunic, and it made her head spin. His touch was grounding yet electric, a contradiction that left her breathless.

Her lips parted, and he deepened the kiss, the intensity of it leaving no room for hesitation. His hand moved, splaying across her back, his fingers pressing into her skin through the thin fabric as though trying to anchor her to him.

Briena responded in kind, her hands sliding up to his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. She could feel the hard planes of muscle beneath, the warmth of his body radiating into hers.

The heat between them was overwhelming, intoxicating. Briena's breath came in soft, desperate gasps between kisses, and her chest rose and fell against his, heartbeats pounding in time together.

He tilted his head, angling the kiss deeper, his lips coaxing hers with an urgency that left her trembling.

His hands moved again, one sliding to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her silver hair. The soft strands slipped through his fingers like silk, and he tilted her head slightly, deepening the kiss even further.

It felt as though the world had melted away, leaving only her and him. Her fingers tightened against his chest, pulling him closer still as her body pressed against his. She felt the solid wall of his frame, the roughness of his tunic, and the faint scent of leather and pine that clung to him filled her senses.

It was intoxicating, and she wanted more—more of his warmth, his strength, his everything. The fire burning inside her was matched only by the heat of his lips, the way his breath mingled with hers.

Karzon groaned softly, the sound vibrating against her lips as his hand slid down her side, resting at the curve of her hip before his fingers flexed, gripping her as though he couldn't bear the thought of letting go. Her skin was warm beneath his touch, and he couldn't help but marvel at how perfectly she fit against him.

A burst of primal urge overtook him. His lips left hers, trailing a slow, heated path down her jawline.

Briena's fingers clutched his tunic tighter as his mouth found the delicate curve of her neck. He kissed her there softly at first, testing, before his lips pressed more firmly, his breath warm and uneven against her skin.

A shudder ran through her as his kisses moved lower, finding the hollow just beneath her ear, then trailing to the elegant slope of her collarbone. His lips lingered there, tasting the faint salt of her skin, and she gasped softly, her head tilting back to grant him more access.

Karzon didn't hesitate. He followed the line of her collarbone, kissing his way to its center, his mouth exploring the hollow where her neck met her chest.

The feeling was exquisite… almost too much.

Briena's chest rose sharply, her breath shallow and ragged as his lips claimed more of her skin. Her fingers moved to his shoulders, clutching at him like a lifeline, her nails grazing against the muscles beneath.

Warmth pooled low in her belly, spilling out from her core.

"Karzon," she breathed, her voice trembling, barely more than a whisper.

His hands tightened at her waist, pulling her closer, his grip firm but never rough, as though he were anchoring himself to her. He lifted his head just enough to meet her gaze, his hazel eyes dark and burning. "You have no idea how beautiful you are."

Briena's cheeks flushed. "You don't have to say that." Her voice faltered, betraying the effect his words—and his touch—had on her.

"I don't," he admitted, his thumb brushing lightly against the curve of her hip. "But I want to."

Before she could respond, his lips were on hers again, claiming her mouth with an intensity that made her cling to him as the only solid thing in an impossibly dizzy world. His hands slid up her sides, his thumbs brushing just beneath her ribs, sending shivers racing along her spine.

Briena's body pressed into his, her knees weak, her resolve crumbling as the intensity between them grew.

When they finally broke apart Briena's cheeks were flushed, her silver hair falling in wild waves around her face.

Karzon's hands still rested on her waist.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. His hand drifted from her silken strands to cradle her cheek, his thumb gliding over the delicate bloom of warmth that painted it, as if tracing a whisper of fire beneath her skin. "I don't know what this is—what we are. But I can't ignore it any longer."

She exhaled shakily, her forehead coming to rest against his as her hands settled on his chest, her fingers splayed over his pounding heart. "Neither can I. It's maddening. You're maddening."

Karzon chuckled, the sound low and warm as his thumb traced the line of her jaw. "That makes two of us."

"This doesn't change anything." Her voice was quiet, but it was noticeably lacking in conviction. "We still have a long way to go."

Karzon nodded, his lips brushing against her forehead in a tender, fleeting kiss. "I know. But for now, let's just… be here."

She closed her eyes, her body relaxing against his. Somehow, as if by a miracle, Briena Anaravel finally let her guard down.

A long moment passed before she found her voice again. "We should probably…" Her words trailed off as she glanced toward the tents. "Go to bed. For sleep," she clarified.

Karzon nodded, though he didn't move. "Yeah. Probably."

Neither of them made a move to stand. Instead, they stayed there, wrapped in the moment, savoring the calm before the storm that undoubtedly awaited them in Dunmarch.

CHAPTER NINE

The convoy finally reached the outer gates of Dunmarch by noon the next day, as the sun crested over the hills.

For Karzon, Dunmarch seemed less like a city and more like a living, breathing entity—an intricate masterpiece carved from the earth itself. The labyrinth of towering stone walls loomed like ancient sentinels, carved with the scars of battles long forgotten.

Shimmering steel spires pierced the heavens, their razor-sharp edges glinting under a blood-red sun. The streets roared with activity—armored warriors jostling through the throngs, blacksmiths hammering steel into weapons of war, and shadowy figures slipping through alleys.

Where the forest had whispered with ancient secrets, Dunmarch roared, alive with ambition and industry.

The gates loomed above the convoy like the maw of some ancient colossus, their massive arches carved with ornate runes. The magic in them wasn't just visible, it was palpable, a subtle thrum that seemed to brush against the skin like a lingering relic of the city's long-forgotten architects.

The stone itself bore the marks of centuries, weathered but unyielding, streaked with veins of quartz that caught the sunlight like rivers of liquid fire. It was the smell of the city that hit them first—a heady mix of freshly baked bread from street vendors, iron from the forges that sang deep within the industrial heart of Dunmarch, and the earthy aroma of damp stone warmed by the sun.

Beneath these pleasant notes was the faint zest of humanity—sweat, animals, and the lingering bite of smoke from a dozen chimney stacks. It wasn't unpleasant; rather, it was alive, visceral, and intoxicating in its own way.

Guards in gleaming breastplates stood vigilant at the gates, their armor etched with the royal crest—a pair of crossed swords beneath a laurel crown. Their presence radiated authority, their polished steel reflecting the sunlight so brightly it was almost painful to look at.

They moved with sharp efficiency, their eyes hawkish, scanning every wagon and rider suspiciously. Scents of oiled leather and steel followed them, mingling with the faint jingling of chainmail.

"Papers," barked one of the guards, stepping forward with a hand on the hilt of his sword. His voice was clipped and gruff, carrying the weight of countless repetitions.

Karzon dismounted, his boots landing with a crunch on the cobblestones. He pulled a weathered scroll from his satchel and handed it over without a word. The guard unrolled it with the ease of repetition, his eyes gliding over the contents before he gave a brief nod and stepped aside.

"Move along." The guard gestured for the convoy to pass.

As they rolled forward beneath the arch, Karzon felt something stir deep within him. It was an inexplicable pull, as if the city itself was reaching out to him, drawing him into its sprawling embrace. The sunlight dimmed for a moment as they moved beneath the shadow of the gate, only to burst into full brilliance as they emerged on the other side.

Dunmarch's grand avenue stretched out before them, a masterpiece of engineering that gleamed faintly in the sunlight. The cobblestones beneath the wheels and hooves were worn smooth by generations of travelers, their surface glimmering with flecks of mica that caught the light like tiny stars.

The avenue was wide enough to accommodate four wagons side by side, lined with imposing statues of long-dead kings and queens whose faces seemed to gaze down on them with a mixture of pride and stern judgment.

And then there was the city itself. Dunmarch burst into view like a realm spun from legend, its districts flowing together in a riot of color and motion, each street alive with voices, each market square brimming with life.

To the left, the Merchant's Quarter bustled, its narrow streets crammed with colorful market stalls and awnings that flapped lazily in the breeze. Heady aromas of exotic spices and ripe fruits curled through the city air, weaving together with the sharp tang of cured leather and the faint scent of ink from bustling scribes and cartographers at work. Traders shouted their wares in a cacophony of accents, their voices rising like a song above the clatter of carts and the occasional bark of a dog.

To the right, the Forge District loomed, its chimneys belching columns of black smoke that coiled into the sky like dark serpents. It was thick with the pungent waft of molten metal and the acrid bite of coal dust, but there was a beauty to it: a raw, unpolished energy that spoke of industry and invention.

Sparks danced like fireflies from the open forges, their golden arcs lighting the shadowed alleys between workshops.

Above it all, the noble spires of the Upper City gleamed, their polished stone catching the midday sun and scattering it like a hundred prisms. Banners of deep crimson and gold fluttered from their parapets, each emblazoned with the royal crest.

Sweet notes of jasmine and lavender wafted faintly from unseen gardens, carried on a breeze that bypassed the humdrum chaos below. It was a world apart, a place of privilege and power that stood in marked contrast to the gritty vitality of the lower districts.

Karzon's eyes swept the scene, his gaze lingering on the interplay of light and shadow. His heart quickened, not with fear, but with anticipation. Dunmarch was a place of opportunity, yes, but also of secrets hidden in its labyrinthine alleys, whispered in its taverns, and guarded behind its towering walls.

It was a city that demanded respect and caution in equal measure, and Karzon knew better than to take it lightly.

Behind him, Briena rode in silence, soaking in every detail. She didn't speak, but Karzon could feel the tension radiating from her, a quiet wariness that mirrored his own.

Dumarch had a way of making even seasoned travelers feel like strangers.

The convoy rolled forward, its wagons creaking beneath weight and wear, their wheels groaning over uneven cobblestone. Hooves struck the earth in steady beats, threading through the city's undercurrent of sound—the hiss of a baker's oven opening, the rattle of chains as shopkeepers locked up their wares, the sharp cry of a hawker cutting through the early murk.

Merchants shouted over one another, hawking their wares in a cacophony of languages—jewelry from the elven isles, spices from the southern deserts, silks from across the sea. Children darted through the crowds, clutching stolen fruit or chasing after scrawny dogs, their laughter a bright counterpoint to the relentless bartering of adults. A trio of performers juggled flaming torches to a gathered crowd, while a street musician plucked a haunting melody from a harp carved to resemble a swan.

As they passed the Forge District, they saw smoke belched into the sky, its blackened chimneys rising like jagged teeth against the horizon. The clang of hammers on anvils rang out like an iron heartbeat, the air thick with the smell of molten metal and burning coal. Dwarves and humans alike worked shoulder to shoulder, their faces streaked with soot as they hammered steel into swords, shields, and intricate mechanisms.

Beyond the forges, the towers of the Arcane Ward shimmered faintly, their surfaces etched with runes that pulsed softly with a magical glow. Tall spires twisted unnaturally toward the sky, defying geometry with their impossible angles.

Figures in flowing robes moved purposefully between the towers, some carrying staffs that glimmered with ethereal light, others muttering incantations that made the air around them hum.

In the distance, the grand palace of Dunmarch rose like a crown atop the city, its walls a gleaming white marble that caught the sunlight and threw it back in dazzling beams.

It wasn't just the sights and sounds that overwhelmed Karzon, it was the sheer density of the place. Everywhere he looked, people moved with purpose, their lives intertwined in a structure that felt foreign to him.

Briena, now riding beside him, let out a low whistle. "Feels like the city's about to swallow us whole."

"Swallow us, chew us up, and spit us out." Karzon's eyes darted between a particularly aggressive merchant arguing with a customer and a squad of city guards marching in formation down the avenue.

Drenna grunted from behind them. "Best keep our wits about us. Cities like this don't just eat the weak—they fatten them up first."

Karzon couldn't disagree.

In due time, the convoy had reached one of the many inns lining the outer Market Quarter—a sprawling, three-story establishment called The Gilded Mare. Its sign swung lazily in the breeze, the image of a rearing golden horse painted on aged wood.

Despite the name, the building itself was unassuming, its weathered stone facade blending in with the countless other structures around it.

Karzon dismounted, his legs aching from days on horseback. "We'll make this our base for now," he announced to the group. "Get the wagons unloaded and see to the horses. You've all earned a proper rest."

The innkeeper, a wiry man with a perpetually frazzled expression, emerged to greet them. "Stable's out back, rooms on the second floor, and no funny business," he rattled off, before they could even ask.

Karzon nodded, passing the man a few silver coins to grease the arrangement. As the group began unloading supplies, Briena sidled up beside him.

"What now?" They'd woken up beside each other that morning, and since then, no further words had been exchanged about the night before. Karzon, wary of overstepping, had chosen not to broach the subject.

Karzon tugged off his gloves, tucking them into his belt. "I'll head to the Merchant Guild and see if I can sell off the trade goods. We need coin—and answers."

Briena crossed her arms. "And me?"

"Try not to antagonize anyone," he replied with a crooked grin.

She gave him a mock salute. "No promises."

The group began to disperse—some heading to their rooms, others into the city to explore. For a brief moment, Karzon stood alone in the courtyard, staring up at the towering walls of Dunmarch.

Then, he headed into the heart of the Merchant Quarter. Here, the noise was deafening—voices overlapping in a thousand pitches, each vying for dominance in a city where silence was as rare as stillness.

Karzon continued on, only to find Drenna falling into stride beside him, her pack slung carelessly over one shoulder.

"Guild's not going to know what hit it," she said, cracking her neck like she was heading into battle. "Thought you could use a bit of charm."

Karzon gave her a sidelong glance. "Charm? Is that what we're calling it?"

She grinned wolfishly. "Well, I brought a smile and a dagger. One of them's bound to work."

They walked together through the thick arteries of the city, the buildings leaning tall and close, their windows shuttered against the rising din. The Merchant Quarter unfolded around them in a crush of color and noise, banners snapping above doorways, vendors crying their wares from beneath canvas canopies dyed in ocean blues and flame-bright reds. The scent of roasted almonds and spiced tea drifted through the air.

The guild hall rose ahead, built of pale limestone that caught the sun and turned it gold. Its archways were etched with curling script, and its towering doors stood open in welcome or challenge—it was often difficult to tell which. Carved trade gods flanked the entrance, one cradling a scroll, the other gripping a hammer that looked as though it had been used more often than blessed.

Karzon adjusted the strap across his chest and Drenna let out a low whistle as they passed into the marbled entryway, her eyes adjusting to the display of luxury inside. Karzon didn't feel outmatched. He had brought with him a few samples from the crates left behind in the inn. The goods included rare herbs—crimson duskbloom, said to induce visions, and the sleep-inducing moonpetal, coveted by alchemists and courtesans alike. Delicate vials, filled with shimmering oils distilled from luminous deep-sea creatures, promised to enhance beauty or bestow uncanny strength.

And then, carefully wrapped in layers of protective velvet, lay a handful of Aetherglass shards. Each shard held the potential to fuel enchanted weaponry, power the intricate clockwork automatons that guarded the royal palace, or even enhance the delicate spells woven into the very fabric of the kingdom's defenses.

Karzon had spent months traversing treacherous mountain passes, bartering with capricious Djinn in their hidden desert oases, and outwitting rival merchants in the labyrinthine bazaars of the Free Cities.

One wrong move, one miscalculated risk, and this entire fortune could vanish like smoke.

The life of a merchant is a precarious dance on a razor's edge, thought Karzon dryly, but the rewards... ah, the rewards are enough to make a man risk everything.

Inside the guild hall, the din shifted to a subtler kind of chaos. Merchants haggled not over bread and cloth but over shipping routes and caravan security. Scribes darted between groups, ink-stained fingers clutching rolls of parchment, while armed guards in gleaming chainmail stood as silent sentinels near every corner.

Karzon and Drenna made their way toward a rotund man in flowing crimson robes, whose gold-trimmed sash marked him as a senior guild member. The man's sharp eyes darted over Karzon's weathered cloak and dusty boots before settling on the satchel.

"Here on business?" The man spoke in an unctuous voice.

Karzon offered a cool nod. "I have trade goods from the southern routes—silks from Athis and gemstone shards from the mountain ranges near Rhaegyr."

The man's expression shifted from guarded to intrigued, his plump fingers brushing his chin. "Rare wares," he murmured thoughtfully. "But the question is, how rare? Let's see them."

Karzon unfastened the satchel and carefully laid out a few items on the polished oak counter. The silks shimmered in the sunlight filtering through the hall's high windows, their vibrant colors untouched by the dust of travel.

The gemstone shards caught the light, casting tiny rainbows across the counter.

The guild merchant picked up one of the gems, holding it up to his monocle. "Hmm. A fine cut, but… your timing is unfortunate."

Drenna frowned. "Unfortunate?"

"You're late to the feast, friend." His voice was smooth with the kind of charm that could spoil quickly. "The city's bursting with vendors who thought they'd make their fortunes this week. All of them came chasing the royal wedding."

Karzon let his gaze drift over the hall. Tables overflowed with rare goods. Crimson-dyed cloth from the eastern coast, bottles of cloudwine, stacks of gemstone shards too fine for any local market. None of it was moving.

"I've been traveling," Karzon said. "News doesn't reach the dust roads."

The merchant leaned in. "Then you won't have heard. The wedding's off. Princess Solenne called it off herself. Sent Prince Alven home with his banners still rolled. And now every trader from the coasts to the highlands is stuck with inventory they brought for a celebration that isn't happening."

This was news to Karzon. He'd been aware of the Princess of Arlenia's impending marriage to a powerful prince, but hadn't heard the rest.

Karzon's brow lifted. "The King let her do that?"

"He's still King in title," the man murmured. "But not in momentum. The girl's been consolidating her power. Surrounding herself with new advisors. There are whispers she has plans of her own."

Karzon sighed. "So now there's too much stock and not enough coin."

The man nodded. "Naturally, the market is oversaturated. Unless…"

His voice lowered, gaze sharpening. "Unless you're willing to negotiate directly with one of the noble houses. They'll pay for exclusivity, and I hear they are looking for an acquisitions specialist."

Karzon's heartbeat quickened. He hadn't expected noble houses to play a part in his first foray into the Dunmarch trade scene. But nobles meant wealth, power, and information.

Perhaps even connections to the shadowy figure behind the shattered-gem sigil.

"And if I were interested?" Karzon kept his voice steady. Beside him, Drenna released an annoyed grunt, which he ignored.

The merchant smirked. "Then you'll need to attend the bidding tomorrow at the Crimson Spire. But be warned that noble politics are a mire even the most seasoned traders struggle to navigate."

Karzon nodded, gathering his goods and tucking them back into his satchel. "Thank you for the advice."

As they turned to leave, he caught sight of a familiar symbol carved faintly into the base of the merchant's counter—a shattered gem. It had nearly faded into the woodgrain, worn thin by time and polish, but it was there. Karzon stood still for a breath longer, the noise of the hall blurring around him. So this merchant was part of it. The same network he had begun to trace through whispers and fractured glass. The same quiet web that had pulled them through ruins and into danger.

But this no longer felt like danger. He felt something different now, perhaps a quiet sense of rightness, as though the pieces were finally beginning to fall into place. The Crimson Spire was waiting. He would go. Not because he had no choice, but because this was part of the road he had chosen.

One more knot to loosen. One more secret to unearth. And then⁠—

Then they would have enough money to be on the road, free.

He could already picture it. Brienna, hair tousled from wind and laughter, slinging her bow across her shoulder. Drenna trudging beside him, muttering about soft men and sore feet while secretly smiling all the while. The road unspooling beneath them, wild and wide while he explored his healing powers.

"Rum for your thoughts?" Drenna patted him lightly on the shoulder.

Karzon shook his head. "Let's get back to the inn first and round everyone up."

CHAPTER TEN

Briena moved through Dunmarch with the ease of someone who had already mapped its secrets.

The streets, for all their noise and bustle, held corners of quiet wonder if one knew where to look. She had heard whispers of a stable just beyond the southern edge of the city, where rare and extraordinary horses were brought to be traded or tamed. It was said the steeds there were no ordinary mounts. They were born of legend, bred for royalty, and priced high enough to make even the wealthiest merchants hesitate.

She hadn't meant to wander that far, but something about the murmur of those stories had drawn her.

Her own horse, Tyrcel, was tied safely back at the inn, his tack removed and his sleek, smoky chestnut coat brushed clean. Tyrcel was a fine horse—strong, swift, and surefooted.

While borrowed, Briena had trained him well and molded the gelding into a partner who could navigate rough terrain with the elegance of a dancer and charge headlong into danger with the resolve of a warhorse.

Yet something was missing. Briena often felt it in her bones when she rode—an absence she could never quite explain, a lack of that deep, unspoken bond that elves were said to share with their steeds.

It wasn't Tyrcel's fault; he was loyal and capable, and Briena loved him in the way one loves a steadfast companion. But Tyrcel was old, his pace steady but lacking the fire of youth. And no matter how much she cared for him, there was no thread tying their souls together, no pull that let her know his thoughts as her own.

For someone who had grown up amidst the forests, where elves whispered to the trees and sang with the wind, that absence gnawed at her. The silence between them was not unkind, but it was hollow—a quiet that could never become music.

Still, she had vowed never to part with Tyrcel by unfair means. No, when Briena found the mount she knew was hers, it would not be a replacement but an addition, a partnership of a different kind.

Her thoughts lingered on this as she approached the stables.

It wasn't much to look at, encompassing a modest set of stalls set into a long wooden structure with a half-collapsed roof. A faded sign creaked in the wind above the entrance, the paint chipped so badly it was impossible to tell what it once depicted.

Yet the moment Briena stepped through the gates, she felt it: a hum in the air, faint but undeniable, like the subtle vibrations of an unstruck harp string.

The courtyard opened up beyond the stalls, a circular space of soft, trampled earth ringed by low fencing. Most of the horses stood clustered near their handlers—fine beasts with glossy coats, some wearing bridles encrusted with silver and lapis.

They were remarkable creatures, but none held Briena's attention for more than a fleeting moment. Her gaze was drawn instead to the far corner, where a lone mare stood apart from the others.

The sight of the creature stole Briena's breath.

It was as though the mare had been carved from moonlight itself. Her coat shimmered with soft hues of pearl and gold, catching the sunlight in ripples that seemed to move as she did. It wasn't just a shimmer but a glow that burst forth from within, a subtle aura of light that surrounded her, as though the stars themselves had kissed her into existence.

Her mane and tail were long, flowing like streams of liquid starlight that never tangled, moving as though caught in an ethereal breeze no one else could feel.

The mare's hooves gleamed like polished gold, yet they made no sound as she moved. Her legs were long and powerful, yet there was a grace to them; a strength woven with quiet elegance. She held her head high, regal without arrogance, her presence as effortless as the wind bending through ancient trees. But it was her eyes that stole Briena's breath.

Twin pools of deep amber, flecked with soft silver, they shimmered like starlight scattered across an endless sky. There was depth in them, an intelligence that reached beyond instinct, beyond mere mortal understanding. It was as if she was not simply a horse, but something older, something wiser—an echo of forgotten legends, draped in the form of a steed.

Briena stepped closer, her movements slow and reverent, not wanting to disturb whatever spell bound the mare to the earth. The creature regarded her silently, unflinching, and for a moment, Briena felt as though her soul were being weighed.

"She's called Elaris," came a voice from behind her, breaking the spell.

Briena turned abruptly to see an older stable master standing nearby, his leather apron cracked with age and his hands resting on the fence.

"Elaris." Briena tasted the name. It felt ancient, like the song of the wind through untouched mountain peaks. "What is she?"

The stable master stroked his beard thoughtfully, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

"A rare one, that mare. Was meant to be a wedding gift for the princess—bred from a line said to descend from the celestial fields. But after the engagement fell through, the handlers from the east tried to send her back. She wouldn't take to anyone. Not a single soul. Nearly trampled a noble's steward who tried to bridle her. So they left her here, hoping to recoup the cost. She hasn't chosen anyone yet. Won't even let most folks near."

Briena turned back to Elaris, her heart swelling with an unnameable emotion. She didn't need to ask what the mare's price was—one look at her was enough to know it would be more gold than Briena could carry in a dozen lifetimes.

However, she couldn't bring herself to walk away.

"She'll wait for me." Briena spoke more to herself than to the stable master.

She let herself drink in the sight of the mare for a moment longer, her hand itching to reach out and touch her but knowing she couldn't. Finally, with great reluctance, she turned away, forcing herself to leave.

I'll come back for you unless you find me first, she vowed silently.

The streets of Dunmarch were suddenly far less interesting as she made her way back toward the inn, her thoughts a swirling storm of awe and longing. She could still see the mare in her mind's eye, that impossible shimmer, the intelligence in those amber eyes.

Briena was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't notice the alley narrowing around her until it was too late.

"Elf," came a low, rasping voice from the shadows ahead.

Briena's hand was on her dagger in an instant, her body snapping to alertness. Three figures emerged from the gloom, their ragged cloaks hanging heavy around their shoulders.

One held a rusted blade, the other a length of chain, and the third carried nothing but had the hulking frame of a brute who didn't need weapons.

"Out late for a stroll?" The man with the blade sneered, his teeth yellowed and crooked. "Shouldn't be walking alone, someone as pretty as you."

Briena's feet shifted into a defensive stance. "Walk away," she said coldly.

The brute grunted a laugh. "She's got fight in her."

Just then, a shadow moved behind them. The chain-wielder dropped first, a sharp blow to the back of his head sending him crumpling to the ground. Before the others could react, a blade flashed in the dim light, disarming the man with the rusted weapon and sending it clattering to the stones.

"Three against one," Karzon spat as he stepped into view, his hazel eyes sharp and dangerous. "Cowards."

Drenna strode in beside him, cracking her neck with a roll of her shoulders. One of the raiders turned to flee, but he was too slow.

Drenna grabbed him by the collar, yanked him back, and drove her fist into his face with a satisfying crunch. The man crumpled, out cold before he hit the ground.

She shook out her hand, muttering. "Ugh. Face like a melon left in the sun too long."

Briena didn't wait for the others to clean up. She lunged forward and drove her dagger into the gap between the fallen brute's ribs as he tried to rise. He let out a strangled gasp before toppling, clutching at the wound.

Karzon raised a brow at Briena. "Not using your bow?"

Briena shrugged, catching her breath. "Felt like changing things up."

With a short laugh, Karzon stepped toward the final raider, who froze under his stare. A blade flashed, and the coward dropped his weapon and bolted into the dark.

Drenna spit to the side. "That one runs like a drunk goat. Should've tripped him for fun."

Briena stood still, her breathing even but her expression taut.

"You're welcome," Karzon said, flashing her a cocky grin.

Briena rolled her eyes and wiped her blade clean on the nearest cloak. Karzon's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he jerked his head toward the inn—a speck just visible through the trees. "You're late getting back. What were you up to?"

Briena hesitated. Her mind drifted back to the stable, to Elaris, and that strange, soul-deep pull she still couldn't explain.

"Nothing," she said lightly, brushing past them. "Just something I'll come back for."

Karzon narrowed his eyes but didn't push. Drenna raised an eyebrow behind her but let it go with a half-huff, half-chuckle.

Once they reached the inn, Karzon peeled off to speak with the keeper. Drenna trailed behind him, already recounting how her punch made a sound "like a sack of soup hitting the floor." By the time Briena had washed and come inside, the common room of The Gilded Mare was alive with low conversation, the flicker of lantern light, and the scent of roasted meat thick in the air.

Smoke from the hearth curled lazily toward the rafters, filling the air with the added scent of charred oak.

Karzon stood at the head of their table, silently watching the group as they settled in for the evening.

Briena sat to his right, arms folded, her expression caught somewhere between intrigue and mild skepticism. Drenna leaned back in her chair with a mug in hand, watching Karzon like a hawk sizing up prey.

The rest of the convoy had gathered around as well—drivers, guards, and a few travelers who had joined their company for safety on the road.

Karzon tapped the edge of the table with his knuckles, drawing their attention. "Alright, listen up. Tomorrow morning, we're attending an auction at the Crimson Spire."

A ripple of murmurs ran through the group, ranging from curiosity to confusion.

Harren, sitting near the edge of the group, rubbed his chin, his expression skeptical. "An auction? That's what all this has been about?" His weathered features twisted into a grimace, as if he'd bitten into something sour.

Karzon gave him a steady look. "It's not just any auction. The royal wedding was supposed to flood this city with nobles and coin, and every trader from the coasts to the borderlands brought their finest goods hoping to profit. Now that the wedding's off, the market's drowning in surplus and no one's buying."

Harren snorted, tipping his chair back. "So why not cut our losses and sell off what we can?"

"Because the auction is where the nobles are still looking to spend," Karzon said. "They'll pay high for anything rare enough to stand out. Our stock's too good to waste in the streets. We need coin, and this is the only way we get what our good are worth."

He leaned back, folding his arms. "We're not here to play politics. We go in, sell high, and get out. One more job, and we're done."

The room quieted for a moment. Drenna finally broke the silence with a grunt. "Fine. I'm in. But only because I don't trust you to get through this without accidentally starting a war."

Harren chuckled, his earlier resistance softening. "Or breaking something expensive."

"I can be careful when I need to be," Karzon protested.

"You couldn't even pitch a tent without Briena correcting you," Harren shot back, earning a round of laughter.

Karzon made a face. "One time. It was one time!"

Even Briena, usually not one for levity, managed a faint chuckle. "And yet, here we are, still talking about it."

One by one, the rest of the group murmured their agreement, albeit reluctantly. Most followed for the promise of profit, but beneath that was a quiet loyalty to the man who had led them through countless journeys and never failed to line their pockets.

As the group began to disperse—some heading to their rooms, others lingering by the fire—Briena remained seated, her sharp gaze fixed on Karzon. When the last of the others had left, she rose from her chair and gestured for him to follow her. "Come."

Karzon followed her to a quieter corner of the common room, away from prying ears. She turned to face him, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

All right, Karzon," Briena said, her voice low and firm. "What's really going on? And don't give me that line about prices and wares. I've known you too long for that. Something's bothering you."

Karzon hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck. "I keep seeing a symbol of a shattered gem."

Briena's brow furrowed. "And?"

He shook his head, uncertain. "It could be nothing. Or it could mean there's something going on under the surface, in this town. I'm not saying we change the plan, but it's got me on edge. Like we're walking into something bigger than we can see."

Briena crossed her arms, watching him. "So, what—you think someone's watching us?"

"I don't know." He met her eyes. "Maybe I'm chasing shadows. But I can't shake the feeling that we're being steered toward something. I just don't know by who."

Briena threw her hands up in exasperation. "Karzon!" She paced in a small circle. "I'm not one to be unsupportive, but thinking that all of this is about you feels… like a pretty big stretch."

Karzon hesitated, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost hesitant. "Do you remember the first time I used my healing magic?"

Briena nodded. "How could I forget? It wasn't exactly subtle."

Karzon nodded, his expression troubled. "It wasn't just luck, Briena. That magic… it's not something I've ever been taught. It's not something I've ever had. But ever since I saw that sigil—back in Stoneford, when the raiders first attacked—I've felt… different. Like there's something inside me waking up. Something tied to the sigil, to the gems they've been hunting. I can't explain it, but I know it's connected."

Briena narrowed her eyes at him. "You think the sigil is tied to your magic?"

"I don't just think it," Karzon said, his voice growing firmer. "I know it. The sigil, the crafted gems, the whispers about some shadow organization… it's all connected. And if we don't figure out what it means, it's only going to get worse. Those raiders weren't just random bandits, Briena. They were looking for something. And I think whatever it is… it's tied to me."

Before Briena could respond, a third voice cut in.

"This is madness," Drenna said, emerging from the shadows near the stairs. She folded her arms, eyes narrowing. An auction full of nobles, rival traders, and gods know what else. What happened to keeping a low profile?"

Karzon didn't flinch. "We need the coin. The open market's flooded, and if we want to get decent prices for what we're carrying, this auction's our best shot."

Drenna huffed. "And after that? You planning to play merchant forever?"

Karzon offered a half-smile. "No. After that, we take on better work. The kind that pays well enough to buy some time to figure things out."

Briena remained quiet, her eyes far away.

Karzon noticed. "You're awfully quiet for someone with opinions."

She blinked, refocusing. "Sorry. Just thinking."

Drenna raised a brow. "About what?"

Briena didn't bother denying it. "I left a horse behind this morning. I think she's the one."

Karzon leaned back against the wall, arms crossed loosely. "You really think she's still there?"

Briena nodded. "I know she is. She hasn't chosen anyone yet."

Karzon considered that. "Then we make time. Once this auction's behind us, we'll figure out the rest. Mercenary contracts, safer roads, maybe even a bit of quiet." He looked between them, serious now. "We've been pushing hard. You've both earned better than this."

Drenna grunted. "Better's not cheap."

Karzon smiled faintly. "Then we'll earn it. One job at a time."

Drenna stared at him for a long moment, her scarred face unreadable. Then she sighed, running a hand through her short hair. "You're a fool, Karzon. But you're an honest fool. Just… don't make me regret this."

"You won't," Karzon said quietly.

Briena looked between the two of them, her expression thoughtful. Finally, she tilted her head with a wry little smile. "I still think it's reckless. But… I believe you."

Karzon's shoulders relaxed, just slightly. "Good. Then here's the plan…"

A while later, everyone gathered in the dining hall, and the mood shifted from serious to convivial. Plates of roasted meats were set on the table, their edges crisped to perfection and their juices pooling beneath them. Bowls of creamy potato mash, rich with butter and herbs, were passed around alongside crusty loaves of bread still warm from the oven.

The centerpiece was a steaming tureen of stew, its surface dotted with hints of thyme and bay leaves. The aroma was intoxicating—a blend of slow-cooked beef, sweet root vegetables, and the faintest hint of wine.

Briena reached for the stew first, filling her bowl with a generous portion. She was usually more mindful with food, but tonight, a deep hunger settled in her bones, impossible to ignore. With a smile, she lifted her spoon. "Well, if nothing else, at least we won't face our fate on empty stomachs."

Karzon chuckled, passing her a slice of bread. "Poetic."

Drenna, already halfway through her second plate of meat, pointed her fork at Karzon. "You're paying for this, right?"

Karzon gave her a mock glare. "Of course I am. Do you think I dragged all those trade goods here just for show?"

"Wouldn't put it past you," Drenna muttered, earning a snort of laughter from Harren.

As the meal went on, the tension of the day melted away. The convoy's members swapped stories, teased one another, and reveled in the simple pleasure of good food and company.

Outside, the city of Dunmarch hummed faintly in the distance, its life and rhythm continuing even as the convoy moved to their rooms to settle into much-needed rest.

Most fell asleep quickly. Some, however, did not.

Briena leaned against the doorframe of her room, the soft glow of an oil lamp casting a halo of light over the simple furnishings within. She had changed out of her traveling clothes into something looser—a linen tunic that fell just past her hips and a pair of dark breeches.

Her silver hair was unbound, tumbling over her shoulders in soft waves. But she didn't linger in the room. Instead, her attention was drawn to the small wooden balcony just beyond the open window.

Stepping outside, she took in the night. The stars hung low over Dunmarch, scattered like diamonds on a sea of midnight blue. The city's lights twinkled below, the faint murmur of its streets drifting upward.

Briena drew in a breath of the heavy summer air, the warm breeze catching in her hair. For all the tension that had weighed on her shoulders earlier, there was a strange peace here, under the canopy of stars.

She wasn't alone.

A low creak to her left drew her gaze. The balcony, as it turned out, wasn't entirely hers—it was shared, a long wooden platform that wrapped around the inn's upper floor. And there, leaning casually against the railing just a few paces away, was Karzon.

He wore a loose, long-sleeved shirt that hung open at the collar, the fabric a muted gray. He glanced toward her and tipped an imaginary hat.

"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked, his voice quiet so as not to disturb the others.

Briena folded her arms, leaning against the railing. "Too much on my mind. You?"

He shrugged. "Same. Tomorrow's a big day."

She nodded, her gaze drifting out over the city. They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the night stretching between them like a thread. Then Karzon broke it.

"Want to talk about it?"

She sighed. "You know, for a trader, you're awfully good at reading people."

"It's part of the job," he replied with a shrug. "You can't negotiate without knowing what's going on in someone's head."

Briena hesitated, her fingers brushing the smooth wood of the railing. Then, finally, she spoke. "Just thinking about Elaris."

Karzon simply replied with a little nod. "The horse?"

She looked at him with a mix of embarrassment and longing. "The stable was near the east gate. She's… unlike anything I've ever seen."

Karzon tilted his head, curious. "What makes her so special?"

Briena's eyes shone as she tried to put what she saw into words. "She looks like she was shaped from every sort of light. Her coat was this luminous white, almost glowing, with golden undertones when the light hits it just right. Her mane is long and silken, flowing like a waterfall. And her eyes… god, her eyes. They're this deep amber-gold, like firelight in the dark. She's not just a horse. She's… magic."

Karzon watched her closely, noting the way her voice softened, her words carrying her somewhere else. "Sounds like you've already fallen for her," he said gently.

Briena chuckled, though it was tinged with a wistfulness she couldn't quite hide. "Maybe I have. But she's expensive. More than I can afford right now."

Karzon leaned against the railing, his hazel eyes thoughtful. "You already have a good horse, don't you?"

Briena nodded. "I do. I've ridden Tyrcel for as long as I've been with you. He's strong, reliable, and loyal. But…" She hesitated, searching for the right words. "As an elf, my connection to a steed is supposed to go deeper than practicality. It's about harmony, about being in sync with the creature you ride.

"Tyrcel's wonderful, but I've always felt like… like something's missing. That mare, though—I felt it, Karzon. That connection. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it was like she and I were meant for each other."

Karzon was quiet for a moment, then he gave her a small, lopsided grin. "It doesn't sound ridiculous. If anyone gets chasing after something that feels right, it's me."

Briena looked at him. "You don't think I'm being foolish?"

"No," he said simply. "I think you're being honest. And if that mare is what you want, we'll figure it out. One way or another."

The way he said it—steady and certain—made her heart skip a beat. She looked away, the faintest hint of color rising to her cheeks. "You're an infuriating optimist, you know that?"

Karzon chuckled, the sound low and warm. "I've been called worse." His hand moved to cover hers fully, warm and steady against her cool skin.

As if pulled by some invisible force, Briena leaned in. Their foreheads touched first, a brief, intimate gesture that made the world feel impossibly small. And then, slowly, their lips met.

Dunmarch stretched below them like a living, breathing tapestry, its labyrinthine streets alive with currents of noise and motion, oblivious to the man and elf who lingered high above the chaos.

Wrapped in the safety of each other's arms, they existed in a world apart, a place carved from shadow and longing. Their names spilled from each other's lips like sacred vows, carried on trembling breaths into the spaces between kisses that deepened with every passing heartbeat.

Briena's chest rose and fell rapidly as Karzon's lips traced a searing path from her mouth to the delicate curve of her jaw, and lower still to the hollow of her throat. Her fingers gripped his tunic, knuckles white, as if letting go would send her spiraling into an abyss.

Her lips, so often set in a firm line, unfurled into a slow, almost otherworldly smile—seductive and knowing, a silent invitation wrapped in mystery. It was a fleeting glimpse of something untamed, a wildfire beneath the surface, smoldering just for him.

The words that followed spilled like a whispered secret, raw and unbound, slipping past the defenses she had always held so tightly. There was something ethereal in the way she surrendered to the moment, the weight of her vulnerability transforming into something intoxicating and sacred. "You feel so good… like you were made to touch me."

His hands moved with a reverence that belied their strength, palms sliding from her face to the graceful curve of her neck, his thumbs brushing against her pulse—a wild, erratic drumbeat against his skin.

She shivered, tilting her head back, exposing more of herself to him. "What you do to me is madness," she admitted, her nails dragging lightly over his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath. "You don't even have to do anything, and I'm already losing my mind."

Karzon groaned, gripping her waist as she leaned into him, her fingers exploring, tracing the lines of his body like she was memorizing him. "I think about you all the time." Her breath was warm against his skin. "The way you move, the way you look at me like you could devour me." Her lips brushed against his throat, her voice turning softer, more teasing. "It makes me want to be reckless with you."

She kissed along his jaw, taking her time, like she was savoring the taste of him. "I love the way you touch me," she whispered. "The way you make me feel like I'm the only thing in the world that matters."

Karzon's grip tightened, his restraint slipping as she whispered against his ear, "Tell me you want me as much as I want you."

His hands flexed against her hips—possessive, hungry—as she leaned back just enough to meet his gaze.

"I want to feel all of you," she murmured, her voice thick with need. "I want to drown in you."

Karzon's restraint snapped as he pulled her against him, crushing her lips beneath his, letting her feel just how much he wanted her.

She gasped into his mouth, triumphant, breathless, giving herself to him.

He groaned softly, the sound reverberating against her skin as his hands slid lower, tracing the curve of her hips before gripping them firmly, possessively, yet still with a tenderness that spoke of restraint. His forehead rested against hers for a fleeting moment, their breaths mingling, heavy and uneven.

"We should stop." The huskiness in his voice betrayed how much he didn't want to.

Her lips curved into a faint, mischievous smile, her fingers curling into the fabric at his chest. "Do you mean that?"

He did not. He ached for her, and in that moment, he already knew that there was no way they could be separate on this night, not when the universe itself had other plans. So, Karzon did what a man would and stared at her, his hazel eyes dark and searching, before a crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Come with me." His eyes burned as he extended a palm to her, and she took it. They moved together, step by step, until the doorway to his room loomed ahead of them.

They crossed the threshold into his room, the space dimly lit by the glow of a single lantern.

The door clicked shut behind them, and the sound seemed to echo, marking a moment they could no longer turn back.

Karzon turned to kiss her once more.

Her lips parted under his, inviting, teasing, and he took full advantage, his tongue sliding against hers. He groaned against her mouth, his restraint slipping with every passing second.

Briena's hands slid up his chest, her fingers hungry as they mapped the hard lines of his body beneath his shirt.

"Gods." His voice was low and rough as his hands moved to her waist, gripping her firmly as he lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around him without hesitation. He carried her to the edge of the bed and set her down slowly.

She pulled at the ties of her tunic, her breathing unsteady. Karzon's gaze darkened as he watched her, his own fingers moving to his shirt, pulling it over his head in one swift motion. The sight of his bare chest—broad, muscled, and glistening faintly in the soft light—stole the air from her lungs.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the delicate line of her throat, his lips trailing lower, tasting the sensitive skin along her collarbone once more. Her fingers slid into his hair, holding him close as her body arched into him, her tunic slipping further with each of his movements.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, his lips brushing against the swell of her breast, his hands framing her face as if to ground himself.

"I can't," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I don't want you to."

Something broke in him at her words, and the intensity between them shifted, deepened. His hands moved to her hips, pulling her closer as he kissed her again, this time slower, savoring her taste as if committing it to memory.

Her tunic fell away completely, revealing the soft linen of her breaches beneath, her skin glowing in the lantern’s golden light. He reached for the ties at her hips, fingers brushing the edge before slowly drawing them down, uncovering her inch by inch until there was nothing but bare, glistening skin.

He pressed her back against the bed, his mouth exploring every inch of her, his hands following and tracing paths that left her trembling beneath his touch. Her soft moans filled the room, mingling with the sound of his ragged breathing.

His palms slid over her bare thighs, up to her hips, gripping her with a roughness that spoke to the fire roaring inside him. He pulled her closer, his body pressing into hers as if the distance between them was unbearable.

His lips trailed lower, tasting the curve of her breast, his tongue circling the taut peak before he sucked gently, then harder. Briena's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her soft gasps urging him on as his hands caressed her sides, sliding up to cradle her ribs before moving down again, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

He paused, his gaze sweeping over her, dark and consuming. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick. His hands tightened on her hips as if he couldn't believe she was real.

Her body moved before her thoughts caught up. She shifted over him, pushing him gently back against the pillows with nothing but her weight and the intensity in her eyes. He let her, watching her like she was a vision, some golden divine thing slipping into his lap. Her hands trailed over his chest and down his stomach with a reverence that mirrored his own, fingers splaying across his skin as if memorizing the shape of him.

And when she reached his cock—already hard, thick, flushed, and aching—she wrapped her hand around the base, and her lips parted with a low, hungry sound that made his hips twitch beneath her.

"Oh, Karzon," she whispered, voice warm with desire and aching sweetness. "Let me taste you."

She bent low and kissed the head like it was something sacred, then licked a slow circle around the crown, her elven tongue soft and hot against him. Magic laced through the contact, subtle at first, a feathering coolness like a stream's kiss—but the longer her tongue stayed on him, the more it changed. That coolness faded into a rolling heat, soft at first, then building, licking across every nerve like sunlight melting snow. Karzon groaned and dropped his head back against the pillows, his eyes falling shut as her mouth closed around him.

She moaned as she sucked him in, as if his taste unraveled something inside her, and when her tongue flicked along the underside of his shaft with precise, intentional grace, he felt the full force of her magic ripple through him like a wave of starlight.

The nerves along his cock lit up with a vibration, a thrum of pleasure that started at the base and pulsed through him in rhythm with her movements. Her mouth moved slowly, lovingly, her hands stroking the length she couldn't take, spit slick and shining along her fingers, the curve of her lips stretched wide and desperate around him.

And then she began to hum. That low, singsong resonance, elven and melodic, ancient and sensual, wrapped around him like a second mouth. The sound vibrated through his cock, along his thighs, into the base of his spine, until it felt like every part of him was attuned to her. Her lips sucked him deeper. Her magic kissed every trembling inch of skin, and her tongue—gods, that tongue—curled and licked with such greedy worship that he almost came right then.

"Briena," he gasped, hands finding her hair and gripping hard, not to stop her, but because he needed to hold something. "I—gods⁠—"

She moaned louder, the vibration pulsing around him, and he felt her tongue cool the head of his cock before drawing tight heat along the shaft, alternating strokes of ice and fire, pressure and soft gliding strokes, until he was shaking under her. Her hands massaged his thighs, one slipping lower to cup his balls, squeezing gently, her thumb brushing against the most sensitive spots while her mouth drove him deeper into madness.

And she didn't stop.

She pulled back slowly, letting her tongue trace the thick vein along the underside of his shaft before she licked across his balls, slow and sultry, sucking one gently into her mouth. Her eyes flicked up to meet his: bright, feral, utterly undone.

"You taste like heat and starlight," she whispered against him, her voice filled with hunger. "I want to drink you until you forget your name."

She took him back into her mouth in one slick motion, her throat relaxing as she swallowed around him. Her tongue curled and moved beneath, the magical hum in her throat now stronger, singing against him, her moans tangled in the rhythm of her magic, her voice rolling through some old elven chant that made his vision darken at the edges.

Karzon's hands fisted in her hair. He held her in place, his voice breaking as he let instinct take over. He snapped his hips again, and again, fucking into her mouth now as her tongue moved with him, matching the pace with delicious exactness. The wet heat of her throat took him deeper each time, her hands gripping his thighs as he used her without mercy, hips rolling in short, brutal drives that sent sparks of pleasure racing up his spine.

"Fuck—Briena," he gasped, eyes locked on the mess her face had become. Her mouth was stretched wide, her lips raw and red, spit stringing from her chin to his balls, and she looked up at him like she loved every filthy second of it.

He held her there, tight and shaking, one hand keeping her steady as his cock slammed into her mouth. The other tangled in her hair like he was anchoring himself to this moment, to her. His thighs trembled. His abs flexed. The rhythm turned frantic, his cock throbbing as she swallowed him again and again, her throat milking him with the perfect tension of muscle and magic.

And gods, her magic. That impossible combination of heat and cold, her singsong voice echoing through his core like a prayer turned sin, her tongue flicking and curling beneath him with otherworldly control—he was lost to it.

He fucked into her mouth like she was the only thing keeping him alive, every thrust deeper than the last. Her moans grew louder, matching the rhythm of his hips, the suction of her lips obscene and perfect. Her nails dug into his thighs, encouraging him to take more.

Her pace turned fierce. Greedy. Wet sounds filled the room as her mouth slid up and down his cock, slurping and sucking, licking with no shame, her hands stroking what she couldn't take, her lips red and shining. Spit dripped down her chin, slicking his balls as she sucked them again, alternating between her mouth and hands, her tongue and voice and magic drawing him closer and closer to the edge.

His whole body trembled. His thighs flexed. His hands tangled in her hair as she sucked him with so much need it felt like she wanted to crawl inside him. And when the orgasm hit, it didn't just break him. It shattered him.

Karzon groaned deep in his chest, low and ragged, his hips jerking as he came hard, spilling into her mouth in thick, hot waves. Briena moaned, loud and desperate, drinking him down without flinching, her throat swallowing every drop, her hands never stopping.

She kept sucking even after he'd finished, slow and deep, licking the head, milking the last pulses from his cock with gentle, worshipful licks. Her tongue cooled him now, soothing the hypersensitive nerves she had just set aflame, her hands still stroking his thighs as she cleaned every drop of him from base to tip.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were slick, her mouth swollen, her eyes wild with satisfaction. The sight of her alone had Karzon hardening again, thick and ready within seconds.

"You're hard again," she whispered, voice shaking, breathless. "And I want you to fuck me until you forget what it means to be careful."

Karzon's hand shot out, grabbing her waist as he dragged her below him. He shifted, pressing a kiss to her stomach before moving back to kneel between her legs, his hands spreading her thighs wide.

A shiver ran through her, anticipation turning her skin fever-hot. "You like having me like this, don't you?" she murmured, her voice sultry and teasing. "Spread out, ready, just for you." Her breath hitched as his grip on her tightened, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. "I can feel how much you want me."

He didn't answer, not with words. Instead, he positioned himself, the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed in an inch at a time, his gaze locked on her face as he claimed her.

She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as her body adjusted to the stretch, the feeling of him filling her inch by inch. "Gods, you're so big," she moaned, tilting her head back as her breath came in short, desperate gasps. "You love stretching me open like this, don't you? Taking me like I belong to you?"

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice low and guttural. She obeyed, her eyes locking with his as he sank fully into her, their bodies joining in a way that left no space for hesitation or doubt.

The first thrust was slow, testing, as if he wanted her to feel every inch of him. The next was deeper, and the one after harder, until he was moving with a rhythm that had her gasping, her body arching to meet his.

She clung to him, her hands running over his strong arms, down his back, feeling the raw power behind every movement. "Gods, yes," she whimpered, biting her lip, her legs wrapping tighter around him. "You feel so good inside me, so deep. I can't⁠—"

His hands gripped her hips tightly, guiding her movements as he drove into her, the sound of their bodies meeting filling the room. "You take me so well," he groaned, his voice dark, rough with hunger. "Like you were made for me."

She moaned at his words, arching up to press her breasts against his chest. "I am," she breathed, her nails raking down his back. "I'm yours. Yours to use, yours to take. Give me more."

A guttural sound ripped from his throat, and he thrust harder, pressing her deeper into the bed, making her cry out in pleasure. His hands slid up her sides, his thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts before cupping them, his thumbs teasing her sensitive peaks as he moved.

Her moans grew louder, more desperate, her hands clutching at his arms, his back, anything she could reach as pleasure built between them. "Harder," she begged, her voice breathless. "Don't hold back—I can take it."

He didn't.

With a growl, he gripped her hips and drove into her with brutal, claiming thrusts, his cock slamming deep, filling her over and over again. She screamed, her head tossing back, eyes rolling as pure pleasure crashed through her. Her breasts bounced wildly with each punishing stroke, the firm swell of them slapping against his chest when he bent low, against his hands when he pulled back to watch them move just for him.

"You love this," he groaned, watching her body shake beneath him, her tits bouncing, slick with sweat. He reached up, grabbing one, squeezing and kneading before slapping it just to feel her clench around him. "Look at you—so well-used, screaming for my cock."

She gasped, her body arching as the sharp pleasure sent a shockwave through her. "Yes—yes, gods, yes," she babbled, her voice broken, delirious with it. "I can feel you everywhere—I can't—oh⁠—"

He pounded into her harder, deeper, forcing her body to take every inch, to mold around him. The wet, filthy sounds of their bodies colliding filled the room, drowning out her cries, his growls, the rasp of their breathless, frantic need. Her legs locked around his waist, heels digging into his back, as he thrust up into her so hard she saw stars, her vision blurring, her entire world reduced to the cock stretching her open and the relentless, ruthless pleasure threatening to shatter her completely.

"That's it," he gritted out, his fingers bruising against her skin, his pace merciless. "Take it all. Scream for me."

The slick heat of her wrapped around him, pulling him deeper with every thrust, every movement. Her legs tightened around his waist, drawing him closer, her nails scoring red lines down his back as she cried out, her body shuddering beneath him.

"You feel perfect," he groaned, his voice breaking as he thrust harder, claiming her completely. He took exactly what he wanted, exactly what she had begged for.

"Oh gods," she gasped, her voice breaking as her body trembled, teetering on the edge. He leaned down, his mouth capturing hers in a searing kiss as his hips drove into her with a frantic intensity, his control slipping as he chased his own release.

"I've got you," he murmured against her lips, his voice raw, his hands sliding to her thighs to pull her even closer as he thrust deeper.

Her body tightened around him, her release hitting her in violent, all-consuming waves, her cries raw and uninhibited as she shattered beneath him. Her eyes glazed over, unfocused, her lips parted in a silent, breathless moan as he drove into her one last time, his cock throbbing as he spilled deep inside her. Heat flooded her, the primal claim of it making her body shudder, her fingers weakly grasping at his shoulders as aftershocks wracked her frame.

There was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing, the press of his weight grounding her, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against her damp skin. He didn't pull away, his hands still gripping her hips possessively as if unwilling to part from the warmth of her body.

Slowly, his hold gentled, his lips finding her forehead in a lingering kiss, as tender as he had been brutal before. He murmured something against her skin, something deep, low, and reverent, words she couldn't quite grasp through the lingering haze of pleasure.

His hands moved over her, soothing the bruises he had left, fingers tracing the marks of his possession with something softer, more tender. When he finally eased out of her, he caught her before she could collapse, gathering her into his arms.

She sighed, utterly spent, sinking against him as he pulled her into his chest, his fingers absently running through her damp hair.

Then, slowly, he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to her forehead, his hands still gentle on her hips as if reluctant to let her go.

For an indeterminate time, Karzon and Briena lay wrapped around each other, until the sweet lull of sleep claimed them both.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The first thing Briena felt was warmth—steady and encompassing. Her cheek rested against a firm chest that rose and fell with a slow, even rhythm. The scent of him lingered, earthy and clean, mixed with something distinctly Karzon. She stirred slightly, her fingers brushing against his skin, and his arm tightened around her instinctively.

"You're awake." His voice was rough with sleep. The sound vibrated through his chest, and she couldn't help the smile that spread across her face.

"I am," she whispered, lifting her head to look up at him. His eyes glowed gently as they met hers, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a lazy smile. His hair was tousled, a rare boyishness to his features that made her chest ache.

"Good morning," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek. His touch was warm and comforting, and she leaned into it without thinking.

"It is," she replied, her voice teasing. "Though I don't remember falling asleep."

His response was a deep, rumbling chuckle. "That's probably my fault. I seem to recall wearing you out."

Her cheeks flushed, and she buried her face against his chest, her laughter muffled against his skin. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," he said, tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to look at him, "here you are. In my bed. With no complaints, as far as I can tell."

Her lips curved into a soft smile. "Maybe just one."

His brow arched in mock seriousness. "Oh? What grievance must I rectify, my lady?"

She bit her lip, pretending to consider before poking his chest. "You're far too comfortable. It's dangerous. I might never want to leave."

His expression shifted, the teasing giving way to something softer, more vulnerable. "You don't have to," he said quietly, his fingers trailing along her arm.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Finally, she smiled, and reached up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. "Let's start with breakfast," she said, her voice light. "I'm starving."

He laughed, a full, warm sound, and rolled onto his side, pulling her with him. "We should fix that. Are you sure it's only food you're craving?" He shifted lazily, rolling his shoulders back, and the morning sunlight spilled over him, highlighting every chiseled line of his torso.

"You're a terrible influence," she shot back, grinning as she leaned in to press a kiss to his jaw. "Come on. We've got an auction to get to."

As she stood, the buttery morning rays that had illuminated Karzon touched her skin. Her body seemed to shimmer in its embrace, her skin glowing like honey.

His gaze lingered on the curve of her pert ass, the way it moved so effortlessly, each cheek bouncing gently with her steps, teasing him without even trying. They looked like ripe, forbidden fruit, tempting him to reach out, to taste, to claim.

Karzon clenched his jaw, his self-control hanging by a thread as his erection throbbed with insistence, demanding attention.

It took every ounce of his restraint to tear his eyes away, to fight the primal hunger clawing at him, and finally swing his legs over the edge of the bed. With a low groan, he ran a hand through his hair, already anticipating how difficult it would be to keep his hands off her for the rest of the morning.

Luckily for him, there was plenty to do. The process of assembling their wares was nothing short of a small military operation. Soon, the courtyard buzzed with the steady rhythm of boots against cobblestone, the groan of heavy wood being hefted onto carts, and the bark of Karzon's voice cutting through the din.

Each trunk was a masterpiece of utility and security: reinforced with bands of cold iron etched with warding sigils, bound in thick leather straps designed to withstand both thieving hands and the wear of long journeys.

"Easy with that one." Karzon pointed to a trunk carried by two guards struggling under its weight. His eyes zeroed in on the faint runes engraved along its edges. "That's the Aetherglass. You drop it, you might as well sell your sword for coin and call it a day." The guards stiffened, their grips tightening as they maneuvered the trunk with exaggerated care, sweat gleaming on their foreheads.

The Aetherglass shards were the crown jewel of their inventory. Fragile, yet immeasurably valuable, each shard was wrapped in thick velvet and nestled in padded compartments, glowing faintly with a cold, otherworldly light.

Karzon didn't trust anyone to handle it without his supervision, and even then, he couldn't help grimacing every time one of the guards so much as exhaled near the crate.

Drenna stood nearby, her arms crossed, her scarred face twisted in an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and grim disapproval. "You're worse than a hen guarding her eggs," she muttered, her gravelly voice just loud enough to reach Karzon's ears.

That earned her a scowl, but Karzon didn't bother to respond. There was too much at stake to risk even the slightest mishap.

He wouldn't let it all crumble because someone got careless with their footing.

To one side of the courtyard, Briena worked with quiet efficiency. She hefted a smaller crate into place, the faint sheen of morning light catching the faint, swirling etchings of elven designs along its edges.

This particular crate held sealed jars of elven moonflower nectar, an intoxicating substance prized by apothecaries and alchemists for its rumored ability to enhance magic. Briena, despite her lithe build, handled the crate like it weighed no more than a bundle of arrows.

She and Karzon exchanged brief glances as she passed by him, their eyes meeting for a heartbeat before she turned away.

Briena's focus remained on the task at hand, though her mind drifted occasionally to the auction. It wasn't the silks or gemstones that concerned her; it was the people. Dunmarch's noble houses and merchant elites were known for their appetite for deception, and she didn't trust them any further than she could throw one of them.

"Double-check the straps," she instructed one of the younger guards. "If these crates shift on the road, you'll be the one explaining why half our goods are scattered across the street."

The guard fumbled to comply, the color rising in his cheeks as he tightened the leather bindings.

Nearby, Harren smirked as he adjusted the sword strapped to his hip. "Elves don't just see everything, do they? They hear it, feel it, and smell it too. Makes you wonder if they're all part witch."

"Careful, Harren," Briena said without looking at him. "I might take that as a compliment."

The banter lightened the air briefly, but the tension underlying the operation was undeniable. The crates and trunks weren't just wares; they were the culmination of months of sacrifice and grit, and every single person in the convoy knew it.

As the last of the cargo was secured onto the carts, Karzon allowed himself a moment to assess the scene.

Briena approached him, her eyes sweeping over the loaded carts with an appraising gaze. "Satisfied, commander?" she asked, her tone laced with subtle humor.

Karzon allowed himself a rare grin. "Almost. Let's see if we can get these out of the gate without half the city staring us down."

She bobbed her head slightly, a strand of silver hair slipping loose from her braid. "They'll stare anyway. You don't march into the Crimson Spire without every schemer and pickpocket in the city trying to figure out what you're carrying."

Drenna joined them, her heavy boots crunching against the cobblestones. "She's right. You've made this look too good, Karzon. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're begging for someone to rob us."

"Let them try." Karzon's eyes grew steely. "We're ready."

With that, they were ready to go to the auction site. As they turned onto the main thoroughfare leading to the Crimson Spire, the streets themselves seemed to change, as though they were crossing an invisible threshold into a different world.

The cobblestones beneath the company's boots and wheels grew darker and smoother, polished to a muted sheen and reflecting the shifting light of lanterns strung along the road like distant stars. The buildings on either side rose higher with every step, their facades growing more elaborate and domineering.

Ornate carvings of mythical creatures snarled from cornices and gargoyles leered from rooftops, their shadowed forms stretching across the narrowing street like clawed fingers reaching for the convoy. Windows glimmered with stained glass, depicting scenes of triumph, war, and ancient prosperity, casting fragmented rainbows onto the street below.

The busy hum of the city dulled, replaced by the clipped tones of nobility, their polished voices rising and falling in careful, deliberate cadence.

The scent of Dunmarch changed too: the rich spices and baked bread of the lower districts faded, replaced by heady perfumes, the acrid burn of oiled leather, and faint traces of burning incense that curled lazily from gilded braziers set outside certain storefronts.

The Crimson Spire towered ahead like the crowning jewel of the district—a beacon of power and wealth that dominated the skyline. Its base was massive, a foundation of smooth black obsidian shot through with veins of glowing crimson that pulsed faintly, as if the building itself were alive. The spire climbed impossibly high, tapering into a thin, needle-like point that seemed to pierce the heavens.

Runes etched into its surface shimmered in the light, their ancient script twisting and shifting as though alive, radiating faint whispers that seemed to tangle in the edges of the mind if one stared too long.

The great arched entrance yawned open at the base, flanked by twin statues carved from dark basalt. They depicted armored knights, their helmets crowned with plumes of flame rendered so intricately that they almost seemed to dance. Their gauntleted hands rested on the pommels of massive greatswords, the blades driven deep into the stone at their feet.

Between them, the spire's doors—polished metal inset with ruby glass—stood open, spilling warm, golden light onto the street outside.

The convoy halted briefly before entering, the weight of the spire pressing down on all of them. Even Drenna, usually unflappable, looked up at the towering structure with a mixture of awe and unease.

Briena, standing at Karzon's side, let her gaze travel over the etchings on the walls, her elven instincts bristling at the subtle magic woven into the stone. She said nothing, but Karzon caught the tension radiating off of her body.

Inside, the Crimson Spire was nothing short of breathtaking—a masterpiece of craftsmanship and arcane ingenuity. Vaulted ceilings soared high above, their surfaces painted with intricate frescoes that shifted and rippled as one moved.

The images depicted grand scenes of conquest and wealth: armies clashing beneath storm-lit skies, caravans winding through treacherous mountain passes, ships with billowing sails cutting through roaring seas, all rendered with impossible detail. The frescoes pulsed faintly with a warm, golden glow, as though the stories themselves were alive, the brushstrokes imbued with some kind of latent magic.

Massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their frames wrought from gleaming silver and gold. They bore crystals the size of a man's head, enchanted to radiate a soft, ethereal light that bathed the room in a luminous glow, casting delicate patterns across the polished black marble floor. Even that floor was a marvel—its surface inlaid with veins of red and gold that glittered like molten metal, forming intricate geometric designs that seemed to shift subtly as one walked across them.

Rows of noble attendees filled the cavernous hall, each one a portrait of wealth and vanity. The men wore tailored tunics of rich velvet and brocade, adorned with intricate embroidery and crests denoting their lineage. Some bore capes of fur trimmed with gold thread, their boots polished to a mirror finish.

Rings adorned their fingers, their gemstones catching the light with an almost blinding brilliance. The women were no less striking, their gowns masterpieces of fabric and design. Silks in hues of deep emerald, midnight blue, and blood red cascaded over their figures, cinched with jeweled belts and adorned with embroidered sigils.

Many wore elaborate hairstyles, pinned with ornaments of pearl, ivory, and enchanted crystals that shimmered faintly.

Voices hummed across the chamber, weaving a tapestry of intrigue. The nobles spoke in clipped, measured tones, their words carefully chosen and their laughter carrying the sharp edge of veiled barbs.

Servants moved silently among the crowd, their uniforms crisp and their hands gloved, bearing trays of golden goblets filled with fine wine that sparkled like liquid rubies.

At the far end of the room stood the auction platform, raised slightly above the main floor. It was a semicircle of polished black granite, edged with a shimmering railing of enchanted gold.

Behind it, an immense tapestry hung like a backdrop, its threads glimmering with enchantments that animated a scene depicted on it: a roaring dragon guarding a hoard of treasure, its golden eyes scanning the crowd with eerie sentience.

The auctioneer, a wiry man with silver hair and a voice that carried effortlessly across the room, stood ready at a lectern made of dark wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

Briena stepped closer to Karzon, her voice low. "Well," she said dryly, her emerald eyes sweeping the room, "if they're trying to intimidate us, it's working."

Karzon smirked, but his expression was tight. "Let's just hope they value what we've brought. This isn't the kind of place where you get a second chance."

The guards began unloading their wares with mechanical precision, their movements careful under Karzon's watchful eye. Trunks and crates were carried to a designated holding area near the platform, each one inspected by a clerk who recorded its contents on a sheet of parchment with brisk efficiency.

The scratch of the quill was almost hypnotic. The clerk barely spared Karzon a glance—until his pen hovered over the mention of Aetherglass shards. His eyes darted up, quick and piercing, before he returned to his work, though the faint tension in his posture didn't escape Karzon's notice.

Briena stood beside Karzon, her arms crossed as her gaze roamed the opulent room. Her elven instincts prickled at the edges of her awareness, but she said nothing, though her hand lingered near her bowstring. Drenna leaned on a crate nearby, muttering something about the price of trouble in a room full of polished daggers and sharper tongues.

As the last crate was logged and stacked under the golden glow of the enchanted chandeliers, Karzon allowed himself a small breath of relief. The goods were in position, their place secured among the glistening displays of wealth.

He moved toward the steward's table, where a trio of clerks in violet robes hovered over glowing slates, their styluses darting like dragonflies.

"My crate's marked under House Terven's manifest," Karzon said, keeping his voice steady. "It should have been logged by now."

One of the clerks looked up, distracted. "There's a backlog. We'll get to it before the opening bell."

Karzon didn't argue, but something shifted in his gut. He stepped away, scanning the vaulted room. Nobles murmured in clusters beneath crystal chandeliers. The scent of polish and perfume lingered thick in the air. And yet, something felt off. He ran a hand along the edge of one of his chests, checking the lock even though he knew it was sealed. Just a few more minutes. Then they'd be registered. Then it would all be real.

Suddenly, there was a sound—a crack that echoed through the grand hall, like a thunderclap contained within stone walls.

In front of Karzon's eyes, a swirl of golden mist began to rise from the corners of the room, curling and twisting unnaturally, almost sentient in its movements. It poured in from nowhere, its shimmering tendrils climbing the walls and spreading across the vaulted ceiling like living veins of light.

The room erupted in gasps and shouts as the mist descended, shrouding the chandeliers in a haze that turned their crystal brilliance into faint, ghostly glows. Nobles clutched their jeweled necklaces and murmured nervously, some stumbling backward in their gilded shoes.

Guards around the perimeter drew their swords, their polished steel gleaming faintly through the mist as they barked commands no one could hear over the growing din.

Karzon's instincts roared to life. He reached for his sword, his other hand shooting out to pull Briena close. "Stay near me!" he shouted, his voice barely carrying over the confusion.

She didn't need to be told twice—her bow was already in her hands, an arrow nocked, her sharp eyes scanning the haze for any sign of a threat.

Drenna cursed loudly from somewhere behind them. "What in the nine hells is this?!" she bellowed, her voice was tinged with a growl of readiness. She drew her axe, the heavy blade gleaming ominously as she planted her feet firmly, ready for whatever emerged.

The mist thickened steadily, curling in golden ribbons through the vast auction hall until it seemed to breathe, swirling faster with each passing moment, as if summoned by some silent command. The torches along the high stone walls burned low, their light warped by the thick haze that curled through the chamber and turned every surface strange and unsteady.

Then it began.

Not just their crates, but every shipment, every locked chest, every velvet-wrapped treasure in the hall vanished. One by one, entire displays were stripped bare, their contents dissolving into the mist as though swallowed by an unseen maw. It did not happen with noise or fanfare. There was no clatter, no breaking wood, no hiss of magic. The goods simply ceased to exist, their presence erased with terrifying precision.

Silks woven for the princess and her handmaidens, daggers etched with ancestral runes, enchanted jewelry that once pulsed with quiet power all vanished. Wealth gathered from across the kingdoms, from deserts and mountain keeps and sunken ruins, faded like illusion. Karzon could only stare as the sum of their journey, the hard-won spoils meant to secure their future, disappeared into the fog without so much as a whisper.

Panic finally took root and Karzon lunged forward, grabbing for the nearest trunk. His fingers closed around the iron handle just as the mist wrapped around it, yanking it from his grasp with an unnatural force that burned his hand as it slipped away.

"No!" he shouted, his voice raw, his heart pounding in disbelief. He whirled around, his hazel eyes darting between the other crates, all of them vanishing one by one into the swirling gold.

Briena loosed an arrow into the mist, but it disappeared as quickly as the crates, swallowed whole by the glowing haze. She hissed in frustration, her knuckles white as she clutched her bow. "It's magic, strong magic," she muttered, the bite in her voice betraying the futility she felt.

Drenna swung her axe at the mist with a furious snarl, but her blade met nothing but air, the golden tendrils slipping through her strikes like water. "Karzon!" she shouted, her voice rising over the clamor. "Do something!"

"I'm trying!" Karzon yelled back, though his mind raced with no clear solution. The magic gripped the room like a storm barely held back, ancient in its weight, alive in its hunger.

His healing abilities stirred faintly in his palms, instinctively responding to the energy, but it wasn't enough. He didn't know what this was or how to stop it.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the mist began to fade, retreating like a tide drawn back to the sea. The light of the chandeliers grew brighter again, the room's details sharpening as the golden haze dissipated.

But the damage had been done.

Karzon's ears roared. The crates, the trunks, the silks, the gemstones, the herbs—everything he and his convoy had worked for, traded for, fought for—was gone.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Crimson Spire was a fortress of silence now, its once roaring hall reduced to an eerie void where even the sharpest sounds seemed muffled. The crowd of nobles and merchants were now frozen in fear. They clustered together in huddled whispers, some pale-faced with fright, others red with outrage, though none dared lift their voices above a murmured complaint.

Even the auctioneer had fled his dais, his ledger discarded and pages fluttering like wounded birds near his abandoned podium.

Karzon stood at the center of it all, his chest heaving, his eyes locked onto the now-empty space where their wares had been. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, useless against the knot of fury, disbelief, and helplessness tightening in his gut.

The Aetherglass. The silks. The shards. Everything. Months of grueling travel and meticulous planning—all gone.

"No!" The shout tore from him, raw and guttural, echoing against the vaulted walls of the Spire. He stormed forward, his boots cracking against the marble, his movements frantic.

Karzon grabbed a clerk by the arm, spinning the startled man around. "Where are they?!" he demanded, his voice thunderous.

The clerk, pale and trembling, stammered. "I-I don't⁠—"

"You were standing right there!" Karzon roared, pointing toward the golden mist's last tendrils as they dissipated into nothing. "You saw it happen! What was it? Who did this?"

"I-I don't know!" the clerk sputtered, wrenching himself free and stumbling backward. "It… it was magic! I've never seen anything like it!" He scurried off, nearly tripping over his own feet.

Karzon turned toward the nobles, his gaze sweeping over their glittering jewels and cowardly postures. "Does anyone here know what just happened?" His voice rang out, commanding attention, though the room remained deafeningly silent.

A portly merchant in a deep blue tunic edged toward the outskirts of the crowd, sweat beading at his brow. "Magic like that… that's no ordinary trick. It's⁠—"

"Who?" Karzon interrupted, stepping toward him. "Who would have the power to summon something like this? Someone here must know!"

But the merchant only shook his head, retreating into the safety of the crowd. The others avoided Karzon's gaze, their silence speaking louder than words. No one would help him.

Briena moved to his side, her emerald eyes scanning the nobles with thinly veiled disdain. "Cowards," she hissed under her breath.

Drenna joined them, her axe still gripped tightly in her scarred hands. "Useless, the lot of them," she muttered. "Standing there with their jewels and perfumes while the real work gets stolen from under their noses." She glanced at Karzon. "What now, commander?"

Karzon's shoulders drew tight, his breath coming sharp and uneven. His fingers flexed at his sides, then curled into fists. The mist drifted in lazy swirls before him, indifferent, offering nothing in return. His gaze swept over the emptiness it left behind, then with a sudden pivot, he turned on his heel. "We're leaving."

The walk back to The Gilded Mare felt longer than the entire journey to Dunmarch.

Upon returning, Karzon had to summon the convoy with a heavy heart and a heavier conscience. Everyone gathered in the common room with eager faces that rapidly dimmed when they saw the storm in Karzon's expression.

Harren was the first to speak. "What happened? Did they buy?"

Karzon didn't look at him. He moved to the head of the table, gripping its edge as if steadying himself. The room fell silent, all eyes on him. Briena and Drenna flanked him in silent support.

"Our wares…" Karzon began, balling his hands into fists. He raised his head, meeting their gazes—there was no point in trying to ease the inevitable blow. "They're gone. All of it. Stolen."

A stunned silence followed his words, disbelief rippling through the room like an aftershock.

"What do you mean, gone?" Harren asked, his brow furrowed.

Karzon exhaled slowly. "Magic. A mist, golden and ancient. It swallowed everything before we could act. The Aetherglass, the silks, the gems—everything we worked for." His voice faltered for a moment, but he steadied himself. "It's my fault. I led us here. I promised we'd make a fortune, and now we've lost everything."

"Karzon—" Briena began, but he raised a hand to stop her.

"No." His voice rose slightly. "I need to say this. You've all risked too much to follow me this far, and I won't ask you to sacrifice anything more. You deserve to move on with your lives."

He straightened, addressing the room with the solemnity of a man passing judgment on himself. "I'll pay you back. Every coin, every ounce of gold I owe you. All I ask for are two moonrises."

He didn't look at any of them.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Two nights would undo everything he'd built—throw off the route, the timing, the chance they had to strike before the wrong people noticed. He'd mapped every turn, planned for every risk. But not this, not falling behind because he had to settle a debt.

But it wasn't a choice for Karzon. Those surrounding him had bled for him and walked through fire and shadow at his back. They had trusted him when they had every reason not to. And if he kept pushing forward without making it right, then he wasn't leading. He was taking.

They deserved more than promises. They deserved their gold.

Drenna snorted loudly, crossing her arms. "Idiot," she muttered, shaking her head.

Karzon blinked, startled. "Excuse me?"

"You're an idiot," she repeated, louder this time. She jabbed a finger in his direction. "We didn't follow you because we thought you were infallible, Karzon. We followed you because you're the only one mad enough to stand up when things go wrong."

She gestured around the room. "Look at them. Do you see anyone blaming you?"

A murmur of agreement swept through the group. Harren nodded gruffly, leaning back in his chair. "She's right. You think I'm only here to line my pockets? No doubt that's one of the reasons, but I've lived long enough to know gold comes and goes. But leaders like you, Karzon—they're rare."

The rest of the convoy echoed their support, their voices rising in unison.

"We're with you."

"Say the word."

"You don't have to do this alone."

Karzon's throat tightened, the overwhelming wave of loyalty catching him off guard. He looked around the room, meeting each gaze, and nodded. "Thank you."

Tendrils of firelight played across his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes and carving every line of weariness into sharp relief.

"I can't ask you to stay," he continued, his voice carrying through the room despite its quietness. "Not all of you. I won't keep you hanging in limbo while I try to fix what I've broken. It's not fair—not to you, not after everything we've lost."

He paused, working his jaw as if forcing the words out. "So, I'm disbanding the crew. For now."

The room shrunk in the silence that followed, and Karzon had to swallow to keep his voice from breaking. "If you wish to leave, go with my blessing. You've given more than I could have asked for, and no one would think less of you for choosing another path.

"All I ask is that you select one among you—a representative. On the third moonrise from tonight, meet me at the Copper Flask in Felltide. I'll bring what I owe each of you."

For a moment, it felt as though the room was holding its breath. Some stared into their mugs, some exchanged glances, but no one moved.

Karzon scanned the room, his hands tightening on the edge of the table as if steadying himself.

"I mean it," he said quietly. "You've been more than my crew—you've been my friends. My family. But I need to make this right. And this is the only way forward."

Harren broke the silence first. The old guard was leaning back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight. He folded his arms across his broad chest. The firelight caught the streaks of silver in his hair, and his eyes—sharp and discerning—remained fixed on Karzon.

When he finally spoke, his voice was as gruff and unpolished as ever, but it carried a certain weight.

"If anyone's going to speak for this lot," Harren muttered, his words rumbling like distant thunder, "it'll be me."

A low murmur rippled through the room, not of dissent but quiet assent. One of the younger guards, sitting nearest the fire, nodded faintly before adding, "You've carried us this far. You're the right one for it." Others followed suit, their expressions ranging from resigned to approving.

Drenna, seated near the wall, lifted her mug with a faint smirk. "Aye, Harren'll do. If nothing else, he's too stubborn to let Karzon sweet-talk him into a bad deal."

That drew a rare, rough chuckle from the elder guard, who shifted in his chair with a grunt. "Don't think I'm going to go easy on you," he said, pointing a gnarled finger at Karzon. "But I know you will get us what we're owed."

Briena leaned back slightly in her seat, her gaze sweeping the room. It wasn't often that silence weighed heavier than spoken words, but here it did. The faces around her were solemn, but there was no hostility, no bitterness—just acceptance and an undercurrent of quiet loyalty that refused to vanish entirely.

With promises to return for a farewell dinner later that evening, the rest of the band—all except Briena and Drenna—dispersed, seeking a moment of solitude before the final gathering.

The firelight, now subdued, cast dancing shadows that caressed the worn floorboards and the rough-hewn walls. Karzon remained by the table, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood, as if seeking solace in its familiar texture.

A sigh escaped his lips, the first true release of the day's burdens. Finally, he thought, a moment to breathe.

"What I said goes for you too," he murmured. "You've already done more than enough. If you want to walk away, take your skills somewhere they'll be better rewarded, I'll understand. I won't hold it against you."

The words felt like splinters in his throat. He hated the shape of them. Hated the thought of moving forward without the two women who had held the line with him when everything else fell apart. Especially Briena. He hadn't even scratched the surface of what they could be—what they already were becoming.

Briena lifted a brow, arms crossing over her chest. "We were never leaving."

Drenna shrugged beside her, unbothered. "Just because things went sideways doesn't mean we're out. You're stuck with us."

Briena's voice softened as she added, "We knew the risks. We chose to stay. That hasn't changed."

Karzon held her gaze for a beat longer than he meant to, as the tight knot of dread loosened in his chest. "I just wanted you to have the chance to walk away," he said. "Even if I hoped you wouldn't."

"Well," Briena replied, stepping closer, "you're not that easy to walk away from."

Karzon looked between them. "I don't deserve either of you."

"No, you don't," Drenna said with a grin. "But you've got us anyway."

Briena stepped closer, her voice dropping. "So, what's the plan?"

That was a very good question. The city hadn't emptied after the wedding fell through. If anything, the vultures had only drawn closer. Nobles had come early for the auction, for the trade, for the wealth choking the streets, and not all of them had left. His memory caught on someone he had briefly laid eyes on near the central square earlier that day, dressed in dark finery and dripping with rings, surrounded by guards and sycophants.

Karzon hadn't said a word, hadn't even paused to acknowledge him. But he remembered the weight in his gut the moment their eyes didn't meet. The man hadn't changed. Still smirking like the world owed him its last crust of bread. Still moving like every street beneath his boots belonged to him.

A noble born of blood and rot. The kind of man who built his fortune off famine, who bought grain cheap from dying villages and sold it back triple once the hunger took hold. Who loaned coin with poison terms, then claimed farms, children, and lives when the debts came due.

He was infamous in the north, whispered about in the same breath as plagues and taxes. They called him many things—none of them kind—but it was his appetite for gold that made him impossible to forget. Gold lined every button on his coat. Gold sharpened the teeth in his smile.

Karzon had no proof, not yet, but he knew the type and weight of that kind of fortune, and the smell of the rot beneath it.

And suddenly, Karzon knew exactly where the coin would come from.

Karzon hesitated for one moment. Then, slowly, a grim smile spread across his face.

"We're going to steal the money," he said.

Drenna grinned, her scarred face lighting up. "Now you're talking."

Karzon crossed his arms in front of his chest, his brow furrowed in thought. "I'll need to iron out a few details. For now, go to your rooms and get some rest. We'll join the others for dinner soon, and I'll explain the plan fully then."

Drenna quirked a brow at him. "And what about you? Don't tell me you're planning to sit here brooding all night."

Karzon gave her a faint smile, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Brooding's my specialty, but not tonight. I have... arrangements to make."

Briena's sharp green eyes narrowed. "Arrangements?"

"I need to tie up a few loose ends," he admitted. "There are people I have to speak to—people who can help us get to where we need to be. Servants, guards, maybe a disgruntled steward or two. But they'll need some... incentive."

Drenna frowned. "Incentive? And how, exactly, are you planning to pay them? Last I checked, you're as broke as the rest of us."

Karzon sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'll figure it out."

Briena's hand instinctively reached out to touch Karzon's arm. He looked so weary, so burdened. If only she could share the weight of his worries. "And if you don't?"

"Then we'll improvise." His tone carried a faint edge of humor, but the determination in his eyes was unyielding.

Drenna leaned back, shrugging. "Fine. But don't get yourself killed before the real work begins."

"Noted."

Briena hesitated, her gaze lingering on him. "Karzon..."

"I'll be fine," he assured her. "Go. I'll see you both at dinner."

Reluctantly, Briena and Drenna rose, gathering their things. As they left, Karzon remained at the table, his thoughts a swirling storm.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Briena and Drenna departed to their quarters, leaving Karzon alone in the quiet of the inn. Twilight had begun its descent by the time he stepped outside, the muted glow of lanterns casting a soft, amber hue over the streets. He pulled his hood low over his face as he melted into the shifting currents of Dunmarch's labyrinthine alleys.

As the twilight deepened, Dunmarch shed its daytime skin, the bustling marketplace fading into a hushed network of shadowy alleys. By day, it was a cacophony of trade and chatter, a city alive with the metallic clatter of merchant carts and the rhythmic cadence of foot traffic. After sunset, Dunmarch took on an entirely different character—a place cloaked in secrecy, its restless energy settling into an uneasy quietude.

Above him, the buildings loomed like ancient sentinels, their stone facades weathered by time but still etched with the ornate carvings of a bygone era.

Here, a griffin snarled from the corner of a parapet; there, vines of marble twined around windowsills like living veins of the city itself. The narrow streets twisted and turned unpredictably, cobblestones glistening faintly with the dampness of the languid evening air.

Faint tendrils of smoke curled skyward from chimneys, mingling with the crisp scent of salt carried in from the distant harbor. The echoes of voices floated through the air—soft laughter from taverns, the rhythmic clink of glasses, and the occasional burst of a lute's cheerful strumming.

Yet for every note of merriment, there was an answering one of unease: the sharp cry of a hawker urging wary buyers to linger, the scuffle of boots retreating into the darker corners of alleys, the hiss of a whispered exchange between figures who disappeared as quickly as they emerged.

Lanterns dangled from wrought-iron hooks above shop doors, their light casting uneven shadows that danced across the walls. In some places, the light barely reached, leaving whole stretches of the city in pools of thick, impenetrable darkness. The alleys themselves were a warren of hidden corners and forgotten paths, places where deals were struck, debts were settled, and lives were sometimes ended without a sound.

Karzon kept his pace measured, his boots scuffing softly against the stones as he moved. He passed a trio of street urchins huddled around a meager fire built in a rusted brazier, their faces gaunt but their laughter genuine. A moment later, he skirted a shadowy alcove where two figures exchanged hurried words, their hands darting toward each other in a silent trade before vanishing in opposite directions.

Ahead, the spire of a distant temple rose into the sky, its black silhouette cutting through the faint haze that clung to the city like an old cloak. A faint shimmer of moonlight caught the edges of the highest windows, reflecting just enough to suggest something holy—or sinister—within. To Karzon, it looked like the city itself was holding its breath, watching him with unseen eyes as he moved through its veins.

He turned down a quieter street, where the sounds of the city softened, replaced by the gentle murmur of the wind as it wove through narrow alleys. This was Dunmarch as he remembered it: a city of beauty and menace, a place where wealth and ruin stood side by side, one feeding off the other in a ceaseless cycle.

Karzon pulled his hood tighter, his jaw set. Hesitation wouldn't get the job done, especially when the target was a man like Lord Rathvell.

Lord Rathvell was no king, but in this part of the city, his name carried weight. His wealth came not from valor or service, but from shrewd deals that left his rivals destitute and his coffers overflowing. Rathvell wasn't a villain who twirled a mustache in candlelight; he was worse. To him, people were pawns—tools to be used, discarded, and replaced.

Karzon didn't pity him. Rathvell was the kind of noble who could lose a fortune and barely notice the gap, a man who deserved to learn what it felt like to be on the wrong end of someone else's schemes.

Stopping momentarily, Karzon looked around. Lanterns swayed in the crisp night breeze, spilling pools of golden light onto cobblestone streets that shimmered faintly from a recent drizzle. The air carried the mingling scents of roasting chestnuts, damp earth, and the occasional whiff of incense from an open shrine.

He resumed movement, keeping to the side streets, walking with the ease of someone who had navigated these paths a hundred times.

The first stop was The Broken Spur, a rough bar nestled in an alley so narrow that even the moonlight struggled to reach it. Its sign hung crookedly, the chipped image of a spur barely visible beneath layers of grime.

Karzon stepped inside and scanned the room until he saw a wiry figure hunched over a table in the far corner. He smiled crookedly. No matter how many years pass, he thought to himself, some habits never die. We're all terribly predictable.

"Felsin." He walked over to the figure and murmured his greeting, sliding into the seat across from him.

The man didn't look up right away, his bony fingers fiddling with a half-empty mug. "Karzon?" His voice was as dry as the wood beneath them. "Haven't seen you in ages. Didn't miss you, either."

Karzon smirked. "Your charm's as sharp as ever."

Felsin finally met his gaze, his sunken eyes narrowing. "If you're here, it's because you want something. Out with it."

Karzon's voice dropped. "I need the guard rotations for Rathvell's estate. The kitchen entrance and the servants' corridor."

Felsin froze, his mug halfway to his lips. "Rathvell?" He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "You're mad. What could you possibly want from him?"

"Let's just say he owes me something."

"And you think I'd help you take it?" Felsin snorted. "I'm not suicidal, Karzon."

Karzon tilted his head, his smirk fading, growing harder. "You're not rich, either. I'm offering you a cut of the haul. Enough gold to disappear if you want."

Felsin's laugh died, replaced by a wary scowl. "Gold you don't have yet? I don't deal in promises."

"You've dealt in worse," Karzon countered smoothly. "And you know I keep my word. If I fail, you lose nothing. If I succeed, you'll have enough to get out of this hole you call a life."

Felsin's fingers drummed against the table, his gaze searching Karzon's face for cracks. After a long moment, he sighed. "You're still a damned fool. But fine. I'll get you the rotations. Don't make me regret this."

An hour later, Karzon found himself in a smoky backroom behind a spice shop. Across the table sat Jorvik, a broad-shouldered guard with a face that looked like it had lost more fights than it won.

"You're out of your mind," Jorvik growled, crossing his thick arms. "Do you have any idea what Rathvell would do if he caught me helping you?"

"I'm not asking you to help me," Karzon replied, keeping his tone even. "I'm asking you to make a mistake. One door, Jorvik. Leave it unlocked. No one gets hurt, no one finds out."

Jorvik's laugh was a low rumble. "You make it sound so simple. But you know as well as I do ‘simple' gets you killed in Dunmarch."

Karzon leaned forward, his hazel eyes sharp. "What's Rathvell paying you? Ten gold a month? I'm offering you five times that. One mistake, and you'll never have to work for him again."

Jorvik scowled. "Big promises from a man who looks like he's running on empty."

Karzon grinned, though the humor didn't reach his eyes. "You think I'd come to you if I didn't have a plan? I don't fail, Jorvik. And if I do, you tell Rathvell you caught me sneaking in and fought me off. You'll come out a hero."

For a long moment, Jorvik said nothing, his scarred knuckles resting on the table as his gaze bore into Karzon. Then he let out a heavy sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Damn you, Karzon. Fine. But if this blows up in my face, I'm coming after you first."

"Deal," Karzon said, standing and offering his hand.

Jorvik shook it reluctantly, muttering under his breath. "I must be as crazy as you."

The conversation having ended, Karzon stepped out. Above, the moonlight bathed Dunmarch in silver, its glow touching even the shadows where Karzon's fate was being decided.

There was only one more spot to go before he returned to the inn.

The Gray Gull reeked of cheap rum and lost wagers. Jareth was easy to spot. A man with the air of someone who had once stood beside power, only to be discarded like a dull blade.

Karzon slid into the seat across from him.

Jareth barely looked up. "If you're here to buy me a drink, you're late."

Karzon tilted his head. "If I'm here to ruin your night, I'm right on time."

Jareth sighed. "What do you want?"

"The vault." Karzon's voice was low, precise. "The layout. The security. And the key."

Jareth went very still. "You're insane."

Karzon smiled, all teeth and confidence. "Maybe."

Jareth's hands curled around his tankard. "You think I'd betray Rathvell?"

Karzon leaned in. "I think Rathvell already betrayed you."

An anger rose in Jareth's eyes, hinting at wounds that were far from healed.

Karzon pressed. "You were dismissed. No severance. No warning." His tone softened, just enough. "You gave him years of your life. And now, you drink yourself numb in a tavern that smells like rotting fish."

Jareth looked away.

Karzon lowered his voice. "Tell me what I need to know. And I make sure Rathvell never forgets your name."

He knew exactly when to fall silent, letting the quiet settle between them. Then, slowly, Jareth exhaled.

"The vault," he muttered, voice rough. "You'll have to go through hoops."

Karzon listened.

Over the next hour, Jareth laid it all out—every potential pitfall that stood between Karzon and the gold. He detailed the layers of security, the enchantments woven deep into the foundation, and the precise moment Karzon would have to act.

When he was finished, Jareth leaned back, studying Karzon with a knowing look. "One more thing," he said, voice low. "Rathvell's circle isn't just muscle. There are snakes among them—the kind that smile to your face while slipping a knife between your ribs."

Karzon gave a single nod. "I'll handle it."

Jareth chuckled. "Gods help you."

Much later, the convoy gathered in The Gilded Mare's dining hall for what Karzon had announced as a farewell dinner. Karzon intended to make sure his band of misfits knew how deeply he had come to care for them, even if that meant turning a blind eye to his almost-empty coffer for the night.

He had asked, and the inn's cook had delivered.

The tables groaned under the weight of the feast that had been laid out. Plates of roasted game—quail, duck, and venison—glistened with juices and herbs, their crispy skins crackling invitingly under the light of the lanterns.

A massive boar, its skin lacquered with honey and cloves, sat as the centerpiece. Beside it, golden loaves of bread, still warm from the oven, were nestled in baskets lined with crisp white cloth. The bread was accompanied by bowls of whipped butter infused with rosemary and sea salt, as well as dishes of olive oil spiked with crushed garlic and herbs.

Clay pots brimming with stews and soups released heady aromas that filled the room—one, a rich beef stew slow-cooked with wine and root vegetables, and another, a creamy mushroom bisque garnished with sprigs of thyme.

Bowls of vibrant vegetables—roasted carrots glazed with honey, asparagus charred to perfection, and sweet peas swimming in melted butter—offered a splash of color to the spread.

For dessert, platters of sugared pastries and tarts sat alongside a towering cake layered with cream and berries, its surface dusted with fine sugar that sparkled like frost. Crystal decanters of wine, mead, and spiced cider were placed strategically along the table, their amber and ruby hues catching the light.

Karzon stood at the head of the table, raising a goblet of wine as the room fell quiet. The chandelier bathed his face in soft tones of honey and gold, and the gratitude he felt was evident in his expression.

"I won't keep you long." His voice wavered slightly. "I want to thank each of you for everything you've done. For standing by me when you didn't have to. For trusting me." He glanced down at his goblet, swirling the dark liquid within. "This journey didn't go as planned. I made promises I couldn't keep, and for that, I take full responsibility."

He looked up, meeting each of their gazes. "But I will make it right. I swear to you, on my life, that every coin lost will be repaid. It may take time, but I'll find a way."

Harren raised his goblet in a gruff gesture of support. "You're a stubborn bastard, Karzon, but we'll give you that much."

The room agreed with a low chuckle.

Karzon continued, "As promised, I'll return what is owed to you. Harren, as we discussed, meet me three nights from now."

Harren hesitated. "Karzon, are you sure that's enough time?"

Karzon met his gaze squarely. "It will have to be." His voice was firm, cutting off any further protest. A murmur of thanks rose from the convoy.

Briena rose from her seat. She raised her goblet, the firelight glinting off the silver rim. "To the road ahead. May all that is lost find its way back to us."

"To the road ahead!" the others echoed, their goblets clinking together in a hopeful chorus.

A tankard thumped on the table as a raucous tale of a runaway cart and a swarm of bees unfolded. Laughter erupted, spilling over into a playful argument about who was to blame.

Even Karzon, despite the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, found a smile tugging at his lips.

Harren, his deep rumbling voice turning every word into a ballad, recounted a narrow escape from a band of goblins, his tale punctuated by cheers and groans.

For a precious hour, the ghosts of what had been lost were banished, replaced by the warmth of companionship and the promise of a future, however uncertain.

As the evening wore on and the plates grew emptier, one by one the members of the convoy began to take their leave, exchanging quiet farewells and firm handshakes with Karzon.

By the time the last of them had departed, only Karzon, Briena, and Drenna remained at the table. The embers in the hearth crackled softly, casting long shadows across the room.

Karzon sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well, that's that."

Drenna leaned back in her chair, her scarred face thoughtful. "What now, Commander?"

Karzon glanced between the two women, a spark in his hazel eyes. "Now, we plan a heist."

Briena's lips twitched, fighting back a full-blown grin. "Oh, we hardly suspected something boring. Who is the unfortunate man?"

"Lord Rathvell," Karzon replied.

Drenna chuckled, reaching for her goblet. "Stealing from a noble, and a scummy one. Sounds like my kind of fun."

Karzon's spirits lifted slightly. "Good. Because if we pull this off, not only will we get back what we lost—we'll also send a message to whoever's behind the sigil."

The three of them leaned in, their heads close as the quiet crackle of the fire played backdrop to the plans they began to weave. Karzon spread his map across the table, the corners curling slightly as it settled. He tapped a precise point with his finger, the inked lines of the southern district radiating out around it like a web.

"As you both likely already know," he began grimly. "Lord Rathvell is one of the wealthiest nobles in Dunmarch—and the perfect target."

Briena leaned closer, going over the map. "Why him? There are plenty of rich snakes slithering around this city."

Karzon's lips twisted into a humorless smirk. "Because Rathvell is a creature of habit. His wealth is locked away beneath his estate, stored in a vault reinforced with stone, steel, and magic. He doesn't trust banks or partners—he trusts control.

"And his estate has something I need: Aetherglass shards. I have a feeling they'll be tied to the underground network—people like him hardly come by riches scrupulously."

Drenna sighed thoughtfully. "That doesn't change the fact that you're planning to rob one of the most well-protected vaults in Dunmarch. It's bold. Insane, but bold."

Karzon shrugged. "Bold gets things done. We've got one shot at this, and I'd rather aim high."

Briena's expression shifted, skepticism mingling with curiosity. "And how, exactly, are we supposed to break into a noble's estate? Just knock on the front door and ask nicely?"

"Not quite. Karzon wiggled his index finger and his hazel eyes gleamed mischievously. "Rathvell throws his famous gala tomorrow night. It's a spectacle—silks, jewels, and enough arrogance to fill the spire twice over. Every merchant, noble, and social climber worth their salt will be there. Including us."

Drenna immediately balked. "You're serious? We're attending a party?"

Karzon nodded. "Not just attending. You'll both pose as my entourage. We'll get in with forged invitations, courtesy of the Guild."

He paused, his voice growing more serious. "I've already made arrangements with two of Rathvell's disgruntled servants. Jorvik, one of his guards, will leave the east kitchen door unlocked for us after the gala starts. Felsin, my old contact, has provided guard rotations and the access points we'll need."

"Wait," Briena interjected, narrowing her eyes. "You bribed Rathvell's staff? With what?"

"Promises." Karzon's smile took on a sheepish edge. "A cut of the gold once we get it."

Drenna burst into laughter, slapping the table hard enough to rattle the goblets. "You bribed mercenaries with gold you don't have? That's either brilliant or suicidal."

"They took the deal," Karzon said evenly. "Greed trumps caution in Dunmarch."

Briena sighed, her skepticism only partially soothed. "Fine. So we get in through the kitchen. Then what?"

"We go in together. Once we're inside," Karzon continued, "you and I, Drenna, will focus on the lower levels—the servants' corridors and the entrance to the vault. Briena, once I've diverted Rathvell's attention, peel away from the crowd. Map out the upper floors, locate any unexpected guards, and keep an eye on Rathvell himself. If anything looks off, signal us."

Briena folded her arms. "And the vault? What's the plan once you're there?"

Karzon glanced at Drenna, his expression serious. "The vault is reinforced with heavy stone, steel locks, and enchantments. Drenna, you'll handle the physical security—bypassing the locks and getting the doors open. I'll focus on the magical defenses. It'll take time, but I've dealt with similar wards before."

"And if you trip something?" Drenna asked, her tone edged with practicality.

Karzon's smile faded, his gaze growing cold. "Then we improvise. That's why we have Jorvik. He'll divert attention to the west wing if the alarm sounds, but I don't intend to rely on him unless it's absolutely necessary."

"Improvise?" Briena's voice rose in disbelief. "That's your plan?"

Karzon's smile vanished, replaced by a steely glint in his eyes. "It's always worked before."

Drenna chuckled, taking a long drink from her goblet. "I like it. High risk, high reward. Let's do it."

Briena's green eyes lingered on Karzon, searching for any cracks in his confidence. Finally, she nodded, though her voice carried a note of warning. "If this falls apart, Karzon, don't expect me to stitch you back together."

Karzon grinned, leaning forward to fold the map. "Wouldn't dream of it. Now, let's get to bed. Tomorrow night, we make our move."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Morning broke over Dunmarch, gilding the city's rooftops in soft amber light that barely pierced the veil of smoke lingering over its winding streets. The narrow alleys were alive with muted activity, merchants unloading carts in the marketplace, street urchins darting after scraps, and the occasional clatter of hooves breaking the morning hush.

Karzon sat in the inn's dining hall, stirring a bowl of hearty porridge flecked with raisins. The rich scent of cinnamon curled up with the heat, mingling with the faint sweetness of honey.

He took a slow spoonful, closing his eyes as the creamy oats melted on his tongue, the spices lingering just long enough to remind him of simpler days.

A slow, quiet sigh escaped him as he let himself sink into this rare moment of peace, knowing full well that it wouldn't last.

When he'd finished the last spoon, his gaze meandered toward the entrance door. Briena and Drenna had just entered. Briena's silver hair was pulled into an intricate braid, and her sharp gaze flitted toward Karzon as he approached.

"Good morning." Her greeting was light. Drenna signaled toward a corner table, and the two of them sat down.

"Morning." Karzon slid into the chair across from them. It did not escape his notice that Drenna immediately asked for a tankard of ale. "Rough night?"

"Hardly," Drenna retorted, her scarred face breaking into a smirk as she gestured toward the coffee Karzon had just poured himself. "But if we're going to attend a noble's gala, I might need something stronger than this swill to get through it."

Karzon chuckled. "Speaking of galas, we need to discuss attire."

Briena arched a brow. "You're suggesting we dress to impress? That's new for you."

"Not just impress," Karzon corrected. "Blend in. If we're going to pull this off, we can't look like mercenaries fresh off the road."

"You make a good point," said Drenna as she tore into her breakfast with unrestrained enthusiasm. Fried bread, crisped to a perfect golden brown, vanished in hearty bites, while eggs—runny and rich—were mopped up without hesitation. Crispy bacon disappeared between mouthfuls, each bite punctuated by the satisfying crunch of well-cooked fat.

She ate like a woman preparing for battle, savoring every morsel as if it might be her last decent meal for days.

"You sure you're ready for a heist? Looks like the real fight's happening on your plate."

Drenna, mid-bite, shot him a look and snatched another strip of bacon. "If Rathvell's vault is half as good as this breakfast, we might have to rob him twice."

Karzon shook his head. "Fair enough. Alright. Drenna, for you we'll need something formal but functional. You'll need to move quickly if things go wrong. Briena, your gown needs to allow for easy movement, but it must look convincing enough for you to pass as a noble."

Briena sipped her tea, her expression thoughtful. "I know a seamstress near the eastern gate. She works quickly, and she's discreet. I'll handle the clothing."

Karzon nodded, relieved. "Good. While you do that, I'll secure the invitations."

Breakfast complete, Drenna leaned back in her chair and unleashed a burp so deep and thunderous it rattled the cutlery. A passing server flinched. Somewhere in the distance, a dog started barking.

Briena pinched the bridge of her nose. "Really?"

Drenna shrugged, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Better out than in." She reached for her ale, took a long swig, then fixed Karzon with a scrutinizing frown.

"And where exactly are you planning to get those?"

Karzon's gaze darkened slightly, a shadow passing over his face. "There's someone in the city who owes me. A man named Myral. He's... resourceful, but I'll need to remind him of the debt."

Briena's expression sharpened. "Remind him how?"

Karzon's lips twitched. "By showing him I'm not a man to cross."

Briena knew better than to push him further.

Conversation finished, Karzon slipped out into the open streets outside the inn, which were already bustling, the chaos of the market spilling into the surrounding alleys.

Karzon navigated the labyrinthine paths with ease, his hood pulled low to obscure his face. He passed stalls selling everything from exotic spices to glimmering jewels, their vendors shouting over one another to attract buyers.

He slipped into a quieter district, where the buildings leaned like old men in a tavern—stooped, grumbling, and holding each other up more out of habit than necessity.

Myral's workshop was tucked at the end of a narrow alley, its entrance marked only by a faded sign depicting a quill and dagger crossed over a blank sheet of parchment. Karzon pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges echoing in the dimly lit space.

Inside, stacks of parchment teetered precariously on overflowing shelves, while quill stubs and ink pots littered the floor, creating a treacherous obstacle course for the unwary. He pinched his nostrils as the smell of ink and burnt paper hit him.

At the center of it all sat Myral, half-buried behind a monstrous desk of dark oak, a relic so ancient and overburdened it seemed to sag under the sheer weight of criminal intent. The surface was a battlefield of half-rolled scrolls, broken quills, and ledgers so thick they could be used to bludgeon debtors into paying up. A dagger was wedged between the pages of one particularly damning account, as if someone had attempted—violently—to dispute the numbers.

Myral himself was a wiry man, his ink-smudged fingers twitching like a scribe who had spent one too many nights balancing ledgers that decided whether men walked free or conveniently disappeared into Dunmarch's gutters.

When he looked up and saw Karzon, his face paled. "Karzon," he stammered, setting down a quill. "I didn't expect to see you... here."

"Surprised?" Karzon stepped closer. "You shouldn't be. I need something, Myral. And you owe me."

Myral fidgeted, his eyes darting to the half-finished parchment in front of him. "I've repaid that debt. Twice over, if I recall."

Karzon leaned on the desk, his hazel eyes boring into Myral's. "Twice over? Funny, I don't recall letting you set the terms of our arrangement. I need forged invitations to Rathvell's gala tonight. Three of them."

Myral's eyes widened. "Rathvell? Karzon, that's suicide. His guards⁠—"

"Won't be a problem," Karzon interrupted. "The invitations, Myral. Can you do it?"

Myral hesitated, glancing at the tools on his desk. "It's not a matter of ‘can.' It's a matter of ‘should.' You're asking me to risk my life."

Karzon straightened, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "Do you remember why you owe me, Myral? Because I do. The night in Vellore, when the constables had your head on the chopping block? Who got you out?"

Myral swallowed hard, his fingers twitching. "You did."

"And who made sure your debts to the Guild didn't bury you alive?"

"You did."

Karzon leaned in closer, his voice a whisper. "Then do this for me. Three invitations. You have until sundown."

For a long moment, Myral stared at him, his face a mix of fear and resignation. Finally, he nodded. "Fine. Three invitations. But if this goes south, you don't know me."

Karzon smiled faintly. "You're learning."

As the sun began its slow descent, casting long shadows over Dunmarch's rooftops, Karzon strode back into the inn, the forged invitations tucked securely inside his coat.

The dining hall had settled into a rare moment of peace. The earlier clatter of tankards and morning business had faded, leaving only the quiet murmurs of a few lingering patrons and the occasional creak of a chair against worn wooden floors.

Briena and Drenna were waiting, both standing near the entrance with the air of women who had already decided his fate.

The moment Briena spotted him, she wasted no time. "Finally. Come on." She spun on her heel and made for the door, clearly expecting him to follow without protest.

Karzon blinked. "What? No ‘How did it go, Karzon?' No ‘Great work securing the invitations, Karzon'?"

Briena didn't even slow. "I secured an appointment for us, but we're out of time. Move."

Karzon barely had time to mutter a curse before he was being herded out of the inn and into the streets of Dunmarch, half-marching, half-stumbling to keep pace.The city was thick with the scents of late afternoon—warm bread from bakeries, the sharp tang of tanneries, and the ever-present undertone of damp stone.

They wove through narrow alleys and wider thoroughfares, past merchants packing up their stalls and street performers counting their meager earnings. Somewhere nearby, a man was loudly swearing about a stolen purse.

Briena led them toward the eastern gate, where the buildings grew slightly less menacing and the streets, while still teeming with life, were at least free of the more enthusiastic forms of crime.

She stopped in front of a modest shop tucked between a candle-maker's stall and a jeweler's display. The wooden sign above the entrance bore a simple needle and thread carved into its surface.

Karzon sighed, rubbing his temples. "So this is where my dignity comes to die."

Briena pushed open the door, ignoring him entirely. The bell above jingled softly, and at once, the rich scents of fabric dye and lavender curled around them.

Inside, bolts of fabric lined the walls—deep emeralds, shimmering silvers, velvety crimsons. Mannequins stood poised in various states of undress, half-fitted with gowns that shimmered like liquid metal and coats embroidered with intricate gold filigree.

Every inch of the shop spoke of quiet opulence, the kind that didn't shout but merely existed, confident in its own worth.

A feminine voice called from the back, smooth and precise. "If you're here to haggle, take it elsewhere. If you're here for perfection, welcome."

Karzon shot Briena a dry look. "Oh, wonderful. A humble craftsman."

Briena smirked. "Behave." Then she turned toward the back of the shop and called out, "Leira, it's me."

A moment later, a woman emerged from behind a curtain, wiping her hands on her skirt, a length of measuring tape draped around her neck. She was older than Karzon had expected, but not aged—more like a woman who had long since stopped tolerating nonsense.

Her dark hair was streaked with silver, tied back in an elegant bun, and her sharp eyes took them all in with a glance that could have stripped them bare if she so wished.

Leira arched a brow. "Briena."

Briena nodded. "I've brought them."

Leira's gaze landed on Karzon and Drenna, moving over them like she was assessing livestock. "Him?" She pointed at Karzon. "He's easy. A well-tailored coat, something dark to hide the fact that he slouches like a common thug."

Karzon scowled. "I do not slouch."

Leira ignored him. "And her?" She nodded toward Drenna, then let out a thoughtful hum. "Something that fits but won't make her look like she's about to tear someone's arms off."

Drenna grinned. "Oh, don't hold back on my account."

Leira merely sighed, already taking out her measuring tape. "This will be interesting."

Briena crossed her arms. "We are short on time, though—this has to be done in ninety minutes."

Leira sighed, rubbing her temple as she looked over the three of them. "An hour and a half. Impossible."

A muscle twitched in Briena's jaw. "Not for you."

Leira turned without another word, moving to the back of her shop with the measured grace of someone who commanded magic as easily as breath.

Karzon crossed his arms. "Should I be concerned?"

Drenna smirked. "Oh, absolutely."

The room dimmed as Leira pulled heavy velvet curtains shut, sealing them within a space untouched by the fading afternoon light. She moved to the center of the shop, rolling back the sleeves of her finely embroidered tunic.

Beneath them, golden filigree shimmered along her forearms—runework, ancient and intricate, glowing faintly as she whispered something under her breath.

At once, the air changed. The lantern flames dimmed, dancing in time with some unseen rhythm, as though the very fabric of the shop was inhaling. A warm, tingling energy coiled around them, crackling like distant thunder on the edge of hearing.

The bolts of fabric lining the walls quivered, their silken folds stirring despite the absence of wind. Then, with a single sweep of her hands, Leira brought the room to life. The fabric leapt from their places, twisting into the air in ribbons of color—deep sapphire, molten gold, shadowy onyx.

Threads spun from the ether, weaving themselves through the floating material, binding cloth to cloth as if stitched by unseen fingers. Patterns flared across the surface, shifting and reshaping before settling into their final forms.

Karzon could only watch in stunned silence as the air hummed with raw creation. He had seen magic wielded in battle, had felt its power in the sigil that still haunted his thoughts—but this? This was artistry beyond measure.

Within moments, the spell reached its crescendo. The floating garments came together in a perfect, soundless snap—then, as though carried by an unseen breeze, they drifted gently down to the mannequins standing before them.

Leira stepped back, exhaling slowly, the golden runes on her arms fading into stillness.

And there they were.

Karzon's attire was all sleek precision—an obsidian coat, its fabric rich and heavy, embroidered with silver thread so fine it caught the light only when he moved.

A high-collared shirt of midnight blue lay beneath it, its cuffs subtly laced with the same silver accents. The trousers were cut with quiet elegance, fitted but allowing for movement, and a leather belt completed the ensemble, polished and strong.

He reached out instinctively, running a hand over the coat's fabric. It was impossibly smooth, like the touch of silk, yet sturdy enough for the night ahead.

Drenna's outfit was far from the flowing dresses of noblewomen; Leira had known better than to attempt that. Instead, she had conjured a tailored ensemble—dark crimson, structured but commanding, its tunic cinched with an intricate corset of tooled leather.

The embroidery along the sleeves whispered of Dunmarch's old houses, blending her into the world of aristocracy while leaving no doubt that she could still break bones if the need arose.

Drenna vanished behind the screen to test the fit of her attire. She needn't have bothered—every stitch, every clasp, every tailored edge molded to her frame as though the fabric had known her all along.

Satisfied, she stepped out, adjusting her sleeves with a small smile.

Then it was Briena's turn. She disappeared behind the curtain, the rustle of silk and the faint whisper of fabric shifting filling the room. When she emerged, Karzon forgot how to breathe.

The elf stood nervously in her gown, but the fabric had already claimed her as its own. Moonlight and shadow had been spun together, weaving an illusion of something almost untouchable—a gown of deep silver, the silk so fluid it pooled and shifted like liquid metal, whispering against her skin with every subtle movement.

It clung in all the right places, the fitted bodice sculpting to her curves like a lover's hands, delicate elven embroidery shimmering faintly as though infused with stardust. The long, flowing sleeves veiled her arms in sheer elegance, their near-transparency teasing glimpses of bare, silken skin beneath.

And the neckline…

Karzon swallowed hard, his pulse thick in his throat. It plunged just enough to tantalize, cradling the soft swell of her breasts, a perfect balance of allure and restraint—an invitation, not a command.

The fabric kissed her curves, drawing the eye to the gentle rise and fall of her breath, making it look almost luminous. It was the kind of gown that didn't just belong in old songs and starlit myths—it was a legend itself, draped over a woman who could make men lose themselves just by standing still.

Briena ran her fingers slowly over the fabric, her touch reverent, almost sensual, as though she, too, felt the power it held.

Her lips parted slightly. "Leira, this is…" She trailed off, for once at a loss for words, though the way her fingertips lingered near the bodice spoke volumes.

Leira chuckled throatily. "Yes. It is."

Drenna, entirely unhelpful, let out a low whistle. "You clean up very well, Briena."

Briena shot her a glare before looking toward Karzon—and froze.

Because Karzon wasn't smirking. He wasn't making some wry comment or teasing her with his usual arrogance. He was staring.

The heat in his gaze was unmistakable, and for a single moment, the air between them felt charged with something heavier than magic.

Briena arched a brow, attempting to mask whatever warmth had crept up her neck. "You're staring."

Karzon blinked, and to his horror realized he was. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to tear his gaze away. "Just—uh—just making sure the spell worked properly."

Drenna clapped him on the back. "Smooth."

Briena smirked, tilting her head slightly. "I'd say it worked just fine."

The two of them changed back into their regular attire.

Briena reached into the folds of her cloak and withdrew a small, intricately carved wooden token, no larger than a coin but marked with swirling runes that shimmered faintly in the dim light of Leira's shop. She set it on the counter with practiced ease, tapping it once with her fingertip.

Leira exhaled audibly. "An elven promissory seal?" Her voice held a lilt of curiosity, but her fingers closed around the token all the same.

She turned it over, tracing the glowing sigils with the reverence of one who understood its worth. "You always bring me the most interesting forms of payment, Briena."

Briena replied with a little shrug. "I prefer currency that keeps people guessing."

Leira chuckled, but there was something considering in her gaze as she ran her thumb over the seal once more.

These were not given lightly.

To accept one was to take on a silent agreement—a favor owed, a debt that could be collected at any time.

This particular seal bore the sigil of an elven house long thought to operate in the shadows, their influence subtle but undeniable.

Even for clothing like this, it was almost too much. Almost.

Someday, Leira might find herself in need of elven magic—a passage through their veiled borders, or a whispered name that could change fate itself. When that day came, she would have the seal to call upon.

She tucked it away carefully, nodding. "Someday, you'll have to tell me where you keep finding these."

Briena only smiled.

Leira gestured toward the gown, now carefully wrapped in enchanted silk to preserve its shimmer. "But for now, consider us even."

Karzon, who had been watching the exchange with his usual air of quiet amusement, stepped forward.

"You have my gratitude, Leira." His gaze lingered on the now-carefully bundled packages, then drifted to Briena. A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "And yours, of course. Though I'm starting to think I should be thanking you more often."

Briena shot him a sideways glance. "Then maybe you should start keeping a running tally. But be warned, I charge interest."

Leira exhaled a laugh, waving them off as they gathered their things. "Go on, get out of here before I start charging you for taking up too much of my time."

They each accepted their disguises, neatly bundled in crisp brown paper and folded with care. Outside, the sun was dimming into the light of late afternoon. The event was tonight. They returned to the inn, its interior now thick with the comforting embrace of spiced cider and slow-roasting meat. But there was no time to linger.

Drenna left first, saying she needed to wash up before she prepared for the night.

Upstairs, Briena set the bundle on the bed, running her fingers over the smooth fabric. The gown felt heavier now, not in weight, but in promise.

The evening ahead stretched out before them like an unfurled map, filled with possibility—dangers veiled beneath courtesies, alliances whispered behind goblets of wine.

Karzon leaned against the doorframe, watching her. "It's going to be a night to remember."

She turned to face him, tilting her head in amusement. "That sounds suspiciously like something people say before everything goes horribly wrong."

His grin was wolfish, and his eyes glinted with anticipation. "Or before everything goes very, very right."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Evening stretched over The Gilded Mare, bleeding violet and indigo across the sky, the last traces of twilight swallowed by the city's ever-churning heartbeat. From his window, Karzon could see the heart of the Upper City glowing in the distance, lanterns strung like golden veins through the stone streets. Beyond the rooftops, a grand estate dominated the skyline—Rathvell's manor, its towering spires illuminated by an opulence that stood in eye-watering contrast to the grittier streets below.

It was a world apart from the damp alleyways and crooked taverns Karzon knew so well. A world built on power wrapped in pleasantries, where a blade might rest beneath a glove, but the deadliest weapons were wielded with a smile.

He turned back to his reflection in the small mirror, adjusting the silver trim on the cuffs of his obsidian-black coat. The fit was immaculate, tailored close to his frame, structured enough to give him a presence he wasn't entirely used to.

Beneath it, the deep midnight-blue tunic rested against his skin, high-collared and trimmed with thread so fine it caught the light when he moved. The trousers, sharp and unassuming, allowed for movement, while his boots, now polished to a nobleman's standard, carried the quiet promise that he was not a man to be underestimated.

Karzon's fingers brushed against the fine embroidery on his coat. The weight of the fabric was unfamiliar, too refined for a man accustomed to leathers and dust, but it sat well on his shoulders—better than he expected. Almost too well.

The sensation dragged him back, unbidden, to a different coat, a different night, a different life.

He was seven the first time he had worn noble clothes. A stiff, high-collared tunic, too starched at the seams, with a sash that dug into his ribs. The fabric had been fine, the deep blue color striking against his boyish frame, but the moment he had put it on, he had felt like an imposter.

The hall had been grand, its chandeliers spilling golden light onto polished floors. Laughter and conversation had swirled through the air, perfumed with the scent of spiced wine and honeyed meats. The noble guests spoke in measured tones, their words careful, clipped, each syllable weighed for worth before being offered like coin.

Karzon had been told to stand beside his father, to smile when spoken to, to keep his hands at his sides and his thoughts to himself. He had done all those things. And still, he had felt the stares.

Not the polite, indulgent glances reserved for well-bred sons, but the measuring looks. The ones that saw too much.

He had heard the whispers. The way they spoke of him like some wild thing dragged in from the gutter and dressed for supper. No name, no mother present, no reason to be there except that his father—drowning in debt and defiance—had insisted.

Karzon had buried the words. But he remembered how his fists had curled beneath the sash, how badly he'd wanted to tear the tunic off and throw it in their faces. To spit the truth at them and walk away.

The only tenderness he had experienced that night had come from a girl, just older than him, tall and poised and already dangerous in the way she watched people. She hadn't looked at him like the others did. No disdain. No poorly masked amusement. She had tilted her head, eyes sharp with interest, and whispered something to her guardian that made the man laugh behind his hand.

Later, when the others had turned away, she had approached him with a sweetcake wrapped in cloth and a glance over her shoulder to make sure no one saw. She hadn't spoken but she had offered it, along with the smallest smile. She had disappeared back into the swirl of lace and polished shoes before he could even thank her.

She hadn't belonged in that world either. Not entirely. And he hadn't forgotten, for the girl kept circling back into his life over the years. But he had made his distaste for his surroundings known, and secretly vowed to escape that life as soon as he could.

Yet here he was, standing before a mirror in an outfit just as fine, if not finer.

Karzon exhaled slowly, shaking off the memory. That boy—angry, raw, and desperate—still lived inside him. But tonight, the silk was his weapon, not his burden.

This time, he wasn't a bastard seeking approval. This time, he was a thief hunting a fiend's ransom.

"You look nice."

The voice drew him from his thoughts. Karzon turned toward the doorway, surprised to find Briena standing there, watching him with arms loosely folded. Karzon still couldn't think straight with her wearing that dress. He had spent the entire evening watching her, resisting the gnawing need that had settled deep in his bones the moment she stepped into that damned dress.

And now—with the room cast in semi-darkness, shadows stretching long and deep—the fight was slipping from his grasp.

Briena lingered at the threshold of his room, the moonlight cascading over her like liquid silver, trailing over the soft curves of her body, catching in the delicate embroidery that adorned her bodice like stardust.

The gown moved with her breath, rising and falling in slow, hypnotic waves, the fine silk shifting over her skin like a whispered temptation.

It clung where it pleased and draped where it teased, and gods help him—he wanted to tear it from her, to feel her bare beneath his hands, to replace every shimmering thread with the heat of his mouth. His hands flexed at his sides, jaw tight, the sharp edges of control fraying at the seams.

Then, she stepped inside and shut the door behind her.

The tension had wound too tight, his control worn too thin by the way she looked beneath the moonlight—silver silk clinging to her, teasing him with glimpses of the soft skin beneath, as if the gown itself had been designed to torment him.

He had wanted her all day. No, longer. From the moment she had stepped into that dress, knowing full well the effect it would have, knowing exactly what it would make him crave.

And now, with the world outside forgotten and only the faint glimmer of candlelight and the cool hush of night between them, he was done waiting.

He caught her wrist before she could take another step back, pulling her flush against him. The warmth of her body, the soft gasp that left her lips—it ignited something primal in him, something deep and dark and utterly possessive.

"Tell me you want this," he rasped against the shell of her ear, his breath warm and rough. His fingers traced the curve of her waist, down, down, finding the ties that held the silk together.

Briena's breath hitched, her hands clutching his coat as if to steady herself. "I want this. I want you."

"Good girl."

His hands worked deftly, unraveling the laces, letting the gown slip from her shoulders. The silk pooled at her feet, leaving her bare but for the soft undergarments that did little to conceal what was already his to take.

He stepped back, just enough to look at her.

By the gods, she was a vision.

The golden glow of the candlelight traced every soft curve, the smoothness of her thighs, the full swell of her breasts barely restrained by the last delicate scrap of fabric. Her silver hair had begun to fall loose, framing her face in wild strands, and her eyes—those fierce, sharp green eyes—held no hesitation. Only raw, molten desire.

Karzon let out a slow, shuddering breath, his hunger warring with the need to savor.

"You are exquisite," he murmured, reaching to cup her breast, his thumb teasing over the hardened peak. She arched into him with a breathless whimper, her lips parting as pleasure rippled through her.

"More," she purred, shifting against him, her body already pliant and eager. "Don't tease me."

His grip tightened, his other hand sliding around her waist to pin her against the mirror behind her. "I decide when you get more," he growled, pressing his body against hers, letting her feel the thick, aching length of him straining against his trousers. "And I want to take my time."

She moaned as he dragged his teeth over the sensitive curve of her throat, marking her with his tongue, his lips, his relentless claim. Her hands slid down his chest, greedy and desperate, nails raking over his abs before dipping lower, palming him through his pants.

"You're so hard for me," she murmured, biting her lip as she squeezed him, her touch featherlight and teasing. "Are you going to stretch me open on this cock, make me feel just how badly you need me?"

A growl tore from his throat, and in one swift motion, he spun her to face the mirror, pressing her hands against the glass. His palm skimmed down her spine, forcing her to arch, to present herself to him like the perfect offering she was.

"Watch yourself," he commanded, his voice thick, dark with hunger. "Watch what I do to you."

She whimpered, her reflection showing wide, glassy eyes, her lips parted, her breath coming in soft, desperate gasps. "I want to see you too," she whispered, pressing her ass back against his rigid length, making him hiss. "I want to see you take me."

He stripped the last barrier between them, his hands trailing over her bare skin, his fingers parting her thighs, finding her slick and dripping with need. "So fucking wet for me already," he rasped, rubbing his fingers over her clit in slow, teasing circles. "You need to be filled, don't you?"

"Yes," she gasped, rolling her hips, seeking more. "I need you inside me. I need your cock stretching me, ruining me⁠—"

He didn't let her finish.

With one slow, punishing thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, stretching her inch by inch, groaning at the way she clenched around him. She choked out a cry, her fingers splaying against the glass as she struggled to stay upright.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he ground out, gripping her hips and pulling out only to slam back in, harder this time, making her eyes roll back.

She gasped, her moan breaking into a shameless sob of pleasure. "So big—so deep—I can feel you everywhere."

His reflection met hers in the mirror, and the sight of her—the way she trembled, her breasts bouncing with every thrust, her lips parted in helpless pleasure—made his control snap.

His hand wrapped around her throat, tilting her head back so she could see herself fully. "Look at you," he murmured darkly. "Getting fucked like you were made for my cock."

She whined, her hands pressing harder against the glass, her body completely at his mercy. "I was," she breathed, her voice wrecked and needy. "I'm yours—gods, don't stop⁠—"

He didn't.

He fucked her deep, his hips snapping against hers, his cock slamming into her over and over again, dragging ragged moans from her lips. Every thrust sent jolts of pleasure through her, winding her tighter, until she was shaking, gasping, her legs barely holding her up.

"You're gonna come for me." His grip tightened on her throat, his other hand slipping between her legs, fingers circling her clit. "Come while I'm buried deep inside you."

Her body obeyed instantly, pleasure crashing through her in a violent wave. She screamed, her walls clamping down on him as she shattered, her vision going white, her body going slack against the mirror.

But he wasn't done.

He kept fucking her through it, prolonging every aftershock, every tremor. "Again," he ordered, his voice thick, guttural. "Come for me again."

She sobbed, her overstimulated body writhing, her moans pure, unfiltered pleasure. And then he hit just the right spot, just the right angle, and she was gone—another orgasm tearing through her, even stronger than the first, her legs shaking as she keened his name.

A rough growl rumbled in his chest as he grabbed her hips and pulled her back onto his cock, forcing her to take him again, deeper, harder. She gasped, eyes wide, lips trembling as she watched herself in the mirror—watched the way he held her in place, the way he used her, the way her body yielded to his every demand.

"You're still shaking," he murmured darkly, his fingers digging into her hips as he took her without mercy. "But you can take more, can't you?"

She let out a desperate, wrecked sob, her nails clawing at the mirror for purchase. "Yes," she moaned. "Gods, yes—I can take it. I need it. Please⁠—"

Her words sent him over the edge of restraint. He slammed into her, his pace brutal, every thrust sending her tits bouncing wildly against the glass. The wet squelch of their bodies colliding filled the air, mingling with her moans, his growls, the helpless whimpers that spilled from her lips as he drove her past the brink of pleasure again and again.

"You love this," he rasped, his hand slipping around to press against her stomach, feeling the way he stretched her from the inside. "You love being fucked like this, don't you?"

She nodded frantically, her reflection showing her utterly ruined—eyes glazed, mouth open, sweat glistening on her flushed skin. "I love it," she whimpered. "I love your cock—love when you take me like this—oh, gods, don't stop⁠—"

Karzon groaned, his own control unraveling. He grabbed a fistful of her silver hair, yanking her head back as he pounded into her, her gasps turning into desperate cries. She clenched around him, so tight, so perfect, her body milking him for everything he had.

And just when he felt himself on the edge, about to spill deep inside her, she suddenly pushed back against him, twisting in his grip until she dropped to her knees. Her eyes were wild, needy, her lips swollen and parted as she looked up at him.

"Give it to me," she whispered, her hands wrapping around his slick, throbbing cock. "I want to taste you."

Karzon let out a low, vicious curse as she stroked him, her tongue flicking over the head before she swallowed him down, taking him deep, desperate to drink every drop. He tangled his fingers in her hair, guiding her, thrusting into the wet, scorching heat of her mouth as she moaned around him, taking him greedily, her own pleasure still making her body tremble.

His muscles locked, pleasure coiling tight, unstoppable. "Bri—" he gritted out, his head falling back as she sucked harder, her tongue swirling around him, milking him for everything he had.

He came with a raw groan, his release spilling hot and thick into her mouth. She moaned, taking it all, swallowing every last drop, her lips dragging over him in slow, languid strokes as he trembled, completely wrecked.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were swollen and her eyes were still hazy with lust. She smirked up at him, licking her lips as she whispered, "I love how you taste."

Karzon exhaled, his grip on her hair loosening, his body still humming from the intensity of his climax. He leaned down, dragging her up, capturing her mouth in a deep, possessive kiss as he tasted himself on her tongue.

"You," he murmured against her lips, his voice rough with satisfaction, "are fucking perfect."

As he held her, his arms still wrapped around her possessively, his heartbeat still racing against hers, he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

He would never let her go.

"Thank you." Her breath was still uneven, though the satisfied curve of her mouth matched his.

A knock at the door interrupted them.

Drenna coughed audibly behind the door. "Um… in case you two forgot, we have some business to attend to. I'll be downstairs."

Briena sighed, reaching for the gown to slip it back on while Karzon chuckled, stepping back to help her straighten the fabric. Even so, the slight flush on her cheeks lingered, making her all the more luminous.

"You look like that and I'm afraid I⁠—"

Briena motioned to the door. "Come on."

By the time they descended the stairs Drenna was already waiting, standing with the ease of someone who could look at home in a ballroom or a battlefield. The dark crimson tunic fit her perfectly, tailored to accentuate her strength rather than constrain it. The structured fabric was cut for movement, while an embossed leather corset cinched her waist, its intricate silver buckles adding just enough embellishment to pass among the aristocracy.

The embroidery along her sleeves was subtle—an echo of Dunmarch's noble houses—just enough to blend in without betraying who she truly was. Her boots were polished but practical, their soles softened to move without sound. At her hip, a dagger rested where a noblewoman might carry a fan, its handle discreetly wrapped in matching leather.

She arched a brow as Karzon and Briena approached. "You took so long I nearly died of boredom."

Karzon rolled his eyes at her. "Tragic. Truly."

Briena shook her head, lips twitching. "Let's hope that's the worst of our troubles."

Drenna grunted, adjusting one of her bracers. "Doubt it. But at least I'll be dressed for the occasion."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

That evening, Dunmarch was a city on the edge, waiting to exhale. Lanterns swayed in their iron cradles, their golden light pooling in uneven puddles on the cobblestones, flaring as though whispering secrets to the night. The wind was restlessly cool, carrying the mingling scents of burning tallow, spiced cider, and the salt-damp breath of the harbor.

Karzon adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, his fingers momentarily lingering over the fine silver thread that edged the fabric. To the discerning eye, this was a last-minute touch of elegance, a borrowed glimmer of wealth he neither owned nor cared for, but would wield tonight as a weapon. Everything depended on the illusion.

As they moved, the streets subtly transformed beneath their feet. The twisting veins of the lower districts faded, the uneven stones giving way to polished thoroughfares. Here, in Dunmarch's inner sanctum, the city breathed differently—calmer, cleaner, curated.

The buildings grew taller, their stone facades untouched by soot, their rooftops adorned with balconies of filigree wrought iron and stained glass that shimmered in the lantern glow like caged gems.

Wealth had settled into the very bones of this place—wrapped it in silks, polished its edges, and taught it to sneer.

Carriages, sleek and too well-bred for the roads beyond this quarter, rolled past with measured grace. Their occupants—men in high-collared coats and women draped in cascading silks—glanced out from behind velvet curtains, their expressions as detached as spectators at a play. Footmen stood by gilded doors, watching with the stillness of well-trained servants who knew their place was to blend into the scenery.

Karzon felt the shift acutely, that unspoken current of privilege and predation. Here, coin was king, and its subjects bowed to no one but themselves.

Rathvell's estate loomed ahead—a fortress of marble and ambition, its pale stone near-luminous under the glow of a hundred lanterns. The gates stood wide, flanked by guards in ceremonial armor polished to an indifferent gleam. Beyond them, the courtyard was alive with nobility, their laughter measured but hollow, the precise cadence of people who lived on artifice.

Music wove through the air, the delicate strains of a string quartet spilling from somewhere unseen, as effortless as the wealth it was meant to entertain.

Karzon touched the forged invitations inside his coat, feeling their crispness beneath his fingers.

He glanced toward Briena, who walked beside him with the fluidity of someone who belonged anywhere she chose to be, and Drenna, whose otherwise formidable presence was softened only slightly by the structured elegance of her attire.

"This is it." His voice was quiet beneath the ripple of conversation around them. "Stay close, stick to the plan, and we walk out richer than we walked in."

Briena gave him a sidelong look, amusement in her green eyes. "You almost sound convincing."

Drenna chuckled, her eyes scanning the scene ahead. "Let's hope you're as good at playing the part of a wealthy merchant as you are at bluffing your way through tavern brawls."

Karzon allowed himself a faint smile, though his gaze was already fixed on the mansion.

The three advanced toward the gates, mindful of their pace—neither too brisk nor too hesitant.

The nearest guard, a tall man with the look of someone paid more for his silence than his sword, stepped forward, palm outstretched. His voice, when he spoke, was clipped and professional. "Invitations."

To the trained observer, Karzon might have seemed mildly inconvenienced—perhaps by an ill-fitted cuff. To Briena, with her elven senses attuned to every subtle shift, he was a storm behind a steel wall. The faintest hitch in his breath, the imperceptible tick of his jaw—signs that, to anyone else, were as invisible as air.

But to the world at large? Karzon was the picture of ease. Without a pause, he slipped the folded parchment from his coat, presenting it with the smooth indifference of a man who had done it a thousand times before.

The forged script gleamed beneath the lantern light, its embossing catching just enough shine to suggest authenticity.

The guard's gaze skimmed over them, his brow furrowing for the briefest of moments.

Karzon willed his expression into careful boredom. Wealthy men had little patience for scrutiny; they expected doors to open, not questions to be asked.

A beat. Then another.

The guard nodded stiffly and stepped aside.

"Welcome."

They moved through the gates without hesitation, though Karzon allowed himself a single, measured breath.

One threshold crossed. Another yet to come.

The transition to the world within was dizzying. A step inside, and the world bloomed into decadence, a space designed not just to impress but to remind every guest of their place within its gilded hierarchy.

The floor stretched out in gleaming slabs of obsidian and gold-veined marble, polished to such a ruthless shine that it captured the movements of the room like a dark, rippling lake. Chandeliers of enchanted crystal hovered above, their glow shifting subtly with the music, casting warm light onto the velvet-draped walls. The tapestries that hung there were not mere decoration—each was a masterpiece of woven myth, depicting scenes of conquest, lineage, and a history written in coin and blood.

Tables overflowed with ornate silver trays, stacked with delicacies meant more for spectacle than sustenance—roast quail dusted with crushed rose petals, sugared figs stuffed with honeyed almonds, and crystal decanters filled with wines so rich their color darkened the very glass.

Conversation layered over itself, a marriage of hushed deals, veiled threats, and casual cruelty wrapped in silk and laughter. Across the chamber, a group of aristocrats lounged on brocaded divans, their fingers trailing the rims of untouched goblets, their attention toward whispered intrigues rather than the meal before them.

Karzon straightened his shoulders, stepping deeper into the room, keeping his gait easy and his face pleasant. Here, he was no outsider—tonight, he was one of them, a merchant of means, a man with enough wealth to be unbothered and enough secrets to be dangerous.

Briena, moving like moonlight in human form, let her gaze drift, mapping exits, staircases, the flow of movement.

Drenna, perpetually the warrior, sized up threats rather than chandeliers, her expression unreadable but her body ready.

The music swelled, the delicate strings of the quartet weaving through the room, guiding the pace of the evening like a puppet master pulling invisible strings. And here they were—woven in among the puppets, walking the fine line between spectators and players, hunters and hunted.

Briena's voice drifted over his shoulder. "We need to move carefully. There are more guards than expected."

Karzon didn't turn his head, didn't shift his expression. Instead, he lifted a glass of wine from a passing tray, swirling it lazily. To any onlookers, it was the idle movement of a man at ease—nothing more.

"How many?" he murmured, lifting the goblet to his lips.

Briena adjusted the silver cuff at her wrist, the delicate movement disguising the way her fingers subtly gestured across the room.

Three guards near the eastern staircase, another two at the back hall.

Karzon made a sound of faint amusement, as if she'd just whispered something flirtatious instead of detailing their impending obstacles.

"Rathvell's expecting trouble."

Drenna, standing just a breath away, exhaled sharply through her nose. "Or he's always this paranoid."

Karzon's gaze moved toward the far end of the room, where Lord Rathvell held court among his chosen sycophants.

He was easy to spot—not because of any grand stature or charisma, but because of the way the people around him leaned inward when he spoke, their laughter too eager, their smiles stretched just a little too wide.

A man like Rathvell didn't inspire loyalty, only calculated allegiance.

Karzon tilted his goblet in the nobleman's direction. "We should get closer. See what he's drinking to."

Briena's lips quirked faintly. "And here I thought you only drank to win wagers."

Karzon smirked, setting his untouched wine back onto a nearby table. "Tonight, I'm betting on something bigger."

They blended into the ever-shifting flow of silk and polished leather, the cascading laughter of the wealthy forming a gilded haze around them.

A noblewoman in an emerald gown brushed past Karzon, her perfume leaving ghostly traces of jasmine and something sharper, like foxglove poison disguised as honey.

She tilted her head, eyes lingering on him for a beat too long, but he offered nothing in return—just the passing presence of a man moving through a world he belonged to for a single night.

Briena caught the exchange and let out a soft huff of amusement. "Try not to let them distract you."

Karzon's grin was quicksilver. "If I get distracted, it's not because of them."

Briena blushed before she looked away.

Lord Rathvell was seated at an opulent table carved from deep mahogany, its edges inlaid with gold filigree, the wine in his goblet as dark as spilled ink. He was a man of middling build, wrapped in tailored silk and an air of entitlement that lay heavier than his cloak.

His jewelry spoke more of him than his face did—heavy rings encrusted with deep-cut gems, a gold chain at his throat, a signet ring that bore the crest of a long-dead lineage he had likely paid to resurrect in his favor.

At his right sat a figure Karzon had not expected.

Lady Veyne, younger than most of the noblewomen in attendance, yet in possession of a command that had nothing to do with age. She sat like someone who had already survived the worst of court and learned to wear its cruelty like a second skin. Her presence did not scream for attention. It claimed it.

Her gown was sapphire silk, cut to catch the chandeliers above and throw light like shards of a summer storm trapped in fabric. Jewels ringed her throat, each one perfectly set and spaced, as though laid there with a ruler's exactitude. The knot of her dark hair was a minor miracle of elegance, not a strand out of place. She paid heed to what Rathvell spoke, and knew just what reaction would appease him, laughing with lips painted the color of bruised cherries. But her eyes told a different story—cold, scanning, and watchful. She already knew which men were lying, which ladies were listening, and which servant was about to spill wine on a visiting delegate.

Karzon lingered at the edge of a marble archway, one hand braced against the cool stone. His breath came slow. This was not the first time he had seen her across a ballroom, and yet her effect had not diminished. If anything, the years had sharpened her into something rarer. Something more dangerous.

He had met her long before she wore the title so cleanly, at a party where his father hoped he would establish himself as the son of a noble. He had not succeeded, and Karzon had left the party with a sour taste in his mouth. Even so, he had not been able to forget Alira Veyne. Back then, she was still a rising name in House Veyne, a lesser noble family with old blood and newer ambitions. Not powerful enough to dictate law, but nimble enough to survive in the courts no matter which way the wind turned. Veyne had been the youngest daughter, barely old enough for formal invitation, and already wittier than half the councilors combined. She had no need for muscle-bound merchants, no reason to slum through the upper markets, and yet that was where she had found him.

Karzon remembered the second time he encountered her clearly. There had been a heated exchange with a druid apothecary over tinctures. She had won, of course. Silver tongue, sharper smile. She had caught his stare across the square and tilted her head like a woman who already knew the shape of his next breath. That night, she'd slipped into his rented loft above a spice vendor's shop. The moment the door closed, she'd pressed him against it with a hunger that burned straight through silk. It had not been sweet, nor gentle. It had been unforgettable. She had moved like a woman who had chosen pleasure as both art and weapon. Four nights. No strings. No warnings. Just fire, sweat, and the faint scent of myrrh left on his pillow.

When she'd disappeared, she left nothing but a sapphire hairpin buried into the headboard, angled like a dagger. He'd kept it for three months before it slipped away in the way things do when life shifts and hands stay full, lost like once-precious stones swallowed by soil, slowly, without ceremony. Now, years later, here she was, unchanged but refined.

The crowd around him swelled, brushing against embroidered coats and gilded cuffs. Servants moved, weaving through whispered conversations that never stopped. Karzon stood still, listening.

"…they found another estate burned outside the coast. Third noble house this season. All that was left was molten stone and Aetherglass. Even the banners were glassed into the walls…"

Each voice was quiet, but the shape of their words painted something rotten beneath the gold. The noble houses were losing their grip. The courts smiled, the musicians played, but Karzon could feel the shift. Arlenia had begun to fray at the edges. And something told him that if Veyne was here, she had a plan.

Across the ballroom, she turned slightly, revealing more of her profile. That perfect bone structure, that half-smile that never reached her eyes. Her gaze passed over Karzon for just a moment. Long enough to feel like the tug of a silk cord around his throat.

It was not surprise. It was recognition.

Karzon lowered his eyes, then accepted a glass of wine from a server and slowly lifted his drink to his lips. It was expensive and bitter.

Rathvell's voice reached them as they neared, the smooth drawl of a man who enjoyed the sound of his own cleverness.

"…and you should have seen his face when I told him the contract had already been signed. A man with no leverage is like a wolf with no teeth—he'll bark, but in the end, he still starves."

The nobles around him chuckled, some with genuine amusement, others simply because it was expected.

Karzon did neither. Instead, he let the lull in conversation stretch just long enough to be noticed before speaking. "Isn't it more dangerous when the wolf has nothing to lose?"

The table quieted just enough. Lord Rathvell turned his gaze upward, his expression slipping into something polished and amused. "And who, exactly, finds themselves at my table so boldly?"

Karzon smiled—a merchant's smile, practiced and promising nothing. "Someone who appreciates a well-played game."

Veyne's eyes washed over him, and for the briefest moment, he saw something there—curiosity and calculation.

Rathvell leaned back in his chair, swirling his goblet. "A man of taste, then. Tell me, do you prefer to watch the game, or play it?"

Karzon's fingers twitched at his side.

"Oh," he murmured, tilting his head ever so slightly. "I always play to win."

That, it seemed, was the right answer.

Rathvell let out a deep chuckle, lifting a hand to signal the attendant who hovered nearby. In seconds, a polished wooden case was brought forth, its inlaid gold shimmering in the glow of the chandeliers.

With a practiced hand, Rathvell flipped open the lid, revealing a board of ivory and onyx, its carved pieces gleaming like captured moonlight.

Kingsbane.

A game of tactics, foresight, and deception, one played in the halls of power and whispered over in the dens of cutthroats. A game where the reckless perished early and the patient thrived.

Karzon hadn't played in years.

Around them, conversation dulled as the table's more astute spectators turned their attention toward the unfolding match. Lady Veyne, still tracing the rim of her goblet, watched with veiled inquisitiveness. The noble beside her—a hawkish man in deep emerald silks—leaned forward, eager for blood.

"An interesting wager, then," Rathvell said, his fingers lightly caressing the edge of his king piece. "Shall we say... a single favor?"

Karzon suppressed the tension curling in his gut. A favor from Rathvell could be useful. Or dangerous.

But there was no hesitation in his voice. "Agreed."

They played.

The first few moves were deliberate and methodical. Rathvell was a man used to dominance, to dictating the pace. His opening was bold and aggressive—a nobleman's strategy, confident in his belief that sheer force could conquer any opponent.

Karzon, however, was no nobleman. His movements were measured, almost lazy in their execution. A casual placement here, a slight delay there—enough to let Rathvell think he had the upper hand. But beneath the surface, Karzon was reading him.

Rathvell played like he lived—ruthless, impatient, blind to the finer details.

By the time half the board was claimed, Karzon saw the opening. A careful shift of a knight, the subtle entrapment of a pawn—Rathvell hadn't seen it yet, but within three turns, his defeat was written in the lines of the board.

Karzon lifted a piece between his fingers, his pulse steady. He could win.

And yet⁠—

He set the piece down. Not where it would have dismantled Rathvell's entire strategy in three perfect moves, but just beside it. An imperceptible mistake.

A masterstroke of losing.

Rathvell's lips curved. The moment passed. The noble struck, believing himself victorious through sheer prowess.

And then⁠—

Checkmate.

Rathvell exhaled, slow and indulgent, before sitting back, smugly victorious. The gathered nobles offered soft applause, murmuring about how well the ‘merchant' had played.

Karzon gave a slight bow of his head, offering the ghost of a rueful smile. "Well played, my lord."

Rathvell's eyes glowed with satisfaction, his earlier amusement now laced with something sharper—the thrill of conquest.

"You have skill," Rathvell said smoothly, lifting his goblet. "But in the end, fortune favors the bold."

Karzon raised his own glass, a smile dancing at the corner of his lips. "Indeed it does."

But as he sipped, his gaze snapped briefly to Veyne.

She was still watching him.

Not with amusement. Not in admiration. But with knowing.

The kind of knowing that could unravel a man.

She said nothing, and instead traced the rim of her goblet with one gloved finger, gazing between them amusedly.

Briena, standing just behind Karzon, seemed nothing more than a poised companion—her hands clasped in front of her, her posture effortlessly refined. But he knew better. Her green eyes were cataloging everything.

The placement of the guards.

The shifting patterns of the servants.

The nearest exits, the quickest blind spots.

Drenna lingered further back, her presence that of a loyal but disinterested bodyguard, idly watching the room with a half-lidded gaze that suggested boredom—but Karzon caught the way her fingers flexed at her sides, coiled and ready.

Everything was going according to plan.

Veyne, silent until now, tilted her head slightly. "Tell me, merchant, what exactly is it you trade?" A trap. She was leading him into it with all the grace of a seasoned predator.

Karzon let his lips curl into the faintest smirk. "Opportunity."

Veyne's smile widened. "Is that so? And what opportunity brings you to Lord Rathvell's table tonight?"

Karzon lifted his goblet, rolling the stem between his fingers. "The same one that brings everyone here." His voice was light, careless. "Gold. Power. A taste of something beyond reach."

A slow, considering hum. Then Rathvell leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Well then. Enjoy the party, merchant. But do tread carefully. The game is not always kind to those who overestimate their luck."

Karzon nodded once, smoothly excusing himself and stepping back into the flow of the room, Briena and Drenna falling into step beside him.

Only when they were several paces away did Briena murmur, just low enough for only them to hear⁠—

"We need to move now. She's watching you too closely."

Briena peeled away first.

She didn't announce it—she simply drifted from Karzon's side as if following some fleeting interest, her fingertips grazing the rim of a goblet with idle detachment. A noblewoman's bored curiosity, nothing more.

But beneath the surface, she was already working.

Her luminescent eyes memorized everything—the staircases, the balcony railings, the servants' hidden doors, the movements of the staff. The silent language of a well-oiled household, moving unseen through the bones of the estate.

She caught the movement of a servant disappearing behind a heavy curtain near the orchestra. A narrow corridor, meant for staff only.

Briena lifted her chin, feigning admiration for the fresco overhead, then slipped after them.

The shift was immediate. The noise of the gala softened, dulled, as if she had stepped through a veil. Here, the walls were plain stone, the carpets simple and faded. The air smelled of wax and parchment, of brass polish and the faintest traces of old perfume.

Her elven ears picked up the slightest of noises: two guards moving, one at the back staircase and another at the west hall's entrance.

She took a deep breath in before moving past them like a whisper, her steps precise, effortless, and soundless. By the time the first guard turned his head, she was already gone. She reached a narrow service staircase, leading down into the lower levels of the mansion. The corridors ahead would lead straight to the vault.

Briena pressed herself into the shadows and waited.

Meanwhile, in the Grand Hall, Karzon and Drenna lingered.

They didn't watch Briena leave. That would have been a mistake. Instead, Karzon tilted his goblet lazily, studying the silver platter of roasted pheasant and buttered figs before them as if it were the most fascinating thing in the room.

Drenna speared a grape off a tray, chewing with exaggerated nonchalance.

"Briena's off. Our turn."

Karzon set down his goblet, rolling his shoulders once. "Let's see if Jorvik kept his word."

Their way in was through the kitchen. A blind spot in the estate's design.

They walked at a leisurely pace, just another pair of guests seeking a reprieve from the crowd. The moment they stepped past the arched doorway, the air changed.

Gone was the heady mix of perfumes and aged wine. Here, the world smelled of fire, spice, and steel. The music was the clatter of knives, the murmur of cooks, and the rhythmic whoosh of bellows feeding the great iron stoves. It was its own kind of orchestra, one that had been playing long before the gala began.

Jorvik was waiting. He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, posture deliberately casual—but Karzon caught the tension in his jaw the moment they walked in.

He was nervous.

"Took you long enough," Jorvik muttered. "Kitchen's clearing out soon for the final course. You've got minutes, not hours."

Karzon tilted his head. "And the door?"

Jorvik jerked his chin toward the far end of the corridor. "Unlocked. You get caught, you're on your own."

Drenna clapped him on the back, grinning like they were old friends splitting a bar tab.

"Wouldn't dream of dragging you into the mess, mate."

Jorvik muttered something particularly foul, but didn't stop them as they slipped past.

They found Briena waiting in the shadows of the servants' passage, exactly where she was meant to be.

She gave a single nod, her expression cool but alert. "West wing is clear. Two guards upstairs, but nothing we need to worry about."

Karzon's gaze went past her, down the dim corridor. A single torch burned at the far end. Beyond it, he saw the door to the lower vaults.

"This is it," he murmured.

Drenna flexed her fingers. "I hope this vault's worth all the trouble."

Karzon nodded tightly. "It will be."

The three of them moved together, deeper into the belly of Lord Rathvell's estate.

The hallway leading to the vault hummed with enchantment, the faint, pulsing glow of warding magic etched into the stone. The vault itself was a looming presence—reinforced steel, old sorcery, and money.

Karzon ran his fingers over the engraved runes, feeling the vibration of ancient magic beneath his touch. Not infallible, but difficult.

"I'll need a moment," he murmured, already weaving his magic into the runes, searching for weak points.

Drenna set to work immediately. Thin slivers of metal. A vial of clear, viscous liquid. A small iron chisel that gleamed faintly in the torchlight. Her hands moved fast and precise. Briena stood at Karzon's side, her body angled toward the corridor, eyes sharp on the path behind them.

The vault doors were thick, but sound carried in these halls. If something went wrong, they'd hear it coming before they saw it.

Drenna let out a loud, deliberate breath, like someone trying very hard not to look over their shoulder. "Don't take too long. I have an itch that says we're being watched."

Karzon didn't doubt it.

Then—the first lock clicked open. Drenna grinned. "See? Easy as stealing from a⁠—"

Boots on stone.

Voices.

Multiple pairs.

They froze.

Briena turned first, hand moving to the daggers shielded in the folds of her dress, while Drenna's grip tightened around her chisel. Karzon cursed under his breath. They had been careful, so how had they been found?

And then, just beyond the torchlight, Jorvik stepped into view with a nasty grin on his face. Behind him, two of Rathvell's guards flanked the hallway.

Jorvik clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Sorry, Karzon. You should've offered me more."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The torches, burning in their iron cradles, cast a jaundiced light that clawed at the vault's smooth stone. Each lick of flame painted the walls with grotesque, dancing shadows, stretching the narrow corridor into a cavernous maw that seemed to breathe and shift.

The atmosphere pressed down, dense and stifling, saturated with the cloying sweetness of old magic. But this was no vibrant current of creation, it was aged, rusted with time, laced with a metallic tang that unsettled rather than soothed.

It pulsed beneath the surface, a restless presence coiled in the marrow of the world, each rhythmic throb like the heartbeat of a caged beast, unseen but undeniable, sending faint tremors through bone and earth alike.

Karzon's fingers, stained with grime and the faint sheen of sweat, twitched at his side. He could taste the danger in the air, a salty thing that clung to the back of his throat.

Just moments ago, the plan had unspooled like silk. The forged invitations had held, the guards had been avoided, and the vault door had been within reach… an obstacle, yes, but one they were prepared to dismantle.

Now, the path was blocked. Jorvik stood in the archway like a man who had already spent his coin and was now bracing for the debt. His posture was casual, his arms crossed over his broad chest, but Karzon could see it—the tension at the corners of his mouth, the way his weight shifted, like a gambler who knew the dice were loaded.

Behind him, two of Rathvell's guards flanked the corridor, their polished armor glinting in the dim firelight. More footsteps echoed beyond them, growing louder. Reinforcements.

Briena's bow barely made a sound as she drew it, the arrow nocked before she even took a full breath. Her green eyes, sharp and cold as winter, moved between Jorvik and the guards, measuring the space between them, the angle, the shot.

Drenna adjusted her stance, the tip of her chisel pressing into her palm like an unsheathed dagger. Her expression darkened, her scarred knuckles flexing. If Jorvik had any sense left, he'd start running.

But Karzon already knew. There was no running now.

Jorvik exhaled slowly, shaking his head. Regret? Resignation? Karzon wasn't sure. But what came next was certainty.

"You should've offered me more." Jorvik's murmur was almost apologetic.

Karzon forced a breath through his nose, steady and measured, burying the flash of anger behind something colder. His hands remained at his sides, open, his stance unthreatening. Not yet.

"How much did he pay you?" Karzon asked, voice smooth as glass.

Jorvik hesitated. A mistake. It told Karzon what he needed to know, that this wasn't just about coin.

A second set of footsteps joined the first, slow and deliberate. The guards stiffened at the presence behind them, their backs straightening like hounds standing to attention.

Lord Rathvell stepped into the corridor.

Silk and shadow wrapped around him, the deep crimson of his coat stark against the pale stone. He moved without urgency, his polished boots barely making a sound against the floor. Rings glittered on his fingers, thick bands of gold and emerald that caught the low light with every idle movement of his hands.

His face was gleeful, almost as if he had expected this, known all along what Karzon was made of and what he planned to do, and was heartily amused that he hadn't let him down. Karzon hated him immediately.

"My dear merchant," Rathvell mused, his voice dripping with false hospitality. "I do hope you're not trying to rob me."

Drenna made a sharp noise, something between a scoff and a growl. Briena's arrowhead gleamed in the torchlight, unwavering.

Karzon responded with a dry chuckle. "Lord Rathvell," he drawled, tilting his head just slightly. "You wound me. You invite me into your home, we share a drink, we play a game of Kingsbane, and yet now you accuse me of being a common thief?"

Rathvell looked at the vault door, then back to Karzon. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You mistake me. There is nothing common about this."

A hand gesture came from him.

The guards lunged.

Briena moved like a dancer, fluid and effortless, her knives slipping through the air with a deadly kind of grace, aiming cleanly at Jorvik's shoulder.

The traitor twisted at the last moment. Steel met armor—a glancing hit—but it was enough to stagger him.

Drenna's chisel drove into the gap of a guard's gauntlet, slipping between the steel plates and sinking deep into flesh. The man howled, his weapon clattering against the stone.

Karzon surged forward, seizing the moment. His hand shot to his belt, fingers closing around the cool hilt of a concealed dagger⁠—

Pain exploded across his ribs.

The second guard slammed into him, the force driving Karzon backward. His breath tore from his lungs, scraping his throat raw. Fingers wrenched his arm, twisting it behind his back, and cold steel pressed against his neck.

Drenna snarled, but another guard was on her before she could reach him. A gauntleted fist crashed against her jaw. She staggered, caught herself, then swung back. Her fist connected with bone—someone's nose crunched—but it wasn't enough.

More bodies flooded the corridor. Too many. Briena stepped back to regain her footing, only to find herself cornered.

Karzon fought against the hands gripping him, teeth bared. Rathvell sighed. "Now, now. Let's not make a scene."

The pressure against Karzon's neck increased—a slow, warning press of the blade. Briena hesitated, her fingers clenched around a knife as her eyes met Karzon's.

He gave her the smallest shake of his head.

Not now.

Reluctantly, Briena let her hand drop to her side.

Drenna, pinned beneath the weight of two guards, spat blood onto the marble floor. "Should've let me kill him," she muttered.

Karzon's lips curled, but there was no humor left in the gesture. "There's still time."

Rathvell chuckled. "I admire your spirit. Truly." He stepped closer, his fingers tapping idly against the pommel of a dagger at his waist. "But I'm afraid your evening ends here."

He gestured toward the guards. "Take them to the lower cells. Make sure they're comfortable." His gaze fell back on Karzon. "We'll talk soon."

Cold shackles clamped around their arms. With a rough tug, the guards ushered them forward, leading them away from the dim torchlight of the hall and into the waiting maw of the fortress's underbelly.

The descent into the dungeons was a slow death.

The stone walls pressed in around them, damp and unyielding. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became—thick with mildew, rusted iron, and the ghosts of men long forgotten.

Torches sputtered along the corridor, their light feeble against the abyssal dark. The distant drip of water echoed through the tunnels, joined by the occasional cough of an unseen prisoner. Somewhere, someone was laughing softly—a sound both hollow and mad.

Karzon barely registered the bruises blooming across his ribs. The ache was distant now, pushed aside by something sharper, something coiled just beneath the surface.

The guards shoved them forward.

Briena kept her head high despite the thin line of blood trailing down her cheek. Her wrists, bound before her, barely strained against the shackles—but Karzon knew better. She was waiting.

Drenna, on the other hand, was seething. Her muscles bunched, every step deliberate, like a wolf barely restraining itself from lunging at the nearest throat.

Then came the cell. A heavy iron door. A dull clang as it slammed shut behind them. The lock slid into place.

Not too long after, Lord Rathvell made a reappearance, purely for the purpose of gloating.

He was composed, arms folded, his silk coat barely rustling as he shifted his weight. His eyes, however, gleamed with amusement.

"You should consider yourselves lucky." His voice was pleasant, as if they were discussing the weather. "I could have had you executed on the spot."

Karzon exhaled slowly, stepping forward. His shackles clinked as he leaned against the bars. "And yet, here we are." He smiled slowly, sharp and mocking. "How generous of you."

Rathvell smirked. "I prefer my enemies alive, at least for a time. There is more to gain from conversation than from a corpse." He smiled at Briena and Drenna. "You were bold. Foolish, but bold."

Drenna spat at his feet.

Rathvell didn't react. "Charming."

He turned his gaze back to Karzon. "Tell me—what were you after?" His voice was curious, almost indulgent. "My vault holds many things. Fine gems, gold beyond measure. But I suspect your interest lies elsewhere."

Karzon tilted his head, considering. Then, with deliberate ease, he said, "Why spoil the mystery?"

Rathvell's smirk thinned. "Very well. Enjoy your stay."

He turned and strode away, his boots clicking against the stone.

A long moment of absolute stillness followed, broken only when Drenna lunged at the bars, rattling them hard enough to shake dust loose from the ceiling. "We should have gutted Jorvik twice," she growled.

Briena had already begun inspecting the lock, her fingers tracing the rusted iron. "No point in regrets." Her voice was steady, which meant she was already calculating ways to escape.

The cell was a cavern of silence and shadows, its walls slick with moisture that traced slow, glistening paths down the ancient stone. Chains hung slack from the walls, their iron links worn thin with time and use. Water dripped steadily from somewhere unseen, the rhythmic patter against the uneven floor the only sound beyond the distant shuffle of unseen prisoners. The torchlight burned, its feeble glow swallowed by the deep recesses where the darkness seemed to breathe, watchful and patient.

Karzon dropped down against the cold wall, one knee drawn up, his head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling with the detached interest of a man contemplating the layers of bad decisions that had led him there.

Drenna paced like a caged predator, her chains rattling with every sharp turn. Her muttering had escalated from vague threats to a disturbingly detailed list of ways to skin Jorvik and cook him alive—some practical, others requiring a level of culinary expertise she definitely didn't have.

Briena, by contrast, was perfectly still. She sat on the edge of a low stone bench, her posture eerily calm, save for the steady tapping of her fingers against her knee. It was the only sign of her irritation. That, and the way her green eyes gleamed whenever Drenna's pacing brought her too close.

Karzon finally exhaled. "This could be worse."

Drenna shot him a glare. "How?"

Karzon tilted his head. "We could be dead."

Drenna let out a humorless laugh. "Give it a few hours. Rathvell's not exactly known for his hospitality."

Briena finally spoke, her voice measured. "Rathvell won't kill us immediately."

Drenna stopped pacing. "You sound oddly confident about that."

Briena looked at Karzon. "Because if he wanted us dead, he wouldn't have locked us up."

Karzon sighed faintly. "She's right. He wants something first."

"Like what?" Drenna snapped.

Karzon spread his hands lazily. "To know who we were working for, how we got past his security, who forged our invitations. The usual."

Briena sighed, her fingers pressing into her temples. "Then the question becomes: how much time do we have before he realizes we're not going to talk?"

As if in answer, the heavy iron door at the far end of the dungeon groaned open, spilling in a shaft of warm torchlight. The shadows shifted, lengthened, and a single set of boots clicked against the stone as someone stepped inside.

A woman. And not just any woman. It was Lady Veyne.

She stood just beyond the bars, clad in deep blue, the color catching the torchlight like a blade glinting before the kill. She was poised, utterly at ease, one gloved hand resting lightly against the iron bars.

"Well." Her voice was smooth, almost amused. "I must admit, I expected better from you, Karzon."

She was the last person Karzon had expected to see. He buried his surprise beneath a smooth response, slipping into character as fluidly as ever. "And here I thought I made a decent first impression."

He swore he could hear Drenna cursing silently.

Veyne let out a soft, knowing hum. "Jareth told me you'd be reckless. He didn't say you'd be foolish."

"Jareth?"

Veyne lifted a brow, as if mildly disappointed they hadn't figured it out sooner. "He came to me two nights ago. Said you were planning something audacious. Something that, if left unchecked, would result in three very public executions."

Karzon rolled his jaw. He should have known Jareth wouldn't sit idle.

"Let me guess," he drawled. "You're here to save us out of the kindness of your heart?"

Veyne's lips quirked. "Oh, Karzon. You're adorable when you pretend to be naïve."

She reached into the folds of her coat and withdrew a single iron key. One that could bypass the dungeon locks with ease.

Briena shot Karzon a pointed look. "That's convenient."

Drenna folded her arms. "Too convenient."

Veyne merely smiled, unlocking the cell with a smooth flick of her wrist. The heavy iron door swung open, and she stepped aside, watching as Karzon stood first, shaking the stiffness from his limbs before stepping past the threshold.

As Briena and Drenna followed, Veyne spoke again, her voice light.

"I assume you still want what you came for?"

Karzon turned to her, his eyes dark with calculation. "You're helping us?"

Veyne tilted her head. "Helping is a strong word."

She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small silver sigil—a master rune, carved with delicate precision, its edges faintly glowing.

"The vault," she said, "is still within reach. And I'm feeling generous."

Briena frowned. "Generous?"

Veyne's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Let's just say I have my own reasons for wanting to see Rathvell humiliated."

Karzon studied her. That same guarded mischief danced behind her gaze, the one she wore the first night she pressed him to the floorboards of his loft and whispered that nobles lied better in bed. He remembered the curve of her spine, the way she bit his shoulder to keep from crying out his name, the heat that had never quite faded after she walked away. "And the cost?"

Veyne's expression turned almost feline, the look of a predator toying with its prey. "A favor. To be collected at a time of my choosing."

Drenna let out a quiet scoff. "That's vague."

"It's meant to be." Veyne turned her gaze back to Karzon. "Do we have a deal?"

Karzon hesitated just long enough for memory to tug at the edges of resolve. She had never needed to seduce him with magic. Her voice alone could convince a storm to hold its breath. Whatever favor she wanted, it wouldn't be small. Still, his fingers closed around the rune she offered.

"Deal."

Veyne smiled, sharp as glass. "Good. Then let's move."

They moved like ghosts through the lower corridors, slipping past unwatched hallways and torchlit alcoves with practiced ease. Veyne led them through a passage that even Karzon hadn't known existed—a narrow, half-hidden corridor that cut beneath the estate, past the servant quarters, past the guards' barracks, straight to the vault's entrance.

The door was massive. Reinforced steel and ancient enchantments pulsed faintly across its surface. The sigils glowed dimly, as if aware of the presence of intruders.

Karzon stepped forward, pulling the master rune from his coat. He ran his thumb over its intricate carvings, feeling the pulse of magic beneath his fingers.

"This should do it," he murmured.

He pressed the rune against the door.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—a sharp, sudden crack. The enchantments rippled, shimmered, then collapsed inward like falling glass. The heavy steel door groaned, then swung open, revealing the gleaming interior beyond.

Gold. Rows and rows of gold, piled high in glimmering heaps.

Drenna let out a low whistle. "Now that's a sight."

Briena exhaled, shaking her head. "We don't have time to admire it. Move fast."

Karzon didn't need to be told twice. They worked quickly, filling their pouches with as much as they could carry. The weight of the coins was solid, real.

Behind them, Veyne leaned casually against the doorway, watching with a faint smirk. "Efficient."

Karzon threw her a look. "You're enjoying this a little too much."

Veyne's smile was infuriatingly serene. "You have no idea."

Karzon narrowed his eyes. "Should I be worried about how much fun you're having?"

Veyne lifted a delicate shoulder. "Oh, I never have fun. I simply appreciate irony."

Briena rolled her eyes, cinching the strap of her gold-laden satchel. "Whatever philosophical crisis you're having, have it after we leave."

Drenna slung a particularly heavy pouch over her shoulder with a grunt. "I swear, if I pull a muscle stealing from this bastard, I'm making you carry me out."

Karzon smirked. "You'll be fine. Think of it as strength training."

Veyne checked the hallway, then gestured for them to follow. "This way."

They slipped out as easily as they had come in, ghosts in the night, their boots making barely a whisper against the stone. The mansion slumbered on, oblivious.

By the time they reached the servants' exit, Karzon let out a slow breath. Too easy.

Veyne must have seen the suspicion in his face, because she smiled knowingly. "You were expecting a dramatic escape, weren't you?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Karzon muttered.

Drenna exhaled in relief as they reached the open street. "Well, this is a nice change of pace. No swords. No last-minute betrayals. Just us, a mountain of stolen gold, and Rathvell sleeping like an idiot upstairs."

Briena mustered a tiny smile and shook her head, as if she still couldn't believe they had pulled this off. "I almost feel bad for him."

Karzon arched a brow.

Briena's smirk widened. "Almost."

Veyne chuckled, adjusting the gloves on her hands. "He'll wake up in a distinctly bad mood, I imagine."

Karzon smirked, tightening the strap on his satchel. "Good. He can think about that while he's explaining to his guards why he got robbed in his own home."

Briena exhaled, glancing toward the dimly lit streets. "Time we disappeared."

Drenna gave Veyne a long, appraising look. "You know, for someone who pretends to be above all this, you're awfully good at crime."

Veyne pressed a hand to her chest, feigning offense. "Pretends? Please. I'm above it in every way." Then, she smiled—a sharp, knowing thing. "But that doesn't mean I won't indulge when it suits me."

Karzon huffed a quiet laugh. "And when, exactly, will that ‘indulgence' come knocking on my door?"

Veyne tilted her head, her sapphire gown catching the moonlight as if spun from the night itself. "Oh, sooner or later." She stepped forward, just close enough for her voice to drop and grow dangerously smooth. "You do owe me, Karzon. And I always collect."

Karzon held her gaze, searching for the game beneath her words. There was always a game.

Finally, he exhaled, shaking his head. "Fine. But next time, send a letter. I don't like surprises."

Veyne's eyes gleamed with amusement. "You wound me. Surprises are half the fun."

Briena crossed her arms. "Not when we're the ones getting surprised."

Veyne smiled. "I suppose that depends on your definition of fun."

Drenna snorted. "We should go before she starts charging us for conversation."

Veyne smirked but didn't stop them as they turned toward the darkened streets. "Be seeing you," she murmured.

Karzon threw one last glance over his shoulder. "Unfortunately, I don't doubt it."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Dunmarch whispered with the hush of deep night, the cobblestones slick with the memory of an earlier drizzle. Mist clung to the alleyways like ghostly fingers, coiling through the iron grates and shadowed gutters, softening the edges of a city that never truly slept.

Above, the sky stretched in a tapestry of deep indigo and silver, scattered stars blinking through the haze, their light faint against the ever-present glow of lanterns swaying in the cool breeze. The scent of damp earth and old rain mingled with the more stubborn perfumes of the city—roasting chestnuts from a late-night vendor, the brine of the nearby docks, the acrid sting of too many hearth fires burning low.

Karzon led the way, his stride unhurried despite the weight of stolen gold pressing against his back. The night had been theirs, and Dunmarch, for now, was none the wiser.

Briena moved like a shadow beside him as her eyes traced the movement of figures that lurked too long in the alleyways. Drenna, ever the warrior, walked with a deceptive ease—her hands loose, her shoulders relaxed, but Karzon knew she was watching, measuring every step, ready to strike if necessary.

Their path wound through the quieter veins of the city, avoiding the main thoroughfares where watchmen prowled and drunken revelers staggered home from their excesses. The implications of their success sat heavy between them, not in words, but in the silence that stretched as they moved—satisfied, cautious, and victorious.

The Gilded Mare rose ahead, its familiar facade a welcome sight, lanterns glowing in the windows like warm invitations. The sign above the door creaked faintly in the night breeze, worn smooth by years of sun and whispered secrets.

The inn, though, was far from slumbering. A warm, golden light spilled from its windows, beckoning like a friendly lantern in the deepening twilight. Soft laughter, like the tinkling of a hidden spring, drifted out, mingling with the gentle clinking of mugs and the murmur of conversation.

Through the diamond-paned glass, Karzon could see figures huddled around a hearth, their faces illuminated by the firelight, their shadows dancing on the timbered walls.

Karzon pulled his hood lower as they slipped inside. The innkeeper barely spared them a glance, too preoccupied with wiping down the bar and muttering to a half-asleep patron slumped over his drink.

Upstairs, the room was precisely as they had left it, save for the faint scent of dust disturbed by their absence. The floorboards groaned beneath their boots as they entered, and Briena wasted no time throwing off her cloak, tossing it onto the nearest chair before she started packing. Karzon and Drenna followed suit. Within the hour, all their belongings were neatly stashed into their bags.

Drenna cracked the door open to scan the hallway, and gave them a brief thumbs-up. "Clear."

They moved quickly, slipping out of the inn through the side entrance on light feet until they got to the stables. Karzon eyed his companions. "We need to move through the woods to avoid discovery. Rathvell's not going to let this go. So⁠—"

Briena nodded tightly. "We can't take the horses."

Drenna cursed under her breath. "What do we do?"

"I know someone."

Both women frowned at Karzon.

"Unsurprisingly." Briena hoisted herself into Tyrcel's saddle. "They can take care of the horses?"

"Better than most." Karzon followed suit, and then Drenna. "Let's go."

Their destination was clear—the next safe haven, the inn where they had agreed to meet Harren.

At the city's outskirts, in the shadow of a crumbling watchtower, they made the painful decision to part ways with their horses. But abandoning them outright was out of the question.

A few streets away, nestled behind a weathered stone inn, was the sturdy, albeit small stable of an old friend—Taron, a former sellsword turned livery master.

Strands of hay lay scattered across the packed dirt floor, and polished saddles lined the walls, their leather gleaming in the dim light. Horses shifted in their stalls, the rustle of hooves against straw punctuated by the sharp clang of tools as Taron worked.

At their arrival, he looked up from where he was tightening a saddle strap, his grizzled features creasing in a knowing smirk.

"Trouble?" he asked, already eyeing their travel-worn mounts.

"When isn't there?" Karzon handed over his reins. "Can you keep them here for a time? Just until things cool down."

Taron hummed thoughtfully. "Depends on what ‘things' you've stirred up this time." He sighed, shaking his head. "Aye, I'll see to them. But if the city guard comes sniffing, I don't know a damn thing."

Taron ran a hand down the flank of Karzon's gelding, his touch instinctive and careful, checking for tension or strain. He muttered something under his breath—half reassurance, half habit—as the horse flicked an ear and settled beneath his care.

Karzon already knew Taron would lay his life down for the horses, regardless of how much he complained. He'd nearly done it years ago, when a noble's warband had stormed through the countryside, cutting down anything in their path—including the prized stallions they couldn't steal. Taron had stood firm, blade drawn, guarding the stable doors like they were the gates to his own home. He had taken a spear to the shoulder for his trouble, but the horses had lived.

Karzon had been there that night, pressing a wineskin into Taron's good hand as they sat by the fire, blood drying on his tunic.

They weren't childhood friends, not exactly, but their pasts were tangled together in a way that didn't need explanation. Years of crossed paths, quiet favors, and dangers faced side by side had built a trust that required no words and no tallying of debts.

Their horses were safe there. Karzon nodded to Briena and Drenna once he had said his goodbye. Even though the pain of parting was sharp, they could not afford to linger.

Briena lingered the longest, her hand resting against Tyrcel's strong neck, her fingers lightly tangling in the gelding's mane. The chestnut huffed softly, pressing against her as if he knew something was wrong.

"You're in good hands." Briena murmured, her voice low, more a promise to herself than anyone else.

Karzon adjusted the satchel at his side, watching her carefully. "Leaving them behind buys us time. The watch will be scouring the roads for riders, not three travelers on foot."

Drenna muttered a curse as she rubbed her chin, shaking her head. "Hells, this stings." She gave her own steed a firm pat on the flank, her jaw tight. "If I find so much as a scratch on her when we return, someone's getting thrown in a river."

Taron snorted. "Scratch? You should be worrying about spoiled attitudes. They'll be eating better than most of the city while you're off playing fugitive."

Briena huffed a quiet laugh, finally stepping back. "Good. They deserve it."

Something inside Briena had stirred, a quiet ache that resonated deep in her bones. It was a knowing, a whisper of farewell carried on the wind.

She understood, with a melancholic certainty, that it would be a long, long while before she saw their four-footed friends again. Not just the horses, not just the sturdy, reliable beasts of burden, but Tyrcel… Tyrcel was different.

He wasn't just a mount. He was a presence. A constant. A creature who had bloomed beneath Briena's quiet hand, who had learned her silences and matched them with his own. He had given back every ounce of care with the kind of loyalty that only came once, and never twice.

But age had caught up to him. She'd known it in the way he moved lately—just a little slower, with a stiffness in his gait at sunrise, a heaviness in his breath after long rides. He had done his part, more than once, and she wouldn't ask him to do it again.

He had earned peace.

With that, they slipped into the back alleys and through the woods, leaving behind hoofbeats and familiar warmth for the uncertain path ahead.

By midday, The Gilded Mare was far behind them, the weight of pursuit easing with every mile. At the outskirts of the forest, they stopped to rest at an inn, its low stone walls softened by moss and time. Smoke curled lazily from the crooked chimney, and the scent of fresh bread and pine sap drifted on the cold morning air. It wasn't busy—just a few hunters warming themselves by the hearth and a grizzled man stacking firewood near the stable. Safe enough for a short stop.

Karzon led the way inside, hood drawn low. Briena and Drenna followed without a word, boots caked with forest soil, cloaks dusty and sun-faded.

A hearthfire crackled in the corner, and a pale-haired serving girl motioned them to a corner table with little more than a nod. They didn't ask for a room. Just food.

The warmth was a balm, and the scent of roasted root vegetables and spiced sausage filled the air as steaming plates were set before them. They ate quickly, saying little. It wasn't until the door swung open and two merchants stepped inside—shaking the chill from their cloaks and speaking far too loudly—that Karzon's ears perked.

"I'm telling you, he's beside himself," the first man was saying, his voice carrying. "Whole estate on lockdown. Servants questioned. Gates closed. Half the city's whispering about it."

"Didn't they say it was clean? Whoever did it left no trail?"

"Aye," the man muttered. "That's what has him so pissed. His gold's gone, and he doesn't even know how."

Across the table, Drenna smirked behind her mug.

Karzon said nothing. He only cut a final bite of sausage, chewed, and swallowed.

The girl from before returned with a pot of hot tea and an inquisitive look. "You lot headed somewhere?" she asked. "Before the snow sets in?"

Karzon glanced up, expression calm. "We're trying to get to Dunmarch."

She blinked. "Long way still."

He gave a tired shrug. "We're not in a rush."

She smiled and left without further questions.

When the door closed behind her, Briena leaned in, voice low. "You sure that's the trail we want to leave?"

"I want them to think we're headed toward the city instead of running from it," Karzon replied.

Drenna snorted. "Smart."

They finished their meal in silence, wiped their hands, and rose.

By evening, they'd made their way to the quieter outskirts of Felltide, where the Copper Flask stood.

The inn was a smaller establishment than The Gilded Mare, tucked between a tailor's shop and a spice merchant's storefront. Less crowded, less conspicuous. Karzon breathed a sigh of relief as they stepped inside to the glow of low-burning lanterns pooled across scarred wooden tables, their brass fittings dulled with age and smoke. The scent of slow-roasted meat, rich and peppered, mingled with the deep tang of spilled ale soaked into the floorboards over years of careless revelry. A fire crackled in the stone hearth, its embers casting restless shadows against the soot-darkened walls.

The patrons were a scattered collection—grizzled traders nursing their cups in brooding silence, off-duty sellswords sharing quiet murmurs over half-eaten meals, and a few weary travelers hunched over their plates, their cloaks still damp with the evening's mist. They paid little mind to newcomers, their gazes moving up only long enough to assess before returning to their drinks. It was the kind of crowd that had seen enough trouble to know when to ignore it.

Drenna stretched, wincing slightly. "If this one doesn't have beds, I'm sleeping on the floor."

Karzon grinned as he spotted Harren in the farthest corner of the tavern, seated at a table worn smooth. "Let's see if we can manage one night without another disaster."

The old man had positioned himself with his back to the wall, as always, his sharp gaze sweeping the room before settling on Karzon. A tankard sat half-drained beside him, the foam clinging to its rim like the last vestiges of caution before a wager.

Without a word, Karzon slipped into the chair across from him, setting his satchel down with a dull thud between them. The weight of it spoke louder than any greeting. Harren arched a brow, fingers drumming idly against the table's surface as Karzon loosened the ties and nudged the bag forward.

"As promised," Karzon said.

Harren didn't reach for it immediately. Instead, he lifted the tankard to his lips, taking a slow sip before speaking. "Didn't think you'd pull it off," he admitted, voice as rough as the road-worn leather of his boots. "Figured I'd be chasing your ghost across Dunmarch by now."

Karzon grinned. "And yet, here I am."

Harren finally pulled the satchel closer, untying the strings and parting the fabric. Gold glinted in the dim light, catching on the lanterns like a promise well-kept.

He let out a low whistle, sifting through the coins with calloused fingers, weighing them one by one as if testing their worth beyond their shine.

"Fair's fair," he said after a moment, cinching the satchel shut. "This settles what was lost. But tell me, Karzon—what's next?"

Karzon leaned back, arms folding across his chest as he scrutinized Harren. "Haven't decided yet."

Harren chuckled deeply, knowingly. "That's a lie."

Karzon tilted his head, silent.

The older man shook his head, amused. "You're not built to sit still. Gold like this won't last, and you know it." He tapped the side of the satchel with two fingers. "I've heard whispers. Good coin for a man with your... particular talents."

Briena and Drenna, seated nearby, shared a glance.

Karzon's expression didn't shift. "I'm listening."

They had coin now—enough to move quietly, to keep ahead of the trouble at their backs. But money never lasted long, and he knew better than to rely on a fortune that had come by theft. What he needed now wasn't just distance. It was purpose. Something that would keep them moving without drawing too many eyes, something that paid, but more than that—something that gave him the space to use his magic.

Because whatever had been sleeping inside him was no longer silent, and every time he called on it, it answered with more clarity, more strength, more questions. If he stayed still, if he buried it again beneath the weight of practical survival, he would lose the chance to understand what it truly was. He needed to keep making money, because money meant time and resources which, in turn, would allow him to learn more about his magic.

Harren leaned in slightly, his voice dropping low—not for secrecy, but out of habit. "There's a job in the west. Trade routes are being hit harder than usual, and merchants are paying through the teeth for someone to track down whoever's responsible."

Karzon's fingers tapped once against the table, considering. "Too much noise."

Harren nodded, as if expecting the answer. "Then there's another option. A caravan at Murkwatch, waiting to move to the outskirts of Dunmarch—" He raised a hand before Karzon could protest or deny the job outright. "You'd be helping it get to the woods beyond the far north, miles away from the main city where the nobles live. It's loaded with goods that need ‘independent escorts.'"

Drenna frowned. "Smugglers?"

Harren shrugged. "Traders who prefer to save their goods and their heads." His gaze sharpened as he studied Karzon. "It'll be tough, but I hear the pay is worth it."

Karzon considered it, but he knew better than to commit without weighing his options.

Harren, sensing his hesitation, took a slow drink from his tankard before setting it down with a dull clunk. "You're looking for something big, aren't you?"

Karzon tilted his head slightly. "Something that pays and keeps me breathing." They needed a job that would keep them outside Rathvell's radar while paying well. It would need to be a fresh start.

Harren leaned back, nodding toward the far end of the tavern. "That caravan job? It's not just about protecting goods. Word is, they're moving something valuable enough that someone's already tried hitting them twice. Whoever's behind it won't stop till they get what they want."

Briena frowned, sitting forward. "And what is it they're moving?"

"Not just coin," Harren said. "Something enchanted. Maybe even Aetherglass."

Karzon went still.

Briena and Drenna exchanged glances. Aetherglass—if true, it meant the job was far more than just another smuggling run. It meant power. And possibly, another lead on Whisper's network.

Harren studied Karzon's face, then let out a knowing breath. "You're interested."

Karzon didn't bother denying it. "Maybe. But if we're taking a job like this, we need a stronger front line. Someone in heavy armor who can take a hit while the rest of us do what we do best."

Harren released a sound from his throat—something between a chuckle and a bark. "Thought you might say that."

He turned his head and gave a sharp whistle. From the back of the tavern, three figures rose.

They weren't tall, but they didn't need to be. They moved with the easy confidence of warriors who had seen enough fights to know they were still standing for a reason.

Three dwarven women strode toward the table, their armor gleaming in the dim firelight.

The first, broad-shouldered and steady, had a shield nearly as large as she was strapped to her back. Her tawny braids were threaded with silver rings, and her sharp gray eyes sized up Karzon with a calculating expression.

The second had a heavier build, her plated gauntlets covered in fresh dents. Her thick auburn hair was pulled into a tight knot, and her expression was unreadable as she leaned one hand on the hilt of a hammer almost as tall as she was.

The third was leaner than the others but no less armored. Her steel-plated boots clicked softly as she moved, her posture relaxed but alert. She had an axe at her hip and a smirk that suggested she was already taking bets on how long Karzon would last in a fight.

Harren gestured between them. "Meet your new front line. If you can keep up, that is."

Karzon exhaled slowly, taking them in. Then, finally, a slow grin tugged at his lips.

"Well, now," he murmured, leaning back in his chair. "This certainly changes things."

Briena arched her brow at the fighters and looked at Karzon. "So. What next?"

Karzon exhaled, drumming his fingers against the table.

"That," he said, "is a problem for after dinner."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Copper Flask was not a place of grandeur, but to weary travelers with full satchels and empty stomachs, it was nothing short of a sanctuary.

The warmth of spiced roast and fresh bread curled through the space, rich and inviting, sinking deep into the bones like an unspoken promise of comfort. It was the kind of richness that wrapped around the senses, evoking memories of hearth and home—of fleeting safety in a world where such things never lasted.

Their table sat near a great stone hearth, where a fire burned low, its embers pulsing like a heartbeat in the dimly lit room. A hush had settled over the inn that was not silence, but something softer, the easy murmur of conversations winding down, of tankards clinking without urgency.

Drenna, who had declared herself half-starved the moment they crossed the threshold, was already leaning forward as the innkeeper approached, carrying a broad wooden tray.

"Good news," he grunted, setting down a feast fit for nobility, or at least, the kind of nobility that knew how to wield a sword. "Boar's fresh off the spit, stew's been slow-cooked since dawn, and the bread's still warm."

Karzon inhaled deeply, the rich scents wrapping around him like an old friend. The flight from Dunmarch had left him feeling starved, too.

The stew, rich and dark with the depth of marrow and spice, swayed gently as the innkeeper ladled it into deep clay bowls. Steam spiraled upward, carrying the warmth of garlic and rosemary, of slow-cooked beef that had melted into tender perfection.

Between them sat a fresh loaf of bread, its crust golden and crisp, with a dusting of flour like the first touch of morning frost. Beside it, a small dish of salted butter gleamed, pale and creamy, ready to be spread in indulgent swirls.

And the boar with its skin crisped to perfection, glistening under the dim light, fragrant with cloves and honey, was placed at the center of the table, its juices pooling around it like an offering to the gods.

Drenna's eyes glowed with anticipation. "I take back everything bad I said about today." She reached for her knife, slicing into the meat with the ease of someone far too familiar with blades.

Briena, ever more measured, simply smiled, breaking off a piece of bread and slathering it with butter before passing the dish along. She caught Karzon's gaze as she did, her green eyes glinting with something unreadable.

"You keep looking at the food like it's a puzzle," she remarked. "Eat."

Karzon huffed a quiet laugh. He hadn't realized he'd been staring. Maybe it was the moment—the sheer normalcy of sitting down to a meal, of warmth after cold stone, of firelight instead of torch-lit corridors.

He picked up his spoon and took his first bite of the stew. It was perfect. The kind of meal that slowed the world down, that made even a thief, a mercenary, and a runaway feel, just for a moment, like they were home.

Drenna, already halfway through her second helping, groaned in satisfaction. "If we ever get rich, I'm hiring this cook."

Briena coughed delicately, swirling the deep red wine in her goblet. "If we ever get rich, you'll drink through your share in a week."

Drenna waved a dismissive hand, still chewing.

For a time, there was nothing but the steady rhythm of eating, of tankards being raised and lowered, of the fire crackling, stretching its warmth toward them like a lazy cat.

Across from them, three dwarven women sat comfortably; ‘comfortably' meant different things for each of them.

Orla, broad-shouldered and red-haired, leaned forward with her arms crossed over the table, her sharp green eyes sweeping over them like a jeweler appraising a gem. Mira, blonde and fox-like, lounged back in her seat, one boot hooked over the leg of Karzon's chair, idly twirling a dagger between her fingers.

Elska, the tallest of the three, with dark curls and a gaze like tempered steel, sipped her ale with quiet amusement, observing the newcomers as if she had already decided their fates but wasn't in a hurry to share.

Karzon set down his goblet, glancing toward Harren, who sat to the left of the table with his usual no-nonsense expression, though there was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.

"So," Karzon said, tilting his head. "You three are the ones who'll be keeping me from getting stabbed in the gut?"

Orla smirked, resting her forearms on the table. "That depends. Are you the kind of fool who runs into a fight without thinking?"

Briena snorted softly into her wine.

Drenna grinned. "Oh, you're going to love him."

Karzon sighed theatrically. "I can already feel the respect in the air."

Mira's dagger stilled between her fingers. "You a good fighter?"

Karzon shrugged. "I get by."

Elska finally spoke, her voice smooth as dark honey. "Harren says you're worth backing. That you need a shield wall." She lifted a brow. "We're listening."

Harren leaned forward, tapping his fingers against the table. "You need someone to take the hits for you, Karzon. Here they are. Best damned shieldbearers in the region, if you've got the coin to keep them fed and ale to keep them happy."

Orla reached for the loaf of bread in the center of the table, tearing off a piece and slathering it with butter. "You're thinking of hiring us, but you don't know a damned thing about us, do you?"

Karzon met her gaze. "I've summed up a bit from what Harren just told me."

Orla chuckled. "And what was that?"

Karzon smirked. "That you hit hard, drink harder, and that if I cross you, my kneecaps are as good as dust."

Elska let out a quiet laugh, taking another sip of her ale. "He's not wrong."

Mira grinned. "But we'd be gentle about it. Probably."

Drenna leaned in, grinning. "I like them."

Briena, who had been watching the exchange with mild amusement, finally spoke. "What's in it for you?"

Orla tore into the bread, chewing thoughtfully. "A proper contract. A good fight. A bigger cut than we'd get taking small mercenary work." She wiped a crumb from her mouth. "And frankly? You lot look like you're going to find trouble faster than it finds you."

Mira winked at Karzon. "That makes you valuable."

Karzon exhaled, watching them. He had expected brutes in rusted armor. Instead, he was sitting across from warriors, seasoned and shrewd, with sharp eyes and sharper tongues.

Briena was all light and softness, the very sun caught in motion.

The dwarves, though… Karzon had met many warriors, but these three were something else entirely. Women of stone and soil, built for endurance, for battle, for survival.

And, in their own way, they were beautiful.

Exactly what they needed.

Briena caught Karzon's eye. He could see the thought forming there, the unspoken question: Do we trust them?

Karzon reached for his goblet, swirling the deep red wine. "So, let's talk numbers."

Elska set her mug down with a quiet thud. "Let's."

The conversation turned serious. The terms were laid out; they covered the shares of gold, the supplies, and the details of their first contract together. The dwarves negotiated like traders in a high court, their words shrewd, their conditions clear. By the time the last tankard was emptied and the last plate wiped clean of sauce, an agreement had been struck.

Harren pushed back from the table with a satisfied grunt. "That settles it. You've got your vanguard, Karzon." He rose, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. "And now, I'll leave you to whatever madness you're planning next."

Karzon smirked. "You don't want to stay for another drink?"

Harren snorted. "I have better ways to ruin my liver." With a final nod to the group, he strode toward the door.

For a brief moment, silence settled over the table.

"So." Karzon looked at all the women assembled around him, his lower lip twitching faintly. "It's decided then. We head to Murkwatch."

The job was good, and would bring dangerous, but honest coin. Besides, they'd need both money and movement to stay ahead of the mess they'd left behind. Still, it wasn't just about survival. Murkwatch would take them closer to the outer roads nearer to deep dungeons, the undercircuits, where stolen goods changed hands, and word of magic, or ghosts like Whisper, tended to surface.

Karzon didn't say any of that aloud.

Beneath the quiet optimism in his voice, part of him still seethed at the thought of everything that had been taken from him—supplies, coin, gear, leads that had taken months to track. They'd bled him dry when he was already half-broken. This trip might lead to nothing more than coin and another set of problems. But maybe, just maybe, Murkwatch would turn up a thread that would help Karzon understand why all this strangeness seemed to follow him around, and maybe he'd finally get to hit back.

Drenna grinned. "Well. This is going to be fun."

Mira tapped the hilt of her dagger against the table. "Depends on your definition of fun."

Briena arched a brow. "If you mean getting stabbed repeatedly, then yes. It'll be a grand time."

Orla grinned. "Then let's hope our new employer is good at keeping us alive." She nodded toward Karzon, tilting her mug in a mock toast. "No pressure, boss."

Karzon exhaled, shaking his head as he reached for the last bite of bread.

He officially had a new team.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The Copper Flask drowsed in the hush of late night, a stillness that came only when tankards ran dry, appetites were sated, and the hearth's embers smoldered in their cradle of stone.

The deep, mouthwatering scent of spiced roast and freshly baked bread lingered, while the beams overhead, blackened by years of rising smoke, stood as silent witnesses to a thousand nights like this. The revelry had ebbed, the laughter softened, and now, like autumn leaves caught in a gentle breeze, the last of the evening's company drifted away into the waiting dark.

Drenna slouched in her chair, arms draped lazily over the backrest, her mug tilting precariously in her grasp.

The conversation had wound down to nothing but the occasional grunt of satisfaction between bites of boar, but Karzon caught the telltale glassiness in her eyes, the slight sway in her movements—that was the look of a woman teetering at the edge of drinking herself into regret.

She made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh. "Right," she muttered, planting her hands on the table like she needed to make sure the world was still solid. "If I don't stop now, I'm either fighting or marrying someone, and I'm too tired for both."

Mira smirked and tipped her own tankard toward Drenna. "Sounds like quitter's talk."

Drenna waved her off, rising to her feet with the exaggerated care of someone who knew she wasn't walking in a straight line. "If I wake up with a headache, I'm blaming all of you."

Orla, the broadest of the three dwarves, stretched her arms behind her head. "You do that. I'll be too busy sleeping like a queen."

Elska, the least boisterous of the three, merely pushed back her chair and stood, her armor shifting with a metallic rasp. "We'll see you at dawn."

The dwarves left together, their footfalls heavy but sure, with the ease of seasoned warriors who knew the world would wait until morning before demanding anything of them.

Karzon let his eyes linger on them for half a breath longer than necessary; they'd be useful, no doubt about that. The kind of people you wanted at your back when things got ugly.

Mira, in particular, had a sharpness about her, an energy that made him wonder if she fought with the same reckless abandon that she drank.

An interesting thought. But one for another time.

The dwarves and Drenna leaving meant that only he and Briena remained at the table.

She had been quiet for most of the meal, not withdrawn but listening, watching, the way she always did when something was pulling at her thoughts. Now, with only the two of them left at the table, Karzon could see the shift in her shoulders, the way she rolled her cup between her hands as though debating whether to speak or let the moment pass.

He tipped his chair back, resting a boot against the leg of the table. "What's on your mind?"

Briena exhaled, barely above a whisper. "Dunmarch."

Karzon arched a brow. "Homesick already?"

She scoffed with a small shake of her head. "Not for the city." A pause. Then, softer, "For her."

It took him half a second before the pieces clicked into place. She spoke of the mare her soul had connected to back in Dumarch. Elaris.

He hadn't seen the horse himself, only heard the way Briena spoke of her, as if the creature had been cut from the night sky, stitched together with the light of distant stars. Karzon had never known an elf who didn't treat their mounts as more than just beasts, but this was something else.

"You think she's waiting for you?" he asked.

Briena lifted her chin. "I know she is."

He could have argued. Could have pointed out that any noble with an eye for fine stock would have snatched up a horse like that the moment coin hit the stable master's palm. But something in her voice stopped him. It wasn't just longing; it was certainty.

Karzon studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "I have a feeling you will find your way back to her."

She met his gaze, eyes searching his face for any sign of doubt. When she found none, she gave the smallest of smiles, the kind that barely lifted the corners of her mouth but softened something in her expression.

They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling behind them, casting long shadows against the walls. Outside, the night pressed in, the road ahead waiting.

Karzon flexed his fingers slowly, watching the firelight flicker along the ridges of his hands. He leaned back and closed his eyes, tiredness settling deep into his bones. He had no certain way of knowing where this was leading. He had no teacher. No name for the thing unraveling inside him. Was he meant to chase it? Control it? Bury it and keep walking?

What if he was headed in the wrong direction?

What if this power was more curse than gift?

He breathed in the scent of woodsmoke and old pine, letting it fill his lungs and quiet his mind. Then, without warning, there was a shift. A breeze moved through the room, soft and sudden, stirring the fire just enough to shift the shadows.

With it came something that wasn't sound, exactly. Not a voice in the ordinary sense. But the impression of one, low and ancient, curling into his thoughts like smoke seeping through the cracks of old stone.

You'll find what you're looking for on the path ahead.

His eyes snapped open. He sat upright, breath caught somewhere between fear and recognition, his skin pale in the firelight.

Across the table, Briena's brows furrowed. "What is it?"

He blinked once. The air had stilled again. The fire crackled as it always had.

"Nothing," he said, though the echo still rang in his mind. "Just thinking about the job ahead."

Briena nodded before bestowing a small smile on Karzon. "You know, for someone who pretends to be reckless, you plan ahead more than you let on."

Karzon grinned, leaning back. "Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my reputation."

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head.

The night stretched on, the warmth of the hearth settling deep into their bones.

There was a moment, brief but undeniable, where neither of them spoke, where the weight of everything—the job, the journey, the unspoken things between them—hung in the air, waiting for someone to acknowledge it.

Karzon pushed back from the table. "We should get some rest."

Briena nodded, standing. "Drenna will kill us if we oversleep."

They made their way upstairs, the tavern settling into silence behind them.

The stairs groaned softly beneath their steps as Karzon and Briena climbed, the golden glow of the Copper Flask receding behind them like the last embers of a fire.

The upstairs hall stretched ahead, flanked by sturdy wooden doors and steeped in the rich fragrance of aged timber. The inn had surrendered to the hush of late night, where voices murmured through the walls like whispers in a dream, and the faint clatter of distant kitchen work dwindled into silence.

Briena paused before the second door on the left, her fingers resting on the latch. For a moment, she hesitated, casting a glance back at him, as if weighing unspoken words in the quiet between them.

"Well," she murmured, voice low enough that it hardly touched the quiet between them. "Looks like we made it through another day."

Karzon exhaled through his nose, tipping his head toward his own door down the hall. "Barely."

A smile tugged at her lips, but her eyes traveled over him in the way they always did when she was thinking too much, seeing too much. He didn't need to ask what was on her mind.

The road ahead. Tyrcel. Elaris. The fight that always seemed to find them.

"Get some rest, Briena." He leaned against his doorframe, arms crossed, voice easy. "We leave in the morning."

She gave a quiet nod, slipping inside her room without another word. The latch clicked shut.

Karzon stood there a moment longer, staring at the grain of the wooden planks, at the space where she had been. Then he shook his head and stepped into his own room.

The bed was comfortable enough, but sleep didn't come easily. He lay there, staring at the dark ceiling, mind restless with thoughts of gleaming Aetherglass gauntlets and the weight of responsibility.

Healers weren't supposed to fight.

That was what the temples had always said. Healers stayed in the back, safe behind the line, working their craft while warriors bled for them.

But Karzon had never been one for rules. His body ached from days on the road, but beneath the exhaustion was something else, something sharper. This was anticipation.

He let his eyes close. His dreams were full that night—an elf with hair spun from moonbeams, a fire that swallowed everything, gold… and Whisper.

Morning came far too quickly, the golden light slanting through the narrow window and stretching long across the wooden floor. The smell of baking bread and fried sausage drifted up from below, the distant clang of metal against metal signaling the early risers preparing for the road.

Karzon dressed quickly, buckling his belt, adjusting the straps of his boots, rolling his shoulders until the stiffness worked itself out.

He heard movement in the hall—Drenna, muttering about how the sun was an affront to good people everywhere—and then a familiar knock.

"Up yet?" Briena's voice came through the door, teasing but edged with impatience.

Karzon swung the door open, smirking. "I don't know, am I?"

She gave him a once-over, as if genuinely assessing. "You look alive."

Downstairs, the dwarven warriors were already gathered. Mira was polishing the edge of her axe, while Orla adjusted the straps of her plated gauntlets. Elska was finishing a bowl of steaming porridge, her dark curls half-tamed in a rough braid.

"You two take forever," Mira called, not looking up from her work.

Drenna groaned as she slid into a chair. "Tell me we're not riding out immediately. I need something stronger than tea before I deal with the open road."

Karzon grabbed a slice of bread from a passing tray, chewing as he spoke. "You can drink when we lay camp for the night."

Elska quirked a brow, setting her bowl down with a hollow clunk. "Efficient. I like it."

A sizeable chunk of their coin vanished with the cost of the meal, and then they were back on the road. By midday, the sun rode high above the trees, throwing silver light across a narrow trail that wove through thickets and crooked undergrowth. The road to Murkwatch was no true road at all, more a winding spine of packed dirt and broken stone where even the trees leaned inward, their gnarled branches lacing together above to cast the path in dappled shadow.

This was the first time they were all traveling together as a unit, the newly expanded company now a fuller, stranger shape. Karzon hung near the center of the line, letting the rhythm of the march settle around him while his gaze drifted between the trees, always listening. He hadn't said much since they left the inn, and no one had pressed for conversation. It was enough to walk in quiet for now, to learn each other's paces.

The three dwarves stayed loosely ahead, never far. They moved with the easy confidence of women who had seen too many things to startle easily and cared little for the opinions of men who hadn't. They were built like carved stone—broad-shouldered, powerful, their long braids tied back beneath travel-worn hoods—and while their armor wasn't the refined plating of southern soldiers, it hugged their curves and bore the scuffs of survival. There was an unapologetic sensuality about the way they carried their weapons slung casually over their backs, hips swaying with unbothered rhythm as they joked among themselves in bursts of low, melodic Dwarvish, their laughter deep and unashamed.

At one point, the tallest of the three, Orla, turned back with a smirk, eyes glinting in the shadowed light. "Still watching our strides, human?" she asked without malice. "You'll get sore trying to keep up."

Karzon didn't answer aloud. He only offered a dry look and adjusted the strap on his shoulder. Briena, walking just behind him, bit back a smile and kept her gaze forward.

The woods deepened as the day wore on, the path twisting through dense underbrush and gnarled roots. Even the wind grew quieter, threading softly between the trees like it didn't want to be heard.

By the time the sun began to dip behind the hills, casting the forest in rich bands of gold and violet, Karzon's feet were aching and his shoulders were damp beneath the weight of his cloak. They'd made good distance, more than he'd expected for a first day, but there was no sign yet of the caravan. That was expected. They wouldn't reach the rendezvous until the next night, if all went well.

Just before true dark fell, the scent of woodsmoke hit their nostrils. It wasn't the harsh stink of a bandit camp or the musty reek of half-cooked food. Karzon raised a hand to slow the party, and they eased into the shadows without breaking stride, each member of the group shifting into caution instinctively. The trees began to thin slightly ahead, and between the trunks, he caught glimpses of a strange light waxing and waning; soft and blue, it moved with too much design to be torchfire.

As they stepped into the edge of a clearing, the source became clear.

There was a small encampment just beyond the treeline, a neat circle of low tents. Magical sigils were etched into the dirt, glowing faintly in the dusk. The wards shimmered with runic detail, pulsing softly in time with unseen rhythms. At the center, half a dozen mages, maybe more, sat cross-legged around conjured heat, the fire seeming to hover a few inches above the ground, held in place by whispered spells and precise control.

As they approached the outer ward, a figure rose from the circle and walked toward them. He moved without urgency, his steps smooth, the hem of his robe brushing against the leaves with barely a sound. He wore no armor, carried no staff. His cloak was plain, though the fabric held the weight of long travel. Sewn into the left shoulder was an old insignia Karzon recognized at once, not from personal knowledge but from every border tale he'd heard, every campfire rumor that held just enough truth to stick.

A crescent moon wrapped in a lattice of branches.

The symbol was older than most books and belonged to a group people rarely spoke of directly. Scholars, wanderers, and wielders of magic too ancient to tame, known as the Arcanum. The Arcanum had no king and no keep. They served no kingdom, but wherever the threads of raw magic frayed or twisted, someone bearing that mark was never far behind.

Karzon stopped at the edge of the clearing, watching the man approach. He didn't reach for a weapon, didn't raise his voice. He simply met the mage's eyes and waited.

The man studied him for a moment with the quiet focus of someone used to watching more than speaking. Then he inclined his head slightly, not as greeting but as acknowledgment.

"You've come a long way." His voice was touched with an accent Karzon couldn't place. "And not only by distance."

Karzon didn't answer. He wasn't sure there was anything to say. The magic inside him was stirring again, faint but insistent, like it recognized something here. Not the man, but the work, the circle, the fire held in balance.

The mage looked past him for a moment, scanning the rest of the group, then back again.

He inclined his head as they approached. "Travelers. You're welcome to share the fire, but you'd best move on by morning."

Drenna snorted. "Not the warmest invitation."

The mage's expression didn't shift. "This world is changing too quickly. Overstaying a welcome is not the wisest option."

Karzon exchanged a glance with Briena before stepping forward. "You're researchers."

The mage studied him for a moment before nodding. "We're observers. The land changes, the magic shifts. We keep records."

Mira crossed her arms. "Records of what?"

The man's gaze drifted toward the nearest tent, where a slab of stone lay beneath a canopy, its surface carved with ancient script.

"The gems," he said simply. "They are spreading."

A hush settled over the group. Briena was the first to speak. "You mean the dungeon cores?"

The mage's fingers flexed at his sides, as if resisting the urge to grab something unseen. "Yes. They are no longer contained. The land is waking."

Karzon frowned. They'd always known the gems were dangerous since they were the sources of endless monsters, the cause of dungeon spills and the horrors they unleashed. But this?

"How bad is it?"

The mage exhaled, gaze dark. "Bad enough that even the Arcanum is afraid."

That was answer enough.

They gathered near the fire against the creeping cold. The mage unwrapped a bundle of parchment-thin leaves to reveal a whole river fish, its silver skin crisped and splitting, the scent of salt and char curling into the air.

He broke the flesh apart with careful hands, dividing it among them, laying each portion onto rounds of flatbread softened by steam.

Karzon accepted his with thanks, the pleasant warmth of the food seeping into his fingers. He peeled a sliver of fish away, chewing absently with his thoughts adrift—circling back to the healer's gear and the weight of what lay ahead. If the dungeons were worsening, he needed to be ready.

The fire had burned down to its core. What remained wasn't a blaze, but a steady glow that cast a circle of gold against the dark, painting the dirt in molten patches and stretching shadows toward the trees. Around the mage camp, the silence had deepened into something unnatural. There was no idle conversation, no shifting of bedrolls or clatter of tools. Just the quiet hiss of rune-lit wards and the slow, living pulse of conjured flame.

Karzon sat near the edge of the ring, a little removed from the others. The day had begun to settle in his limbs, but he couldn't sleep, not with his magic stirring the way it did in this place. It pressed at the edges of his skin like steam building in stone, faint but insistent, never quite letting him forget it was there. He breathed slowly and let the stillness wrap around him, though it did nothing to calm the tension beneath his ribs.

He wasn't alone for long.

A shape stepped from the far side of the clearing, emerging not with a rustle or a word, but as if the darkness itself had decided to take form. The figure moved without haste, cloaked in red so dark it bordered on black. She stopped just beyond the ring of firelight, where her face remained shadowed beneath the hood, but something in her posture pulled at him, straight-backed and entirely certain of her place.

Karzon didn't speak. He waited, blade still in hand but resting idly across his knee.

"You have magic," she said.

Her voice was quiet and clear, but there was no emotion in it. No awe, no accusation. She simply stated it, like one might observe the weather or the phase of the moon.

He watched her. "I do."

She said nothing in response, only stared. The fire shifted behind her, and for a moment her hood tilted just enough to reveal a glimpse of her lips: full, soft, and exquisitely shaped, they were like a secret meant to be tasted rather than told. "You travel with women."

The way she said it was neither question nor statement. It was something different than that. Something placed into the air like a stone dropped into water, ripples of implication spreading outward.

Karzon didn't answer. There was nothing to say that would not invite more than he wanted to give.

She took another step forward. Just one. Her boots touched the edge of the firelight, and her shadow stretched until it nearly reached his feet. "I can help you."

He narrowed his eyes. "Help me with what?"

She tilted her head slightly. "To keep others from taking what is yours."

Before he could ask her what that meant, she turned. Her cloak stirred once in the low breeze, brushing the dirt, then vanished between the trees.

Karzon stayed where he was, not trusting his legs to follow. The fire crackled again, louder than before. The moment she had carved into the night seemed to stretch and then fold in on itself like a closing wound.

He stood slowly, his gaze drifting to the trees where she had gone.

Her magic had left a presence, like the memory of heat on skin long after the flame had passed. Somewhere, far beyond the warded circle, something answered it.

A sudden gust of wind pressed through the trees, carrying with it the scent of ash and disturbed earth. The wards around the mage camp flared, just slightly, like a breath held too long.

He wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his blade, feeling the steel in his grip. His magic stirred again, not gently this time, and the world around him seemed to pause.

Far beyond the edge of the trees, a single branch cracked.

Before Karzon could respond, the night shattered.

The brush beyond the camp stirred, a rustling just out of place enough to set nerves on edge. A growl, low and creeping, curled through the darkness like a warning.

It was followed by a resonant howl, not a lone creature's cry, but a chorus of them; their voices thick with hunger, with malice, with something ancient and patient that had waited for this moment to strike. The sound rippled through the night, setting the very air on edge, a reverberation that crawled through the ground beneath them like a living thing.

Karzon was already moving before thought fully formed. He pushed himself to his feet, knocking his bowl aside, the wooden dish rolling away into the firelit dust as he readied his sword.

The camp flared to life in bursts of motion—mages snapping from their weary stillness, Briena already drawing an arrow, the dwarves shifting into formation, their hands flying to their weapons in unspoken unity.

The brush at the edge of the clearing swayed in slow, sinuous waves, as if something vast and unseen were weaving through it.

The fire bathed the foliage in restless light, its glow reaching only so far, leaving the depths beyond shrouded in mystery. It wasn't until the first shape emerged that Karzon understood what they were facing.

It was low to the ground, its body moving in a way that made it unclear whether it slithered or prowled, its limbs too long for something that crawled, its torso too serpentine for something that stalked. Its hide was slick with a sheen like oil on water, reflecting the glow of the fire in shifting, iridescent colors. Spines lined its back, curving outward like jagged ribs splitting through the skin, each one barbed and twitching with anticipation.

And its eyes⁠—

Twin voids, deep and sunken, like holes punched through the fabric of the world. They did not glow with hunger. They absorbed. They consumed.

A Murkgul.

The name scraped against the walls of Karzon's memory, something he had read about long ago, buried in a merchant's warning about the western swamps. A creature of cursed magic, one that thrived where dungeon gems had rooted too deep into the land, mutating the natural order into something monstrous.

Murkguls were rare outside of the wastes, but when they emerged, it was never alone.

As if summoned by his thoughts, three more slithered into the light.

"Down!" Briena's voice rang clear, and Karzon barely had time to react before she loosed her arrow. The shaft streaked through the air, silver-tipped and keen, striking the first murkgul clean between its void-black eyes.

For a moment, he thought it was a perfect shot.

Then, the arrow disappeared. Not broken or deflected. Just gone. As if the creature's body had devoured it upon impact. It wasn't what the records had described. The murkguls he had studied were brutal but mortal, twisted by darkness but vulnerable to steel and flame. A clean strike brought them down.

These things didn't fall. They advanced, unbothered, almost curious in the way they moved. They weren't pure murkgul. Someone had found the source and twisted it. Someone was experimenting.

The murkgul's mouth curled in a grotesque mimicry of a grin, its teeth blackened, too many rows to count.

"Gods," Mira whispered, her knuckles whitening around the haft of her axe. "What the hell are these things?"

"Magic eaters," Karzon said grimly. "They don't just kill. They unmake."

There was no more time for words. The first murkgul lunged before Karzon could make sense of where it was headed. A sharp hiss cracked through the night, splitting the air like torn cloth, and a wall of golden fire erupted in front of him. The heat hit fast and hard, searing his skin and curling the edges of his brows. He stumbled back, vision blurred by the sudden blaze, his breath caught in his throat.

When the glare faded and his eyes adjusted, he saw the woman in the red hood standing just beyond the flames, one hand lifted. Her fingers curled as if holding the fire by its leash. Spheres of flame spun at her fingertips, alive with motion, streaking toward the murkgul. The creature shrieked as the fire struck, its body flaring in brilliant orange. Smoke billowed from its chest as it staggered back, charred flesh falling away in strips.

The victory was short-lived.

With a guttural snarl, the beast straightened. Its shoulders rolled once, then again, and the flames fell from its body like water shaken from fur. What should have been a smoldering corpse now stood tall, eyes glinting, body steaming but unbroken.

Karzon froze. The fire had touched it—he saw the marks—but they hadn't held. Whatever this was, it wasn't a creature that feared flame.

And it wasn't finished. It moved faster than something its size had any right to. One moment it was yards away, and the next it was upon them, its too-long limbs propelling it forward in a nightmare blur of motion.

Karzon just managed to raise his sword in time, the force of its charge sending a jolt up his arms as steel met unnatural flesh.

The impact should have driven it back, tearing through its hide. Instead, Karzon felt something give—not like cutting through muscle or bone, but like slicing through thickened smoke. The resistance was there, but it was wrong.

The creature recoiled, not in pain, but as if deciding Karzon wasn't worth eating yet.

A flash of steel to his right indicated Orla, shield raised, bracing herself. The second murkgul slammed into her full force.

The impact sent a sickening crack through the air, but Orla held her ground, boots digging into the dirt.

Mira was already moving beside her, her axe carving downward in a lethal arc. The blade connected, but just like Karzon's strike, it did not cut as it should.

"They're shifting!" Elska barked, yanking her hammer from her back. "Hit them harder!"

There was no time to register the words before the third murkgul lunged, not at him, not at the dwarves, but at Briena.

She loosed another arrow, but the creature twisted mid-charge, avoiding it effortlessly, its void eyes locking onto her as if drawn by the magic that pulsed through her veins.

"Briena, move!"

His warning fell just a breath too late.

The murkgul struck.

Karzon watched, rooted to the spot, as it coiled around her in a blur of shifting iridescence, its limbs curling, its weight forcing her down. Briena gasped, her bow knocked from her hands, her fingers scrambling for the dagger at her hip.

The creature's mouth opened; rows of blackened, endless teeth descended toward her throat.

No. This could not happen. Not to his Briena.

Karzon moved without thinking, his sword raised, his heart roaring in his chest.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Karzon's world narrowed to a single point—Briena, trapped beneath the murkgul, its void-mouth yawning wide and ready to swallow her whole. The air around her rippled with the sheer wrongness of the creature, as though reality itself rejected its presence.

Her fingers scrambled at the dirt, reaching, but her dagger lay just beyond her grasp.

Karzon moved with the urgency of a man possessed. His sword was already raised, its edge catching the firelight in a silver arc as he brought it down with every ounce of strength in his body. Light erupted from the tip of his sword, his healing magic manifesting itself with the fierce need to protect Briena.

The murkgul twisted, too fast, too unnatural, but Karzon had seen this before.

He adjusted mid-swing, muscles coiling as he redirected the strike, his blade biting deep into the creature's flank.

A noise erupted from the murkgul; a guttural, warping shriek scraped against the mind like rusted iron against bone. The sound coiled in his skull, rattling behind his eyes as the beast lashed out. Claws tore across his ribs, cutting deep. His coat split, warmth spilling down his side as the night air knifed into open flesh.

He didn't care.

Briena was still pinned, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, her emerald eyes wide with fury and something dangerously close to fear. The murkgul reared back slightly, shifting its mass to strike the final blow, and in that instant, Karzon threw himself forward.

He slammed his shoulder into its side, driving it off her with enough force to send them both tumbling beyond the fire's reach, into the murky half-light at the forest's edge. The creature thrashed against him, its body slick and shifting, limbs bending at angles that should not exist.

Its skin burned like ice where it met his own, seeping through his grip as if it were nothing more than thick, living shadow.

Karzon gritted his teeth, muscles straining as he adjusted his hold. He tore his sword free just as the murkgul began to collapse.

One moment, it was flesh and form. The next, it caved inward, twisting in on itself, as if unseen hands had wrenched it from existence. The air trembled in its wake, a shuddering ripple that pressed against his skull, stirring nausea in the pit of his stomach. And then⁠—

Nothing.

No body. No corpse. Just empty earth where the monster had been.

Karzon barely took a second to breathe before he turned.

Briena was still on the ground, her chest rising and falling unevenly. Her hands pressed against her side, and Karzon's stomach twisted when he saw the deep, dark stain spreading beneath her fingers.

He dropped to his knees beside her, already pulling her hands away.

"Let me see." His voice was firm, sharper than he intended, but there was no time for softness.

Briena's lips pressed into a thin line, but she obeyed, wincing as she moved her arm. The wound was deep—a ragged slash where the murkgul's claws had torn through her leathers, carving across her side in jagged lines. Blood pooled fast, too fast, soaking into the earth beneath her.

Karzon swore.

Briena exhaled through clenched teeth. "It's—not—bad."

"Liar," Karzon snapped, already pressing his hands against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding.

Briena hissed at the pressure, her body tensing. Her free hand shot out, gripping Karzon's wrist, her fingers tight enough to bruise. "You're bleeding too."

He hadn't even noticed. The shallow cuts across his ribs barely registered against the urgency in his chest.

"I'll live," he muttered. "You might not if I don't stop this."

Briena swallowed hard, her jaw tightening, but she didn't argue.

Karzon exhaled sharply, his mind racing. He had healed before, but never a wound this severe. Even the injuries taken by the raiding party hadn't been this dire. But this? This was different.

But he had to do it.

His hands, slick with blood, pressed against her skin, just above the wound. He closed his eyes, searching inward, reaching for that thread of magic he knew was there.

At first, nothing happened. Then there was warmth.

Not fire, not light, but something deep—a slow and steady pulse, like the heartbeat of the world itself. It started in his core, traveling down his arms, threading through his fingers. A faint glow bloomed beneath his palms, soft and gold, like the first break of dawn over the horizon.

Briena gasped.

Karzon felt it as much as he saw it—the way her wound resisted at first, the way the magic fought to take hold, like water struggling to fill a crack in stone. Then, slowly, the torn flesh began to mend. The blood slowed. The skin knitted back together, leaving only a faint, silvered mark where the gash had been.

Briena's breath steadied. The tension in her shoulders melted away, the sharp pain in her expression giving way to quiet relief—an almost disbelieving softness.

Karzon exhaled, the last of the golden light fading from his hands. He pulled back slightly, his pulse still roaring in his ears, his body thrumming with the lingering touch of magic.

Briena blinked up at him.

"I—" Her voice was hoarse. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that."

Karzon didn't answer immediately. He was still too aware of how her skin had felt beneath his hands, of how her breath had hitched as the healing took hold.

Finally, he forced a smile. "I'll wager it's better than dying, though?"

Briena huffed out something that was almost a laugh, shaking her head. "No—I mean yes—but this time, your healing felt stronger than before."

Karzon frowned, glancing at his hands. She wasn't wrong. The healing had come faster, more naturally, as though something inside him had… expanded.

He didn't have time to consider it further. Behind them, the last echoes of battle faded as Drenna and the dwarves took control.

The problem was—Karzon had killed that one murkgul with his magic, channeled through his sword. Magic that the others did not possess. They needed to figure out how to kill their attackers without his help.

Mira figured it out by accident.

The murkguls moved in a way that defied the laws of flesh, their limbs bending and twisting like half-melted wax. They were things that should not have been, bodies coiled from living shadow, leaking cold into the air as they slithered across the battlefield.

Steel barely bit into them, and when it did, the wounds didn't linger; they healed like ripples vanishing into water.

Mira had been cursing loudly as she swung her axe, her teeth bared in frustration. "They don't die!" she spat, her blade passing through a murkgul's side only for the wound to vanish before her eyes.

The creature lunged for her, its hollow eyes filled with nothing but endless, hungering dark. Mira ducked, pivoted—then, without thinking, she drove her dagger forward, aiming for the thing's throat. The angle shifted as it came down on her. The blade slipped higher than she intended, sinking into the scorched flesh between its sunken eyes, the tip biting deep where the shadows were thickest.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then, the murkgul went rigid, its entire form locking in place. A horrible, distorted shriek ripped from its throat, so high and grating that it sent fresh pain through Karzon's already aching skull.

The creature convulsed—once, twice—before its body collapsed inward like a crumpled sheet of paper, vanishing into a mist of thick, black smoke.

Mira stumbled back, panting, her eyes wild. "Did you see that?" she shouted.

Drenna, who had just kicked a murkgul off its feet, spat blood onto the dirt and grinned. "Right between the eyes?"

Mira nodded.

Drenna's grin turned wicked. "Perfect."

And then she roared.

"BETWEEN THE EYES, YOU SACKS OF ROCKS! AIM BETWEEN THE EYES!"

Orla, who had been hacking at a murkgul with all the effectiveness of a farmer butchering mist, stopped mid-swing. She twisted on her heel, scanning the battlefield, and found the nearest murkgul snarling toward Elska.

Without hesitation, she shifted her grip on her warhammer and threw it.

The hammer spun through the air, its heavy head catching the dim firelight, before slamming directly into the murkgul's forehead. The creature shrieked, seizing up, and then crumpled, disappearing just as Mira's had.

Elska wiped a hand across her face, smearing black sludge across her cheek. She gave Orla a look of utter exasperation. "You nearly took my nose off."

Orla shrugged. "But I didn't."

Elska sighed, rolled her shoulders, and grabbed her battleaxe. "Fine. Let's start splitting skulls."

Mira, meanwhile, was laughing—short, breathless, half-mad with relief. "You hear that, you ugly bastards?" she shouted at the remaining murkguls. "We've got your weak spot now!"

The battle turned. The dwarves surged forward, their weapons now striking with purpose. Orla, her shield strapped tight to her arm, waded into the thick of it, using her entire body like a battering ram to create openings for the others.

Elska's battleaxe gleamed in the firelight as she fought, her swings clean and precise. "For the love of all the gods, hold still!" she growled as she wrestled with a murkgul, the thing writhing against her grip.

She wrenched its head back and buried her axe between its soulless eyes. It screeched, buckled—and then was gone.

Mira, emboldened by her discovery, was moving faster than before, her twin daggers a blur. "You lot should listen to me more often!" she called between strikes, sinking one dagger into a murkgul's temple before twisting away from its collapse.

Drenna barked a laugh, driving her own blade into a murkgul's skull. "You keep talking like that, I might make you shut up myself."

The mages had taken up the chant. "Between the eyes!" one shouted, blasting a murkgul backward with a bolt of white-hot fire. "Focus your strikes!"

The fire mage moved like someone who had been waiting. Her hood had fallen back, revealing eyes that shimmered with firelight, their amber depths reflecting the chaos around her. Her palms glowed, heat rising off her skin in rippling waves, the fabric of her sleeves already scorched where flame had licked along the edges.

She extended both hands toward the battlefield.

The ground beneath her feet blackened, dry leaves curling to ash in a slow spiral as a ring of fire bloomed around her heels. In the space of a breath, six murkguls began to shift in her direction, drawn by the sudden surge of magic—too late.

She inhaled once, long and steady, then exhaled with purpose.

From her fingers came a flare of heat so intense that the air between her and the enemy shimmered like glass. Fire snapped into existence, not in a single burst, but in seven narrow, searing arcs streaming forward in perfect precision—thin as blades, sharp as spears. Each one found its mark with impossible accuracy, driving straight between the eyes of every creature that faced her.

There was no time to scream. The murkguls ignited where they stood, their bodies swallowed in columns of golden fire. The flames didn't dance. They consumed. In silence, the creatures twisted and writhed, reduced to ash and shadow within seconds.

The battlefield went still for the space of a heartbeat.

The fire mage lowered her hands. Smoke rose from her fingers in curling wisps, and the ground where she stood had turned to scorched earth. Her chest lifted slightly as she breathed in the aftermath, but her expression never changed.

Karzon watched her from across the field, his own magic humming beneath his skin like a beast pacing behind a gate. Whatever she had just done, it hadn't drained her. She hadn't even blinked.

The fire mage turned her gaze toward the next wave of shadows moving between the trees.

"I'm not finished," she said softly.

Her flames came alive once more. The murkguls, sensing the shift, hesitated, if such creatures could hesitate at all. They were losing. They knew it.

Drenna kicked the last one in the chest, sending it sprawling. "Mira, end it."

Mira flipped her dagger in her palm, smirking. "Gladly."

She dropped onto the beast, driving her blade into its face.

It spasmed, let out a last, wailing screech—then folded into shadow, dissolving into the dirt.

Then, there was silence.

Drenna took a deep breath, wiping her blade against her pants. "Well," she muttered, surveying the carnage. "That was messy."

Elska was already pulling Orla's hammer out of the dirt. "At least we found their weakness before we got our asses handed to us."

Mira, still grinning, twirled a dagger between her fingers. "You know what this means?"

Drenna arched a brow. "That we're alive?"

Mira scoffed. "No. It means I was right."

Orla snorted. "And now we'll never hear the end of it."

Drenna sighed, running a hand through her hair. Her fingers came away sticky with blood—some of it hers, most of it not. "Right. Let's get a count." She turned toward Karzon—only to pause.

His hands were still glowing, the last remnants of his magic fading as he pulled away from Briena.

Elska's eyes were wide with shock. "Wow. I did not expect that."

Drenna, watching Karzon closely, frowned. "Yeah. Looks like it's getting stronger."

Karzon, still kneeling beside Briena, flexed his hands. The healing had been faster this time. It had felt… different, more potent and much more alive.

Something deep in his gut told him that wasn't necessarily a good thing. But he'd think about that later. For now, he looked down at Briena, watching as she tested her movements, flexing her fingers and shifting her weight.

"Alright?" he asked quietly.

Briena nodded, her lips quirking into a small, soft smile. "Alright."

Drenna clapped her hands, voice sharp and commanding. "Then let's get moving before more of those bastards crawl out of whatever hole they came from."

Orla rolled her shoulders. "I'm seconding that. And someone better be cooking again once we stop for the night."

Elska sighed. "We just fought nightmare creatures that defy reality, and you're hungry?"

Orla grinned. "Always."

Drenna snorted. "You can cook for yourself."

Mira waggled her eyebrows. "I could cook. If you all don't mind dying of food poisoning."

The camp lay in ruin—a sprawl of scattered embers, overturned crates, and mages drawing ragged breaths. The dwarves moved among the wreckage, weapons still clutched tight, their eyes sharp with victory yet shadowed with caution.

The sharp bite of spent magic lingered, threading through the night like the last echoes of a battle cry. Around them, the fallen murkguls lay twisted and broken, their forms vanishing into the dirt. Shadows bled from their limbs, soaking into the ground like ink spilling across parchment, until only dark smears remained. Even those were fading, pulled down into the earth as if the creatures had never existed at all.

Drenna watched the last of them dissolve, vanishing into nothing beneath the moon's cold gaze.

Uncharacteristically, a shiver crept through her. "I don't like this."

She surveyed the remains of the murkguls, kicking a dissolving limb with the toe of her boot. "Something's off. These things don't attack like that. Murkguls are far too stupid to be this coordinated."

Mira crouched beside one of the fallen creatures, using her dagger to prod the dissipating remains. "She's right. These weren't just scavengers looking for an easy kill." She held up the dagger, revealing a thick smear of inky blood. "Someone sent them."

Karzon frowned. This was what they'd felt when fighting the minotaurs, long before they entered Dunmarch. He'd fought enough monsters to know instinctive brutality from direction. The murkguls had pressed the attack even when it made no sense, throwing themselves at his group with a single-mindedness that wasn't natural.

Briena was watching him, rubbing absently at her ribs, as if still feeling the phantom ache of the wound he had closed. "You're thinking the same thing I am."

"That this wasn't just a random attack?" He glanced at the mages huddled near the remains of their campfires. "That they were after something?"

Briena nodded. "But what?"

Karzon exhaled, pushing a hand through his hair. The fight had drained him more than it should have—whether from the healing or the sheer intensity of the battle, he wasn't sure.

"We'll figure it out on the road," he said. "The longer we stay here, the worse it gets. If something or someone sent those things after us, I don't want to be around for the second wave."

Drenna cracked her knuckles. "Good. I was getting sick of this place anyway."

The dwarves exchanged glances, and then Mira shrugged. "We'll move at first light. But first, we sleep."

Karzon couldn't argue with that, despite the sharp look that Drenna shot him. His body was aching, and he wasn't sure how much more his magic could take tonight.

As the others began setting up what was left of their bedrolls, Karzon turned toward the cluster of mages still huddled near the wreckage of their camp. The fire mage was standing, her hood now around her shoulders. As his eyes fell on her, his heart skipped a beat. She was stunning. That was the first thing his weary brain could process.

She had the kind of beauty that belonged in myths—long, raven-dark hair that cascaded down her back, catching the firelight like strands of silk. Her skin, dusky with a warmth that suggested southern blood, was smooth and unmarked despite the chaos of the battle.

But it was her eyes that ensnared him, held him captive in a gaze he could not escape. They were the blue of distant oceans beyond the Tirthan forest—vast, uncharted, and endlessly deep.

She wasn't just beautiful—she was striking, impossible to ignore, impossible to forget.

Karzon barely had time to speak before she was walking toward him. When she reached him, she stopped just a breath too close.

Her gaze shifted briefly to Briena, who was standing a few paces away, watching the exchange with unreadable eyes. Then, just as quickly, the woman turned back to him.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Aisri," she said. "And I am going with you."

It wasn't a question.

When she spoke, her eyes transformed, turning to gold. Not the muted gleam of metal, but a molten, smoldering gold, as if alight with an inner fire. A fire so potent, so hypnotic, it could unmake dragons and bend kings to their knees—not merely reflecting the flames of the world, but holding them, commanding them.

Briena crossed her arms. "You've already decided that?"

Aisri glanced at her, and spoke in a hushed tone. "Would you say no to a fire mage, elf?"

Briena's mouth pressed into a thin line, but she didn't argue.

Karzon, on the other hand, wasn't about to let himself be swept up in the whirlwind that was Aisri without some answers. "Why?"

The fire mage's blue-golden eyes locked onto his, and he felt the heat of her presence, the quiet power humming beneath her skin.

"I've seen what you can do," she said. "I know power when I see it."

Briena made a quiet, disapproving sound; it was not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff, but something caught between the two. Her stomach fluttered with uncertainty at the thought of sharing him.

Aisri, with her striking features, seemed like the kind of trouble Briena wanted to avoid. The elf wasn't blind; she had seen the way Karzon had looked at her, the spark of interest that rose too easily in his hazel eyes. She scowled at him, her gaze heavy with meaning.

Karzon, predictably, remained completely oblivious.

He was still watching Aisri carefully, trying to get a read on her beyond the fire and confidence.

"You still haven't told me why," he said. "Power isn't reason enough."

Aisri's expression didn't change, but a new light shone in her blue-golden irises.

"No," she agreed. "It isn't." She glanced toward the remnants of her group—wounded mages, weary and ragged. "My path is like a wildfire, changing directions with the wind. Right now, that wind is blowing in your direction."

Karzon considered her for a long moment. A fire mage would be an incredible asset. And there was something about her that went beyond obvious beauty, more than just magic. It wasn't just that she intrigued him, but she had also offered to train him. This was someone who could help him understand his gift.

He tilted his head. "Fine. Pack your things. We leave at first light."

Aisri smiled at him. "Oh," she murmured, turning on her heel. "I already have."

Karzon let out a slow breath as she walked away.

Drenna, watching the exchange from a distance, snorted. "You're in trouble."

Karzon dragged a hand down his face. "Don't I know it."

Morning would come fast. And when it did, their journey to Murkwatch would begin in earnest—with a new companion, a new mystery, and, no doubt, more trouble than he was ready for.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When morning came, it was the kind that made poets ache for ink. A pale mist curled over the forest floor, draping the undergrowth in gossamer veils as the sun stretched long fingers through the canopy. The trees here were ancient, their bark lined with deep grooves that whispered of centuries past, their roots tangled in the dark embrace of the earth. A quiet hung over the land, broken only by the occasional trill of unseen birds and the distant rush of the river beyond the camp.

Briena was always the first to wake. The world before dawn had always felt like hers alone, a moment of solitude before the noise and motion of the day could intrude. But today, she was not the only one stirring.

Aisri stood a short distance from her tent, barefoot in the damp grass, her long hair unbound and dark as a raven's wing against her pale shoulders. She was watching the forest, still as a statue, her expression unreadable.

Briena tilted her head. "Not used to sleeping outdoors?"

Aisri turned slightly, as if pulled from some deep thought. "I don't sleep much." Her voice was soft, unhurried. "Dreams are… loud."

Briena raised an eyebrow at that, but Aisri didn't elaborate. She had noticed the night before how the mage had chosen the quietest corner of the camp, how she barely spoke unless spoken to.

There was a stillness about her that was almost unnatural, like an ember that had not yet been fanned into flame.

Briena rolled her shoulders, shaking off the morning chill. "Come on," she said, already moving toward the river. "You look like you could use something to wake you up."

Aisri hesitated but followed without question.

The river lay just beyond the trees, its surface a mirror of the sky, silver-blue and dappled with the shifting reflection of leaves. The water was clear, cold, and inviting, slipping over smooth stones worn soft by time. Mist rose from its surface in curling tendrils, like the breath of some slumbering god.

Briena wasted no time, shrugging off her tunic and stepping into the shallows. The chill bit at her skin, but she welcomed it, wading deeper until the water kissed her waist. She turned, watching as Aisri followed, slower and more hesitant.

The mage undid the ties of her robe, letting it slip from her shoulders. Briena could see why Karzon had looked at her the way he had; Aisri was striking in a way that was almost unfair.

Delicate but not fragile, with long limbs and skin like moonlight, untouched by scars or hardship. She moved with careful grace, as though unaccustomed to being seen.

"You're quiet," Briena remarked as Aisri sank into the water, shivering slightly at the cold.

"I don't have many words," Aisri admitted simply.

Briena arched a brow. "Most mages do."

Aisri ducked her head beneath the surface, emerging with droplets clinging to her lashes, trailing down her bare shoulders like liquid glass. "Words should matter," she said finally. "If you spend too many, they lose weight."

Briena considered that. There was a logic to it she could respect.

She moved closer, watching the way Aisri's fingers traced the water's surface, as if she were feeling for something unseen. "And yet you joined a group of mercenaries."

Aisri exhaled, looking toward the opposite bank where the trees stretched high, their branches woven together like the ribs of a cathedral.

"I want to help," she said, her voice just a notch above the whisper of the river. "I was raised to understand fairness. Balance. That's what magic is, in its truest form. It's a force of equilibrium. But the world isn't balanced. It's cruel. And people suffer because of it."

Briena frowned, feeling something shift in the way she regarded the mage. "You want to make it fair?"

Aisri shook her head. "I know I can't." Her amber eyes met Briena's then, steady, unwavering. "But I can try."

Briena found herself without a response. She had expected something else—a lofty speech, a veiled ambition, a hunger for power or revenge. But Aisri's reasons were simple. Honest.

Somehow, that made her like the fire mage. Briena valued honesty and candor, and if Aisri possessed both, it meant she was a woman of action—decisive and unafraid to move when the moment called for it. They needed that.

She turned away, swishing water toward the mage with a smirk. "You're still not off my watch, mage."

Aisri blinked as droplets splattered against her collarbone. Then, to Briena's surprise, the mage flicked her fingers, sending a small wave splashing right back.

Briena gasped, then narrowed her eyes. "Oh, you do have some fight in you."

Aisri's lips quirked—not quite a smile, but something close. The moment stretched, soft and strange, until⁠—

A sharp whistle cut through the air. Briena turned her head just in time to see Karzon leaning lazily against a tree at the riverbank, arms crossed and a slow grin creeping across his face.

"Well," he drawled. "This is a hell of a way to start the morning."

Briena waded toward the shore first, the water slipping down her skin in gleaming rivulets, tracing the lean lines of her body.

Her hair, usually a cascade of silken moonlight, clung to her shoulders, the tips trailing along the curve of her back. She moved without hesitation, unbothered by modesty, her eyes twinkling as she smiled at Karzon.

Aisri followed, slower, as if the pull of the water still held her. In the pale water, it was as if she had been sculpted from a low, gentle fire. The droplets that clung to her pale skin caught the morning sun, shimmering like scattered stars. Her breasts, round and high, gleamed under the golden sun, the peaks taut from the cold water.

Karzon had seen many things in his life, treasures hoarded in gilded vaults, celestial beasts that shimmered in the dark, the raw, untamed beauty of a storm breaking over the sea, but none of them had ever stolen his breath quite like the two women in front of him.

They stepped onto the smooth stones of the riverbank, water tracing their curves in lazy lines before dripping to the earth below. Briena shook out her hair, sending droplets flying, her posture relaxed and utterly at ease.

Aisri, though more reserved, carried no shame about her nakedness, although she was, on all other counts, incredibly shy. She turned her head up, standing tall as the sunlight kissed the full swell of her hips, the elegant slope of her collarbones.

Karzon swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

"You're going to kill me," he muttered.

Briena rolled her eyes. "You're not that lucky."

Aisri tilted her head slightly, studying him, before arching a delicate brow. "You're ogling us, healer."

Karzon huffed a quiet laugh, raking a hand through his own hair. "I'd have to be dead not to."

Briena chuckled, stepping closer, her bare skin still cool from the water. She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. "And here I thought you had more restraint."

Karzon gave a half-shrug, wiggling his fingers loosely. "Turns out, I was wrong."

—

Morning stretched its golden limbs across the treetops, shaking off the last vestiges of mist that clung to the branches like whispers of forgotten dreams. The river still murmured behind them, its cool breath stirring the ferns and wildflowers at its banks, but the camp had already begun to stir into activity.

The mages stood in clusters, their hushed conversations weaving like threads of unseen magic through the crisp morning air.

Aisri stood among them, her expression unreadable as she listened to the last words of her former companions. One by one, they bid her farewell, not with grief, but with the quiet, knowing acceptance of those who understood the weight of a path chosen.

A few clasped her hands, others merely inclined their heads, but none of them questioned her choice. Mages, after all, were creatures of the wind, their loyalties as shifting as the currents of power they wielded.

Karzon adjusted the straps on his pack, his gaze lingering on Aisri as she exchanged a final word with an elder mage, a woman with deep-set eyes that had seen centuries of change. Whatever passed between them was brief, but the fire mage's shoulders squared as she turned away, stepping toward the waiting party.

Drenna, already seated on a fallen log, yawned. "If we're done with the long goodbyes, can we get moving? I'd like to reach Murkwatch before my hair turns gray."

Orla chuckled, slinging her shield over her back. "You'd still look terrifying."

Aisri said nothing, merely lifted her chin and fell into step beside them.

Karzon, leading from the front, adjusted his belt and turned toward the road ahead. "Let's move."

They left the mage camp behind, weaving through the thick embrace of the forest as the morning unfurled around them. The air was heady with the scent of damp bark and fresh earth, the kind of scent that carried the promise of rain long before the clouds arrived.

Sunlight dripped through the canopy in scattered rays, painting the ground with patches of gold. Somewhere in the distance, a brook whispered secrets to the stones along its bed.

For hours, they traveled. The land shifted beneath their boots, from soft forest loam to the harder-packed dirt of a seldom-traveled path. Dunmarch's influence faded behind them, its distant roads and crowded streets forgotten in favor of wilder terrain.

Here, the trees grew taller, their roots twisting like ancient fingers beneath the earth.

Vines draped themselves across the boughs, and high above, the occasional glimmer of a winged beast could be seen drifting between the leaves.

Murkwatch was still far ahead, but its name was already pressing at the edges of their thoughts. It was a place whispered about in dark corners of taverns, a crossroads of outlaws and opportunity, of whispered deals and forgotten oaths.

It sat on the borderlands where law faltered and the wilds crept ever closer, its very name evoking something elusive—a shadow cast long before the body arrived.

The deeper they traveled, the more the landscape changed. The trees grew denser, their trunks gnarled with age, and the undergrowth thickened into a tangle of thorns and twisting roots. By afternoon, the light had begun to dim, though the sky remained unclouded. The road took on a haunted quality, the air heavier and the silence stretching too long between the calls of birds.

Karzon knew where they needed to go. Harren had been clear—follow the eastern ridge, where the rock rose like the jagged spine of a long-dead beast, and descend into the valley beyond. There, hidden from the prying eyes of tax collectors and city patrols, the caravan would be waiting.

They reached the crest of the ridge just as the last of the daylight began to slip away. Below, the valley stretched in a wild sprawl, dark trees pressing in like silent sentinels. Nestled at its heart, half-hidden by thick canvas awnings and the smoke of carefully tended fires, was the caravan.

A cluster of wagons and tents, built sturdier than most, stood in a rough circle, their exteriors painted in muted colors meant to blend into the land. A few guards milled about the perimeter, crossbows slung over their backs, their eyes sharp despite the feigned air of indifference.

Karzon led them down the slope, his boots crunching against loose stone. As they neared, one of the guards stepped forward, a grizzled man with a face weathered by too many years under too many suns.

"You lot Harren's people?" His voice was rough, edged with suspicion.

Karzon nodded. "That depends. Are you the man with the job?"

The guard snorted, then jerked his chin toward a large, well-kept tent at the heart of the camp. "Go see Veydris. He'll tell you what you're getting into."

Inside the tent, the atmosphere was soaked in the mingled scents of ink, parchment, and oil. A heavy wooden table dominated the space, maps and ledgers strewn across its surface in a chaotic order that only its owner could likely decipher.

Veydris was seated behind it, a man of middle years with silver threading his dark beard. His clothes were finer than those of his guards, but not ostentatious; they were practical, built for a man who valued function over display. He glanced up as they entered, looking over them busily.

"Harren said you'd come." He set his quill down. "And that you could handle trouble."

Karzon offered him a slight bow by way of an introduction. "Depends on the kind of trouble."

Veydris didn't smile. He pushed a small, wrapped bundle across the table. Karzon hesitated, then unfolded the cloth to reveal what lay within.

A stunning bracer greeted him. The metal was dark, polished to a muted sheen, set with narrow veins of Aetherglass that pulsed faintly beneath the surface. It was meant to be worn on the forearm, etched with subtle runes designed to stabilize healing by fortifying it with a crafted power.

Karzon let out a low breath. "Haven't seen one of these in years."

Veydris gave a slight nod. "That's what we're carrying. A whole set, meant for a mercenary company in Dunmarch. High-paying buyers who want their own medics properly equipped."

Karzon ran a thumb along the edge, careful not to trigger the sigils. "Not decorative. This is real craft. Practical. Old-world method, newer sealwork."

Veydris didn't respond right away. When he did, his voice was quieter than before. "A few smiths still remember the technique, but not many. And not for long."

Karzon looked up. "Where did you get them?"

Veydris reached for the cloth again. "Does it matter?"

Karzon didn't move his hand. "I don't guard what I don't understand. Especially not if it can pull a blade toward the caravan."

Veydris studied him, then leaned back. "They came from a vault under Tarrenhold. A salvage crew cracked it open after the blight passed through. Only one of them made it out. We found him babbling on the salt flats, whispering about hollow steel and things that sang in the dark. He traded the shipment for water and a mule."

Karzon turned his gaze back to the bracer. The weight of it wasn't just in the steel. Whoever was paying for these would know what they were worth. And if word had spread, they wouldn't be the only ones watching the roads.

Briena, just behind him, let out a breath. "So much for a simple escort."

Veydris leaned back. "You're in or you're out. But if you're in, you'd best be ready. If you can help us get the caravan to the main route to Dumarch, you'll be paid, and handsomely."

Karzon's grip tightened on the gauntlet. If Veydris and his men were coming across rare gear, perhaps they could help him find some for himself too.

"We're in."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

When Veydris had mentioned the man in charge of the caravan's day-to-day operations, Karzon imagined a hardened mercenary, or an ex-soldier with too many scars and too little patience. Instead, he found Aldrin, a round-shouldered man with sun-darkened skin, a patchy stubble clinging to his cheeks, and a perpetually amused glint in his warm brown eyes. At the moment, he was crouched beside his horse, coaxing it to eat a carrot with the same reverence most priests gave to sacred rituals.

From a distance, Aldrin looked harmless. Mild. Cheerful, even. But Karzon had seen enough in his years to know better. Men like Aldrin didn't stay alive running other people's cargo through bandit-ridden forests and monster-infested valleys by being soft.

He was no merchant. That much was clear. Where Veydris carried himself like someone who had once worn silks and spoken in courts, Aldrin bore the practical weight of someone who lived on the road. His cloak was thick and patched, his boots scuffed from years of use, and his belt sagged under the weight of too many tools and not enough vanity.

Their roles couldn't have been more different. Veydris held the coin and the contracts. He chose the routes, negotiated the trades, and determined what cargo was worth risking lives for. He dealt in goods, secrets, and influence.

Aldrin, on the other hand, was the bones and blood of the road itself. He kept the wheels turning, made sure every bolt stayed tight, and ensured the horses were fed and the guards didn't stab each other when the wine ran low. If something broke, Aldrin fixed it. If someone got drunk, Aldrin dragged them back into line. He didn't command like a noble. He directed like a craftsman, steady, precise, and quietly indispensable.

Karzon approached him as the last of the wagons creaked into place. "Aldrin?" he asked, offering a hand.

The man looked up, squinting at him. He took the hand with a solid, calloused grip and gave a single nod. "That's me."

"Karzon. I'm with Veydris."

"I figured," Aldrin said. "You've got the posture of someone who expects trouble."

"And you look like you don't."

Aldrin snorted, brushing carrot crumbs from his sleeve. "I expect it plenty. I just don't lose sleep over it anymore."

Karzon let the corner of his mouth lift. "He says you're in charge."

"I keep things from falling apart. The only one in charge is the one who pays the bills."

That was fair.

Aldrin turned back to the horse, murmuring something low as he adjusted the bridle. He didn't invite further conversation, but he didn't close it off either. Karzon stood a while longer, watching how the man moved, how the other drivers seemed to orbit around him with subtle deference. It was clear that Aldrin didn't raise his voice often, but when he did, people listened.

This was his road, for however long they traveled it, and that was good enough for Karzon.

Night gathered over the valley like a beast settling into its haunches, stretching its shadowed limbs across the landscape. The campfires of the caravan flared like distant stars against the encroaching dark, their light casting long, wavering silhouettes over the wagons.

They had a job now—protecting the caravan as it carried its precious cargo through these lawless lands. But the world outside Dunmarch's reach was treacherous. Coin and desperation twisted men into hunters, and word traveled fast when something worth killing for was on the move.

Karzon turned his head slightly, glancing toward Briena. She stood near one of the wagons, running a gloved hand over the wood as she listened to a pair of caravaners discussing the route. Her posture was easy but her eyes were alert, moving toward the tree line every so often.

Aisri sat a short distance away, her hands resting on her lap as she stared into the fire. She was an unreadable thing—silent and composed, though Karzon had already noticed the way her fingers flexed slightly when the wind shifted, as if she were unconsciously reaching for magic that hadn't been called.

The dwarven sisters were, as ever, at ease. Orla leaned against her shield, sipping lazily from a skin of wine, while Mira cleaned her axe unhurriedly. Elska busied herself sharpening her dagger, somehow managing to look entirely at home.

Drenna had posted herself near the camp's edge, where the road dipped into the tangled wilderness. She stood with her arms crossed, her dark eyes scanning the shadows beyond the firelight.

Karzon exhaled through his nose.

Veydris had given them the outline of their path—a winding road through the lower hills, past the ruins of an old outpost before reaching the main route to Dunmarch by dusk tomorrow. It should have been simple. But simple jobs never stayed that way.

"Move in pairs," Karzon said finally, drawing the group's attention. Behind him, Aldrin was briefing his men. "No one leaves the wagons alone. If we get hit, we hold formation. Aisri, Briena—you keep to the high ground. Drenna, you and the dwarves are our front line."

Orla grinned, tapping her shield. "You make it sound like we're marching into war."

Karzon gave a humorless smile. "I prefer being ready for one."

Briena exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "We leave at dawn. Try to get what rest you can."

Drenna muttered something under her breath, then turned back to her watch. The others settled in, some taking first watch, others finding a spot to rest.

Karzon didn't sleep at first. He stood by the fire, watching the flames lick hungrily at the wood.

Morning arrived in muted hues, the sky a wash of pale gold and gray as the mist curled low over the valley floor. The caravan was already stirring when Karzon roused himself from his half-sleep, the distant clang of metal and the soft murmurs of men and women preparing for the road ahead filling the air.

Briena adjusted the weight of her gear, shifting her shoulders beneath the firm press of well-worn leather straps. Sleep still lingered at the edges of her thoughts, stubborn as mist over the hills, but the chill was quick to chase it away.

She settled the bow against her back, its polished wood smooth beneath her fingers, its presence as familiar and steadying as an old friend.

The rising sun sent a glimmer across its curve, catching in the fine carvings along its length—a whisper of craftsmanship, a memory of home.

Aisri stood a few paces away, securing the buckles of her satchel with the quiet efficiency of someone who had packed and repacked a thousand times before. The soft clink of metal and the rustle of cloth filled the space between them, small sounds swallowed by the vast hush of morning.

She moved like the summer breeze, but there was something resolute in the way she tightened the last strap, in the way her booted feet pressed forward, leaving only faint imprints in the dew-dappled grass.

It was the step of someone who had already turned her back on yesterday, whose heart had chosen the road ahead without hesitation.

Drenna was finishing her last stretch, rolling her shoulders and muttering about how much she hated early mornings.

The dwarves were already armed and ready. Mira let out a low whistle as she looked over the wagons. "Any bets on how soon we get ambushed?"

Orla snorted. "Within the first ten miles."

Karzon cast a glance toward the horses being saddled near the wagons—one for each of them, save for Mira, who would be riding with Elska.

They were fine creatures, sturdy and well-kept, their tack practical but well-maintained. He hadn't expected mounts to be part of the deal, which meant something was off.

He turned to Veydris, who stood nearby, overseeing the final preparations. "You're generous with your stock," Karzon remarked. "Most caravan masters don't part with their horses lightly."

Veydris grunted, adjusting the heavy belt at his waist. "Not generosity," he said. "Necessity."

Karzon waited.

The older man gestured toward the far end of the camp, where a few graves had been marked—simple stones, the earth still raw and unsettled. "Lost men in the last ambush. Good fighters. Good riders."

His tone was even, but there was a weight behind it, a practical grief that had no room for mourning. "Left me with more horses than hands. No point keeping them if they'll only slow us down."

Karzon nodded, understanding. This wasn't charity; this was logistics. Dead men didn't ride, and Veydris didn't look like the type to waste resources.

"Fair enough," Karzon said, pulling himself into the saddle. The horse shifted beneath him, steady and responsive. Well-trained.

Veydris turned his gaze toward the mist-laden horizon. "You'll need them if trouble finds us again. And it will."

Karzon didn't have a ready response to that, so he nodded and focused on what he knew best—moving.

The road wound through the valley in slow, lazy curves, following the natural lay of the land. The trees were sparser here, but the underbrush was thick, tangled with roots and jagged stones. Mist still clung to the lower ground, swirling in the morning light like the breath of something vast and unseen.

The group moved steadily, wheels creaking against the damp earth. The lead wagon bore the heaviest load—crates reinforced with steel bindings, their contents known only to Veydris and those who had packed them.

Karzon rode near the front, his gaze sweeping the treeline, watchful and sharp. The forest held its breath, the usual murmur of rustling leaves and distant birdsong eerily absent. The stillness wasn't peaceful—it was expectant, coiled like a bowstring drawn too tight.

Briena must have felt it too. Without hesitation, she urged her horse closer, as if preparing for something unseen just beyond the veil of trees. "This road doesn't see much use, does it?"

Veydris, riding just ahead of them, shook his head. "Not anymore. Used to be a trade route before the crown abandoned it. Bandits took to it soon after."

Karzon frowned. "And yet we haven't seen any."

Briena's face grew tense. "That's what worries me."

Drenna, riding further back, gave a sharp whistle. "Something's watching."

Orla shifted her grip on her shield. "Where?"

Aisri nodded toward the ridge above them. "I noticed it too—didn't see what. Just movement."

Karzon glanced upward. The ridge followed the road closely, offering high ground to any who sought it. If someone meant to strike, that would be the place.

Veydris swore under his breath. "Keep moving. If they're waiting, let's not give them time to organize."

The wagons pressed forward. The trees thickened, swallowing the road in deep shadow.

Karzon's fingers tightened on his reins. His instincts were screaming now, the same instincts that had kept him alive in the dungeons, that had whispered warnings just before a trap was sprung.

Then—

The snap of a branch.

Briena's bowstring sang.

A figure toppled from the ridge, an arrow buried deep in its throat.

The trees erupted.

Shapes burst from the underbrush, some leaping from the rock face above, others charging from the shadows.

Not men.

Creatures, hunched and wrong—twisted things with limbs too long and spines too sharp, their mouths gaping with rows of needle-like teeth. Their skin shimmered, not with the sheen of life but something oily and unnatural.

"Aether-spawn!" shouted Aldrin.

Karzon had only a fleeting moment to take in the sight before the first of them was upon him.

The unnatural hush that had settled over them shattered in an instant, replaced by a tempest of steel, magic, and blood. Once still and clinging, the mist now churned with movement, swirling around the chaos as if recoiling from the violence.

The air trembled with the clash of weapons, the hiss of arrows slicing through the fog and the unearthly shrieks of the aether-spawn as they met steel and flame. The wagons lurched forward, their wheels groaning against the sodden earth, while Karzon and his companions fought to hold back the tide of horrors surging toward them.

A sharp movement in the treetops caught Karzon's eye just in time. One of the creatures lunged from the branches, its limbs twisting at unnatural angles, its jagged maw gaping wide—rows of needle-like teeth snapping for his throat. He moved to strike, but before he could react a surge of fire erupted through the mist.

Aisri's flames roared to life, a torrent of blue and gold swallowing the creature mid-leap. It let out a horrible screech, the sound cracking through the night like shattering glass.

Then, as quickly as it had come, its body crumbled into nothing, devoured by the very corruption that had made it.

Aisri stood just a few feet away, her hands still wreathed in fire, her breath even but taut with focus. She wasn't battle-hardened, but the raw power in her magic was undeniable.

"Try to leave a few for us!" Drenna shouted, her sword plunging into a creature's twisted ribcage. The thing screeched, writhing as she yanked the blade free and kicked it away with her steel-plated boot.

Mira let out a sharp laugh, gripping Elska's waist with one hand and swinging her axe with the other. "She can have the ones that run. I'll take the ones that want to fight!"

Elska's horse reared, hooves slamming into a lunging beast and sending it sprawling into the mud. Mira used the momentum, bringing her axe down in a brutal arc that split its skull wide open. "Ha!" she barked, wiping blood from her cheek with the back of her wrist. "They don't make them like they used to!"

The dwarves held the line on foot, shields locked tight, pushing forward with relentless force. Orla led the charge, her massive shield battering aside snapping jaws and clawed limbs, carving a path through the chaos.

Karzon rode alongside them, his sword cutting through the thick press of bodies, his face set in a grim line.

Elska's horse surged forward, Mira barely holding on as the mare trampled an aether-spawn beneath her hooves. "Steady, girl, let me finish that one!" she grumbled, adjusting her grip before hooking her axe under its chin and wrenching. The body went limp.

Everything was a swirl of hooves, steel, and shrieking monsters. But the dwarves stood firm, a wall of iron and will, forcing back the tide with every swing, every step, every kill.

"Keep moving!" Veydris barked from atop his horse, his sword gleaming with fresh blood. "If we let them drag this out, we'll be overrun."

The wagons surged forward, picking up speed as the caravaners whipped the horses into a frenzied gallop. They couldn't afford to stop—not now.

Drenna fought like someone with no patience for elegance. Her axe rose and fell violently, cutting through limbs and splitting skulls with a kind of fury that only came from years spent fixing what others had failed to protect. She moved to shield the wagons, planting her feet between the wounded and the swarm, blood streaking her leathers, her shoulders set with the weight of someone who had seen this before. Karzon watched her with the kind of focus that kept him alive, eyes scanning for weakness—not in her, but in the pattern of the attack. Even from across the clearing, he could see the strain. Her right swing had slowed. Her stance had narrowed. She was hurt, and trying to hide it.

The undergrowth behind her shifted all of a sudden, and a creature burst from the treeline, black and hulking, its body stitched together with the same strange veined glow they’d seen on corrupted gems. It struck Drenna low, claws sinking deep as it slammed her into the earth with enough force to make the ground shudder.

Her axe flew from her hand, spinning into the dirt. She grunted once, breath crushed from her lungs, then twisted beneath the thing, trying to reach for her belt. Blood already stained the grass beneath her.

Karzon moved before thought could take shape.

His sword was already drawn, but it was the fury that surged in his chest that carried him across the clearing, the kind of fury that made his vision narrow and the sound of everything else fall away. His boots pounded across the ground, the weight of magic building in his bones like a drawn bow.

He reached them as the creature’s head dipped low, its claws dragging across her ribs, hungry and careless. With a roar, Karzon brought the blade down in a clean arc. It bit through the thing’s shoulder and into its chest, a wet crack echoing across the clearing.

The beast screamed, a sound too broken to belong in this world, and Karzon drove his weight forward, slamming into its body with both arms and sending it toppling. It hit the ground in a heap, limbs jerking once before the corruption began to take it, dissolving it into smoke and ash before the grass could drink its blood.

He dropped to his knees beside her.

Drenna was pressing both hands to her side, blood seeping between her fingers, her face pale with pain. Her breath came in shallow pulls, but her eyes were still sharp, still stubborn.

"That was a big one," she muttered, half-smiling through clenched teeth.

Karzon didn’t answer. He pulled her hands away gently, then pressed his palm to the torn fabric and the ruined flesh beneath. Heat spread from his touch, slow at first, then sharper, a light blooming beneath her skin that chased the blood away and sealed the jagged lines of the wound. Her body arched slightly, the magic burning hot as muscle knit and nerves reformed.

She winced, but didn’t flinch. Just watched him with the kind of gaze that made him feel like he was being read. When it was done, she exhaled, the tension easing from her jaw.

"Either you’re getting better," she murmured, "or I’m becoming easier to save."

Karzon met her gaze, the lines of his face cast in shadow by the light of the burning wagon behind them. "I’ll take either," he said.

She sat up with a wince, retrieving her axe from the dirt, wiping it once across her thigh. There was blood on her face, in her hair, across her chestplate, but her eyes were clear. A faint tremor pulsed through the ground, a low, unsettling resonance felt in the soles of their feet. It wasn't the usual, comforting give of the forest floor, but a distinct, unnatural vibration. The ancient trees trembled, their tranquil leaves quivering with a frantic energy, like tiny wings struggling against a force. A snap echoed from deep within the thicket, a sound that wasn't the wind's playful break of a branch, but the forceful splintering of something heavy and powerful. "We’re not done yet," she said.

Karzon's body froze, every instinct warning him that this wasn't the familiar rustle of wind, nor the clumsy movement of a forest animal. A cold dread settled in his stomach. The others had noticed it, too. Orla adjusted her grip on her shield. "No, I don't think we are. That's not a good sound."

Aisri's fingers twitched. "Something else is coming."

Veydris cursed. "We need to get out of here. Now."

It was too late. From the shadows of the forest, a figure emerged. There was no better word for it, for it was no beast or mindless monster.

It was draped in dark leathers, its long cloak stirring slightly in the wind, though the thing itself remained unnervingly rigid. Its hood hung low over its face, but Karzon could still see the gleam of its eyes; it was a light too sharp and unnatural, like something trapped beneath glass. It did not shift weight like a man, nor breathe like one. There was no strain in its posture, no rise or fall of its chest, only the perfect, eerie stillness of something that had been made, not born.

In its hand, it carried a staff of blackened wood, twisted and gnarled as if shaped by something other than time. Nestled deep within the curling bark was a shard of Aetherglass, its dull pulse steady, like a slow-beating heart.

Karzon felt Aisri go still beside him, the way one freezes at the sight of something out of place—something that does not belong in the world of the living.

"That's not a mage," she murmured, her voice tight, edged with something Karzon didn't often hear in her tone—fear. "That's a Hollow."

Karzon's grip on his sword tightened.

Drenna groaned. "What the fuck is a Hollow?"

Aisri's voice dropped to a hiss. "Someone—something carved from flesh and Aetherglass, stripped of its own will and remade into something else. It's not human, but it's been built from the corpse of one."

The monstrosity in front of them tilted its head, not like a man assessing a battlefield, but like a puppet waiting for its strings to be pulled.

Then, it smiled.

"You've done well," it said, its voice smooth, unhurried… not quite right. It was too even, too measured, as if borrowed from someone else entirely. "But I wonder, do you even know what you're protecting?"

Its gaze did not linger on Karzon. It did not linger on the bodies of its fallen creatures, nor on the warriors who still stood ready for more. Instead, its gleaming eyes slid past them all, locking further back.

The wagons.

Veydris.

It was here for the cargo.

Karzon stepped forward, sword raised, though his every instinct bristled against the unnatural presence before him. "You tell me," he said, his voice even, the challenge clear. "What's so important about this cargo?"

The Hollow's lips curled ever so slightly, not quite a smirk, not quite anything human, but something that looked like it had once studied expressions and learned to mimic them.

"Everything."

Then, with a movement of its wrist, the world cracked open.

The Aetherglass in its staff pulsed, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through the ground. The dirt split beneath their feet, deep fractures jagging outward like veins of blue fire. The air itself wavered, rippling like the surface of disturbed water, and then came the sound, a deep groan from beneath the earth.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The earth trembled. A deep, unnatural shudder rolled through the valley as the ground split apart beneath their feet. Karzon barely had time to steady himself before a surge of raw energy exploded outward from the Hollow's staff. The Aetherglass pounded like an erratic heartbeat, and from the depths of the fractured earth, a massive form began to claw its way free.

It wasn't like the other aether-spawn. Those had been twisted, monstrous things, warped creatures, unnatural in their grotesque anatomy. But this… this was something else entirely.

A pair of curved, jagged horns pierced through the cracked soil, followed by a great, hulking mass of muscle and sinew. Its body was covered in thick, obsidian-like plates, as if it had been forged in the core of the world itself.

Its face was a mockery of something human, elongated into a skeletal snarl, its mouth lined with rows of jagged teeth dripping molten gold. But worst of all were its eyes—voids of swirling, liquid darkness, as if the night sky had been hollowed out and poured into twin pits of endless hunger.

Briena swayed slightly beside him. "That's new."

Karzon tightened his grip on his sword. "I hate new."

The force of its cry tore through the clearing like a shockwave, a blast of searing heat that bent the trees and sent leaves whirling into the air. Wagons groaned against their axles as the horses reared in panic, hooves slamming the dirt and eyes wide with terror. The harnesses strained. One wagon wheel cracked violently as a mare kicked back, trying to break free.

Behind him, chaos erupted. Men shouted. Cargo toppled. Aldrin barked orders, his voice raw as he tried to regain control of the drivers.

"Karzon!" someone shouted near the second wagon. "They're bolting!"

Karzon didn't look back. He didn't have to. The image was already clear in his mind, horses frothing, reins tangled, wheels dragging sideways over stone. If the Hollow pushed closer, they'd lose the entire line.

He turned his head just enough to shout over his shoulder. "Keep the wagons tight! Rein the animals! Pull them behind the tree line if you have to, but do not run!"

He didn't wait to see if they followed the order. He trusted Aldrin would. The man may have looked soft, but he could command a team when it counted.

In front of him, Aisri's magic flared. Sparks twisted at her fingertips, lighting the sharp lines of her face with uneven fire. Her eyes didn't leave the creature.

"A Hollow has never revealed itself like this before," she said. Her voice was calm, but undercut with something tight and cold. "They aren't meant to act alone. They're tools, silent enforcers of their crafters' will, lurking in the dark, waiting for commands. Not this."

Drenna scoffed, flexing her shoulders as she stepped over a fallen spawn. "Then what the fuck is this one doing? Striking a pose in the middle of the road? Fully visible, fully confident. Should we invite it to dinner next?"

Aisri shot her a sharp glance. "I don't know," she admitted. "But it's a terrible sign."

She extended one hand toward the Hollow. Her fingers traced a slow pattern through the air as flame flickered from her palm. "That thing is tied to the Aetherglass," she said, her tone low and urgent. "It's not just a creature—it's a construct."

"Meaning?" Drenna asked, yanking her blade free from the twitching corpse at her feet.

"Meaning," Aisri said grimly, "if we don't sever the source, it won't stop."

Karzon's eyes tracked the length of the Hollow's form. Its body pulsed faintly, as if lit from within, but it was the staff that drew his focus, the long black shaft gripped in one clawed hand, tipped with a shard that throbbed with blue light. Aetherglass. It shimmered with the same resonance he'd felt during the last ambush.

If this creature was bound to it, the solution was clear. The source had to be broken.

But the Hollow was already watching him.

It tilted its head, an eerie imitation of curiosity, then bared its teeth.

"You think you can break it?" the creature murmured. Its voice was smooth and low, almost bored. "Go ahead. Try."

Karzon did not like being underestimated. "Spread out!" he shouted. "Drenna, take the left flank. Orla, keep that thing busy. Do not let it near the caravan. Briena—" He turned to her, voice dropping just enough for her ears alone. Behind him, he could still hear the terrified horses, the shouted curses of drivers trying to keep the wagons from tipping, but the center of the storm had narrowed. "Put an arrow in its throat if you get the chance."

She was already notching her bow. "With pleasure."

The summoned beast lunged.

It was far too fast for something its size. One moment it was standing amidst the fractured earth, and the next it was bearing down on them with terrifying speed. Orla barely had time to raise her shield before the creature struck.

The impact sent her skidding backward, boots carving trenches into the dirt. Mira and Elska flanked her, their axes biting into the beast's armored hide, but the thing barely flinched.

Aisri raised her hands, summoning fire, but before she could unleash her magic, the Hollow swept its staff through the air. A pulse of energy crackled outward, disrupting the spell before it could fully form.

Karzon cursed under his breath. The bastard wasn't just watching; it was controlling the battlefield.

He surged forward, blade flashing in the dimming light. He ducked beneath a wild swing from the beast's massive claws, rolling under its outstretched arm before driving his sword upward, aiming for the gaps in its plating.

The blade struck true, only for the wound to seal almost instantly.

Karzon barely had time to react before the thing backhanded him, sending him sprawling across the ground. He hit hard, pain radiating through his ribs as the taste of blood filled his mouth.

"Right," he muttered, spitting onto the dirt. "Regenerative. That's fun."

Briena fired, her arrow streaking through the air like a silvered comet. The Hollow dodged at the last second, twisting unnaturally. The arrow grazed its cheek instead of embedding itself in its throat. The wound sealed instantly.

Karzon's stomach dropped.

Aisri's flames erupted again, this time arcing toward the Hollow itself. But it lifted its staff, absorbing the fire as if it were nothing more than a breath of wind. Its expression never wavered, never faltered.

"Futile," it said, almost lazily. "You are children, grasping at something beyond your understanding."

Karzon gritted his teeth. "Then let's learn."

He pushed to his feet, adjusting his grip on his sword. If cutting the beast down wasn't an option, and if magic wasn't going to work, then there was only one solution left.

Break the source.

Break the staff.

But Aetherglass was powerful. It didn't shatter like normal gemstones. It resisted magic, resisted force. If they wanted to destroy it, they needed something stronger.

The beast snarled in the backdrop as it thundered toward the caravan line, each step leaving deep craters in the soil. One of the wagons jolted violently as its hooves struck nearby, the wheels dragging sideways. The horses shrieked and reared, tangling in their harnesses. A driver tried to leap down from the front bench and was knocked sideways by the force of the tremor. He hit the ground hard, dazed but alive.

"Move!" Aldrin bellowed, sprinting to unbuckle one of the lead horses. His hands were fast despite the tremble in them. "Get them behind cover! Now!"

Drenna was the first to meet the beast head-on. She didn't hesitate. With a sharp cry, she ducked beneath its first sweeping horn and drove her sword into the exposed joint near its shoulder. The blade struck but didn't sink. The beast's armor took the hit with a bone-jarring clang, and the shock of it ran up Drenna's arm.

"It's like hacking a mountain!" she shouted, teeth clenched.

Orla came in next, shield raised. She barreled into the creature's opposite side, drawing its attention with a slam of steel against stone. "Keep it distracted!" she yelled. "Don't let it break the line!"

The beast lunged toward her, jaws snapping. Orla slammed her shield upward just in time. The impact sent her skidding several feet, her boots digging furrows in the dirt. She stayed on her feet, but barely.

From the flank, Mira hurled a throwing knife. The blade pinged off one of the creature's horns without even slowing it.

Elska joined her, a roar tearing from her throat as she leapt onto the creature's back and swung her axe into the groove between its plated shoulders. Sparks flew, and the beast bucked violently, nearly throwing her off. She clung with one arm wrapped around its thick neck, hacking again and again, trying to split a weak point that may not have existed.

"Karzon!" she shouted. "We're not stopping this thing for long!"

He heard her. He heard all of them. But his focus had narrowed.

The Hollow stood only a short distance away, untouched by the chaos. Its staff pulsed with light, the Aetherglass shard glowing brighter with each passing second. It wasn't just controlling the battlefield—it was feeding off it.

Karzon raised his voice. "Keep the beast away from the wagons! Whatever it takes; buy me time!"

Behind him, the battle raged on.

The creature swept its horn through the air, catching Orla in the side. Her shield absorbed the worst of the blow, but she was sent flying, her shoulder striking hard against the trunk of a nearby tree. She groaned, rising slowly, blood on her brow.

Mira ducked low and slashed at the beast's rear leg, hoping to sever a tendon. Her blades sparked off solid bone.

Elska lost her grip and tumbled off the creature's back. It twisted to stomp her, hooves crashing down. Drenna shoulder-checked her aside just in time, both of them rolling across the dirt, bruised and breathless.

The beast roared again, molten spittle flying from its jaws, and reared high on its hind legs before crashing back down. The shockwave knocked several crates from a nearby wagon and sent the horses into another fit of panic. Two broke free entirely, galloping toward the trees.

Aldrin cursed and hurled a loose plank at the side of the wagon to stop it from tipping. He called out to his remaining drivers: "Keep the lines steady! If that thing hits the axle, we lose everything!"

Karzon kept his attention fixed on the Hollow, who stood there observing with an indulgent smile. He was too powerful. Karzon saw the constant vibrations coming from the head of his staff, almost like a beating heart. But how would he get to it without the Hollow tossing him aside?

A sudden movement caught Karzon's eye. It was Veydris, crouched beside one of the rear packs, rummaging with fast hands. From the satchel came a flash of dull silver and dark glass, something long, cylindrical, and fitted with latches along the seam. Veydris straightened and hurled it across the clearing.

Karzon caught it mid-run.

It was a bracer, thick and heavy, shaped to clamp around the forearm. Not polished. Not ceremonial. It was worn smooth with age, the embedded Aetherglass dulled at the surface but still pulsing faintly beneath the metal like a heartbeat in stone. The craftsmanship was unmistakable—an old piece from a battle-healer's kit, once meant for field use.

The kind of gear meant to be forgotten at the bottom of a pack. The least valuable thing someone like Veydris might risk.

Karzon didn't hesitate. He slammed it against his arm.

The bracer responded instantly.

Locks snapped into place, then shifted. The metal slid forward in silent motion, unfolding across his hand, finger by finger, until a full gauntlet encased his arm. The plating fused like liquid armor, ancient enchantments still alive in its core, reshaping it to his limb. The pulse of magic surged through his wrist, rising like fire, threading warmth into his veins.

He gasped at the sudden clarity. His magic reacted instantly, like it had been waiting for this moment all along. The gauntlet hadn't been made for destruction; it had been forged to restore.

But sometimes, healing meant tearing something down first.

The Aetherglass in the gauntlet flared as Karzon flexed his hand. It was light now, impossibly light, like the weapon wanted to move before him.

The Hollow watched from across the battlefield. The glow in its staff pulsed harder, matching the rhythm of the gauntlet's flickering core.

If it could mend… then perhaps, in the right hands, it could also unmake.

He had no time to second-guess himself.

"Listen up!" Karzon roared, yanking his horse hard to the side as the Hollow's staff pulsed with power. "I need an opening!"

There was no hesitation, no wasted breath on questions or doubt. Briena twisted in the saddle, her bow already rising. "I'll keep the beast off the wagons!"

Aldrin didn't argue. He swung down from his saddle and shouted to the nearest driver, grabbing the reins of a panicked mare and dragging it toward the treeline. "You heard him! Get these wagons out of its path!"

Together, Briena and Aldrin turned their focus toward the summoned monstrosity still rampaging through the back lines. The beast lunged again, carving deep gouges into the earth with every step. Briena's arrow slammed into the gap just below its eye. It barely staggered; but it turned, and that was enough. She nocked another before it could recover.

Orla and Elska charged forward, their horses thundering across the broken ground. With shields braced against their arms, they drove the full weight of their mounts into its legs, steel and muscle slamming hard into the creature's unnatural form. The Hollow lurched, its footing slipping for a fraction of a second.

Before it could regain its balance, a surge of heat lit the air behind him.

The sky flared with fire conjured by Aisri, a sudden eruption of blue and gold bursting through the mist like a second sun. The flames coiled into shape, twisting through the battlefield with unnatural speed—a serpent of pure light, its burning fangs snapping for the Hollow's outstretched arm. It wasn't meant to destroy, wasn't meant to kill—it was meant to force it back, to disrupt, to blind.

And it worked.

The Hollow lifted its staff to deflect the fire, its focus shifting to the blazing serpent closing in on its flank. In that instant, Karzon dug his heels into his horse's sides, leaning low over the saddle, driving forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.

The Hollow was distracted. It would only be distracted for a breath.

But a breath was all he needed.

Karzon's horse thundered across the battlefield, hooves tearing through the churned earth, the wind rushing past him as he leaned low in the saddle. The Hollow's eyes, dark and swirling like liquid voids, met his. For the briefest moment, there was hesitation.

"Fool," it murmured.

It lifted its staff. The Aetherglass flared.

Karzon didn't stop.

Magic surged, the air crackling with raw energy, but he was already moving. At the last second, he yanked the reins hard to the side, sending his horse into a sharp turn. The blast of power shot past, scorching the ground where he had been only heartbeats before.

With a sharp kick to the flank, he drove the horse forward again, this time faster and harder. The Hollow barely had time to adjust before Karzon was on him. He stood in the stirrups, using the momentum to launch himself off the saddle.

The Hollow swung its staff to block, but Karzon twisted in midair, rolling past the strike. Heat licked at his skin as the magic seared the air behind him, but he didn't slow.

His gauntlet ignited, pure white light spilling from his palm.

As he landed, he drove his arm forward⁠—

And seized the staff. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the world fractured.

The magic screamed, an unbearable keening sound that reverberated through Karzon's skull. His vision blurred. Energy surged through his arm, searing, tearing, as if his very essence was being unraveled.

But so was the staff.

Cracks spiderwebbed through the wood, splitting apart, revealing the heart of the Aetherglass within. The Hollow's smirk vanished.

"You—"

Karzon's fingers closed tight around the staff. Wood splintered and the staff broke, but it did not go quietly. It cracked open like thunder striking the heart of the world, sending a shockwave of raw magic exploding outward. The air twisted and warped, streaks of wild light arcing through the battlefield as if reality itself had been torn apart. The shattered Aetherglass flared—one last desperate attempt to hold itself together—before it disintegrated entirely.

The effect was immediate.

Across the field, the summoned beast reared back with a roar. Its molten core dimmed, its obsidian plating fracturing with a deep, echoing crack. Gold fluid burst from the seams, sluggish and thick, pouring into the scorched earth.

Its bellow broke into a choking gasp.

It collapsed.

The body crashed down like a felled tower, limbs splayed wide, smoke rising from the cracks along its spine. Where once there had been life—twisted, magical, and terrifying—now there was only heat and ash and silence.

But the Hollow was not yet dead.

It stumbled, reeling as the backlash of severed magic rippled through its form. The glow in its veins faded. Its strength faltered. For the first time, its movements seemed human—uncertain, heavy, bound by flesh rather than power.

Karzon surged forward, the gauntlet still lit with flickering heat, and drove his blade into the creature's chest with every ounce of force he had left.

The steel pierced deep. The Hollow let out a gasp, as if it had never expected to feel anything again.

Its eyes, no longer voids but dim and fading, met his once… and then it crumpled.

A puppet with its strings cut, it folded into itself, collapsing beside the ruined staff, its body already beginning to dissolve. The plating on its skin cracked and sloughed away. Ash curled upward from the wound. As the last breath left it, the Hollow became nothing more than a husk of bone and shadow, fading quietly into the dirt.

Karzon stood over it, chest heaving, the gauntlet cooling slowly against his skin.

Silence followed. Not the stillness of peace, but the heavy, stunned quiet that came after something vast and terrible had finally met its end.

Karzon swayed, his breath ragged, the gauntlet still glowing faintly around his fingers. His entire body ached, raw magic humming through his veins as if he had been used as a conduit for something far beyond mortal limits.

His knees nearly buckled, but before he could fall, a pair of arms steadied him.

The arms belonged to Briena. She was bruised, her armor streaked with blood and dust, but her grip was firm as she held him upright. Her green eyes scanned him, searching for wounds, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Tell me you're not about to collapse dramatically," she said dryly.

Karzon exhaled, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "No promises."

Drenna approached, wiping her blade clean against the torn remains of a fallen aether-spawn. She glanced at the massive, unmoving corpse of the beast, then at the shattered remnants of the staff still crumbling into dust.

"That," she said, planting her hands on her hips, "was the stupidest thing I've ever seen you do."

Karzon, still catching his breath, gave a slow nod. "Yeah."

Mira snorted, running a hand through her sweat-damp hair. "And the most impressive."

Orla cracked her neck, sheathing her axe. "Remind me to never let you hold anything fragile."

Aisri approached last, her expression unreadable as she surveyed the battlefield. Her golden eyes lingered on the remains of the Hollow; nothing remained but scraps of tattered robes and the dust of what had once been powerful magic.

"It's done," she murmured.

The words carried weight.

Veydris and his men, many of whom had been watching from a cautious distance, slowly emerged from their defensive positions. His expression was one of wary amazement as he took in the aftermath.

"That…" he began, then exhaled. "That was more than I expected."

Karzon gave him a weary look. "You and me both."

Veydris let out a short, breathy chuckle before shaking his head. After a pause, his eyes turned serious. "You saved my people. My business. And likely much more than that." He turned toward his men. "See to the wounded. Gather what can be salvaged."

Then, to Karzon and the others:

"You'll be properly rewarded for this."

Drenna brightened. "Does that mean food?"

Briena rolled her eyes. "Priorities."

Drenna grinned. "Yes. And food is one of them."

Veydris let out a wry chuckle. "Yes. It means food."

Karzon finally let himself relax, exhaustion rolling through him in waves. Whatever the Hollow had planned had been stopped, at least for now. There were still questions—too many—but at this moment, they had won. He would take that.

Shortly before night spilled fully across the sky, they had left Murkwatch behind. The land softened here, trading its menace for gentler shapes. Rolling fields stretched outward in every direction, green and gold in the dying light, dotted with grazing cattle and the occasional thatched farmhouse nestled low in the crook of a hill. Smoke curled from distant chimneys, and in scattered villages, the sounds of evening stirred. Children laughed as they ran barefoot along worn dirt paths. Elders sat on porches, snapping beans or mending nets, the quiet rhythm of life unfolding in its usual, comforting way.

Now and then, the broken silhouette of a watchtower rose against the fading light. These no longer felt ominous. They had become part of the scenery, hollowed by time and softened by ivy and moss, their stones warmed by the sun and forgotten by fear. The road meandered gently through the countryside, flanked by hedgerows and wildflowers. With every step further from Murkwatch, the tightness in their chests began to ease. Even the horses, restless and wary just hours before, moved with an easy, unhurried gait.

The journey was not yet over. But this place, full of life and the scent of growing things, felt like a reprieve. That night, beneath a sky thick with stars and the low murmur of firelight, the promised reward arrived not as coin or treasure, but as a grand feast.

Veydris and his men had set up a proper encampment. By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced stews, and fresh-baked bread. The fires burned bright, casting long golden shadows against the battered remnants of the caravan wagons.

Karzon sat at the heart of it with a fresh tankard in his hand, a heavy plate of food in front of him. The rest of the group was scattered around the gathering, Briena seated beside him, absently picking at her meal while deep in thought.

Drenna was fully committed to eating as much as possible, already on her third helping of whatever had been slow-cooked in the largest pot.

Orla, Mira, and Elska were engaged in a drinking contest with a few of Veydris's men, all while exchanging increasingly dramatic retellings of the battle. Karzon caught snippets of Mira declaring that Karzon had "wrestled the demon with his bare hands," which was promptly followed by Orla adding that he had "bit through its throat like a wild wolf."

Drenna snorted into her drink. "I was there, and even I want to believe that version."

Aisri sat more quietly, cradling a cup of spiced wine, her expression thoughtful. She had spoken little since the battle, watching instead.

Veydris raised his goblet, standing from his seat. The camp quieted.

"To our new mercenaries," he declared. "Who kept our sorry asses out of an early grave!"

The cheer that followed was loud and boisterous. Tankards clashed together. Someone—probably Mira—shouted something obscene but celebratory.

Karzon took a slow sip of his drink, feeling the warmth settle in his chest. For now, he could allow himself to sink into the revelry. He sat back, letting the firelight dance across the rim of his cup. His team was bruised but intact, leaning into the comfort of full plates and earned rest.

Veydris approached quietly, a second mug in hand. He offered it to Karzon without a word, then sat down across from him, wincing slightly as his joints settled.

They drank in silence for a few beats. "You used the gauntlet well," Veydris said finally, glancing at Karzon's arm, where the bracer—now inert—rested like a sleeping artifact.

Karzon lifted his arm slightly, turning it toward the firelight. The metal had cooled, its glow gone, but the etched lines of old magic still shimmered faintly. "I didn't think it would hold. Not against that."

Veydris shrugged. "It wasn't meant to. At least not like that."

He paused, running a hand through his graying hair before nodding toward the bracer. "You should keep it."

Karzon blinked, surprised. "You sure? This piece must be worth something."

Veydris gave a small, dry smile. "Not as much as you'd think. It's from a healer's set. Travel gear. Most of the kit's been lost to time. That one survived because it folds. That novelty made it easier to sell to collectors, not practitioners." He tipped his head slightly. "But you're not a collector. And if you can use it to keep your people breathing, I can live with losing the sale."

Karzon studied him. "You're generous tonight."

"I'm practical," Veydris replied. "And I pay attention. The only reason we're still above ground is because you held the line."

Karzon inclined his head in quiet thanks, though the weight of what had happened still lingered in his bones.

Veydris leaned forward then, lowering his voice just enough to stay beneath the hum of conversation. "Truth is, this shipment wouldn't normally warrant your price. Not for just one run. But something's stirring. People moving things they shouldn't. Gear going missing. Enchanted caravans getting hit and stripped clean." His voice dropped further. "Whatever's coming, it's big. And quiet. Which makes it worse."

Karzon frowned. "Enough to justify targeting random shipments of Aetherglass?"

"Not random," Veydris said. "Precise. Selective. Someone high up is trying to corner the supply before word spreads."

Karzon felt a slow curl of unease work through his chest. His thoughts turned to his own lost shipment. It hadn't seemed targeted. More like bad luck. But now…

He set the mug down carefully. "Aetherglass is valuable, but not enough to start a war over."

Veydris shrugged. "Not unless you want to control who gets to use it."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

After dinner, they drifted off one by one, retreating to their tents as the night deepened around them.

Sleep was a gentle thief, slipping over Briena's body like silk, drawing her into the depths of something vast and ancient. She found herself standing in a meadow unlike any she had ever known, where the grass shimmered with an ethereal glow, bending in waves beneath an unseen wind.

Above her stretched an endless sky, deep as twilight, littered with stars that pulsed like the heartbeat of the world itself. Around her, there was a slow, steady hum. This was not a sound, but a presence, as if the land itself murmured in a language just beyond her understanding.

She felt weightless. Rootless. Dreaming, and yet not.

Then, she saw her.

Atop a low rise stood the mare Elaris, her coat like liquid pearl, shifting and glistening as though woven from the very light of the heavens. Her mane and tail spilled like cascading starlight, drifting in unseen currents, never truly still. She did not belong to the world of mortals, Briena could feel that in her bones, but here she was, waiting.

Briena's breath came soft and shallow as she stepped forward, her movements careful and reverent. Her boots made no sound against the meadow's silver grass, but she could feel the earth beneath her, feel the way it pulsed, alive and aware. There was something more than recognition in the mare's eyes as they met hers—a knowing.

I have been waiting for you.

The words did not break the silence; they existed within it, a presence rather than a voice.

Briena did not question how she understood, even as tears fell from her eyes. She only knew she did.

Reaching out, she extended her hand, fingers trembling, heart pounding⁠—

The moment she made contact, the world shattered into light.

Briena awoke with a sharp inhale, her chest rising as if she had just surfaced from deep water. The dream clung to her, vivid and unshaken, the image of Elaris imprinted behind her eyelids like the afterglow of a comet streaking across the night.

For a moment, she merely lay there, staring at the canvas of her tent, feeling the echoes of something impossibly old still humming in her blood. Then, a sound reached her ears; soft and rhythmic, it was the faintest shifting of hooves against the damp earth.

Throwing aside her blanket, she rose swiftly, pushing through the tent's entrance with a sense of urgency that was neither panic nor fear, but certainty.

Standing just beyond the tents, bathed in the quiet gold of early morning, was Elaris.

Briena's breath left her in a quiet gasp.

The mare was as she had seen her in the dream—impossibly luminous, her pearlescent coat gleaming as if kissed by moonlight even beneath the sun's soft glow. Her amber eyes were steady, calm, filled with the same ancient knowledge that had unsettled and comforted Briena all at once.

She stepped forward, every muscle in her body taut with disbelief, with hope, with something raw and wordless.

Elaris did not move away.

Briena took another step forward, and she saw that something was wrong. The shimmer of the mare's coat glimmered differently. What she had first taken for shadows or dew resolved into something more troubling. Scratches ran along the mare's flanks. A raw line curved just above her shoulder, where the luminous coat had parted around a shallow but inflamed wound. They were not life-threatening, but they were not nothing either.

Briena's breathing was uneven as she moved closer. Her boots sank soundlessly into the damp grass as she circled, eyes searching. The mare remained still beneath her scrutiny, though the rise and fall of her chest came slower, wearier.

Now Briena could see them all. Thin welts. Burrs tangled deep in the silver of her mane. Sap hardened across her knees. Most looked like the aftermath of a wild run through dense brush. A frantic escape, maybe. But not all.

One mark on her flank was too neat. Too sharp in its cut to be made by bramble or branch. Another near the ankle, angled in a way that made Briena's stomach turn.

"Someone tried to stop you," she whispered. The ache she felt was physical, her heart bleeding for her beautiful horse.

The mare made no sound. No flick of ear or hoof. But Briena felt the truth of it. Not in her mind, but in her chest. The way her ribs tightened. The way her throat closed.

The camp behind her still slept in quiet. Pale morning light had only just begun to pour over the hilltops, casting long blue shadows. None of the others had stirred. None had seen what Briena now knew.

She turned back to Elaris, her gaze softening even as her hands curled into fists at her sides.

Whatever had happened, they were too far now to do anything about it. The stable where they had first seen the mare was days behind them. The roads between were forested and winding. Whatever cruelty or chaos had taken place there had passed beyond their reach.

But not beyond hers. Briena reached out and pressed her palm to the mare's neck.

The warmth of her skin met Briena's hand, and a soft pulse answered beneath it. Not a heartbeat. Not her own. Something older. A flicker of sensation traveled through her, not painful but heavy. A memory that wasn't hers brushed against her thoughts. The echo of trees breaking. The smell of smoke. A lantern falling. Hooves pounding on gravel.

It vanished before she could grasp it.

She blinked hard, steadying herself, as a new sensation washed over her, a tether snapping into place.

A slow, sharp whistle cut through the moment.

Briena turned her head just enough to see Karzon walking toward them, arms folded, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. His hazel eyes were filled with something between amusement and understanding.

"Well," he said, his voice low and easy, "looks like you finally found her."

Briena nodded. "She found me."

Behind them, the camp had begun to stir. The quiet voices and rustling canvas gave way to the familiar sounds of boots on soil and gear being shifted. Drenna emerged next, dragging a hand across her face, her braid loose from sleep. She paused mid-step, her scowl deepening as her eyes locked on Elaris.

"Hells," she muttered, squinting. "That's not just a horse."

"No," Briena said softly, still stroking the mare's mane. "She isn't."

Aisri came up beside them, more cautious in her approach, her eyes wide with something like awe. She moved as if she were approaching a shrine rather than a living creature.

"She's… incredible," Aisri murmured, barely above a whisper.

Karzon stepped closer and crouched beside the mare, his smirk fading as he took a longer look. The morning light caught the raw edges of the wounds along Elaris's flank, the streaks of dried sap on her legs, the way her breath came shallow and uneven.

He rested one hand gently on her shoulder and narrowed his eyes.

"She's exhausted," he said quietly. "And hurt."

Briena nodded. "She must've run through half the kingdom to reach us."

Karzon's expression shifted. His fingers brushed lightly over the cut above Elaris's shoulder, then trailed lower, skimming the old sap and burrs lodged in her mane. He worked in silence, careful and measured. Magic stirred faintly at his touch, a soft warmth beneath his palm, like water soaking into parched earth. The Aetherglass bracer on his arm glowed with a pale, steady pulse, responding not with power, but with permission.

He whispered something beneath his breath, words meant more for the mare than anyone else, and the faintest shimmer passed over her wound. It did not vanish, but the inflamed edges cooled, the rawness easing slightly.

"She took a few from thorns," he murmured, eyes narrowing as he reached the straighter cut near her flank. "But not all of these are from brush."

Briena stroked the horse's back. "You think someone hurt her?"

Karzon didn't answer immediately. He let his fingers hover above one of the deeper gashes.

"She was running from something," he said at last. "Or someone."

Drenna let out a low whistle and crossed her arms. "That stable she came from?"

"We're days past that place," Karzon said. "And whatever happened there, it's out of our hands now."

He didn't say the rest. Briena looked down at the mare, who stood calm despite her weariness. Elaris's amber eyes flicked between them, steady and ancient. She was listening. She understood.

Karzon let his hand fall gently from her shoulder and stood, brushing his palms on his coat.

"She's with us now," he said. "And we'll take care of her."

Then he smiled again, softer this time. "Well. Seems we've got ourselves a new party member."

Briena had no argument against that.

The camp roused itself slowly, shaking off the last embrace of sleep as dawn poured golden light over the treetops, turning the frost-laced grass into a field of fleeting stars. Someone coaxed the fire back to life, its smoke curling lazily into the crisp air, while others moved with the rhythm of routine—tightening saddle straps, rolling blankets, stretching the stiffness of the night from their limbs.

As soon as Elaris was healed, she turned, hooves shifting softly over the ground, and walked away from the tents with a stride in a direction none of them had looked. Briena watched her go and made to follow her. "She's left something behind."

The others trailed behind as Elaris led them off the path and into the tree line. Morning light filtered through the canopy, soft and speckled, casting shifting shadows on the forest floor. The mare walked without hesitation, weaving through undergrowth and over roots with a confidence that made the others trust her pace.

They found the man in a shallow hollow beneath a leaning pine, half-concealed by brush and ferns.

He was slumped beside a fallen log, legs tangled awkwardly beneath him, his cloak crumpled and soaked through. One arm was stretched forward as if he had reached out for help in his last moments of consciousness. His horse was nowhere in sight.

Karzon crouched beside him and placed two fingers gently at the base of his throat. "Alive," he said. "But only just."

The man was pale, his skin cool and damp with sweat. Briena handed Karzon a waterskin, and together they worked slowly, trickling water between the stranger's cracked lips. He stirred after a few minutes, coughing weakly and blinking up at the canopy above.

"Easy," Karzon said. "You collapsed in the woods. Can you speak?"

The man nodded faintly, though it took effort. "I fell," he said. "My horse panicked, threw me off and bolted."

"I don't remember how she found me," he continued hoarsely. He looked up at Elaris, and awe softened the lines of his face.

"She was just there," he whispered. "Standing in the road. Like she knew I couldn't go any farther. I tried to climb up. She knelt for me, carried me till here, and then I—I must have fainted…"

Karzon nodded once, his gaze shifting to the mare.

Elaris stood close by, unshaken, her flanks still streaked with old scratches and bramble marks. Her eyes met Briena's again, calm and watchful.

"She brought him straight to us," Briena murmured.

Karzon and the others brought the man back to the camp. After he was sufficiently recovered, Veydris summoned everyone to a meeting. Karzon stood near the center of the camp, arms crossed, his expression unreadable as the man relayed what little he knew.

"I was riding from a merchant caravan. We stopped outside one of the ruins near Ashfall. There were signs of something. The others thought we could stay the night and keep watch. We didn't understand what we'd found."

Karzon exchanged a glance with Briena, then turned back to him. "What was it?"

The man's eyes darkened. "A dungeon, but not like the others. It felt like it was breathing. We saw lights inside, heard creatures."

He swallowed hard, his voice thin. "Then they came out. Not beasts. Not monsters. They knew how we moved. They herded us like cattle. I don't know if anyone else escaped. Whatever's happening in those ruins, it's not normal dungeon spill," he continued after a pause, shaking his head. "Something is directing the creatures."

Veydris—a man who had survived enough horrors to know when something was truly wrong—exhaled slowly, nodding. "These attacks can't be random. It seems like the culprits are working together, striking supply lines, cutting off exits. That's not how dungeon spawn behave. This must go deeper than that."

Briena stood beside Elaris, brushing the mare's coat with slow, deliberate strokes, though her eyes remained on the conversation. "Dungeons create endless waves of beasts, but they don't think. If something is organizing them…" She trailed off, a frown deepening on her face.

Drenna let out a sharp breath, flipping a dagger between her fingers before catching it again. "Then someone is making it happen."

The traveler hesitated before stepping toward Karzon. With careful fingers, the man unwrapped a small bundle of cloth, revealing a fractured shard of gemstone unlike any Karzon had ever seen. "This was embedded in the heart of my best friend. He lay dead beside me when I came to. I'd taken a hit to the back of my head." Tears shone in his eyes. "I believe I only live because they thought I was already dead."

It was dark—not the rich, deep hues of standard dungeon gems, but something sickly, something wrong. Its edges pulsed with an unstable, sluggish light, as if its power was struggling to hold itself together.

Karzon reached out, fingertips brushing against its surface⁠—

Pain.

A pulse of sheer, unfiltered wrongness shot through his hand, curling up his arm like icy tendrils. He hissed, pulling back, shaking off the sensation as his fingers curled instinctively into a fist.

Aisri, watching from just behind him, pressed a hand to her lips. "That's not normal dungeon magic."

"No," Karzon muttered, flexing his fingers. "It's worse."

Karzon turned to the others. There was no need for words. They all understood.

Veydris's caravan, the Aetherglass shards, the Hollow and all the monsters that were supposed to be hidden… it was all connected. At the center of it all, was one name: Whisper. A phantom that left no trace but the echoes of its passing. A force pulling strings from unseen corners. Karzon knew, deep within his bones, that he had something to do with the evil spewing from the dungeons of Ashfall.

The caravan had carried Aetherglass, but someone—or something—had wanted it badly enough to send organized monsters after it. That kind of power didn't just emerge from nowhere. Someone was crafting dungeon gems, twisting the balance of the world to their will. If left unchecked, more would follow. More beasts. More death. More destruction.

They weren't just mercenaries chasing coin anymore.

This was bigger than a single job, bigger than any of them alone.

Briena's expression darkened, the sharp gleam of her resolve flashing. Aisri did not speak, but her fingers curled faintly, as if resisting the urge to summon fire to chase away the growing chill. Drenna, while displeased, was unwilling to turn her back on a fight worth taking. The dwarven sisters shifted, wordless but watchful, waiting for the inevitable decision to be spoken aloud.

Karzon drew a slow breath. The ruins were waiting. The answers were waiting. And if Whisper was at the heart of this, then it was time they stopped chasing shadows and dragged the truth into the light.

"We go south, once we've finished delivering Veydris's cargo to our destination point."

No one disagreed.

They were going to find whatever lurked beneath Ashfall. Karzon could sense, deep inside, that this was tied to his newly awakened magic.

And they were going to end it.

Karzon stepped back from the sickly shard, flexing his fingers to chase away the sensation of wrongness that had curled through his skin like poison. The others were still talking—Drenna muttering about strategy, Orla and Mira discussing possible escape routes—but his mind was already five steps ahead, piecing together what had to happen next.

Briena caught his eye and gave the smallest tilt of her chin.

It was a silent summons. He turned without a word, stepping away from the gathered mercenaries and into the shadowed edge of the camp. Briena followed behind. Inside, the lantern cast a warm glow over the cramped space—just a sturdy cot, a map-strewn table, and a few packs stacked in the corner. The heavy canvas muted the voices outside, closing them into a world of their own.

Briena crossed her arms. "We need a plan."

Karzon nodded. "We do."

Silence stretched between them, but neither of them spoke about the dungeon right away.

Briena leaned against the edge of the table, running her fingers over the surface of the map. Karzon let his gaze travel over her, noting the tension in her shoulders, the way her green eyes burned with something deeper than worry. She had been shaken by what they had just seen.

And so had he.

"You're quiet," she murmured, not looking up.

"I'm thinking."

"About?"

Karzon exhaled, stepping closer. "Everything." It wasn't a lie. The growing danger loomed over him like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. But in that moment, the weight of those thoughts felt secondary.

Briena was standing in front of him, and for the first time since this journey began, they were alone. She lifted her head, meeting his gaze.

The space between them shrank.

Karzon reached out, brushing a stray strand of silver-blonde hair from her face. His fingers trailed along her cheek, down to the curve of her jaw.

Briena didn't move away. If anything, she leaned into his touch.

The tension in the tent shifted, no longer about the mission, no longer about the job ahead. Something warmer crackled between them, something that had been simmering for too long without release.

Briena's lips parted with the barest breath of hesitation. Then Karzon kissed her.

She sighed into him, her arms slipping around his neck and pulling him closer. Karzon ran his hands along her back, feeling the strength in her frame, the way she molded against him so perfectly.

She tasted like honeyed wine and something wilder, something hers—untamed and electric.

His hands traveled lower, gripping her waist, tugging her against him until there was nothing between them but the thrum of shared heat.

Briena let out a quiet sound, a mix between a sigh and a moan, her nails raking lightly against his skin as she pressed herself into him.

"This feels so good…"

He guided her back, lifting her with ease, setting her atop the table where maps and strategy had once been the most important thing. Now, all that mattered was her.

His hands slid up her thighs, pushing aside the fabric that kept her from him. Her breath hitched, anticipation lighting her gaze.

Karzon kissed her again, deeper this time, letting his fingers tease along the soft skin of her inner thigh. Briena responded eagerly, her hands slipping beneath his shirt, tracing the ridges of his muscles.

They were losing themselves in it, in each other.

And then⁠—

The tent flap rustled to reveal the fire mage.

Briena froze for a moment before composing herself as she turned to Aisri. The fire mage stood in the dim glow of the tent's lantern, inky waves tumbling over her bare shoulders, her night robe loose enough to hint at soft curves beneath.

She was not flustered—no stammering maiden who had walked in on something forbidden. But there was something in the way she hesitated, the way she gripped her hands together, that made Karzon and Briena's pulses thrum.

Briena arched a brow. "You came to talk about the dungeon?"

Aisri's lips parted, then closed. She nodded once. But her eyes moved to Karzon, and then Briena, and though she didn't say it, he saw the question lingering there.

Was there room for her?

Light spilled into the tent, soft and honeyed, filtering through the canvas and shifting leaves above, born of an afternoon sun that was warm and dipped in gold. Aisri stood near the edge of the bedrolls, her fingers curled loosely at her sides, her shoulders drawn but not closed. She looked like she might vanish if anyone moved too quickly, like a skittish deer stepping into the clearing.

Briena didn't speak right away. She simply watched her, the way one might watch the tide inch toward the shore. And then she stepped forward, not hurried, not hesitant. Her boots were soundless against the layered rugs, her eyes never leaving Aisri's.

Karzon remained where he was, one hand still wrapped around his belt, though the tension had slipped from his shoulders. His chest rose and fell with the quiet awareness of what was about to unfold. He didn't need words. He saw the shift in Briena's face before she moved, the soft certainty, the silent invitation written in the curve of her mouth.

She stopped just in front of Aisri, close enough to touch but not quite touching. Her voice, when it came, was low and warm.

"You didn't pick the moment," Briena said, tilting her head. "It's been waiting for you."

Aisri blinked, startled. Her lips parted as if to reply, but whatever she meant to say was lost when Briena lifted a hand and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers lingered there, brushing the slope of Aisri's cheek, and then she leaned in without breaking eye contact.

Their mouths met with a molten softness, warm and claiming. Briena tilted her head just enough to deepen the connection, her lips parting, coaxing Aisri open in return. Karzon watched, entranced, as their tongues touched—slow and sinuous, a gentle stroke that was somehow more erotic than anything frantic could ever be. Aisri's body swayed forward as if drawn by some gravitational force neither of them could resist.

Her hands came up to Briena's waist, fingers curling in the fabric of her tunic, not pulling, just holding. Grounding herself. But it was Briena who led, her kiss deepening with languid hunger, sensual and sure. There was no hesitation in the way she tasted Aisri's mouth, no awkwardness. Only heat, slow and steady, the kind that crept beneath the skin and made the world slip sideways.

Karzon could see the flick of Briena's tongue, the subtle wet sheen between them as they moved together in perfect rhythm. A soft sigh escaped Aisri, caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and it slid into Briena's mouth.

Karzon's caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. The way Aisri tilted toward Briena, the way Briena's hand curved around the back of her neck—it was beautiful. Not because of lust or fantasy, but because of the trust unfolding between them. A kind of gentle claiming, one that didn't require permission.

When Briena finally pulled back, her eyes were still locked with Aisri's. She turned to Karzon and stepped behind him, her fingers tracing the edge of his tunic before slipping around his waist, drawing herself against his back. Her chin rested lightly between his shoulder blades.

"She's one of us now," she said quietly, her breath warming the cotton beneath his collar. "Let her feel what that means."

Karzon's body stirred at the words, not just with arousal, but with something deeper. Permission. Unity. He turned to Aisri, stepping forward slowly. Her eyes followed his.

Karzon let his hand slip to Aisri's waist, drawing her closer.

Aisri let out a breath, something unspoken passing between them—acknowledgment, acceptance.

She tilted her head, closing the last sliver of distance between them. Her lips brushed against Karzon's in a whisper-soft tease. With a low groan, Karzon pulled back, only for a half-moment that seemed suspended, held tight in the hush of the afternoon, where the light turned gold against her skin and the air trembled with unspoken want.

Then, with maddening restraint, he kissed her back.

It wasn't rushed, or frantic, or careless. It was ruinous in its slowness. A featherlight graze that barely touched her mouth, a breath more than a kiss, but it set her entire body alight. Her lips parted on instinct, drawn by the pull of him, aching to be filled, to be claimed, to be known.

His tongue followed in the next breath, stroking hers with decadent, measured precision. There was no urgency, only the steady, spiraling rhythm of someone who meant to unravel her by degrees. Each movement was drawn out, decadent, designed to seduce rather than satisfy. His mouth moved with the kind of confidence that made her feel helpless beneath him, lost to sensation, untethered from thought.

A moan trembled at the back of her throat as he deepened the kiss, slow and hot, and the world tilted beneath her. Her hands clutched at his tunic, not for balance, but to keep from floating away entirely. The room spun—not with speed but with the dizzying rise of something molten and unstoppable, like being caught in a tide that would not relent.

She melted against him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, a soft sound escaping her as his hands traced the curve of her waist, anchoring her against him.

Behind him, Briena moved like a shadow, her presence pressing into his back, the warmth of her body wrapping around him.

Her hands came around, exploring his chest, sliding lower, unfastening the laces of his tunic.

He turned just enough to catch Briena's mouth, drinking in the quiet sigh she gave when he tangled his fingers in her hair and kissed her deeply.

Aisri watched them, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. Karzon caught the hunger in her eyes and reached back for her, drawing her into their embrace.

Briena turned her attention to Aisri, her touch reverent, her lips brushing against the fire mage's throat, tasting her pulse. Aisri gasped as Karzon's hands slid lower, gripping the tie of her robe and tugging it loose. The fabric fell away, pooling at her feet, leaving her bare beneath the lantern light.

Briena's fingers skimmed the length of Aisri's spine, a whisper of touch that sent shivers over her skin. Karzon's lips found the soft curve of her shoulder as his hands mapped the delicate lines of her body, learning every reaction, every sharp intake of breath.

Briena turned her attention to Karzon, undoing his belt with slow, measured movements, the leather sliding free in a quiet promise. "I love taking care of you." Her lips brushed his stomach as she worked him free. "Let us worship you the way you deserve."

Aisri watched, her lips parting, curiosity and desire warring in her expression. "So thick," she breathed, her fingers brushing over his length, marveling at the way he twitched under her tentative touch. "How does he even fit inside you?" she asked Briena, her voice laced with awe and hunger.

Briena smirked, curling her fingers around him, stroking with a languid, teasing rhythm. "Perfectly," she purred. "He stretches you just right, fills you so completely you'll never want anything else."

Karzon let out a low, rumbling chuckle, reaching to guide Aisri's hand alongside Briena's. His breathing grew ragged as both of them touched him, their fingers exploring, teasing, making his control fray by the second.

Aisri hesitated only a moment before following Briena's lead, her touch tentative at first, then bolder. "Fates," Karzon muttered, his voice thick with want. "You're both killing me."

Briena dragged her tongue along the ridges of his stomach. "That's the idea," she teased, her grip tightening as she stroked him. "I love watching you lose control."

Aisri flushed but didn't stop, her fingers growing more confident as she explored him, learning the way he shuddered beneath their combined attention. "He's so hard," she whispered, her other hand bracing against his chest. "And so warm…" She smiled shyly at Karzon. "Gods, I can't wait to feel you inside me."

Karzon groaned, his head tipping back, his grip tightening on their hips. He let them work him, let them tease and touch, but he could only take so much. With a growl, he gripped Briena's hips and hauled her up, guiding her to straddle him as he settled against the edge of the table.

Her thighs parted around his, slick and ready, and he traced a hand between them, dragging his fingers through her wetness, teasing her entrance but not yet giving her what she craved. "Look at you," he murmured, running his thumb over her swollen clit.

Briena moaned, rocking into his hand, her fingers threading through his hair.

Aisri knelt beside them, watching, her breath shallow, her own thighs pressing together in anticipation. Karzon caught her gaze and reached for her, his fingers slipping between her legs and coaxing a soft moan from her lips. "And you," he murmured, watching the way her lashes fluttered as he teased her. "You're already soaked for me too."

Aisri trembled as Karzon's fingers slid through her slickness, teasing her entrance before moving away. A little cry left her lips as her body ached for him, but the sight in front of her eyes was a welcome distraction.

With Briena already trembling against him, he lifted her slightly and sank her down onto his cock, groaning at the tight, wet heat that enveloped him. Briena gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders as she took every inch, her breath hitching, her body molding to his in a way that made his control fray at the edges.

"So full." She rocked against him, already lost in the feel of him stretching her open. "You're so deep… gods, I can feel you everywhere."

His grip tightened on her hips as he set the rhythm, slow at first, making her feel every deliberate thrust. Aisri watched with wide, dark eyes, her lips parting as her fingers drifted lower, slipping between her own thighs. Karzon saw her, and with a wicked smirk he reached out, catching her wrist. "Not yet," he murmured. "Let me."

He trailed his fingers down, slipping into her soaked heat, groaning at just how ready she was for him. Aisri gasped, her thighs spreading wider, welcoming his touch as he pushed two fingers inside her, curling them just right. "Oh my—" she moaned, her body arching as she pressed into him, her breaths ragged as he worked her open while Briena rode him.

He took his time, alternating between them, making Aisri come apart on his fingers while Briena moaned and trembled above him, grinding against his cock with reckless desperation. "You feel incredible," he groaned, thrusting his fingers deeper into Aisri while his hips snapped up into Briena. "Both of you."

Briena was coming apart above him, her moans growing frantic, her movements erratic as pleasure coiled tight inside her. "I— gods, I'm going to⁠—"

"Come for me," Karzon commanded, his voice dark and filled with hunger. He thrust up into her, rubbing Aisri's clit in tight circles as his fingers plunged into her heat. The combined sensations sent Briena over the edge first, her head falling back as she screamed, her walls fluttering around his cock as pleasure ripped through her.

Aisri wasn't far behind. With Karzon's fingers pressing deep, stroking just right, her body tensed, then shattered, her moans mixing with Briena's as her pleasure hit like a wave. Karzon felt her pulse around his fingers, wet and tight, her body trembling under his control.

As their pleasure peaked, Karzon thrust harder, faster, his breathing growing frantic as Briena's core clenched and coaxed his cock. With a final deep, shuddering groan, he spilled into the elf, gripping her hips tight as he filled her, claiming her completely, his body shaking with the force of it.

Slowly, still breathing hard, Briena slid off. To his credit, it only took Karzon a minute and the sight of the panting, blushing fire mage to realize he was far from done.

He met Briena's gaze, seeking silent permission. A slow, knowing smile curled her lips, her fingers brushing Aisri's cheek as she whispered, "Let him ruin you."

He lifted Aisri onto his lap, flipping her so she faced Briena. "Hold her," he ordered, his voice rough with need. Briena did as she was told, capturing Aisri's lips in a hungry kiss as Karzon drove into her, stretching her inch by inch. Aisri cried out against Briena's mouth, her nails digging into her back as Karzon began thrusting hard and fast, each stroke pulling desperate, broken moans from her throat.

Briena whispered praises between kisses. "Look at you… taking him so well. You're so beautiful like this, trembling for him."

Karzon gripped Aisri's hips, pulling her down onto him with each thrust, his pace relentless. "Fuck," he groaned, his lips capturing Briena's as he drove into Aisri, lost in the heat of them both.

Briena's hand trailed lower, her fingers finding the weight of him where he was buried inside Aisri. She cupped his balls, rolling them in her palm, teasing them with just the right amount of pressure. Karzon groaned at the sensation, his thrusts turning deeper, harder, making Aisri gasp, her body arching between them.

"More," Aisri sobbed, her fingers curling against Briena's back, her breath hot against her lips. "Please, don't stop."

Karzon growled, his grip tightening, his thrusts turning relentless. "You want more?" he rasped, his breath ragged against her ear. "Then take it."

Aisri cried out as his pace turned brutal, her entire body trembling between them, lost in the overwhelming pleasure of being completely filled, completely claimed. Briena whispered sweet praise, kissing along her throat, her nails dragging down her spine. "You're perfect like this," she murmured. "Taking every inch of him like you were made for it."

Karzon groaned as Aisri tightened around him, her body shattering with pleasure, her moans breaking into sobs as she came hard around him. He wasn't far behind. With a deep, guttural growl, he slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the hilt, his release spilling hot and deep inside her. He marked her as his while Briena's hand continued to massage him, milking him dry, ensuring he gave Aisri every last drop.

In the aftermath, the air in the tent was thick with heat, their bodies tangled together in the dim glow of the lantern. Aisri—quiet and shy no more—lay curled at his side, her dark lashes fluttering against her flushed cheeks, her breath slow and even. Briena, ever the huntress, still watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips.

Karzon exhaled, contentment settling over him like the hush of dawn before the world woke.

But they didn't get dawn.

They got the dwarves.

A roar split through the afternoon, a voice bellowing Karzon's name from outside. The tent flap ripped open before any of them could react.

"ON YOUR FEET!"

The voice was unmistakable—Orla, her broad frame backlit by the sun's glow, her gray eyes flashing with battle-readiness. Behind her, Mira and Elska stood armed, axes glinting, their expressions taut with urgency.

Briena was already moving, rolling off Karzon and snatching up her tunic from the ground. Aisri sat upright, still breathless, blinking rapidly as she covered her breasts with her arms.

Karzon swore, shoving himself upright. "What in all the hells⁠—"

"No time," Mira snapped. "Get dressed, grab your weapons. We move now!"

Elska threw Karzon's belt at him, the weight of his sword hitting his stomach with a solid thud. "There's a job to be done. And if we don't move, we're all dead. There's too much after us to linger in the daylight for long."

Even though Karzon sighed, he knew the dwarven shieldmaiden made a very good point.

The trees began to thin as they crested the final ridge, revealing the long, winding road that led toward the distant gates of Dunmarch. The city was still out of sight, veiled by morning haze and the rolling shape of the land, but the scent of old stone and chimney smoke lingered faintly in the air. Trade banners had been posted on weathered poles at intervals along the path, their symbols catching the wind like half-forgotten warnings.

This was the main route—the artery that fed Dunmarch from its outer provinces. It meant patrols. It meant wagons. It meant watchful eyes. But it also meant the end of the mission.

Karzon reined in beside a moss-covered milestone and let the others draw level. The road ahead would take Veydris the rest of the way, along a well-traveled stretch that no longer needed protection. They had brought the cargo this far, through ravines and fire and creatures that should not have existed. Now, the job was nearly done. At this point, Veydris composed a written message and tied it to the leg of the caravan's carrier bird, Harriet, and sent her out.

An hour later, the crew reached a bend where the trees opened into flatter land and a second wagon appeared. A team of riders accompanied it, marked in blue and bronze, with leather armor that caught the light as they approached. One of them raised a hand in greeting, and Veydris sat a little straighter in the saddle.

"That's them," he said. "Trusted contact. Meant to meet us here. Once I pass this over, your part's done."

The wagons behind them creaked to a halt. Drivers shifted in their seats. The scent of the road mixed with warm leather and dust. Karzon watched as the arriving group exchanged signals with Veydris's lead guard, then began inspecting the cargo, checking for seals, damage, tampering.

So long as nothing went wrong, they would soon be finished here.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The last of the crates were sealed and counted. The guards from Dunmarch began rearranging the wagons for the final stretch, their relaxed pace a clear sign that the danger had passed.

Karzon stepped back from the edge of the trail, watching the quiet handover. Briena stood nearby, her fingers brushing Elaris's mane, while the others took the chance to stretch, breathe, and watch the trees without reaching for a blade.

Veydris approached from the far side of the caravan, no longer flanked by tension or urgency. His coat was dusty, his boots scuffed from the road, but the set of his shoulders carried something lighter now. He held a small wooden chest under one arm and a satchel slung across his back.

"You brought me farther than I had any right to expect," he said, his voice even. "And you did it with half the kingdom working against us."

Karzon glanced toward the trailhead, then looked back to Veydris without speaking.

"You deserve your pay," Veydris said. He opened the chest and offered it without ceremony.

Inside, thick pouches of coin were packed tight, bound with waxed cords. Each bag bore the sigil of a merchant guild, stamped clean. Real weight. Real gold.

Karzon accepted it with a nod, but Veydris wasn't finished.

"I meant what I said. You did more than your share." He turned and gestured toward one of the saddlebags being carried down from the wagon. "And I believe in closing a job properly."

He opened the saddlebag to reveal gifts for everyone and began handing them out one by one.

In no time, Drenna leaned against a weathered post, adjusting the strap on a new belt—one far heavier than her last. It was fitted with steel plates, a row of throwing knives set neatly into reinforced leather loops, and a weighted cudgel strapped at her side. Not as elegant as a sword, not as refined as a finely honed dagger, but that wasn't what Drenna needed.

She fought in close, broke bones, shattered shields—this was a weapon meant for someone who planned to break through walls, not simply knock on them.

The dwarven maidens were similarly outfitted. Orla had acquired a battle-worn shield from one of the caravan guards, its surface scratched but still sturdy. Mira had bartered for a set of reinforced greaves—nothing flashy, but protection where she needed it. Elska, as ever, had remained practical, acquiring a single length of chain with spiked weights on each end. She spun it once in her hands, testing the balance, then nodded in satisfaction.

Aisri stood apart from them, her cloak drawn tightly around her shoulders. Veydris had presented her with new gloves that shimmered faintly in the mist, woven through with enchanted thread meant to conduct magic more fluidly. She flexed her fingers, and the fabric pulsed red-hot for a moment before settling back into dull black. A quiet improvement, but a necessary one.

Veydris stood with arms crossed, watching them with a gaze as heavy as iron. "You're sure about this?" His voice was gravel, ground down by years on the road.

Karzon nodded. "No turning back now."

Veydris exhaled slowly. "Then take what you've earned. But don't die for someone else's problem, Karzon."

A faint smirk pulled at Karzon's lips. "Here's hoping I don't have to."

Veydris's eyes dropped briefly to the gauntlet strapped to Karzon's forearm, the burnished steel darkened by wear, yet faintly pulsing beneath the leather bindings. He nodded at it. "This wasn't for sale, but I can't keep what doesn't belong to me." His voice dropped, quieter now. "It sang to me. Even before you touched it, it was humming in my satchel like it had fire trapped inside. And when you passed by—gods, it started burning."

Karzon glanced down at the gauntlet. The etched runes glimmered faintly, like embers breathing slow in a dying hearth. "It wasn't made for a soldier," Veydris continued. "It was waiting for something else. Or someone. Just… try not to let it hollow you out."

Karzon gave a slow nod, more solemn now. "I'll keep that in mind."

Karzon purchased horses for the rest of his troop, barring Briena, who swung herself into Elaris's saddle, the mare shifting beneath her with an eager energy as if she had been waiting for the road ahead. The others followed suit, adjusting straps, checking weapons, making sure there were no loose ties before setting off.

Veydris gave them a long look, then shook his head. "If I hear you've been killed, I'll drink to your foolishness."

Drenna chuckled. "And if we survive?"

"Then you owe me a round," Veydris said, before turning away.

With that, they began their ride toward the southern stretch of Ashfall.

The deeper they rode, the stranger the world became.

Ashfall had always been grim. It was a place of damp streets, crumbling stonework, and shadowed alleyways where secrets festered like old wounds. But beyond it, the land itself seemed to twist inward, as though something had clawed at it for centuries, leaving behind only the husks of things that once thrived.

The trees here were gnarled and skeletal, their roots stretching like grasping hands over blackened soil. Fog clung to the ground, coiling through the undergrowth in thick, choking strands. The further they went, the more unnatural it felt—not just the darkness, but the silence.

No birds called from the branches. No insects stirred in the damp leaves. They heard only the crunch of their horses' hooves and the distant, almost imperceptible sound of something moving far beneath the earth.

Briena, riding ahead, glanced back at Karzon. "You ever get the feeling we weren't supposed to come this way?"

Karzon gave her a dry look. "You mean the eerie silence, the cursed-looking trees, or the fact that my bones are telling me we're being watched?"

Briena huffed. "So you do notice these things."

Drenna pulled up alongside them, her cudgel resting lazily against her shoulder. "Might just be superstition," she said, though her hand never strayed far from her weapons. "Or it might be something real."

"It's real," Aisri said softly from behind them.

They turned to her.

The fire mage didn't elaborate. She didn't need to.

By afternoon, they reached a crossroads marked by an ancient, moss-eaten signpost. The letters had long since faded, but Karzon knew where to go. The traveler had given him clear directions—follow the old trade road west until it dipped into the valley, then veer south toward the ruins of Black Hollow.

"Not far now," Karzon said, adjusting his gauntlet.

As they pressed on, the sky darkened unnaturally early, the sun veiled behind thick, rolling clouds. The light here was different, not the dim haze of early evening, but something more like an eclipse, as if the land itself rejected the sun's touch.

When they finally crested the last hill, they saw a cluster of wagons, ringed with torches, positioned defensively in the shadow of the ruins.

Karzon slowed his horse, eyes narrowing. The air here was wrong. Thick, almost metallic, like the breath of something waiting.

The man standing near the fire wore a faded guild tabard, the red thread dulled by dirt and sun, its twin-blade insignia barely visible beneath the grime. His armor hung loose around his shoulders, the leather warped from weather and wear. He turned as the group approached, his eyes wary but not unfriendly, the kind of look worn by men who had seen too much and learned not to expect much more.

He didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't smile either.

"Who are you lot?" he asked, voice low with fatigue.

Karzon dismounted, stretching his back as he stepped forward. "We were nearby. Heard trouble was spreading."

The man nodded, once. "Trouble's not the word I'd use, but close enough."

He gestured toward the treeline, where the land sloped into mist and shadow. Something hung in the air there. It wasn't wind. It wasn't sound. Just pressure.

"We're not a patrol," the man went on. "Guild got word that something started waking beneath the old stone. We came to hold the line until someone with sense or suicide in their blood took a better look."

He reached into a weathered satchel and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle. His hands worked slowly, almost reluctantly, as he unfolded the layers.

Inside was a shard of Aetherglass. The stone was pitch black, not glossy or opaque but deeply, unnaturally still. It didn't reflect light. It swallowed it. As Karzon looked closer, he saw faint movement beneath the surface, like smoke twisting in a sealed chamber.

"I don't know what that means," the man said. "But it came out of the earth near the dungeon mouth. Whatever's down there, it's not sleeping anymore."

He tucked the shard away again and gave a tired shrug.

"You don't have to get involved. Hell, I wouldn't if I had a choice. But if you're thinking about it, do it quick. This place doesn't have much time left."

Then he turned and walked back toward the fire, leaving the decision to them.

The dungeon entrance yawned before them, a wound in the earth where the rock had split and something unnatural had taken root.

The edges of the passage were jagged, not smoothed by time or water but broken as if the land itself had ruptured from within. Aetherglass veins, deep purple and shot through with streaks of black, pulsed faintly in the dim light, weaving like corrupted roots through the stone.

Karzon inhaled slowly, steadying himself. "Stay close," he said, adjusting his gauntlet. "Something's off."

Drenna snorted, rolling her shoulders. "Something's always off."

Briena, already nocking an arrow, gave her a sharp look. "Not like this."

Aisri stood just behind Karzon, her hands flexing at her sides, the runes on her gloves dim but waiting. She hadn't spoken much since they left the outskirts of Dumarch, but her silence was not one of fear. Something about the dungeon called to her magic, and she was listening.

The dwarven maidens had formed up naturally, Mira leading with Orla and Elska flanking. Their heavy boots crunched over loose stone, their weapons drawn but held low, conserving their strength.

Karzon turned back to the darkness ahead. There was a choice here. He could ask his crew to turn back and leave the dangers that naturally lay ahead of him. Karzon closed his eyes and willed his magic to speak to him.

Tell me what I should do.

There were no answers at first. He focused harder. And then, from the very depths of his soul, he heard a voice.

Your path lies forward.

He turned back to the waiting women. "Let's see what's inside."

The group left their horses just outside the dungeon. Elaris lingered, resting her head on Briena's shoulder, silent but unwilling to part just yet. Finally, the elf pressed a gentle kiss to her nose, whispering a promise of a safe return.

And then they stepped inside.

The walls thudded faintly, as if the veins of Aetherglass weren't just embedded in the stone but growing through it, spreading like ivy in a dying garden. Light from their torches shone strangely, stretching and bending as though reluctant to touch certain corners.

And the sound—no, the absence of sound—was worse.

Most dungeons had the scrape of shifting stone, the distant drip of water, the low groan of things that had long since died but still refused to rest. Here, there was nothing. Not even the wind found its way in.

Elska muttered under her breath, a dwarven prayer of old, spoken through gritted teeth.

"Morrdun's shield, hold fast.

Let iron not bend, let stone not break.

By hammer's ring and mountain's root,

Let the forge burn hot, the anvil strong.

If I fall, let it be on steady ground,

If I rise, let it be with blade in hand."

The path tightened, pressing them into a single-file formation. Their footsteps barely echoed against the damp stone, the air growing more potent with each step. It carried the stale scent of undisturbed earth, laced with an undercurrent of something indefinable—an unseen presence threading through the silence like a lingering breath just beyond reach.

A tension coiled in Karzon's chest, instinct warning him before logic could. This was not just emptiness; it was a place that listened, waiting for a misstep, an opening.

Drenna shifted her grip on her cudgel. "Feels like we're walking into a beast's belly."

Briena muttered a quiet curse. "Then let's hope we don't end up its meal."

Aisri summoned an ember between her fingers, casting a restless glow against the cavern walls. The light twisted unnaturally, its reflection stretching and warping in ways that defied logic.

"Magic's thick here," she murmured. "And it's watching."

Karzon clenched his jaw, pressing forward. Whatever lay ahead wasn't just dangerous—it was waiting for them.

The tunnel wound downward, the veins of corrupted Aetherglass beating faintly along the walls, casting eerie, shifting shadows. Then, without warning, the ground beneath them shifted. A tremor, subtle but unmistakable.

Karzon froze, lifting a hand to signal a halt.

The moment stretched. No sound. No movement.

Then the whispers began.

Low, indistinct murmurs coiled through the air, curling around them like fingers reaching from the dark. They were not words—not fully—but they tugged at the mind, planting seeds of unease, fragments of thoughts that did not belong to the living.

Mira shuddered. "That's not natural."

"No," Aisri agreed.

The whispers swelled, a feverish susurration that skittered along their skin like a thousand unseen hands. Karzon clenched his jaw, shaking off the sensation, pushing forward. "Stay sharp. Don't listen to anything that doesn't belong in your head."

They pressed on, deeper into the tunnel's winding throat. Then, abruptly, the path opened into a small chamber. The torches hissed and sputtered as they stepped inside, and the sight before them sent a chill curling through Karzon's spine.

The remains of two men lay sprawled across the stone floor, bones brittle with age, their bodies frozen in postures of agony. Their fingers were clawed, as if they had tried to dig into the very rock itself. What was left of their clothing hung in shreds, and yet, their weapons gleamed—untouched by time, as if waiting to be wielded once more.

Briena knelt, examining the skeletal remains, her expression grim. "No sign of what killed them."

"No wounds," Karzon noted, frowning. "But look at their hands."

Briena traced a gloved finger along one of the bone-white knuckles. "They were trying to claw their way out."

Aisri pressed her palm to the nearest wall, closing her eyes as if feeling for something unseen. "They weren't killed," she murmured. "They were taken."

Drenna stiffened. "What does that mean?"

Aisri opened her eyes, the embers within them unsettlingly bright. "They died screaming in their own minds."

Silence fell. Even the torches seemed to dim, the air thick with something unseen, something waiting.

Karzon exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus. "We move on. Whatever happened to them, we're not going to let it happen to us."

Dungeons, in theory, had rules. Magic condensed underground, forming levels that followed a kind of logic. Each floor held creatures, traps, sometimes relics or old power. If you cleared one, you moved on. If you made it to the end, you left richer than before. That was the expectation.

But some dungeons didn't care for rules.

Karzon had never liked the ones with riddles. He preferred a clean fight over guessing games. Puzzles always felt like they were watching you while you worked them out.

The passage opened without warning into a wide chamber. At the far end stood an archway, too tall for any natural space, too cleanly shaped to have formed on its own.

It was made entirely of bone.

Twisted ribs formed the sides, curved into a perfect arc. Skulls were fused along the top, their jaws open in eternal warning. The bones gleamed with a sickly sheen, as though polished by countless hands or something far worse.

Above the arch, a line of script appeared. The letters shimmered and slid across one another, rearranging until they finally settled into something readable.

To pass beyond, a mind unshaken, a will unbroken.

Speak that which cannot be given, yet all possess.

Briena stepped forward, squinting up at the words. "A riddle."

Elska frowned and rested her hand on the head of her weapon. "And we're just supposed to trust that nothing behind that thing will try to eat us?"

Karzon said nothing at first. He studied the arch, then the riddle again. The tension in his jaw spoke for him. He hated this sort of thing. Riddles. Games. Especially when it came from a dungeon trying to act clever.

"Something that can't be given," he said, voice low. "But everyone has it."

Mira frowned, rubbing her chin. "A name?"

"No," Aisri murmured. "A secret."

The moment the word left her lips, the archway groaned. Bone ground against bone, shifting as if some unseen force tested the weight of their truth. Then, with a slow, grating creak, the doorway yawned open.

Beyond, the tunnel sloped downward, and the temperature dropped. The torches barely kept the dark at bay. But what lay ahead was not darkness.

It was gold.

Piles of it, spilling across the stone in an impossible sea of gleaming coins, crowns, and ingots. Jeweled goblets, gem-encrusted weapons, priceless artifacts from ages long forgotten. The air shimmered with a golden haze, thick with the scent of wealth beyond measure.

Orla inhaled sharply. "Gods…"

The dwarves moved almost as one, stepping forward as if pulled by an invisible force.

Karzon caught Mira's arm, stopping her before she could cross the threshold. "No."

She wrenched free. "You don't understand—this is ours. It was buried, forgotten, but we can take it back. This is what our ancestors lost."

Her eyes were wild, fever-bright.

Coins spilled in glistening cascades, untouched and pristine, their polished surfaces winking seductively in the dim torchlight. Ornate goblets encrusted with rubies, gilded weapons humming with residual magic, and crowns of forgotten kings sat atop the hoard like trophies waiting to be claimed.

And his shieldmaidens were lost to it.

Their eyes had gone glassy, unfocused, the kind of wide-eyed hunger Karzon had only seen in those who had already fallen under a spell. Their fingers twitched at their sides, as though they could already feel the cool, satisfying weight of gold slipping between them, the smooth curves of chalices fitted to their palms. Their breath came in shallow, uneven gulps, as if they were drowning in desire.

Elska took a step forward, her gaze locked onto a battle-axe half-buried in the pile. A masterpiece of dwarven craftsmanship, its runes glowed faintly, whispering of battles fought long before this dungeon ever existed.

Orla's lips parted, her focus drawn to a necklace spilling over the side of a broken chest, its sapphires catching the dim light like stolen fragments of the sky. A queen's ransom lay at her feet, just within reach.

Karzon felt the pull of it too—wealth beyond reckoning, an irresistible lure woven into every coin, every jewel, every weapon of legend. He clenched his fists against the sensation, grounding himself in the cold, damp weight of reality.

This was no ordinary treasure hoard. Rather, it was an enchantment crafted by the mind of the dungeon, to lure the dwarves by appealing to their base instinct.

A slow, creeping magic threaded through the air like a spider spinning its web, burrowing into the cracks of the mind, wrapping itself around greed, ambition, and longing. It whispered promises—take what you desire, stay a little longer, this is yours—until the will to leave was forgotten entirely.

Karzon gritted his teeth. If they didn't act now, Orla, Mira, and Elska would be lost to it. They would forget the dungeon's dangers, forget the mission, forget even themselves, until their bones joined the countless others buried beneath the weight of gold that had never truly belonged to them.

And perhaps, that had been the fate of those who had come before.

"Get back," Karzon ordered.

Elska ignored him, stepping forward, reaching⁠—

The moment her fingers brushed the gold, the air shuddered.

The walls trembled, and the torches guttered. The gold rippled like water, distorting, shifting⁠—

And then the bones appeared.

Hundreds, maybe thousands, hidden beneath the illusion of treasure. The remnants of those who had come before, who had reached for wealth and never left.

Elska gasped, stumbling back, breaking free of the spell's grip just as the whispering returned—no longer subtle, no longer distant.

This time, it spoke clearly.

Stay. Stay. Stay.

The words pressed against their minds, seductive, coaxing, promising eternity wrapped in golden splendor.

Karzon clenched his teeth, gripping Elska's arm and yanking her back. "We're leaving."

The moment they turned away, the gold began shining unnaturally before it vanished altogether. The passage before them was barren stone once more, as if the illusion had never existed.

Elska was pale, her breath ragged. "It felt so real."

Briena steadied her. "That's the trick. That's how it feeds."

Drenna exhaled. "And we almost walked right into it."

Karzon turned back to the passage ahead, his gut tight with the knowledge that this was only the beginning.

"Come on," he said. "We've got more tricks to break before we reach the heart of this place."

And with that, they pressed on, deeper into the waiting dark.

The walls thumped in time with their steps, veins of corrupted Aetherglass threading through the stone like webbing spun by something ancient and patient. Their glow was faint, almost reluctant, as though it was only revealing what it had to, whispering glimpses of its secrets but hoarding the rest.

The faint light stretched in unnatural ways, bending at odd angles, forming shapes in the shadows that seemed to reach for them when no one was looking directly at them.

And the silence… gods, the silence was worse than anything.

It was not the quiet of forgotten ruins or the solemn hush of ancient tombs. It was a purposeful, calculating stillness, one that was listening. It clung to them, wrapping itself around their words, swallowing sound before it could fully form.

No matter how softly they stepped, how carefully they moved, there was no escaping the sensation that something unseen was noting every breath they took, filing it away, waiting.

Drenna flexed her fingers around the grip of her cudgel, her sharp eyes assessing the shadows that refused to behave as they should. They pooled in corners too deep, stretched against the walls in ways that defied reason.

"Anyone else feel like we're being herded?" she muttered, her voice barely more than a breath, as if speaking too loudly might wake something.

Briena, ever watchful, scanned the path ahead, the bow in her grip steady but her fingers tense over the string. "Not just herded," she murmured. "Lured."

The word sat like lead in Karzon's gut. He had felt it, too. They had been inside for hours. It was hard to say how many. Time had stretched and folded, with no sun to mark its passing, no wind to measure distance. Only the steady rhythm of boots on stone, the drip of unseen water, and the flicker of torchlight reminded them they were still moving forward.

The dungeon fought them at the threshold. Illusions curled through the halls like smoke, pulling them into false visions. Traps snapped from hidden seams in the floor. Shadows came alive with half-formed beasts, each one feeding on fear. The air itself felt like a lie, thick and hard to breathe.

But as they pressed deeper, something shifted.

The tricks faded. The footing steadied beneath them. The suffocating fog that had haunted the upper levels began to thin. The walls no longer whispered, and the oppressive weight that had settled on their shoulders at the start now seemed to lift, little by little.

The dungeon was no longer resisting.

Karzon clenched his jaw, scanning their surroundings with renewed suspicion. He had been in dungeons that killed with brute force, ones that swarmed with creatures eager to spill fresh blood.

But he had also faced places like this—dungeons that did not need to kill outright. The ones that lured you deeper with whispers of safety, of ease, of false passageways that led you in circles until you forgot the way out.

Until you became part of the dungeon itself.

He tightened his grip on his sword. "Stay sharp," he said quietly. "If it wants us to move forward, then we need to ask ourselves why."

Aisri, who had been trailing her fingers lightly along the walls, let out a quiet exhale as the runes etched into her gloveskin flared with a dull red light before dimming. She pulled her hand back, staring at her fingers as if she had touched something alive.

"It's guiding us," she murmured. "The deeper we go, the more the magic feels… aware. This place isn't just filled with old spells—it is a spell. A woven enchantment that's still active."

Briena frowned. "That's not possible. If that were true, there'd have to be something maintaining it. Some kind of⁠—"

"Heart," Karzon finished for her.

Aisri gave a single nod, the ember-like glow of her eyes shining in the dimness. "And whatever keeps it alive… it wants us to reach it."

A cold shudder coiled down Karzon's spine. The thought settled into him, an unspoken warning thrumming beneath his ribs. Dungeons did not invite intruders to their core unless they were certain of one thing.

That their prey would never leave.

He inhaled slowly, exhaling through his nose, and turned to the others. "No one lets their guard down," he said. "No one assumes anything is real until we've tested it, and we don't let this place make us comfortable."

Drenna let out a dry snort. "Comfortable isn't exactly the word I'd use."

Briena shot Karzon a sidelong glance. "You think it's a trap?"

Karzon studied the veins of Aetherglass along the walls, how they pulsed so faintly now, no longer throbbing with resistance but rather... guiding. Like a quiet breath inhaling and exhaling around them, a beast biding its time.

"It's always a trap."

They pressed on, their path sloping downward in a slow descent. The temperature shifted again, not steadily, but in strange, sudden drops and rises, like the dungeon couldn't quite decide what it wanted to be.

Then came the low, guttural, unholy laughter. It skittered through the tunnels like something with too many limbs crawling along the edges of sound.

Briena's arrow was already notched before Karzon even had time to react. "That can't be good."

The moment stretched. No movement. No attack. Just the laughter, echoing—coming from nowhere, yet somehow behind them, ahead of them, around them.

Then, without warning—darkness.

The torches blew out in a rush of unseen wind. Even Aisri's magic sputtered out, swallowed by the void. Then there was movement, but it defied definition. Instead, it was in how the very air shifted, with the scrape of something far too large for the space dragging against the walls.

Karzon didn't hesitate. "Hold the line!"

A scream erupted from the darkness, high and piercing, before it was cut off abruptly.

"Briena?!"

"I'm here!" she snarled, followed by the distinct twang of her bowstring. The thunk of an arrow meeting flesh—no, something—echoed.

Then came the whisper.

Let us in.

Karzon swung blindly, his sword slicing through empty air. "No chance in hell."

A flare of light erupted—Aisri's magic, burning against the unnatural dark. It cast eerie shadows against the cavern walls, revealing them.

Tall, emaciated creatures. Half-human in shape, but twisted beyond recognition. Their eyes were hollow pits of hunger, their fingers elongated into hooked claws. They moved in jerking, unnatural motions, grinning.

One lunged. Karzon pivoted, slamming his blade through its chest. The thing barely reacted, its form shifting, reforming around the steel before shattering into dust.

"They're illusions!" Aisri shouted, her fire lashing out again. "They're not real!"

Drenna took the warning literally, lowering her cudgel mid-swing. "I don't care! They bite!"

Another creature lunged at Elska. Before Karzon could move, Orla shoved her aside and headbutted the thing square in the face. It shuddered—hissed—then evaporated.

Karzon groaned. "Dwarves."

But the creatures weren't pressing as hard anymore. They were fading between attacks, growing less substantial rather than more aggressive.

It was a trick.

Karzon felt it in his gut. The dungeon didn't want them dead. If anything, it was playing with them. Aisri sent another surge of magic outward, and the shadows snapped. The illusions, whatever they had been, broke, dissolving like mist in the sun. The torches came back to life as if nothing had ever happened.

The tunnel stretched before them, sloping downward into an eerie, waiting glow. With any luck, it was the final path.

Karzon exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "We need to be ready. Whatever is waiting—it's been wanting us to reach it."

Briena wiped blood—real or not—off her blade. "Let's not keep it waiting, then."

They pressed forward, the air thick with something on the edge of understanding. The passage walls shimmered, no longer stone but something fluid, shifting like oil-slick glass.

Karzon's pulse thrummed in his ears. He had seen many dungeons in his life. He had survived many dungeons. But this one? It wasn't just a dungeon. It felt like a living thing.

And something was waiting for them at its heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The dungeon's breaths were growing frantic, as if a deep, all-encompassing hunger was rising from the depths of its belly. It was not a thing of brick and stone. The walls, once rough with age and damp with old, weeping roots, had begun to shift. Blackened veins of Aetherglass pulsed sluggishly within them, their glow thick and viscous like blood moving through a slumbering beast. Every few paces, the walls seemed to exhale, a slow, near-imperceptible ripple across their surface, as though something unseen pressed against them from the other side.

The flames of the torches licked the stagnant air, struggling against the weight of the dark. There was no natural wind here. No movement beyond what they brought with them. Yet the fire wavered, as if the dungeon were watching.

There was no need for Karzon to point this out to the rest of the group. The restlessness that was beginning to consume him was mirrored on all of their faces. The dungeon wasn't just asking, it was luring them into action.

Aisri's steps had grown more measured, her fingers curling loosely at her sides, fingertips pressing into her palms as though to reassure herself that magic still answered her. Briena's breath had slowed, barely stirring the air, the tendons in her neck taut beneath her skin. Even Drenna, who made a habit of laughing in the face of mortal peril, had abandoned her usual grumbling. She shifted the weight of her cudgel between her hands, testing its balance, as though preparing to break the silence with something real and solid.

But no one spoke.

The whispers became pronounced. They did not linger in the air, and they were certainly not loud. But they lodged behind the ribs of those in the party, slipping between heartbeats, curling through the hollows of their skulls like fingers trailing against glass.

It started with Briena.

She stopped so suddenly that Karzon nearly ran into her back. Her breath became a slow, fractured inhale, like someone trying and failing to steady themselves.

"Briena," Karzon murmured.

She didn't respond. Her pupils were wide—too wide—swallowing the green of her irises. Her lips barely moved, parting and pressing together in minuscule, soundless shapes.

Then, beneath the heaviness of the silence, Karzon heard the same thing that she did.

You weren't fast enough.

A sickly laugh slithered between the syllables, rising from the kind of voice that did not belong to any living thing.

You were better off left for dead.

Briena's fingers spasmed against the grip of her bow. She hadn't drawn it, hadn't knocked an arrow, hadn't done anything except stand there, her muscles coiled in rigid, unblinking stillness.

Karzon cursed inwardly, for he knew that posture.

Her former home had been a village once, before the goblins came. Karzon had smelled the smoke long before they reached the clearing, had seen the crows circling in dark, lazy spirals above the charred remains of homes long since stripped of anything useful. His stomach had revolted as he'd inhaled the putrid air, thick with the sour stench of old blood and rot, the eerie silence of a place that had already given up its ghosts. And then, amid the wreckage, he had seen Briena, broken and bloodied, barely standing.

She had not looked at him like a woman in need of saving. She had looked at him like a cornered wolf deciding whether or not he was worth the effort to kill.

Her silver-blonde hair had been matted with sweat and dirt, her lip split so deeply it had bled down her throat in a dark line, the bruises along her arms deep enough to turn her skin a sickly shade of purple. But she had still been fighting, even then, even with her body failing her, even with her vision blurred from pain and exhaustion, even with the weight of loss pressing against her chest like a stone she would never be able to lift.

She had refused to collapse, refused to rest, and absolutely, blindly refused to acknowledge the full extent of what had been done to her.

And now, standing in the depths of this cursed dungeon, surrounded by shifting shadows and thrumming walls, Karzon saw that same look return to her eyes—the one that came when the memories rose like smoke from a fire she could not put out. He had watched her wear that haunted expression before, on nights when she thought no one was watching, when she would pace the edges of their camp with the restless energy of a woman who had lost too much and survived anyway.

She did not mourn aloud, and she never spoke of what happened in that village.

But he saw and felt her agony nonetheless, noticing it in the way she trained until her muscles ached, in the way she took the first watch and the last, in the way her fingers twitched against her bowstring whenever she thought of all the times she had not been fast enough.

Briena thrived on telling herself she needed to be faster.

Faster when the minotaurs had charged them outside Dunmarch. Faster when the first arrow had sliced through the air toward Karzon's unguarded side. Faster when the first goblin had touched her.

Karzon reached out, his hand closing gently but firmly around her wrist, grounding her in the present—where she was still breathing, still standing, still alive.

Her breath hitched, the smallest reaction, barely more than a spark of tension in her frame. He felt it all the same.

She turned toward him, and for a fleeting second, her mask slipped. She was no longer Briena the archer—not the warrior, nor the huntress who never missed.

She was just a woman caught between past and present, between the weight of old wounds and the crushing pressure of responsibility, fighting a battle inside herself that no one could see. Without a word, she reached for him and her hand slipped into his, fingers grazing his skin before settling, warm and sure. She held on a little too tightly, as if the silence might carry her away if she let go.

Karzon didn't speak. His fingers closed around hers, steady and deliberate, grounding them in the hush that had fallen around them. In that stillness, nothing else moved. Nothing else had to.

Then, Briena took a long, steady breath meant to force control back into her limbs. When she finally spoke, her voice was even, practiced… almost convincing.

"I'm fine."

Karzon knew better than to call her on it.

The longer they walked, the more they realized how unnaturally quiet it had become.

In a place of dead stone, of damp cavern air and slow-dripping water, there should have been the sound of something—leather boots scuffing against stone, the distant shuffle of creatures in the dark, the low, hollow breath of an underground wind.

But there was nothing. No footfalls. No echoes. No sound at all, except for the breathing in their own heads, the racing of their own thoughts.

The walls no longer held the rough edges of a natural cavern. Instead, they rippled. The veins of Aetherglass weren't just woven into the rock anymore. They moved, shifting just beneath the surface, their dark glow pulsing out of rhythm with time itself.

Aisri knew what this was, for she had felt it before.

The fire mage could well see that this was a place where magic had been broken and altered.

"This place wasn't always like this," she murmured, her voice carrying through the chamber in a way that made it feel like the walls themselves were straining to hear her. "Ashfall used to be a crossroads, a place where dungeon shards were gathered before they were sent off to Haldrim or Dunmarch."

Drenna snorted, adjusting the strap on her pack and rolling her shoulders. "Yeah, we got that much. Place went under, turned into a nightmare, and now we're walking right into its open jaws." She tossed a small stone into the darkness ahead of them, listening to the faint echo as it skittered along the stone. "You got more to tell, or is this just a bedtime story before we all get eaten?"

Aisri ignored the quip, trailing her fingers along the nearest wall, watching as the Aetherglass veins quivered beneath her touch. "You don't understand," she said, her voice softer now, tinged with something unreadable. "Aetherglass isn't supposed to behave like this."

Karzon had been quiet, listening, feeling the dungeon pressing against his skin like an unseen hand. But now, he turned toward Aisri, watching her carefully. "Go on."

Aisri conjured a small flame in the palm of her gloved hand and held it close to her chest, as if that alone could bring some warmth to her. "You all know how Aetherglass works. Dungeon gems are shattered, refined, turned into something useful. Think healing tools, enchanted weapons, artifacts of power." She met Karzon's gaze, her own eyes gleaming like embers in the dim light. "But that's not what's happening here."

The dwarven sisters, who had been listening with varying degrees of attention, shifted slightly. Orla, ever the practical one, folded her arms. "Aetherglass is Aetherglass, lass," she said. "Mages use it, healers use it, kingdoms fight over it, but it all comes from the same place. The dungeons."

Aisri shook her head. "No," she insisted. "Aetherglass is made from shattered dungeon gems, yes, but it isn't just about where it comes from. It's about how it's shaped." She turned fully to face them, gesturing toward the dark veins running through the walls. "Normally, when a dungeon gem is shattered, its magic is dispersed, neutralized into something stable. But these?" She let her fingers brush over the surface of the stone again. "These aren't shattered. They've been grown."

Briena frowned, shifting her weight slightly, her bow still ready in her hands. "That doesn't make sense."

Aisri nodded. "It doesn't. Because dungeon gems aren't supposed to do that. This dungeon is producing something… unnatural. Something that wasn't meant to exist."

Mira, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, furrowed her brow. "If this dungeon's been dead for years, how the hell is it still making gems?"

"Because someone is crafting them and using this dungeon as a forge."

Although Karzon already knew about the crafted gems, Aisri's response made him shudder. The movement was not lost on the fire mage, who fixed her luminous eyes on him as she continued speaking. "Not just that. They're changing it. Altering its purpose. Dungeons exist because of magic leaks—unstable places where power seeps into the world and twists everything it touches. But someone is harnessing that power, shaping it instead of destroying it."

She gestured to the walls again. "That's why these veins still pulse. They aren't just remnants of the dungeon's magic. They're part of something that's still alive."

Briena looked around her, the haze of the whispers now fading from her mind. "That means we aren't just dealing with a dungeon," she said. "We're dealing with someone in control of it."

A momentary silence fell between them, only to be broken by a loud snort from Drenna. "Well, isn't that just lovely," she said, resting her hands on her hips. "So not only are we walking through a death trap, we're dealing with some lunatic who decided the world needed worse dungeons?"

Mira chuckled darkly. "Be fair. Maybe they just wanted to make better monsters."

Elska snorted. "Or more expensive ones. People pay a fortune for Aetherglass."

Orla frowned. "But if they wanted to sell it, they'd be sending it out of here, wouldn't they?"

Aisri hesitated, then shook her head. "No," she said. "This isn't about money." Her fingers flexed slightly, the glow of her magic faintly visible on the tips. "This is about control."

"Aisri." Karzon's brows furrowed "If someone's making these gems, what else could they do?"

She hesitated for only a moment before answering. "They could change the nature of magic itself," she whispered.

Briena's face tightened with urgency. "Then we need to find them."

Aisri nodded. "Before they find us first."

Drenna clapped her hands together, as if that alone could wipe away the unease rising from the conversation. "Right, well. That was a lovely little lecture on the apocalypse," she said. "Now who wants to take bets on how deep we have to go before we meet whatever bastard is pulling the strings?"

Mira smirked. "Ten gold says they monologue first."

Elska grinned. "Twenty says Karzon punches them before they can."

Karzon rolled his eyes but didn't argue.

Minutes later, the whispers returned, but differently. Sensing they could not torment Briena further, they turned their sights elsewhere.

Aisri's breath hitched and she took a step back, just one. It was abrupt, wrong, her spine rigid, her fingers trembling at her sides as though touched by what she thought she had left behind.

It was more than evident that, like Briena, the past had reached for her.

Useless.

As before, the voice that spoke the word had no business belonging in a world with sunlight and green fields. It was born in a place of locked doors and whispered arguments, where kindness was a currency too rare to spend on a child.

It had learned to speak in her mother's disappointment, in her father's absence, in the long silences that followed every small mistake.

You were never wanted. Never enough.

The voice curled through her thoughts like smoke, familiar and patient, sharpened by years of hearing it in real mouths.

What use is power in hands that can't keep anything from breaking?

It wasn't magic that had shaped Aisri's fire. It was survival. She had been forged in the cold before she ever learned to burn.

And now, in this place, the dungeon didn't need to invent new horrors. It simply remembered what she already knew.

Aisri's mouth parted. Not to speak, not to argue, but in the way someone does when struck in the chest, breath stolen. She did not raise her hands. She did not call forth flame. She only stood there, smaller, her shoulders curling inward, her body folding into something tight and contained.

Briena blinked, some lingering fog still clinging to her gaze. She turned sharply, taking in Aisri's shape, her stillness. "Aisri, it's not real."

The heat of the fire mage's magic flared along her fingertips before she smothered it, forced it away. A muscle twitched in her throat.

And just then, the whispers moved again. This time, they set their attention on the healer. The words did not come as they had for the others. No single phrase, no name whispered in the dark, no cruel faceless memory breathing against his ear.

Instead, there was a pull. Not behind him, but ahead.

The whisper curled through his lungs, through his limbs, through the shape of his very magic, and it recognized him.

The Aetherglass veins along the walls pulsed with a deep, sluggish rhythm, like something stirring in a long, dreamless sleep. The glow shifted—not brighter, but warmer, responding to the thing inside him that had always reached for it without knowing why.

It wanted him; the magic wanted him. The thing that had twisted this place, that had changed the very nature of the crystals itself, did not want to kill him.

It wanted to welcome him home.

Karzon's fingers curled into his palm. His stomach lurched, because for a second, just for a second, he had wanted to step forward. He had wanted to go deeper, to find out why it knew him.

But before he could act on his impulse, Briena's hand was on his arm.

He ran a hand down his face and took a moment, standing still, reminding himself that the purpose was bigger than this torment that they were all in.

Then, he lifted his chin, his gaze locking onto the threshold ahead—the place where the dungeon had ceased pretending revealed the truth of itself. An archway had formed in the rock, gnarled pillars of black Aetherglass twisting upward like the ribs of some long-dead god.

Beyond the arch, the air shimmered, thick with an unseen darkness that was not of this world. It wasn't light that wavered there but the fabric of reality itself, warping at the edges, beckoning them forward with the silent promise of revelation or ruin.

"Let's go," he said, and his voice did not shake.

Beyond the threshold, the chamber stretched into a vast hollow carved from the bones of the dungeon itself. The walls rose in smooth, curving arcs, shaped not by mortal hands but by the will of the dungeon itself. At its center stood a throne upon a raised dais of slick, glistening rock, formed from the same dark Aetherglass that bled through the dungeon's veins.

It was no ordinary seat of power. It had not been hewn from wood or stone, nor adorned with the trappings of kings. It was grown—a twisted, pulsating structure of black Aetherglass, its veins thrumming with dark radiance, casting slow, pulsing light like the beat of a slumbering heart. Its surface was smooth and polished in places, jagged and cracked in others, shifting as though something within it was alive, moving beneath the glassy exterior.

A throne that was not just a throne. It was the dungeon's heart.

The chamber that surrounded it had been shaped in its image, molded by the same magic that had lured them ever downward. The walls shimmered with dark veins, breathing in harmony with the throne's slow, steady rhythm. The ceiling arched high above, vanishing into a haze of black mist, curling like breath on a frozen morning.

Karzon's steps slowed, but what made him hesitate was not the throne. It was the figure watching them.

Seated upon the Aetherglass seat, one elbow resting lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping against the gleaming surface in idle rhythm, was a man. Or at least, what had once been a man.

The first thing Karzon noticed was the stillness.

Not the stillness of a patient predator, nor the poised tension of a warrior waiting to strike. It was the stillness of something that did not breathe, that did not exist in the way mortals did.

The figure's skin was too smooth, like polished marble, its hue an unnatural shade of ashen gray. His face was sharp, elegant in a way that was unsettling rather than beautiful, the features too perfect, too symmetrical—crafted, rather than born. His eyes, hooded and unreadable, gleamed with the deep, dark sheen of Aetherglass itself, the irises black, fractured with veins of gold.

It was his presence that unsettled Karzon the most.

It was not power or hunger but ownership, as if this thing, whatever it was, had never once questioned that they would come.

The figure smiled.

"You took your time."

His voice was smooth, rich, curling through the chamber like smoke. It was not loud, nor forceful, yet it reached everywhere. It did not echo. It simply was.

Briena stiffened beside Karzon, while Drenna stood, dumbfounded. Aisri's fire was silent. The dwarves, who had faced horrors without flinching, stood still—their usual banter silenced.

Karzon exhaled evenly, keeping his stance relaxed, though every muscle was coiled like a wire pulled too tight. "You expected us."

The man on the throne tilted his head slightly, considering. "I summoned you. It wasn't easy. Every step that eventually led you here was mine to control. From the disappearance of your wares at the Crimson Spire to the monsters that kept you looking over your shoulder. If you had been less resourceful, I could have had you here days ago. I wouldn't have been forced to send monsters out of this place to lure you back in."

"When does it count as a monologue?" whispered Mira from behind him.

A single, slow drumbeat emanated from the Aetherglass beneath him, spreading outward like ripples in a still pond. Karzon felt it, deep in his ribs, where his healing magic lived—like a thread pulling tight, connecting him to something unseen. Something old.

Aisri tensed, her fire flaring brighter. "You're the one who altered this dungeon's magic."

The figure let out a soft chuckle, resting his chin against his palm. "Altered?" he mused, as if tasting the word. "I merely returned it to what it was always meant to be."

Karzon's eyes narrowed as he considered the response. "Aetherglass was never meant for this."

The figure's lips curved. "Ah. A healer who believes in purpose." He lifted his free hand, flexing his fingers slightly, as if feeling the air between them. "You are mistaken. Purpose is a gift given by those who wield power, not those who discover it."

Briena shifted beside Karzon as the figure leaned forward slightly, placing both hands upon the arms of the throne. "Who are you?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The throne, a jagged rise of obsidian bathed in the green glow of the Aetherglass veins, did not release but yielded the creature like something splitting open—as if he was being born from the stone itself.

No creak of stone, no rustle of cloth disturbed the oppressive silence of the dungeon. He simply was no longer seated, but standing, a phantom distilled from the very shadows that clung to the damp stone walls.

The air thickened, folding in on itself, as if the very breath of the dungeon hesitated. A heavy silence stretched, taut and listening. The rhythmic drip of water from the cavern ceiling, a constant, mournful echo, faltered and then ceased. And then, a tremor. Not a quake of earth, but a slow, insidious ripple unfurling through the marrow of bone, a whisper of something vast and waiting.

His movement was not a mere shift of weight, but a revelation… an unraveling, smooth and inexorable, like a serpent stirring from slumber deep enough to have forgotten the touch of time. The Aetherglass, those fractured veins of malevolent light laced through the dungeon walls, mirrored themselves upon his skin.

What had been a trick of shadow, a suggestion of something unholy, now crystallized into stark, horrifying detail.

The crystalline threads, dark as congealed night, slithered beneath his pale flesh. They were not adornments, not scars, but woven into the very architecture of him, a macabre lattice of power and decay. They climbed his throat like thorned vines reaching for a sun that did not exist, their jagged edges catching the sickly glow, casting writhing, fragmented shadows that slithered across the damp stone floor. They curled over the backs of his hands, each shift of the Aetherglass a burst of malevolent energy, a silent, unspoken promise of power corrupted beyond redemption.

The planes of his face emerged from the dimness with a precision that stole the breath. No human hand, no mortal birth, could have sculpted such a visage. It was beauty wrought in the crucible of a frozen star, a symmetry too perfect, too cruel. The sharp cut of his jaw, the high, imperious cheekbones, the flawless arch of his brow, these were not mere features, but pronouncements of something beyond the reach of time, beyond the frail understanding of men.

And his eyes…

They were not pools of color but abysses, bottomless and hungering. The Aetherglass glow glimmered within them, not as a reflection, but as a churning maelstrom of starlight and shadow, a window into a realm where time frayed and unspooled, where reality itself wavered on the brink of dissolution.

They had seen the rise and ruin of civilizations, the unfurling of creation and its inevitable decay. They held no warmth or sign of mortal frailty, only the cold, knowing gaze of someone who had outlived the stars, and had unmade themselves to become far more, and far less.

Karzon had seen the reflection of dungeon gems before, the way they shimmered in the dark like captured starlight, but this man's gaze was something else entirely.

Not just Aetherglass, but something deeper, something worse. Veins of gold-threaded blackness ran through the irises like fractures in a glass mirror, shifting with intelligence, with hunger.

The stranger stepped down from the throne, his boots striking the stone without a sound. He did not rush, nor did he linger, as though time itself was a thing he neither obeyed nor defied. When he smiled, it was almost amused. Almost.

"I am Vael." His voice curled through the chamber, not loud, not forceful, but impossible to ignore. "And you, my guests, are standing in the heart of something far older than kings and crowns. My dear Karzon…" He lazily waved his fingers through the air, and a sigil blazed to life, searing itself into the space before them, wounded light twisting and burning in unseen currents.

The moment Karzon laid eyes on it, his vision swam. A cold weight settled in his chest, recognition sinking its claws into him. He had never seen this face before, yet he knew exactly who stood before him.

"Whisper?"

He smiled wide. "Good. Very good."

Briena did not lower her bow. "You're the one who's been twisting the dungeon magic, making the corrupted Aetherglass gems and monsters."

Vael went still, not the stillness of calm but of a man tucking something sharp behind his teeth. One brow lifted a fraction too high, the barest curl of a smile ghosting his lips before vanishing like it had never been there. Whatever lived behind his eyes shuttered out of reach, not gone, just folded away. "Twisting? No. I have merely… guided it. Dungeons are not mindless wounds in the earth, nor random rifts to be sealed and forgotten. They are alive."

The chamber thrummed with a malevolent undertone. It wasn't merely a vibration, but a resonant discord, a low, guttural note clawing at the edges of sanity. The stone shuddered from an unseen pressure, a psychic weight that pressed down from all sides.

Orla's fingers flexed around her cudgel, her stance shifting slightly. "Right. Because nothing says ‘not mindless' like spewing out monsters that tear people apart."

Vael tilted his head, as if considering her words like an amusing puzzle. "Ah. You see only the surface. The hunger. The chaos. But tell me, have you ever considered what feeds the dungeon?"

Aisri inhaled sharply. "Magic."

The fire mage's voice was quiet, but Vael's eyes assessed her, and his smile deepened.

"Yes," he murmured. "Magic. Magic that seeps through the cracks of the world. But not just any magic. Dungeon gems are not merely conduits—they are roots. Reaching, spreading, consuming. And, when properly guided…" He lifted a hand, turning it in the dim light. The veins of Aetherglass beneath his skin brightened, then dimmed in time with the slow pulse of the chamber. "They grow."

Karzon stepped forward, placing himself between Briena and Vael. "And you've learned to control them."

Vael's eyes brightened, as if he was pleased that Karzon was catching on. "Yes."

The word was not a boast, nor an explanation. He spoke it as if he were merely stating a fact.

Briena tensed beside Karzon, her breath measured, her fingers steady on her bowstring. "Why?"

Vael's smile widened, and even though it was Briena who had asked the question, his eyes held room for Karzon alone. He looked at Karzon like he hungered for him. "Because I can."

An icy dread curled in Karzon's gut, but he didn't let it reach his expression. "You're tampering with magic that spawns monsters." His brows furrowed, his expression perplexed. This was truly inconceivable to him. "Why? To what end?"

Vael did not look insulted. If anything, he looked entertained. "I suppose you already know that the monsters you have met until now are all built from the core of these gems. But monsters are merely the first step. A byproduct. You see them as mindless threats, beasts to be slain, but what if they could be something more?"

For a long moment, there was simply the sound of breathing.

"Dungeons do not just create," Vael continued, circling them slowly, watching them the way a scholar might observe a particularly interesting specimen. "They consume. They refine. They learn." His gaze settled on Karzon again, the sharp, golden fractures in his eyes gleaming. "As do we."

Karzon held his ground, unflinching. "And what, exactly, are we learning?"

Vael stopped in front of him, too close, his presence radiating a quiet, effortless authority. His gaze dipped slightly, lingering just below Karzon's collarbone, where the slow pulse of his healing magic lived.

"I think you already know."

Karzon's pulse stuttered, but he forced himself to remain steady. "Say it."

Vael exhaled a quiet laugh. "You are not just a healer."

The words slithered into the space between them.

"You don't simply mend what is broken," Vael continued, studying him with something akin to admiration. "You rewrite it."

The chamber fell quiet.

Karzon set his jaw. "I heal."

Vael's head tilted slightly, considering. "No," he said, and the word was almost gentle. "You erase wounds. You defy death. That is not healing." His voice lowered, curling around the air like a promise. "That is undoing."

Karzon's heart beat hard against his ribs, but he did not let it show. "And what?" he asked, voice steady. "You want me to undo more?"

Vael's smile returned, sharp and knowing.

"I want you to become more. To live up to your true potential."

Vael's golden fractures rose and fell in slow, measured waves, their glow deepening as he tilted his head toward Karzon. "You cling to old fears," he murmured, voice thick with certainty. "You fear dungeon gems as if they are relics of chaos, as if they are dangerous because you do not understand them. But tell me, Karzon: what if the Alderdeep Cataclysm was not a disaster?"

The cavern walls thrummed, the Aetherglass veins rippling with unseen energy. Karzon felt it pressing in, as if it was being manipulated to earn their fear.

Vael spread his arms, the lattice beneath his skin flaring like molten gold. "What if it was a beginning?"

Karzon's blood chilled. "You're trying to justify it? The rupture that nearly tore this world apart? The magic that flooded the land with horrors?"

Vael's smile was indulgent. "You still see it as an accident, as a wound that never healed. But there are those among us who have studied deeper than any scholar, experimented beyond the limits of what your kind dares to imagine. And I tell you this—the Alderdeep was never a calamity. It was an emergence. A force too vast, too powerful, to be contained by the fragile laws you so desperately cling to."

Briena's eyes widened as she tried to fathom Vael's words. "You're insane."

"Am I?" Vael's form shimmered, his presence swelling. "The old dungeon gems were crude, raw, formed in the depths of chaos. Unstable, yes. But this was because they were unfinished. But the process has been refined and the magic shaped into greater purity." He licked his lips, as if the mere perception of this was delightful. "Think artificial dungeon cores, untouched by the corruption of the Alderdeep, free from the instability that shackled the old world."

A tremor ran through the cavern, the energy shifting, bending to him, to his will. The dungeon itself was listening.

"The ancients relied on chance. On ruptures and accidents to birth their power. But there is no sense in relying on luck when it is dangerous and unpredictable. The creatures you have encountered—" He paused, his smile proud. "They are better because they have been shaped by the new, better gemstones, built from the cores of dungeons like this."

His fingers curled slightly, and the veins of Aetherglass flared, the walls moving as if alive. "These cores do not simply fuel magic. They rewrite and refine it. And when the old world crumbles, when your so-called kingdoms fall, mine will rise in their place—stronger, unshackled, eternal."

His eyes locked onto Karzon, gleaming with certainty. "You still do not see, do you? The Alderdeep was not a mistake. It was the first step toward something greater. And only a few of us—" He spread his arms wide, the entire cavern shuddering in response, "—will be there to witness the new world order."

A shiver prickled down Karzon's spine, the air around him turning taut as he watched Vael, waiting for the final, inevitable words to fall from his lips.

"You should be one of us. You have only scratched the surface of what you are," Vael continued. "I was guided to you by mysterious forces. Certainly, you have heard their words too, I can see it in your eyes. I hear them as well, Karzon. You are not as different from me as you want to be. On your own, you will become powerful. But with my guidance, with my enhancements…" His fingers curled slightly, and the veins of Aetherglass beneath his skin pulsed in eerie unison with the chamber. "You and I could reshape the kingdom. We could become more than kings, more than gods."

Briena's eyes shone like the forest soaking ripe sunlight. Aisri's fire flared brighter.

Karzon's expression was unreadable. "And if I refuse?"

Vael did not seem troubled by the question. If anything, his amusement only deepened.

"Then," he said, voice silk-smooth, "I suppose we shall see what the dungeon makes of you on its own."

Silence stretched between them as Vael's offer hung like incense in a sanctuary long since defiled, sweet at first breath but curdled just beneath. He said nothing more, only watched Karzon with an ancient patience. The Aetherglass beneath his skin shimmered, its rhythm perfectly matched to the dungeon walls, as if the stone and the veins threading through it had been pulled from his blood and bound to his will. The ground breathed with him, slow and hungry, and Karzon felt the pressure of it coiling beneath his boots. He was standing in the hollowed ribs of a god, but the god had long since rotted into something else, and its hunger had not died with it.

Briena's bowstring creaked as she pulled it just a fraction tighter, her aim steady, her breath slow. Aisri stood rigid, her firelight restless at her fingertips. The dwarves had shifted into defensive stances, feet braced, hands tightening on their weapons. No one spoke.

The chamber itself seemed to draw a breath.

Then Karzon took a step forward.

"I'd rather carve my own path," he said, voice calm, measured, but firm.

Vael let out a slow exhale. For a moment, there was a tell in his expression—disappointment? Amusement? It was impossible to be sure. His lips curved—not quite a smirk, not quite a sneer.

"Ah," he murmured, as if Karzon had simply confirmed something he had already suspected. "So noble." His gaze swept over the group before returning to Karzon. "So limited."

Karzon felt his fingers twitch, not from nerves, but from something deeper and more instinctive. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to prepare for what came next.

Vael tilted his head. "And yet, you hesitate."

Briena's muscles coiled like a bowstring ready to snap. "No, he doesn't."

Vael barely acknowledged her. His gaze never wavered from Karzon, studying him the way a craftsman might study a flawed blade—wondering if it could be reforged, or if it was doomed to break.

"You don't even know what you are, do you?" he mused. "What you could be?"

Karzon remained silent. Not because he lacked the words, but because a haunting coldness had begun to settle in his chest like frost spreading through stone.

He had listened longer than he should have. Every instinct in him had screamed to cut Vael down the moment he stepped forward, but still he'd waited, measuring each word. It wasn't just madness he heard in Vael's voice; it was true belief. Quiet, unwavering belief in something vast and unseen, something ancient enough to twist even the strongest minds.

A belief so strong that even Karzon had wanted to hear it.

Vael's eyes darkened, the golden fractures shifting in their depths. "A healer who rewrites, rather than restores. A man whose magic defies the laws others blindly accept." His voice lowered, curling into something softer, something more insidious. "Do you even realize how unnatural you are?"

Karzon's jaw tensed. "You're talking in circles."

"Am I?" Vael's smile widened. "Or am I merely waiting for you to understand?"

Karzon had heard enough.

"We're done here."

Briena let out a quiet breath of relief, but it was short-lived.

Because Vael's amusement did not waver. He exhaled softly, almost pitying. "No, Karzon."

He lifted his hands.

"We are just beginning."

A low, distant vibration rolled through the floor, faint at first, but undeniable. The air shifted, thickening, warping, pressing inward like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Aisri's fire struggled as if the very magic in the air was resisting her. The dwarves tensed, gripping their weapons tighter.

The vibration deepened. A sound, hollow and vast, like a great stone being pried from its resting place, echoed through the chamber.

Briena's arrow loosed. It should have struck Vael's throat. Instead, it stopped an inch before his skin and hung there.

Vael did not flinch. He did not move. He simply smiled as the arrow trembled in place, held fast by an unseen force. Then, with a snap of his fingers, the arrow shattered midair, falling to the ground in useless fragments.

Briena's breath hitched. Vael reached toward a wall and plucked out a ripe dungeon gem, a dark, void-black core laced with eerie Aetherglass veins that beat like a living thing. The moment his will surged through it, the gem cracked, splitting open with a sound like a dying gasp.

From its depths, shadow and light twisted violently together, coalescing into a form that defied reason. Vael hurled the gem to the floor, which swallowed it entirely.

Vael turned his gaze back to Karzon. "You have chosen… poorly."

Before Karzon could muster a reply, the ground beneath them cracked. A new sound filled the chamber—deep, guttural, the groan of something ancient waking from a long, unwilling sleep. The stone at Vael's feet began to splinter, glowing veins of Aetherglass threading through the fractures, pulsing in time with the throne's rhythm. The very air trembled, vibrating with power that had nothing to do with the dungeon itself.

It was something else, something made.

Karzon's very soul flooded with dread. "Move!"

But as the stones beneath them buckled, all of them realized, at the same moment, that Karzon's warning had come too late.

An awakening was underway.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

First, there was a rupture. Not a roar, nor a scream, but a terrible, drawn-out rending. It sounded like the very fabric of existence was being torn, a thick, viscous rip that echoed from some unseen, unholy birthing.

It was akin to the tearing of flesh, slick and resistant, but magnified a thousandfold—the skin of reality itself peeled back. A distortion shimmered in the air, a drawn-out, keening wail that wasn't merely heard but also felt, a psychic shriek that bored into the marrow of the mind, fracturing thought and twisting reason into agonized knots.

The ground beneath their boots convulsed, the stone itself shuddering in violent rejection, a primal scream against the forced intrusion.

There was a tectonic shudder, and then the floor split. Not a crack, but a gaping maw tearing open, a wound in the world's flesh. Splintered rock, jagged and raw, erupted like shattered bone, framing a chasm that pulsed with the slick, obsidian gleam of Aetherglass. It wasn't merely broken stone; it was the earth's entrails exposed, a glistening, black heart laid bare, thrumming with raw, unholy power.

Veins of corrupted magic curled up through the cavern like grasping roots, their dark glow suffocating the lantern light and drowning the chamber in an eerie radiance. From the chasm, a shape dragged itself into being, a monstrosity wrought from nightmare, from hunger, from the twisted genius of a man whose mind had gone too far.

Six arms, unnaturally elongated, ripped free from the stone, each ending in a jagged arrangement of claws—no symmetry, no sense to their angles, like bones shattered and fused back together in mockery of a body. Its twin heads lurched unnaturally, their mouths splitting open along far too many jagged seams, gnashing rows of crystalline fangs that reflected the sickly glow of the dungeon's veins.

It was not flesh. It was not stone. It was both.

Its skin, where it had skin at all, was a grotesque patchwork of sinew and slick, glassy black; dungeon-forged Aetherglass, liquefied and melded into raw muscle, twisted through its body like molten veins. The corrupted magic pulsed inside it, throbbing in jagged rhythms, as if the beast was still learning how to exist, how to move, how to kill.

The monster lurched, disjointed, its movements staggering between smooth, unnatural grace and horrific, convulsing seizures—as if it had too many limbs and not enough sense of which ones to use first. Its two heads twisted independently of each other, their sunken, cavernous eye sockets empty yet still somehow filled with a depthless hunger.

Then, it breathed.

A gust of unearthly air swept through the chamber, heavy with rot, with magic burned and reborn, with the stench of a life that had no right to be.

They felt it acutely, for the moment the thing's breath touched their skin, the hallucinations began.

Briena stumbled back first. It wasn't the force of the creature's scream, rather, the voices that came with it. You weren't fast enough. You weren't strong enough. You got what you deserved.

The words slithered through her ribs like a dagger of ice, carving their way into her chest.

No. No, she had already beaten this. She had already survived. And yet—she was back there again.

Not in the dungeon, beside her friends, but in that village, among the ruins, the bodies, the wreckage. The goblins' snarls filled her ears, their hands—so many hands—grabbing at her, crushing her into the dirt. Her bow lay far from her, the string broken, as her fingers scrabbled for a dagger, her heartbeat roaring louder than the fire consuming her home.

You failed. You always fail.

She gasped, her vision swimming, her body locking up as if she were there again, as if the dungeon had swallowed her whole and spat her back into her worst memory.

Aisri's breath left her in a shuddering sob, her hands jerking, fire moving dangerously along her fingertips before guttering out completely. She pressed her lips together, trying in vain to force herself back into the moment, but the dungeon had other plans.

You will never find love. You will always be abandoned. You burn everything you touch.

Her limbs felt too light. Her body felt too weak. The air surrounding her pressed inward, turning to smoke, to laughter, to cruel whispers curling against the inside of her skull. A child's voice, her voice from years ago, screaming as fire failed her, as the hands of a master who had never been a teacher closed around her wrist, breaking it. Her hands, her weak, small hands, had fumbled, had let go.

You are a failure.

What hurt more than the bruise itself was the indifference of her parents. She sucked in a ragged breath, the world tilting violently, the floor beneath her no longer dungeon stone but the cold, unyielding ground of a place she had never wanted to return to.

No one was spared.

Orla's axe trembled in her grip. Her breath came short and sharp, eyes darting to shadows that weren't there—or were they? The weight of chains pressed against her skin, the same chains that had once held her captive, that had kept her shackled in a cage while others walked free.

You're still a prisoner.

Elska staggered. Mira gritted her teeth.

Drenna covered her ears with her hands to stop herself from screaming.

Only one did not falter.

Karzon felt the whispers press against his skull, but unlike the others, they did not pull him under. The dungeon wanted him. He felt it pulling, coaxing, welcoming—but not with fear. No, the voices did not torment him.

They called to him, instead.

You could be so much more.

He felt the pull of something deeper, something older than even this dungeon—the raw, aching hunger of magic longing to be shaped, to be controlled, to be used. This creature was not just a monster—it was an extension of that force, a creation of Aetherglass given form and need.

Karzon clenched his fists, heat blooming in his chest, his heart racing in time with the unnatural energy around him. His magic flared, the bracers on his wrists shimmering faintly, reacting.

Vael had been right about one thing. His power did not heal. It rewrote.

And he would not let this dungeon rewrite his friends.

A whimper escaped Briena's lips as she fell to her knees, hands covering her face as if that somehow would keep the monsters at bay. With a sharp step forward, Karzon grabbed her wrist, squeezing firmly, dragging her back to the present.

"Briena." His eyes delved deep into hers, shining with all that he could put into them. "This isn't real. I won't let you believe it is."

She gasped, the chasm in her lungs suddenly gone, her knees nearly buckling as she ripped free from the hallucination's grasp. Her vision cleared, the dungeon returning to its jagged, pulsing reality—and the monster.

Aisri was next. Karzon gripped her shoulder and shook her gently. "You're here," he murmured. "Not there. Not then. Now."

Aisri blinked rapidly, her breath shuddering, the haze retreating. Her fingers flexed, heat surging back along her skin as a sign of fire reigniting.

Drenna was lost for a moment as the voices pressed in, her grip tightening as shadows curled at the edge of her mind. Then, with a sharp shake of her head, she swung her scabbard overhead like she was swatting flies, muttering every curse she knew and inventing a few more for good measure. The dwarves, hardened as they were, had fought off their nightmares the quickest, shaking themselves free, bracing against the lies the dungeon fed them. But they had lost seconds.

The creature had not stopped moving. It lurched forward, the two heads snapping toward them in eerie unison, its jagged arms rising⁠—

Briena loosed an arrow, her hands sure and steady It buried deep in the beast's throat.

The arrow was forced back out as the wound healed instantly.

Aisri unleashed fire.

The flames raced up the monster's limbs, only to be drawn inward, the Aetherglass veins in its body drinking in the magic like a starving leech.

The dwarves charged, shields locking, holding the line.

Aisri's fire lashed out, a crackling serpent of heat and fury that struck the monster's chest. For a heartbeat, the flames clung to its body, tongues of searing gold wrapping around the jagged veins of Aetherglass streaking its form. But the creature did not burn.

It absorbed.

The fire slithered into its skin, vanishing in a rush of sickly green light. The pulsing veins laced through its grotesque body flared brighter, greedily drinking in the magic as if it had been starved for centuries.

Aisri's face blanched as they all witnessed the unthinkable. "No⁠—"

The monster surged forward.

Another arrow, loosed by Briena, struck the beast's throat. The shaft drove deep, sinking past the knot of shifting flesh, but before she could nock another, she saw it—saw the way the wound did not bleed. The flesh folded in on itself, shifting, healing, sealing as if nothing had ever pierced it.

She barely had time to curse before the creature lunged.

Six arms, each ending in jagged claws, lashed out in a storm of violence. The dwarves met its charge head-on, shields locking as they braced for the impact. The first strike shattered stone beneath their feet. The second sent a shockwave rippling through their formation, forcing them to dig their heels into the trembling ground.

Mira snarled as she absorbed the brunt of the attack, her shield screaming beneath the strain. "By the ancestors, this thing hits like a mountain!"

"Lovely!" Drenna barked over the clash of steel. "I wanted to be flattened into paste today!"

The monster reared back, its two heads twisting unnaturally, eyes burning like molten gold. Its mouths opened, and what came out was not a roar, not a growl, but a sound that scraped against the bones of the world.

It was a howl of unraveling.

Briena's vision blurred. The walls of the dungeon rippled, as if reality itself had flinched at the noise. She gritted her teeth, but the sound had already rooted itself inside her skull, tearing through her defenses with unnatural ease.

It was inside her, a sharp, reedy whistle that cut through the fog.

She was kneeling in the ashes of a ruined village, her breath ragged, her fingers digging into the bloodstained dirt. The goblins were gone. The fight was over. But she could still hear them. The cruel laughter, the jeering, the rasp of iron on leather as they toyed with her, their words slithering down her spine like oil.

Not fast enough.

Her fingers clenched around the phantom of her stringless bow.

Too slow.

Briena gasped, the memory wrapping around her throat, dragging her under. She was there again, lost in the past, the dungeon whispering its cruel truths.

But then something solid wrenched her back.

A hand. A voice.

"Briena!"

Karzon. She came back with a snap, her lungs burning as if she'd been drowning. The dungeon's magic still coiled around her, but she saw now—saw the illusion for what it was.

And she wasn't the only one suffering.

Aisri stood frozen, flames guttering from her fingertips. Her face was pale, too pale, her eyes unfocused. The magic that usually flared so bright in her veins grew dim and uncertain.

Karzon turned toward her just as the fire mage shuddered.

Her lips parted.

"I can't…"

The dungeon had her again.

The monster struck. The dwarves pushed back, their movements heavier.

"Hold the line!" Orla barked.

Elska growled as she forced her axe forward, carving a deep gash along one of the creature's many limbs. But just like Briena's arrow, the wound did not last. The Aetherglass veins pulsed, knitting the flesh back together in an instant.

Drenna, who had been battering at the monster's side, took one look at the unscathed limb and threw her hands up. "Oh, come on! Does anything stick?"

Karzon didn't answer. He couldn't.

His magic—his healing—was sluggish and unresponsive. It should have been rushing through him, searing away the dungeon's corruption, mending wounds faster than they could be made.

Instead, it felt like he was wading through tar. The more he reached for it, the heavier it became.

His vision swam as he realized that the dungeon was not just feeding on the minds of the others, but on the very foundation of his body and soul—his magic.

The monster roared again, its voices fracturing into something that was more than sound, more than magic. It was a pulling, a hunger that reached into Karzon's very core, sinking claws into the part of him that had always been different.

The dungeon knew him. And it wanted his power.

Karzon staggered, the pressure in his chest deepening as the unseen tether between him and the throne tightened. The veins of Aetherglass threading the walls throbbed like a slow heartbeat, their glow ebbing and flaring in time with something unseen, something vast and aware. The magic within them wasn't dormant—it coiled, restless, wrapping around his limbs like phantom chains.

The air itself rippled, thickening around him like a slow-closing fist. The world blurred at the edges, not from exhaustion, not from injury, but from the sheer force pulling at him.

He saw stars as the chamber around him began to warp.

The stone beneath his boots no longer felt solid. The dungeon pressed against his skin like a presence that had no face, or form, nothing except a ravaging, all-encompassing hunger. The unnatural glow from the Aetherglass twisted and sputtered like dying embers, feeding on something unseen.

Feeding on him.

The warmth of his healing, once second nature, now dragged through him like tar, slow and cloying, slipping from his grasp before it could take shape. His gauntlet—his anchor—was cold. The runes along its surface, meant to strengthen him, had dimmed, their light stolen by the cavern itself.

The monster moved.

A blur of jagged limbs, crashing toward him with unnatural speed. Karzon barely had time to shift his weight before a crushing blow struck his side, sending him sprawling. Pain flared, his ribs screaming in protest as the cavern ceiling spun overhead. He hit the stone hard, his breath ripped from his lungs in a sharp, choking gasp.

Before he could rise, before he could even brace for the next strike⁠—

Vael's shadow was above him, silent, smooth, and inevitable.

The fallen mage stepped forward, his crystalline fingers flexing, Aetherglass moving through his veins like living threads of molten gold. He moved without urgency, savoring the moment. His eyes gleamed with amusement and the certainty that came with ownership.

Karzon tried to push himself up⁠—

Vael's hand shot forward, grasping for his throat.

Darkness swelled at the edges of Karzon's vision as the dungeon proceeded to swallow him whole.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Darkness, thick as ink, coiled around Karzon's limbs, a sentient thing. It didn't just cling; it invaded, weaving through his veins like a venomous serpent, threading cold fire into the very marrow of his bones.

The space folded, clinging to him like a suffocating embrace, weightless yet crushing, as if the dungeon had inhaled the world and refused to breathe it back, an endless void where his very life felt forfeit.

Vael loomed like an obsidian god etched with fractured gold, his crystalline veins glowing with a predatory luminescence, each pulse a slow, agonizing heartbeat of his power. His grip closed around Karzon's throat, not with the frantic rage of a beast, but with the slow, measured possession of a sculptor claiming his clay.

Each tightening digit was a statement—a silent, brutal declaration, a creeping, cold promise of absolute control. The pressure mounted, a relentless vise that threatened to crush not just his windpipe, but the very essence of his being. His vision swam, the edges of his sight blurring into the encroaching black.

Panic—a raw, animalistic terror—clawed at his throat, a desperate, silent scream trapped within his constricted airways.

He felt the life draining from him, a slow, agonizing bleed, his strength ebbing away with each measured breath.

"You feel it, don't you?" Vael's voice, smooth as polished obsidian, dripped with a leisurely cruelty, each syllable a sharpened shard of ice. "You were never theirs to keep. You were always mine."

The dungeon's glow deepened, its veins pulsing with a lurid, hungry radiance. To Karzon, it was a silent, seductive beckoning. His head swam, the world dissolving into a haze of encroaching darkness, a dizzying spiral into oblivion. His magic, once a roaring storm, now strained against the insidious pull, sluggish and unraveling, sinking into the very stone, into the living bones of this place.

He was being absorbed, consumed, his essence becoming another aliment for the dungeon's insatiable hunger, another brick in its unholy edifice.

If this went on, he would be undone, remade like one of Vael's creatures.

The word lashed through his mind like a breaking storm. His fingers clenched, his will slamming against the dungeon's grasp. He twisted beneath Vael's hold, forcing his body to respond, forcing the breath back into his lungs even as the world distorted at the edges.

Karzon rolled, slipping from Vael's grip in a surge of momentum. The ground lurched beneath him, but he used it, kicking off the stone and propelling himself up just as Vael's hand grasped at empty air.

Briena was already there, her dagger flashing through the light of the chamber. It drove toward Vael's ribs, aiming to end the confrontation in one swift motion. The blade slid uselessly across his side, striking skin that shimmered with a faint, unnatural gleam. Beneath it pulsed a lattice of Aetherglass, veins of green light moving like something alive just under the surface.

Vael didn't flinch. He turned to her with a calm, delighted smile, as if she'd offered him a gift rather than a threat.

Briena twisted the dagger and shoved him back, planting herself between him and Karzon. "Stay down," she snapped, voice sharp with urgency.

Karzon was already pushing to his feet, blinking sweat and blood from his eyes. His ribs ached, his limbs still heavy from the earlier blast, but none of that mattered. He could feel the monster behind him, feel the magic vibrating through the stone, but his eyes were locked on Vael.

Vael offered him a little bow, just enough to mock.

Karzon lunged. His sword came in low, then high, a clean arc aimed for Vael's neck. Vael moved like mist, twisting away just enough to let the blade pass inches from his throat. He pivoted with a dancer's grace, boots gliding over the stone, and smiled again.

"Lovely form," he said softly. "But you'll need more than steel."

Karzon didn't answer. He stepped in again, faster this time, swinging a feint then snapping into a tight slash aimed at the hip. Vael stepped sideways, spinning out of reach, his cloak catching in the green light like smoke on the wind.

Behind them, the monster screamed.

It surged toward the others, a mass of jagged limbs and slick, shifting armor. Its bulk crashed into the ground with a shuddering boom, shaking the chamber. Aisri hurled fire, a spear of molten orange that slammed into the beast's chest with the force of a battering ram. Flames tore through flesh, splitting its plating apart.

It staggered, body split nearly in two; and then the dungeon responded.

Veins along the walls flared, and the wounds closed with terrifying speed. Cracks sealed. Fire vanished. The monster stood whole again, steam rising from its reborn flesh.

Aisri stumbled backward, her breath ragged.

Karzon barely looked. He pressed forward, striking again, but Vael caught his wrist this time. His hand was too smooth, too cold, and the Aetherglass pulsing beneath his skin seemed to match the rhythm of the dungeon's light.

"You really think you can stop this?" Vael asked, voice almost gentle. "They are breaking, one by one."

Karzon tore free and struck once more, angling his sword with a twist meant to surprise. But again, Vael was faster, spinning just out of reach, his footfalls light and certain.

He looked like he was dancing.

The monster was still tearing through the others. Mira's shield shattered as it met the creature's claws. Orla's axe buried itself in its shoulder, but was ripped free and sent flying. Briena's arrows came rapid-fire, one after another, but none struck deep. The air was thick with heat and smoke. The very stones beneath their feet seemed to feed the enemy.

Karzon's heart pounded. Not from fear, but fury. He went at Vael again, a final strike, all his strength behind it. This time, his blade came close enough to carve a line across Vael's shoulder. Aetherglass flared, taking the hit like armor. Vael hissed but did not bleed. His expression shifted from amusement to something far colder.

"Enough," he said.

With a flick of his hand, a wave of force lashed out from his palm. Karzon flew backward, hitting the stone hard, pain blooming across his back and shoulders.

Vael stepped calmly to the edge of the chamber. He looked toward the monster as it raised its claws for another strike.

"Finish them," he said. "And bring the healer to me alive."

The dungeon pulsed in response. The monster bellowed and charged again. Karzon struggled to his knees, teeth clenched. He could feel the others weakening, magic waning, weapons failing. This dungeon might have called to him, but it did not own him yet.

He inhaled deeply, drawing his resolve into an ironclad force. The dungeon wanted to drown him, to unravel him thread by thread, to carve out all that made him who he was and leave only the hollow husk it could claim as its own. But he was not a thing to be taken. Not now. Not ever.

Turning to Briena, he caught her wrist before she could nock another arrow. Her breathing was uneven, pupils wide and searching, fingers trembling despite her grip on the bowstring. But it wasn't just fatigue. He could feel it, the threadbare edge of her endurance fraying beneath the dungeon's slow, insidious drain.

He pulled her toward him, swift and sure, until their foreheads touched.

"Do you trust me?"

Briena stiffened. For a moment, the chaos around them faded, the clash of steel and the bellow of the beast muffled by the heat between them. Her breath caught, but her eyes never left his. A heartbeat stretched between them, and then she nodded—barely perceptible, but enough.

Karzon moved without hesitation. He turned to Aisri, reaching for her wrist. The fire mage was swaying where she stood, her strength slipping through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. He felt the tremor in her skin before she spoke, the effort it took to keep her magic from guttering out entirely.

He gripped her tighter.

Power flared. This was not healing, not the mending of flesh, but a transference, an offering.

Heat poured from his hands into hers, raw energy rushing into her blood, weaving through the frayed strands of her magic and binding the unraveling edges. Aisri gasped, her lips parting in shock as the dwindling embers of her fire ignited into a roaring inferno, scorching gold licking up her arms.

At the same time, Briena's breath steadied, the tremor in her fingers vanishing, the fog behind her eyes clearing. The weight pressing down on her chest lifted, her heartbeat no longer a frantic drum but a steady, measured beat.

Karzon let go.

Aisri's fire surged, white-hot, casting molten shadows across the cavern walls. Briena exhaled, drawing another arrow, hands still, gaze sharp.

Vael tilted his head, watching with interest, like a scholar examining a rare specimen before the inevitable moment of dissection.

Karzon met his gaze, unflinching. "You're not taking them."

Vael's smile sharpened. "We'll see."

The cavern shuddered, the dungeon's hunger surging through the walls in thick, twisting strands of corrupted magic. The beast, reforged with every strike, bore down on them, its twin heads snapping, its six clawed arms lashing the air as if it could already feel their bodies breaking beneath its grasp. The glow lacing its body intensified, a grotesque heartbeat thrumming in time with the Aetherglass that coiled through the chamber.

Karzon could feel it now, not just the dungeon's pull, but its anticipation. It had lured them here, let them struggle, let them fight. It had let them believe they had a chance.

Briena loosed an arrow into one of the creature's throats, watching as the flesh knitted itself back together the instant it struck. Aisri's fire lashed across its limbs, but the flames curled inward, devoured by the same veins of magic that kept the dungeon alive.

It couldn't be wounded. It couldn't be burned.

The dwarves had fallen back, weapons gripped tightly, sweat glistening on their brows as their chests heaved with effort. Orla and Mira braced themselves, shields up, waiting for an opening that never came.

Drenna spat blood onto the ground and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Anyone else getting tired of this?"

"Beyond tired," Elska growled.

Aisri gritted her teeth, fire rippling at her fingertips, but even she knew her magic would not turn this battle.

"We can't keep doing this," Briena panted, muscles coiled, fingers tightening around the worn leather of her bowstring. "We have to cut off its source."

Karzon followed her gaze past the beast, past Vael, past the throne of blackened Aetherglass to the veins. They wove through the cavern like roots, threading into the walls, burrowing into the stone. They weren't just channeling energy into the creature. They were feeding it. Keeping it alive.

Vael was too focused on the monster to notice. Karzon whispered quickly and quietly. "You can do it?"

Her breathing was uneven, her face streaked with sweat, but her hands did not tremble. She bit down on her lower lip, brows furrowed in concentration. "I have one shot."

The monster struck Drenna, who got out in the nick of time. Vael began to laugh.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Vael's laughter unfurled like a slow-moving storm, seeping into every crack and crevice of the cavern. It was not the laughter of a man amused, nor of one mocking his enemies—it was richer, deeper, the sound of inevitability, of a creature who had already won and was simply waiting for the world to catch up. It wrapped around them like unseen coils, a steady, measured certainty rather than a burst of mirth.

"You think you can unmake all of this?" Vael spread his hands, the crystalline lattice beneath his skin igniting in rhythm with the dungeon itself. "This is the future. Aetherglass is no longer a tool. It is life, it is death—it is transformation."

The dungeon groaned around them, the Aetherglass veins webbing through the cavern walls shimmering with volatile energy, as if breathing in his words. Karzon felt them reacting not just to Vael, but to the monster, to him, to all of them. The dungeon was awake now. A living entity, shifting its focus, deciding.

Briena held her bow taut, fingers steady, eyes locked on the largest vein above them. Karzon needed to buy her the moment she needed. He took a step forward.

"To what end, Vael? Even if you create a hundred such dungeons, what is your ultimate purpose?"

Vael's grin widened, sharp as glass. "Ah. Now you're starting to ask the right questions. But you're still so blind, Karzon. You think I built this?"

His gaze hardened as golden fractures splintered beneath his skin, his form shifting, sharpening, as if struggling to hold itself together. The lines of his body blurred, then snapped into focus, an imitation teetering on the edge of something greater. "No. I have merely refined what was started. But the true architect? The one who dreams beyond even this?" His voice dropped, almost pitying. "You are far, far from finding them."

Karzon's face paled. "You… you're someone's servant?"

Vael's laughter rang through the air, rich with amusement and something colder. Acceptance. "A servant? A placeholder, a distraction, a mask. Call it what you will." His form sputtered again, his very presence unstable, as if he existed only to fill a role rather than to be a man. "I was made to lead others astray, to keep their eyes on me while the real hand moves unseen. I am the thunder before the storm, the shape you chase while the true mastermind builds beyond your sight."

Rage consumed Karzon, even as he tried his best to fight it. "You and I are not the same."

"Oh?" Vael's face contorted and twisted into a sneer. "And yet, have you not craved power and magic?"

"Don't listen to him," roared Drenna. "He's trying to fill your head with bullshit."

From the corner of his eye, Karzon caught a blur of motion. The beast had turned on Mira, lashing out with a pair of jagged, bladed limbs. She deflected the first with her shield, but the second tore a deep gash along her shoulder, sending her staggering back with a cry of pain. Briena pivoted to cover her, arrow nocked, aiming high toward the exposed veining above the creature's head. Her fingers were steady, but Karzon could see the tension in her arms, the flicker of exhaustion at the corner of her eyes. One missed step, one breath too slow, and she would be within reach of those claws.

Elska was circling wide, trying to draw the creature's attention, chain spinning low and fast to catch its back leg. Orla's axe came down again, but the edge glanced off the beast's plating, sparking without leaving a mark. The monster reared back and swung with bone-shattering force, and Orla barely ducked in time. The wind of its strike sent dust and broken stone cascading across the floor.

They were holding the line, but just barely.

"Join us." Vael outstretched his arms, beckoning to Karzon. "Realize what you were born for, Karzon Wyndale, and I will deliver you to our true Master."

Karzon's eyes burned. "Who… where is he?"

Vael chuckled. "Everywhere. Nowhere. Watching. Waiting. He is not a man you hunt. He is the voice that lingers in the dark corners of empires, in the trembling hands of kings who sign treaties they do not understand, in the silent corridors of places you dare not tread. He is the inevitability of change."

Karzon clenched his fists. "And you? What are you to him?"

Vael's smile held no resentment, only cold satisfaction. "His first success."

The cavern heaved. Briena exhaled slowly, fingers curled around the bowstring. Vael was now far too occupied with spinning his tale of glory to Karzon to notice, and the beast was occupied. This was it.

"And soon," Vael continued, voice brimming with certainty, "all of Arlenia will follow." He gestured broadly, his steps unhurried despite the chaos unfolding around him. "Haldrim, Dunmarch—their walls will crumble, their rulers will kneel. The old world will shatter, and in its place will rise something stronger." His voice grew softer, more reverent. "Aetherglass will not just power spells and weapons, it will birth a new race. A perfected race."

Briena didn't need to hear more. She already knew what she had to do.

The bowstring creaked as she drew it to its full limit, her focus unshakable as she released the arrow. It tore through the chamber like a streak of light, slicing through the gloom, faster than breath, faster than thought. It struck true, embedding itself into the thickest Aetherglass vein above them.

The world cracked.

The ceiling screamed as jagged fractures ripped through its surface, spreading outward in violent, unpredictable paths. Chunks of stone, once stable and unmoving, came loose, crashing downward in an avalanche of debris. The very lifeblood of the dungeon, the web of Aetherglass that had sustained and controlled it, ruptured.

Vael's expression twisted, not with fear, but rage.

"No." His voice was raw, stripped of its usual mocking cadence, replaced by something far more primal. "NO!"

The glow within him spasmed and betrayed him. The Aetherglass laced through his body, once a seamless fusion, rebelled. Lines of luminous fractures erupted across his arms, his chest, his throat. The dungeon, robbed of its energy, was rejecting him as well.

The monster shrieked, its voices splitting, discordant, as it convulsed under the collapse. Limbs spasmed, its grotesque form unraveling as the magic that had stitched it together evaporated into the crumbling cavern. The Aetherglass within its body no longer sustained it—it consumed it, breaking it apart in writhing, agonized contortions.

Briena staggered as the tremors nearly threw her from her feet. Aisri grabbed her arm, steadying them both.

"Move!" Karzon shouted. "We have to get out!"

But Vael was still standing, still fighting, even as his body crumbled from within. His glare locked onto Karzon, fury and defiance burning through the cracks lacing his skin.

"This is not over," he spat. "You think you've won?" He took a step forward, his body stuttering like a failing construct. "The new world will rise, Karzon. And you—" his lips curled back in a sneer, "—you will either stand at its peak… or be buried beneath it."

His form lurched, the fractures widening, the glow of his body dimming into the same chaos consuming the dungeon.

And then he screamed. A scream of denial, of fury, of power lost. A scream that did not end, but was swallowed whole by the collapse.

The dungeon was coming down.

The monster's last shuddering roar was cut off as a boulder the size of a wagon crushed its remaining limbs. The veins of Aetherglass trembled erratically, like dying stars, before vanishing into darkness. The cavern, once alive, once breathing, was now only ruin.

"Go!" Karzon shouted again.

The dwarves were already moving, hauling themselves away from the disintegrating battlefield. Aisri hurled a last burst of fire to clear their path as Briena shoved another fallen slab of rock aside.

The dungeon roared one final time, sounding its death knell, and the last of the ceiling caved in, sealing Vael's screams beneath the rubble. The party broke into a run, but escape was not easy, nor inevitable. The dungeon was dying, and it wanted to take them with it.

The walls convulsed, the Aetherglass veins sputtering with failing light as they fractured, their glow guttering like embers drowning in ash. The once-living structure, which had thrived on their struggle, was now unraveling in a storm of destruction. Jagged slabs of stone broke free from the cavern's throat, cascading in torrents of ruin. The air reeked of scorched magic, of severed power, of a thing that had been cheated of its prey.

Aisri faltered. One moment, she was sprinting beside them, her flames still licking at her fingertips, defying the dungeon's hunger. The next, her body jolted as a spear of broken Aetherglass lanced through her side.

She didn't scream. She choked. The sound was small, a breath caught wrong in her throat, but Karzon knew.

Briena turned, eyes widening as she saw the shard buried deep, protruding just beneath Aisri's ribs. A jagged sliver of unnatural crystal, humming weakly as the last dregs of the dungeon's stolen magic shifted through it. It had pierced clean through, the tip dark with fresh blood.

Aisri staggered, one hand clenching around the wound as if she could will it closed, the other shaking with an orb of fire that refused to hold its shape. Her lips parted, but no words came—only a strangled exhale as her knees buckled.

Karzon caught her before she hit the ground, hoisting her onto his back. She wasn't heavy—too light, too limp, the fire in her veins dimming too fast.

"No, no, no—stay with me," Karzon ground out, gripping her legs as he braced her against him. Her head lolled slightly, breath hot against his neck, but weakening.

Briena tore a strip of cloth from her sleeve, pressing it against the wound with shaking hands. "Aisri, hold on. We're almost out."

Aisri let out a weak, breathless laugh. "You… are terrible liars."

The cavern shuddered violently, cutting off any response.

A massive fissure split through the ground ahead, jagged teeth of stone opening like the maw of a starving beast. The exit—the path they had fought for—was only a few dozen yards ahead, but the dungeon was doing everything in its power to seal them in.

"Move!" Karzon barked.

Briena sprinted ahead, nimble as a shadow, weaving between the falling debris. The dwarves followed, shields raised over their heads as boulders crashed around them.

Karzon ran as fast as his limbs would carry him, although the weight of Aisri on his back slowed him. He gritted his teeth and pushed forward, his boots scraping against unstable ground, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Every step was a gamble. The earth cracked beneath him, threatening to swallow them whole, but he would not fall, would not stop.

Aisri shifted against him, a sharp, broken breath escaping her lips. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, but it was fading like a dying candle. Her magic was slipping through her fingers, unable to hold its shape.

Briena twisted around mid-stride, reaching for him. "Karzon!"

A cascade of rock came down like an avalanche behind them, cutting off any retreat. There was no way back, only forward.

The cavern's archway loomed ahead, their one chance at escape. Beyond it, the tunnel sloped upward, the faintest sliver of light promising open ground.

They were almost there.

A massive stone slab broke loose above them, descending with deadly speed⁠—

Briena lunged, shoving Karzon forward as the rock slammed into the ground behind them with bone-rattling force. The impact sent a shockwave through the crumbling earth, knocking them off balance.

Karzon hit the ground hard, the breath driven from his lungs, Aisri's limp form pressed between them. The dust stung his eyes, clogging his throat as he gasped for breath. Briena scrambled to her feet, blood trailing from a cut across her temple, her bow lost somewhere in the wreckage.

She reached for Karzon, pulling at his arm, her voice hoarse. "Up! You have to get up!"

He growled, forcing himself to his knees, hauling Aisri with him. He could feel the slow, unsteady rise of her chest against his back, but it was too shallow, too slow. She needed healing. She needed him. But there was no time.

Another tremor. The exit was closing.

Karzon braced himself, adjusting his grip on Aisri. "Go! I've got her!"

Briena didn't argue. She turned, sprinting toward the exit, Karzon right behind her.

The dwarves had already reached the passageway, Mira and Orla hauling away loose stone, clearing just enough space for them to slip through. Karzon's legs burned, his lungs screamed, but he did not slow. The exit was within reach.

A final roar echoed through the ruins, a sound of defiance, of dying wrath. The dungeon was taking its last breath.

Briena dove through first, rolling into the open passage beyond. Karzon was only steps behind⁠—

The ceiling came down. He lunged, throwing himself and Aisri forward as the tunnel collapsed behind them in a deafening, final crash.

The dungeon exhaled one final breath behind them, a deep, mournful groan that rumbled through the ground like a final heartbeat. Stone collapsed inward, sealing the abyss, erasing all trace of the horrors that had lurked within. Aetherglass veins, once gleaming with unnatural light, cracked and withered like dying embers, vanishing beneath the ruin.

The entrance was gone. Whatever remained inside—Vael's broken form, the shattered monster, the corrupted gems—was buried.

Briena doubled over, her palms pressed into the dirt as she gasped for breath. The dust clung to her skin that was streaked with sweat and grime, her limbs trembling from exhaustion. Mira spat to the side, shaking her head as if to clear the ringing from her ears. Orla and Elska braced against one another, still standing, though their shields were dented, their armor scored with battle scars that told of just how close they had come to being entombed.

The caravan was nowhere in sight, and neither were the horses. Whatever had happened must have caused them to panic and run. Briena's heart ached for Elaris… had she found her only to be lost once more?

Karzon ignored the ache in his own body. He had no time for pain. He turned, lowering Aisri gently to the ground.

She was deathly still.

Briena swore, dropping to her knees beside him, pressing two fingers against Aisri's throat. "She's alive," she breathed. "Barely."

Karzon had already torn his gauntlet off. He began rolling up his sleeves, the residual glow of his magic trembling at his fingertips. Her breathing was shallow, uneven, her lips tinged too pale.

The Aetherglass shard had pierced deep, missing her heart but raking through muscle and flesh, leaving behind a gash that was far worse than a wound, for it reeked of contaminated magic.

Karzon felt it—an insidious, writhing force coiling through the frayed edges of Aisri's being, seeking purchase where her magic had faltered. It slithered through her veins, an unholy parasite burrowing deep, prying at the fragile threads of her consciousness, desperate to take hold. It was not merely corruption; it was a reformation, a slow, merciless reshaping, twisting what she was into something lesser—something obedient.

If it rooted itself, if it spread, she would not be Aisri anymore.

"She's burning up," he muttered, pressing his hands over the wound. His power surged, seeking to mend what had been broken, to erase the damage⁠—

Aisri convulsed violently as the magic inside her fought back.

Karzon's face was a mask of raw determination, every tendon in his neck drawn taut, his breath coming in sharp, measured bursts as he forced his magic deeper, past the writhing, foreign force that clung to Aisri like a leech. It wasn't just resistance—it was possession. The dungeon's poison had soaked into her very marrow, weaving through the delicate lattice of her being, threading itself into her magic, feeding on it.

Even with the Aetherglass shattered, its corruption remained, clawing through her veins like living wire. The remnants of its influence slithered beneath her skin, black tendrils curling and recoiling from his touch, but not yet relenting. Not yet releasing her.

And then her body reacted.

A glow bled to the surface, radiating from within, but it was not a sign of recovery. Not the gentle warmth of a soul returning to the world, but a cold, jagged luminescence, twisting and writhing like ink spilled into water. It slithered across her arms, forming unnatural rivulets, shadowed veins that pulsed in rhythm with an unseen force. The corruption did not merely linger—it fought.

Her lips parted, and at first, there was only a shuddering breath. Then, words fell out of her mouth.

They slithered past her teeth, syllables twisted and broken, a language not meant for mortal tongues. They clawed their way from her throat, too fluid, too fractured, her voice caught in a place between delirium and command. Not hers.

This was not speech, not even conscious thought, but echoes of the dungeon itself, whispering through her as though testing the shape of her mouth, as though trying her on.

Damn it, thought Karzon. This is not happening, not on my watch.

"No, you don't," he growled. "I don't lose people."

The others stood back as the light in Karzon's hands darkened, gold yielding to crimson, like the last breath of dusk before the world surrendered to night. It bled from his palms in slow, deliberate waves, sinking into Aisri's skin, chasing the void where life had begun to slip away.

The magic that slipped from him was not gentle. It defied, tore the script of fate apart and stitched its own lines into the fabric of existence. And now, it would do so again.

He had no choice.

She was slipping, her pulse a whisper, her fire guttering, the embers of her magic dimming like a dying star. But he would not let her go. Not when they had only just found each other—he, Briena, Aisri—three souls caught in the same gravity, drawn together by forces older than knowing.

It was not just fondness that burned in him now, but fury, raw and unrelenting. The dungeon had tried to take her. It had buried its claws into her magic, into her blood, into the very threads of what made her Aisri. But it had failed.

And he meant to take her back.

There was too much yet to do—too many stolen moments waiting in the quiet hours between battle and breath, too many nights by the fire where laughter and whispered secrets would fill the space between them, too many untouched places in the world, waiting to be seen through her sharp eyes and felt through her fire-warmed hands. They had not yet lived together, truly lived, and he refused to let this be the end before the story had even begun.

His magic surged, fierce and unwavering, pouring into her, into the spaces where pain lingered, where magic had been frayed. Rise, it commanded. Return.

She was not the dungeon's to take. She was his.

Briena's breath hitched beside him, her fingers tightening against Aisri's hand, her elven blood humming with the same unspoken truth. This was not just magic; this was will.

And Karzon would not let her go.

Aisri arched beneath his touch, her breath catching sharp in her throat as the magic flared to life between them. Karzon's palm was steady, pressed flat over the wound, the gauntlet vibrating with clear intent. Light poured from his fingers in slow, rippling waves, white threaded with gold, sinking beneath her skin like heat into water. The black veins that had spread like poison began to twist and writhe, resisting, hissing silently against the light. They squirmed beneath the surface, as if alive, clinging to muscle and blood.

But the magic did not yield.

It burrowed deeper, burned hotter, unraveling the corruption strand by strand. A glow spilled along her side, casting soft light across the sweat-slicked curve of her ribs. The tainted threads recoiled, shrank, curled in on themselves as if scorched from within. One by one, the black lines faded, dissolving like ash caught in flame, until nothing remained but the raw edge of healing skin and the memory of darkness.

Karzon didn't blink, didn't breathe until he felt the last of it go. The darkness resisted until the final moment, then released her in a ripple of warmth that left a tremor in his fingers. Aisri exhaled all at once, a long, shuddering breath that left her body limp beneath his hand.

Her skin glowed faintly, a flush of color returning where moments ago there had been only cold. And then she stilled, her chest rising in slow, steady breaths.

The darkness was gone. Burned out. Driven from her completely.

Karzon sat back on his heels and closed his eyes. Mira patted his arm. "Well. That was awful."

Drenna flopped onto her back, staring up at the sky. "Did we just kill a dungeon?"

Briena wasn't listening. She was still watching Aisri. Though the wound was gone, though her breathing had steadied, something still wasn't right. Her flames hadn't returned, and she was in an unnaturally deep slumber.

The fire mage's hands were cool—unnaturally so, a quiet betrayal of all she was.

Briena reached forward, hesitating only for a breath before cradling Aisri's fingers in her own, her calloused palms a stark contrast against the mage's trembling stillness. She wasn't sure why she did it—wasn't sure what force compelled her—but there was a certainty nestled deep in the marrow of her bones, older than thought, older than fear, whispering. This is the way.

She closed her eyes, drawing not for fire, but for life, warmth, and renewal.

The elves of her mother's lineage had spoken of it in hushed voices, with reverence that curled through the air like mist at dawn. Magic was more than an element, more than a force to wield. It was a whisper in the roots of ancient trees, the slow exhale of the earth after rainfall, the rhythm of wind through meadow grass. It was not meant to be seized, nor bent, nor broken. It was a song—one that could only be answered, never commanded.

Briena thought of Elaris, of the silver mare who had come to her not by chance, but by knowing. The wild did not choose lightly. It did not bow for power, nor kneel before title. It answered only to those who understood its language, to those who listened.

So she listened.

And when she did, she felt it; gentle as the hush before dawn, a spark of warmth curling beneath her ribs. It wove through her skin, a breath of gold threading between her fingers, slipping into Aisri's cold grasp like the first light breaking through a canopy of leaves.

The scent of petrichor lingered on the wind, rich and grounding, the perfume of earth made whole again after ruin. The scent of beginning.

Briena's magic was no roaring inferno, no bolt of lightning, no storm of violent force. It was the hush of a forest untouched, the stillness of moonlight on water, the pulse of something quiet and ancient—wake up.

The thread of energy slipped into Aisri's skin, delicate as morning light, brushing against the broken edges of what had been lost. It was not a command, but an invitation. Come back. The world is still here. Come back.

And then, ever so faintly, a breath.

A shudder ran through Aisri's fingers.

A sudden glimmering of a single ember curled at the edges of Aisri's fingertips. The fire was back. Aisri inhaled abruptly, her eyelids fluttering as she awoke. She blinked up at them, disoriented, before focusing on Briena. "I—" she rasped.

Briena squeezed her hand. "Yeah."

Aisri swallowed. "I'm here?"

Briena smiled slightly. "You and me both."

Before anyone could react, a high, keening whinny split the night.

Briena turned just in time for Elaris to barrel into her, nearly knocking her off balance as the mare pressed her head against her chest. She let out a breathless laugh, wrapping her arms around the horse's neck. "You came back!"

Elaris whickered softly, nuzzling into her, warm and solid and real, as if to tell her that she would always come back.

Briena leaned into her, eyes closing. "I'm glad you're still here."

Karzon watched, his breath spilling into the night like silvered mist, each exhale unfurling in soft, ghostly tendrils that melted into the hush of the world around him. "So…"

"So." Drenna and Elska spoke in unison, and the whole party turned to Karzon expectantly.

Clearing his throat, Karzon straightened. "As it stands, we're far from the end. The real mastermind is still out there, and somehow I need to unravel the truth behind my magic—the healing, the…" He gestured vaguely, hands flailing like fish out of water.

"Very elegant," Drenna remarked dryly. "Like a particularly anxious chicken."

"Or cock," Mira noted, ever the sage.

Karzon scowled. "Look, all I'm saying is—I won't stop until we see this through. If this world is in danger, I—" He swallowed hard, forcing past the knot in his throat. "I know, deep down, that my purpose is to stop it. That means tracking down the true creator before they unleash something that could end Arlenia. But⁠—"

"Oh, gods, please don't," Orla groaned.

"But—"

"You're about to do the whole ‘tortured hero' thing and tell us you can do it alone. Save your breath, because you can't."

Karzon sputtered. Before he could form an argument, Drenna clapped him jovially on the back. "What she's saying is, there will be no gallivanting off into the sunset alone. Sorry to ruin the dramatic exit."

"I do not⁠—"

Briena reached out, touching his palm with quiet certainty. "Karzon, we're your friends. Where you go, we go."

Aisri, although tired, stared adoringly at him. "No questions asked. Unless you starve us, in which case, Drenna may have questions."

Drenna grunted. "You're not wrong."

Words failed Karzon as he looked at the faces around him—their determination, their unwavering presence. Somewhere along this journey, he had found more than allies. He had found family.

He nodded, stiffly at first. Then, with more certainty.

The adrenaline was beginning to fade, leaving behind only a raw, aching exhaustion. They were alive, but they weren't out of trouble yet.

Orla, as pragmatic as ever, sniffed the air. "We need food."

Elska nodded sagely. "And beer."

Drenna raised a hand from where she lay on the ground. "Seconded."

Briena was about to respond when Elaris suddenly lifted her head, ears pricking forward. Then she stepped back, tossing her mane, eyes bright.

She wanted them to follow.

Briena frowned. "Where⁠—"

The mare turned, trotting toward the trees, pausing only to glance back expectantly.

Karzon sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "We're trailing behind the horse, aren't we?"

Briena frowned at him. "You have a better idea?"

And so they followed.

The woods swallowed them, the exhaustion pressing at their limbs dulled by curiosity. The deeper they went, the stranger the world became. The trees shimmered with faint silver veins, their roots thick and gnarled, weaving in impossible patterns.

In time, a clearing unfurled before them, bathed in the gentlest gold—not harsh like the midday sun, but the radiance of candlelight diffused through silk. A river, clear as cut crystal, meandered through the glade, its surface an unbroken mirror reflecting the stars above. It was not merely water—it was liquid night sky, a ribbon of eternity spilling through the earth.

At its heart stood a woman draped in robes spun from moonlight and flowing water, each ripple of fabric a cascade of liquid silver. Her hair spilled down her back in shimmering waves, long as a river's journey, glistening with the pale radiance of a full moon. Her eyes, deep as the ocean before a storm, settled upon Karzon, knowing and fathomless, seeing through him as though he were made of glass.

"Welcome, travelers," she murmured. "You stand in the domain of the River Queen."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The glade was unlike any place Karzon had ever seen.

Silver-kissed trees arched high above, their canopies entwined like the ribs of a slumbering celestial beast, filtering the light into shimmering pools across the forest floor. Gone was the suffocating weight of the dungeon. In its place was a world of crisp, cool tranquility, scented with water lilies and crushed mint. Fireflies drifted like fallen stars, their soft glow painting fleeting patterns against ancient trunks untouched by time, where neither age nor decay dared to leave a mark.

The river wound through the land like a serpent of liquid glass, its surface reflecting the sky with an unnatural clarity. Though the stars overhead were distant, they gleamed twice—once in the heavens, and once in the water, as if a second sky had been born in its depths.

At the center of it all stood the River Queen, built from starlight and shadow, draped in robes that moved like water over skin, flowing with every breath she took. The silk shimmered as though woven from the river itself, clinging to her in a way that suggested it was both fabric and living current, forever shifting but never concealing more than it intended to. Silver hair tumbled down her back in long, fluid waves, cascading past her waist, the strands glowing with a soft, internal light.

Her face was a work of flawless symmetry, too perfect to belong entirely to mortal blood. She had high cheekbones, full lips that parted in quiet amusement, and her eyes—gods, her eyes. They were a color that had no name, shifting between storm-touched blue and the deep, unfathomable depths of the sea. They did not simply look at him: they assessed, weighed, unraveled.

She was no ordinary fae. The River Queen belonged to a lineage spoken of only in half-remembered songs and the footnotes of old, forbidden tomes. Born of a sacred marriage between the earthbound and the waterborn, she was a daughter of two elemental realms whose alliances had long since fractured. That union had not been one of peace, but of necessity—a bond forged during an age when the world itself had threatened to come undone, when the rivers had run thick with aether and the mountains had trembled beneath the weight of awakening gods. From that singular convergence she had emerged, not as royalty in the way mortals understood, but as a living manifestation of balance. Her veins carried the patience of stone and the endless memory of rivers. She had no need for time, for she moved with the deep current of the ages, untouched by the passing of empires.

She had watched the first cities rise from sun-baked mud and fractured marble, had seen them swallowed by forest, by flood, by flame. She had walked through the misted groves of the elvenwood when the stars above still sang in unbroken harmony, and she had stood at the edge of the Alderdeep Cataclysm when the very fabric of the world split apart, exposing veins of magic that bled for centuries. While kings burned their maps and drew new borders in blood, she watched from the water's edge. While mortals praised and buried gods in the span of a generation, she listened to the quiet truths whispered by river stones and reeds. Time did not erode her. It flowed around her. She endured.

And she did not interfere.

Not for kingdoms lost to greed. Not for armies that trampled the old growth. Not for songs that begged her name as if it were a charm. Her silences were legend. Her absence had outlived nations. When the River Queen turned her eyes toward the world of men, it was never lightly. She moved only when the current demanded it, when some old root of destiny tugged at her feet and whispered that the course had veered too far. When she chose to act, it was to change the shape of things. Not to halt fate, but to redirect it. Never fast, never loud, but with the certainty of water carving stone.

And now, she had come.

Briena stood at Karzon's side, motionless, her breath held somewhere behind her ribs, as if even the act of breathing might shatter the moment. The queen's presence was not loud or commanding, but it blanketed them like mist creeping over still water, unavoidable and all-encompassing. Briena's gaze met the queen's only for a moment, but in that moment, she understood something deeper than language. The River Queen had not come to offer them shelter, though shelter she had given. She had not come to grant healing, though Karzon's wounds were soothed beneath her gaze.

She was here because Karzon had been chosen. The path ahead would not be marked by clear signs or easy answers, but the queen would place him where he needed to be and trust the current to carry him the rest of the way.

She was less woman, more force.

Her voice was a ripple across still water, smooth, measured, and impossibly soft. "You are far from where you began."

Karzon, Briena, and the others exchanged glances.

The River Queen's lips quirked. "And yet, it is where you were always meant to arrive."

Mira exhaled a low whistle, rubbing at a scrape on her shoulder. "That's a poetic way to say we got lost and nearly died."

The Queen's expression did not change, though amusement shone gently in her gaze. She took a slow step forward, bare feet touching the water's surface without breaking it. "The dungeon has taken much from you. It does not surprise me that you find little patience for riddles. Come—rest, while you still can."

She lifted a single hand, and the river stirred—not with the cruel urgency of the dungeon's dark magic, but with the grace of a lullaby waking at dawn. It did not lurch or seize; it sighed, rippling to life like a dream unraveling into morning, its currents weaving a song of quiet welcome, sweet and unhurried.

What had once been a clearing unfurled into a palace.

No walls of stone contained it—only water and moonlight, woven into arches of translucent sapphire and mist. The entrance shimmered with an iridescent glow, great pillars stretching into the heavens like petrified waterfalls. Lanterns of suspended glass bobbed in midair, their insides swirling with bioluminescent light. Bridges of crystal spanned across the river's winding curves, leading deeper into the heart of the shimmering city that should not, by any law of nature, exist.

It was as though the river had risen from the earth and shaped itself into a kingdom.

The emerald breath of the land spilled into Briena's gaze, turning her irises to liquid light, as if the very soul of the forest had seeped into her veins. A hush of tranquility, rich as honey and deep as the river's song, cascaded through her, easing the wild drum of her heart to a steady, reverent beat. Her mind, so often a storm-tossed sea, exhaled into stillness—a whisper upon the wind: Peace.

A fragile disbelief clouded her gaze. "It's too beautiful to be real."

The River Queen's gaze landed and fixed itself on her. "It is as real as you allow it to be."

No one argued further.

They followed her past a pair of towering waterfalls that split at the entrance, mist curling around them as they stepped into a courtyard paved with stones that shimmered like pearls. The water lapped softly beneath bridges that seemed to hang in the air, untouched by time or erosion.

As they crossed into the palace, a warmth settled over them. This was not the cloying, humid heat of summer, but a soothing, welcoming embrace, a quiet promise of comfort after too long spent in the clutches of cold stone and battle.

Servants of the Queen, women with hair the color of the sea at dusk, men with robes flowing like currents, guided them through the great halls. Their steps were soundless.

The palace opened into countless chambers, each one an impossible oasis. Rooms carved from seashell and mother-of-pearl, beds draped in gossamer so fine it could have been mist captured in fabric. Pools of water gleamed beneath open terraces, cascading into hidden depths, whispering lullabies of the rivers that fed them.

At last, they were led into their own quarters with the promise of food and rest.

Drenna was the first to disappear into hers with a grunt of approval. The dwarves followed soon after, Mira stretching her arms overhead with a satisfied groan. "If anyone needs me," she muttered, "don't."

Karzon's room was larger than the rest.

The bed, if it could even be called that, was carved from smooth stone, but layered with furs so soft they seemed to embrace the body upon touch. An open terrace led to a private bathing pool, the water cascading from a carved stone mouth depicting a river god's gentle face. Silver lilies floated on the surface, their petals releasing a scent that was both intoxicating and calming.

He rolled his shoulders. A bath.

For the first time in days, he could scrub away the filth of the road and the dungeon, feel something other than blood and sweat clinging to his skin. He turned toward Briena and Aisri, both of whom were still with him.

They stood near the edge of the terrace, moonlight catching the edges of their worn features. Briena had discarded her bow, her fingers working at the ties of her cloak, but there was hesitation in her shoulders. Aisri, for all her usual sharpness, looked equally uncertain.

"You two planning on watching, or are you joining?" Karzon asked.

Aisri rubbed at a smudge of dirt along her collarbone. "Tempting. But I doubt we'd all fit."

Briena lifted a brow. "That sounds like a challenge."

Karzon chuckled. His muscles ached and his skin felt raw, but there was a lightness settling over him. He stepped forward, brushing a damp strand of Briena's hair back. "You first, then."

Briena tilted her head, considering. Then, with a small smile, she stepped back, undoing the clasp of her cloak and letting it fall. The tunic beneath followed, discarded into the growing pile of dirtied clothes.

Aisri exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. "Gods, you two." But despite the exasperation in her voice, her cheeks were flushed. She, too, began to undo the laces at her wrists.

Karzon stepped past them, stripping down and wading into the water. The heat seeped into his skin, washing away more than just the grime.

Briena slipped in beside him, sighing softly as the warmth enveloped her. Aisri followed, sinking into the shallows, resting her head back against the edge.

Steam curled around them, thick with the sweetness of silver lilies, rising in delicate tendrils as warm sprays cascaded over Karzon's shoulders. He sat upon a raised dais within the bath, where the water lapped just below his waist, allowing him to stretch and take in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Karzon breathed slowly, tilting his head back into the soothing spray, his muscles loosening beneath its steady warmth. His gaze, heavy-lidded but attentive, moved between the two women—not as a hunter surveying prey, but as a man savoring the nearness of something rare and cherished.

Briena glided through the water, droplets tracing down the smooth curve of her shoulders as she came to stand between his legs. Her fingers found his chest, nails dragging lightly over damp, scarred skin, following the rise and fall of each breath. Her eyes, dark with hunger, searched his, waiting, anticipating.

He didn't make her wait long.

One strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her in until her body molded against his, the bare press of her against him stealing the air from her lungs. A sharp gasp left her lips, but Karzon swallowed it with a kiss—deep, demanding, his hand threading into her damp hair as he tilted her head back and took his time tasting her.

She melted against him, her hands sliding up and gripping his shoulders, holding onto him like he was the only thing keeping her upright.

Aisri's touch came next, softer and teasing as it brushed against his side.

He didn't need to look to know she was smiling, reveling in the way his muscles tensed at the slow drag of her nails down his ribs. She was always measured, but right now he could hear the unsteady hitch of her breath as she pressed closer, her lips grazing the sharp line of his jaw before trailing lower, tracing the pulse that thundered beneath his skin.

Karzon groaned, deep and low, the sound vibrating against Briena's lips before he broke away, dragging his gaze to Aisri. She was watching him through half-lidded eyes, her expression unreadable—but the way she bit her lip, the flush warming her cheeks, told him everything.

"You're playing with fire," he murmured, voice rough.

Aisri ran her tongue slowly over her lower lip before catching it between her teeth, her gaze locked onto his. "You love it."

He did.

His free hand shot out, gripping her wrist, pulling her forward until she was flush against his side. She gasped as he caught her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"Then stop teasing," he said, voice dark with command.

The fire mage obeyed.

She kissed him.

Soft at first, testing, but Karzon didn't have patience for hesitation. His grip tightened in Briena's hair, keeping her pressed against him as he turned his attention to Aisri, deepening the kiss, tasting the warmth of her mouth, letting his teeth graze her lower lip before soothing the bite with his tongue.

Briena's hands curled against his chest, a needy whimper escaping her, her breath hot against his throat. He smirked against Aisri's lips before pulling away just enough to murmur, "Impatient?"

Briena's answer was to capture his mouth again, her fingers slipping into his hair, nails scratching lightly over his scalp. He growled in approval, his arm tightening around her waist, pressing her even closer, letting her feel the full effect of what she was doing to him.

His cock dragged against her soft, heated skin, slick with need, hot and heavy, the kind of thick, throbbing length that made her mouth water. His breath hitched as her fingers trailed lower, teasing along the hard ridge before she cupped his balls, rolling them in her palm with a slow, deliberate squeeze. A deep, guttural growl tore from his throat, his hips twitching in raw, aching need.

"You—"

Before he could finish his incoherent train of thought, Briena, with all her elven grace, dipped underwater. Karzon had heard tales of how elves could breathe perfectly well even when submerged, but tonight… tonight he got to experience it.

His eyes shot open as Briena's tongue teased the tip of his cock, playing, tormenting him. His free hand shot down, gripping her hair as she moaned, the vibration sending a sharp jolt through him.

"Mmh…" The sound was indulgent and needy as she lapped at the thick head, dragging her tongue over the sensitive slit, tasting him.

"Fuck," he choked, thighs tensing.

She took him into her mouth, slow at first, sucking lightly as she worked her tongue against the sensitive underside. When she swallowed around him, she moaned deep, letting the sound echo against his cock.

His breath came out in ragged pants as she bobbed her head, her mouth tight, slick, and hot. She moaned again, louder this time, letting the vibrations reverberate through his length. The way she sucked, the wet, obscene slurps filling the space around them, made him lightheaded.

"Mmmh…" She sucked harder, her throat relaxing, her tongue dragging along every sensitive ridge. She slurped around him, the sound dulled beneath the water but no less potent, sending a ripple of sensation up his spine. His abs tightened, breath hitching as she took him deeper.

He groaned, his grip in her hair tightening as his hips twitched, desperate for more. "Fuck, Briena⁠—"

She hummed in response, making his entire body jerk. She sucked him in deep, hollowing her cheeks before pulling back with a sinful, wet pop, panting as she licked up his shaft.

Then she surfaced, breathless and glistening, water trailing down her flushed skin in rivulets. Her eyes met his, bright with heat and wicked satisfaction, her mouth swollen from the effort of pleasuring him.

"You taste so fucking good," she whispered, voice roughened by arousal and edged with pride. Her tongue flicked out, slow and unashamed, as she licked the precum from her upper lip and caught a drop clinging to her cheek with a soft, greedy swipe, savoring it like she couldn’t bear to waste a single trace of him. Before he could speak, she dipped beneath the water again, hair floating like silk around her shoulders. Her mouth found him instantly, eager and insistent, and the sensation was even more unbearable the second time.

His head fell back, a strangled curse spilling from his lips, but she wasn't done—not even close. She licked a slow path from the base to the tip, swirling her tongue in deliberate circles before closing her lips around the head and sucking, hollowing her cheeks until his hips jerked involuntarily.

"Fuck—" His voice was ragged as she swallowed him down again, taking him deeper than he thought possible. The sight of her beneath him, water streaming through her hair, made him feral. She bobbed her head with slow, deliberate strokes, using her tongue like a weapon, teasing the sensitive spot just beneath the crown, then dragging her nails along his thighs.

He was unraveling, panting, his muscles coiled so tight he thought he might snap. Briena must have sensed it—the way his thighs tensed, the way his grip in her hair turned brutal—because just when his body began to tip over the edge, she pulled back with a wicked little smirk, her lips swollen and glistening.

Karzon growled, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides, his chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. "Briena⁠—"

She grinned, pressing one last open-mouthed kiss to his sensitive tip before slipping back up to the surface, her emerald eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Not yet," she whispered against his lips, her voice thick with promise.

Aisri's lips found his shoulder, her hands skimming lower, teasing, tracing the ridges of muscle with maddening slowness. She wasn't one to give up control easily, but right now, she was yielding—letting him take, letting him guide.

And gods, he would.

The water sloshed around them as Karzon shifted, pulling Aisri into his lap, keeping Briena against his side. His hands roamed freely, claiming every inch of bare skin he could reach, reveling in the way their bodies responded to his touch.

Briena arched against him, her head tipping back as his lips found the delicate line of her throat, pressing kisses there, slow and heated. Aisri's breath hitched as his fingers traced down her spine, coaxing a shudder from her as his mouth moved lower, across Briena's collarbone, tasting the droplets of water that lingered on her skin.

They were drowning in each other now, breathless, tangled, the heat between them outmatching the warmth of the pool. Hands explored, mouths met, gasps and moans filled the air, lost in the steam and the scent of lilies.

Karzon was in control—completely, utterly—but he could feel it slipping, the desire burning too hot, too fast.

But that was fine.

He moved to sit back against the smooth stone edge of the bath, his muscles taut, his control balanced on a knife's edge as the women hovered before him, so close he could feel the heat of their bodies even in the water.

Briena straddled his lap, her skin slick and flushed from the heat, her fingers sliding up his chest with a slow, teasing pressure. Karzon let her, watching her through half-lidded eyes, waiting—until she leaned in, pressing her lips to the pulse at his throat, dragging her mouth lower, teasing, tasting.

Karzon's hands tightened around Briena's waist, his grip firm as he pulled her flush against his body. The heat of the water did nothing to compare to the fire licking between them, to the slick, needy press of her against him. She whimpered as his fingers dug into her hips, his cock thick and rigid, teasing along her soaked folds as she rocked against him.

Aisri's breath was hot against his ear, her hands dragging over his shoulders, down his chest, nails scraping lightly before she pressed a kiss to his neck, her teeth sinking in just enough to make him growl. "She's so wet for you," Aisri murmured, her voice thick with lust. "Do you feel how much she wants you?"

Karzon let out a dark chuckle, tilting his head to the side, giving Aisri more room to tease her way lower. His hand trailed between Briena's thighs, slipping through the slick heat waiting for him. She gasped, hips bucking into his touch as he stroked her, slow and deliberate, circling her clit just to hear her whimper.

"Tell me how badly you want it," he demanded, his voice rough, his cock pulsing against her entrance.

Briena's nails dug into his shoulders, her breath ragged. "Please," she gasped. "Please⁠—"

He didn't make her wait any longer.

With a sharp thrust, he filled her, stretching her with a delicious ache that had her head falling back, her lips parting in a broken, desperate cry. "Oh—f-fuck—" Her voice trembled, choked with pleasure as her body adjusted to his thick length, the overwhelming fullness making her shudder.

Karzon didn't hold back. He pulled out almost entirely before slamming back in, forcing another sharp, gasping cry from her lips. "Fuck—oh, gods—yes, yes—" She was shaking, her fingers clawing at his back, her body arching as he set a ruthless pace.

"So fucking tight," he growled, his grip punishing on her hips as he pounded into her, stretching her, dragging against every sensitive inch inside her.

"You're splitting me open," she whimpered, her head lolling back, thighs trembling as the pleasure overwhelmed her. "It's so much—I c-can't⁠—"

"You can," Karzon rasped, his breath hot against her ear. "You're taking me so well—look at you, fucking perfect like this."

Briena's breath hitched as he angled his hips, hitting something devastating inside her. Her eyes flew open, a strangled moan spilling from her lips. "Oh—there—gods, right there! Don't stop—don't you fucking stop⁠—"

He grinned against her skin, his thrusts growing sharper, deeper, every thick inch stretching her so exquisitely she swore she was unraveling.

"You like that, don't you?" he murmured, his hand slipping around her throat, guiding her chin upward so he could drink in every dazed, pleasure-drunk expression that crossed her face.

"I love it—I love it—I—fuck—" she gasped, eyes fluttering as her body tightened around him, her walls gripping him greedily. "You feel so good, you're ruining me⁠—"

"Yeah?" His voice was rough, almost feral, his thrusts turning brutal. "Then take it."

Briena sobbed, her body bowing, her muscles locking as he fucked her deeper, harder, relentless in his pursuit of her pleasure. Every slam of his cock against that devastating spot inside her sent fresh waves of heat rolling through her.

"I can't—I can't—" she whimpered, voice high, broken. "I'm going to⁠—"

"Not yet."

"I—"

"Not yet."

Briena's whimpers grew louder, and Karzon groaned, the tight heat of her clenching around him stealing his breath. "Shit, you're squeezing me so tight," he growled, his fingers digging into her waist, holding her still as he savored every inch of her. "You feel fucking perfect."

"More," Briena whimpered, her nails raking down his back as she squirmed in his grasp, trying to take him deeper.

Aisri watched, pupils blown wide with hunger, one hand slipping between Briena's legs, fingers teasing at the place where they were joined. The sudden contact made Briena cry out, her back arching as a sharp, helpless sound escaped her lips. "Oh gods—Aisri—please⁠—"

Her moan was swallowed as Karzon seized her mouth in a punishing kiss. His hips snapped up, thrusting deep, grinding against her clit with every slow, measured movement.

"Fuck, I could keep doing this forever," he muttered against her lips, his grip tightening as he controlled the way she moved on top of him, forcing her to feel every thick, pulsing inch.

Briena was shaking, gasping, sobbing out soft, desperate little whimpers as he filled her again and again, every deep stroke hitting that devastating spot inside her. Her hands tangled in his damp hair, clutching, needing something to hold onto as he drove her higher.

Then he slowed.

"No—no, please—" Briena let out a frustrated, broken whimper, her hips grinding down, seeking him, needing him.

Karzon smirked, the sound of her begging making his cock throb inside her. "Don't worry," he rasped, his fingers trailing up her body, from her waist to her ribs, before slipping around her throat again. He squeezed lightly, forcing her to meet his gaze, his eyes dark with promise. "I'm not done with you yet."

Briena let out a strangled, needy gasp, her thighs trembling as he lifted her off him, setting her on the raised edge of the bath. Her body burned, every nerve on fire, her slick folds glistening under the soft glow of the room.

"Karzon—" she panted, her legs spreading wide without thought, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. "I need⁠—"

Aisri's gaze locked onto her, heat flaring in her eyes.

Karzon's grip tightened around Aisri's wrist, guiding her forward, his voice thick with command. "Your turn."

Briena whimpered again, her head falling back, her body aching, desperate, ready. "Yes—please—" Her voice was pure need, raw and wrecked, as Aisri sank between her thighs.

She dipped her head, dragging her tongue over Briena's swollen clit, her fingers pressing into her thighs to hold her steady as she took her time savoring every shudder, every broken moan that spilled from Briena's lips.

Karzon watched, stroking himself as Aisri worked her tongue in slow, languid circles, teasing, tasting, her other hand sliding lower to spread Briena open for him. His cock twitched at the sight, at the way Briena writhed beneath Aisri's mouth, her hands fisting in her hair, pulling her closer.

"That's it," he praised, his voice thick with desire. "Make her fall apart."

Aisri moved deftly in response, the vibrations sending Briena over the edge with a sharp cry. She tensed, her back arching, her thighs trembling as the pleasure wracked through her, leaving her breathless and spent.

But Karzon wasn't finished.

He pulled Aisri back, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss, tasting Briena on her tongue. Then, without breaking the kiss, he turned her, pressing her against the stone edge of the bath, bending her over with a firm hand against her back.

Aisri gasped, her breath hitching as he spread her legs, teasing her with the thick head of his cock, rubbing against her slick entrance but not giving her what she needed.

"Beg for it," he murmured against the shell of her ear, his voice dripping with command.

Aisri groaned, pressing back against him, her hands gripping the stone. "Gods, please—I need you. I need to feel you inside me. Stop teasing and fuck me like you mean it."

That was all he needed.

With a deep, punishing thrust, he filled her, stretching her with a force that made her cry out, her fingers scrambling for purchase against the wet stone. "Fuck—yes—" she gasped, her mouth falling open as the sheer depth of him sent pleasure spiraling through her.

Karzon didn't give her time to adjust. He set a brutal pace, fucking her deep and relentless, his hips slamming against her ass, the obscene sounds of their bodies meeting filling the steamy air.

"You're splitting me apart," Aisri moaned, her voice raw, shaking. "I feel you everywhere—gods, it's so much, so fucking good⁠—"

Briena, still trembling from her own release, leaned forward, pressing her lips to Aisri's shoulder, kissing down her spine before sliding her fingers between her thighs. She rubbed slow, tight circles against her clit, teasing, tormenting, amplifying every sensation.

Aisri choked out a sob, pleasure tearing through her. "Oh, fuck—Briena—" She was caught between them—Karzon's cock pounding into her from behind, stretching her, filling her, and Briena's fingers stroking her so perfectly she thought she might shatter.

"You're shaking," Briena whispered against her skin, biting lightly at her shoulder. "Are you close?"

"Yes—oh gods, yes, I'm—I can't—" Aisri whimpered, her body seizing, muscles tensing, pleasure coiling so tightly it was unbearable.

Karzon's hand tangled in her damp hair, pulling her head back as he growled into her ear. "Come for me."

And she did.

Aisri came with a sharp, wrecked cry, her body locking up, her walls clenching around him in a way that made Karzon groan, his grip on her tightening as he fucked her through it. "Oh, fuck—Karzon—" she gasped, her legs barely holding her up as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her, leaving her trembling, breathless, and utterly wrecked.

But Karzon still wasn't satisfied.

He pulled out, spinning her around, lifting her easily into his arms as he pressed her back against the stone edge. Briena smirked, reaching for him and guiding him back between Aisri's trembling thighs. She helped him slide back inside her, deeper this time, as Karzon groaned at the wet heat surrounding him again.

Aisri whimpered, oversensitive but greedy for more. Briena kissed her, slow and deep, swallowing her cries as Karzon took her again, his thrusts steady, dragging out every last bit of pleasure he could.

It was overwhelming—heat and skin and breath and the slick sounds of bodies moving together, desperate and wild and unrestrained.

When Karzon finally found his own release, he did it buried deep inside Aisri, his body tensing, pleasure ripping through him as she clenched around him, milking every last drop.

He collapsed against them, all three of them spent and tangled together, the steam curling around their exhausted bodies.

The water was still, save for the soft rise and fall of their breathing.

Briena sighed, pressing a lazy kiss to his shoulder. "So," she murmured. "We should probably wash up before we make a mess of this bath."

Karzon let out a breathless chuckle, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple before pulling Aisri close as well. "Not sure I have the strength to move just yet."

Aisri hummed, her fingers tracing idle patterns against his chest. "Let's clean up and go inside. I have a feeling we're about to be fed."

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The walk back to Karzon's chambers was slow and languid, their bodies still humming with the lingering warmth of the bath. Their skin smelled of lilies and river salt, the faintest trace of magic woven into the steam that still curled from their damp hair. The corridors of the River Queen's palace glowed with an iridescent shimmer, the walls reflecting the moonlight as if the entire structure had been shaped from the bones of the night sky itself.

Briena moved between Karzon and Aisri, draped in a gossamer robe of fae-spun silk that clung to her like moonlight on water, shifting with every step. Her fingers brushed absently against theirs, her expression softened by exhaustion and the quiet, satisfied glow it left behind. Beside her, Aisri walked in thoughtful silence, amber eyes tracing the strange symbols etched into the palace walls, their meanings just beyond reach. Karzon, ever attuned to them both, sensed her contemplation but said nothing, knowing she would speak when the moment was right.

They stepped inside the warm room that was now lit with floating orbs of faelight glinting like fireflies. The large, luxurious bed was draped in silken sheets the color of twilight, plush pillows piled high, promising comfort they hadn't known in weeks.

As promised, a feast awaited them, laid out beautifully upon a polished table of obsidian.

Succulent honeyed fruits, their nectar glistening like morning dew, gleamed with their golden skins taut and glistening with syrupy richness. Beside them, platters of roasted meat lacquered in spiced drippings lay in perfect slices, the edges crisped to perfection while the centers promised effortless tenderness.

Loaves of freshly baked bread, their crusts bronzed and crackling, sat beside bowls of thick, velvety clotted cream and spiced butter, their rich perfumes curling through the air. The deep notes of cinnamon, roasted nuts, and caramelized honey lingered, mingling with the faintest whisper of warm vanilla.

Crystal goblets, delicate and brimming with magic, stood filled to the rim with an iridescent nectar that shimmered with hues of lavender and silver, catching the waxing and waning light like liquid stardust. Briena didn't even hesitate. With a pleased sigh, she picked up a ripe star-shaped fruit and bit into it, a small moan slipping from her lips as the taste of honeyed citrus burst over her tongue. "Oh gods," she mumbled, licking a drop of juice from her fingers. "This might be the best thing I've ever eaten."

Karzon chuckled, reaching for a thick slice of meat and savoring the way it practically melted against his tongue, seasoned with something both familiar and entirely foreign. "I don't even want to know what kind of magic went into this." He washed it down with a sip of the glowing nectar. The drink was cold and effervescent, its fine bubbles rising in delicate spirals, brushing his lips with the chilled grace of moonlight distilled to liquid. It carried the soft perfume of lavender in bloom, layered with a luminous sharpness that stirred memory and imagination alike. The flavor lingered, as though the stars had dissolved their ancient fire into the cup and left behind a trace of their distant light, intact and eternal.

Aisri ate more delicately, taking slow bites of roasted nuts and cheese, but even she let out a small, appreciative sigh when she tasted the bread dipped in spiced butter. "I could live here forever just for the food," she murmured.

After they ate their fill, the weight of exhaustion grew heavier, their bodies sinking into the sheer luxury of warmth and comfort. Karzon pulled back the silken sheets, gesturing for them to join him in the massive bed. Briena didn't need convincing. She practically collapsed onto the mattress, her body molding into the softness and her breath already evening out. Within moments, she was asleep, lost to the deep, dreamless slumber of the truly exhausted.

Karzon lay beside her, his arm wrapped loosely around her waist, her breath warm against his chest. But even as the night stretched around them, he found sleep elusive. Aisri, too, remained awake, her breathing steady but not deep enough for sleep. She shifted slightly, her bare shoulder brushing against his.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, in a whisper barely louder than the hush of the river outside, Aisri said, "I never had this before."

Karzon turned his head slightly, watching her in the faint glow of the faelights. Her golden eyes were distant, her lips parted slightly as if she wasn't sure she should continue. But she did.

"I never had safety. Not like this." Her fingers traced the edge of the sheet, her voice just shy of inaudible. "I grew up in a house filled with sharp words and sharper hands. There was no softness, no warmth. Just the expectation that I'd either learn to endure or break."

Karzon felt her words acutely. He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

"I endured," she whispered. "But I learned not to trust. Not to let anyone close. Because closeness meant vulnerability, and vulnerability…" She exhaled, shaking her head. "It meant pain."

Karzon shifted, reaching for her hand beneath the sheets. He found her fingers cold, trembling slightly, and he squeezed them gently. "You don't have to say more."

She let out a soft, shaky laugh. "But I want to."

He stayed quiet, listening.

"I didn't think I could be attached to people like this." A lone tear slipped and fell from the corner of Aisri's eye. "But then you happened. And Briena. And Drenna and the dwarves. Somewhere along the way, I stopped just enduring and started… wanting."

Karzon's heart clenched. He squeezed her hand again, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. "You don't have to be afraid anymore," he murmured. "Not with us."

Aisri swallowed, her fingers tightening around his. "I think I believe that."

He turned, fully facing her now, careful not to disturb Briena's slumber. His voice was firm and steady. "I will protect you both. Always." His hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing over the delicate curve. "You're mine now. Both of you. And nothing—nothing—will ever take you from me."

For the first time in a long time, Aisri didn't feel the need to argue. She only nodded, pressing closer to him, letting the warmth of his promise settle into the cracks of her soul.

Karzon held her like that for a long time, his heart swelling with love for the two women in his arms. The night pressed in around them, but for once it wasn't heavy with dread or uncertainty. It was sweet and safe.

As Aisri finally let herself drift into sleep, Karzon remained awake just a little while longer, silently swearing to himself that no matter what came next, he would keep his found family safe.

The world around Karzon drifted into a hushed, dreamlike slumber, but, as on so many nights before, rest eluded him. Lying still became impossible—especially with Briena tangled in sleep, her leg draped carelessly over Aisri, whose breath rose and fell in a soft, unguarded rhythm. Not wanting to disturb them, Karzon slipped from the bed and stepped outside. The cool breeze of the River Queen's domain unfurled around him like a weightless cloak, settling against his skin with the quiet promise of wakeful solitude.

The night unfolded like an endless dream, thick with shadow and silver light, stretching beyond the edges of mortal reach. Above, the heavens bloomed in quiet splendor, a vast constellation-scattered ocean where stars drifted like glowing petals on an unseen tide. A great hunter stood frozen mid-draw, his arrow poised in eternal pursuit of a beast lost to time. A serpent wound its way through the darkness, its glittering scales coiling between distant worlds. A queen sat among them, crowned in celestial fire, her radiance spilling across the sky like molten gold.

Below, the river carried their reflections in its restless embrace, the mirrored constellations rippling and reforming with every whisper of the current, as if the sky itself had been poured into the water. The air shimmered with the hush of midnight, cool and weightless, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers. Time felt distant, slipping between the stars and the waves, leaving only this moment—a world woven from light, water, and the quiet breath of the universe itself.

The world here breathed differently. The trees stretched impossibly tall, their trunks silvered with moonlight, their leaves dark as ink, save for the occasional bloom of bioluminescent flowers nestled among the branches. Fairy lanterns, no larger than a human palm, drifted lazily through the air, pulsing with soft, rhythmic glows as they wove between the trees.

It was undeniably beautiful, but what truly caught Karzon's eye were the fairies.

They moved like living whispers, perched in the treetops, their wings translucent and dusted with stardust, almost solid but also ethereal. Some carried tiny, woven baskets filled with golden nectar, harvested from the oversized honeycombs that clung to the upper branches of the willow-like trees. Others hovered close to the river, their hands skimming the water's surface, gathering droplets that shimmered like liquid silver, storing them in delicate vials.

The heady sugariness of moon-honey reached his nostrils as Karzon moved with unhurried steps, his boots soundless against the cool, dew-kissed grass. There was no need for haste—this place did not demand it. This was not just a kingdom; it was a dream, untouched by war, untainted by greed, suspended in a quiet eternity.

As he neared the river, its surface a flawless mirror of the starlit sky, he saw the River Queen standing at its edge, her back to him.

She turned as he approached, her pale silver hair catching the glow of the fairy lanterns. Her expression was unreadable, fathomless, her deep-sea eyes seeing far more than what lay before them.

"You could not sleep," she observed, her voice as soft as the ripple of water over smooth stones.

Karzon shook his head. "Not tonight."

She motioned toward the river. "Then walk with me."

He followed her along the water's edge, the soft rush of the current weaving between their footsteps. For a long moment they simply walked in silence, the distant hum of the fairies filling the air, the scent of night-blooming flowers curling at the edges of his awareness.

Finally, she spoke. "You carry many burdens, Karzon Wyndale."

He let out a breath. "One more than I thought," he admitted, his thoughts turning back to the dungeon, to Vael.

She assessed him with a sideways glance. "You seek answers."

"I need them." He rubbed a hand over his chin. "Vael wasn't the true architect of that place. He said as much before he was swallowed by the dungeon's collapse. Someone else is behind this. Someone with a plan bigger than I can begin to understand."

The River Queen stopped and nodded, as if this was already known to her. "Your world stands on the edge of something vast and old. The Aetherglass corruption you saw in that dungeon is but a ripple of what is coming. And only you can destroy the evil behind it all, Karzon."

"Why me?" Karzon's throat hurt from what he was holding back.

"Because your power is bound to the very core of what birthed this darkness in the first place."

Karzon frowned. "Then tell me how to stop it."

She studied him for a long moment, her expression still unreadable. "You already know the answer."

Karzon felt frustration prickle at the back of his mind. "If I knew, I wouldn't be standing here, asking you."

A rare smile curved her lips, small but knowing. "Would you not?" She gestured toward the water. "Tell me, Karzon, what is your magic?"

His mouth opened to respond, but the words hesitated on his tongue. It should have been simple. He was a healer, someone who could mend the broken, who could take pain and transform it into something else. And yet⁠—

"Vael called it something else," he admitted. "He said I rewrite things. That my magic doesn't just heal, it alters."

The River Queen hummed. "And is that not true?"

Karzon looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. "I don't know."

"Then tell me," she murmured, stepping closer. Her voice softened, but her eyes were unwavering. "What do you want your magic to be?"

The question hit him like a hammer to the chest.

His magic was… what he wanted it to be?

All his life, he had believed that all magic had rules, that it was something given, something predefined. Since it had awakened in him, he'd believed that he had to discover what it was meant for. But if it was truly his, if it was his to shape, then⁠—

Then no one could take it from him. No one could tell him what it was.

"I want to heal." The words came loud and clear, for he was also speaking to himself. "I want to mend what is broken. I want to be the one who stops suffering, not the one who causes it."

The River Queen inclined her head. "Then there is no one in this world who can take that from you."

It was not an assurance. It was a truth.

Karzon let out a slow, shuddering breath, feeling something within him settle, something that had been uncertain before now. His magic was not dictated by fate, nor by prophecy, nor by the hands of some unseen force. It was his.

And no matter what the world tried to shape him into, he would never be anything but a healer.

A protector.

A man who mended.

The River Queen wasn't finished. Her eyes swept toward the gauntlet strapped to his arm, her gaze sharpening.

"That," she said softly, "is only a fragment of what you must become."

Karzon followed her gaze to the gauntlet on his arm. "It was given to me as a gift."

"It was given to you because it saw you," she murmured. "It once belonged to the last of the Arlenian battle-healers. Her name has been lost to time, but her legacy remains. She was the only one known to have rewritten the very laws of magic during the Alderdeep Cataclysm."

Karzon's brow furrowed. "Then there are more pieces?"

"There are five," the River Queen said, lifting a hand and ticking them off one by one. "The Gauntlet of Will, which you wear. The Mantle of Breath, woven from sun thread and dragon-scale, currently held by a merchant-lord in Dunmarch who surrounds himself with mercenaries and wine-soaked flatterers. The Greaves of Binding, buried with her kin beneath the salt caverns of the Singing Wastes. The Circlet of Memory, last seen in the court of the drowned king beneath Lake Therrin. And the Heartband, the chestguard that contains her final breath, lost in the depths of the Forgotten Coast."

Karzon stared at her. "If I find all of them?"

"You will no longer be rewriting wounds," she said. "You will be shaping life. As she did."

Karzon's mouth tensed. "I can't return to Dunmarch easily. There's a bounty on us now."

The River Queen only nodded, calm and unbothered. "Then you will not return as a marked man. You will return as a shadow."

At his hesitation, she offered the names he would need. "An innkeeper named Calren runs The Broken Lyre near the Weaver's Gate. He owes me four favors. One of them now belongs to you. Stay there. He will ensure the city does not see you."

She paused, then added, "Seek the mercenary band called the Iron Weave. They serve the merchant-lord who wears the Mantle, but they are not loyal to him. They are loyal to coin. With enough gold, they will help you steal what you cannot yet claim in open battle."

Karzon considered this, committing the names to memory. "You're pointing me back toward a city that wants my head."

She smiled. "And I'm giving you the blade to hold it high. You will not be alone. The road is not meant to be easy."

Karzon let out a breath. "Nothing ever is."

She smiled slightly. "No. But you have chosen your companions well. They will not let you walk this path alone."

The mention of them sent warmth curling through his chest. He thought of their hands in his, of Briena's quiet loyalty, Aisri's cautious but growing trust. He remembered the fire in their eyes, the fierce way they had chosen him, again and again. And then there was Drenna and the dwarves, steadfast as stone, bound to him not by fate, but love.

He nodded, resolve settling in his bones. "Then tell me where to begin."

The River Queen turned toward the river, her silver hair catching the moonlight. "The ruins lie far beyond the wildlands, past the broken bridges of Varrath, past the storm-worn cliffs of the Forgotten Coast." She parted her lips and sighed. "You will need all your strength before the journey's end. But you will not face it alone."

Karzon inhaled deeply, his pulse steady, sure. He had his path now.

He lingered a moment longer, watching the water ripple under the moon's glow, listening to the faint hum of unseen magic that wove through this place like a thread through silk. The weight of what lay ahead pressed against his shoulders, but for the first time in a long while, it did not feel like a burden. It felt like purpose.

With a final nod to the River Queen, he turned and made his way back toward the palace, his steps lighter than before.

The night was still thick with dreams, the scent of honey and wildflowers curling in the air, the fairies in the trees no more than quiet whispers of starlight. When he reached his chambers, he eased the door open, careful not to wake the two women curled in the bed.

Briena had shifted, sprawling over Aisri like a warm blanket, her hair a wild tangle across the pillow. Aisri, for all her usual sharpness, looked impossibly soft in sleep, her breath steady, one hand loosely curled against Briena's back.

Something deep and unshakable stirred in Karzon's chest. They were his women. And getting to the end, whatever that would bring, would also lead to a safer world for them. A world where they could love, feast, and take their pleasure without a target on their backs.

Without a sound, he shed his boots and his weapons, and slipped into bed beside them. The moment his weight settled, Briena sighed in her sleep, instinctively shifting closer, pressing against him. Aisri's fingers twitched slightly, as if reaching for something, even in dreams. He took her hand without thinking, threading their fingers together.

And then, with the warmth of them anchoring him, the exhaustion of the past days finally won.

For the first time in too long, Karzon slept.

When morning came, it was a blessedly glorious one.

Sunlight spilled through the arched windows in golden beams, dappling the cool stone floor, catching on the soft ripples of the river beyond the terrace. The palace thrummed with the quiet stirrings of a world waking.

Karzon woke up first. Briena was still deeply asleep, her face half-buried in the sheets, one hand lazily gripping Aisri's wrist. Aisri, blinking blearily, groaned and tried to turn over.

"Up," Karzon murmured, amused.

"Why?" Aisri mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"There's food."

Briena's eyes cracked open at that, a slow, lazy smile curving her lips. "Food?"

Karzon chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead before climbing out of bed. He could smell the bacon. "Breakfast," he confirmed.

That was all the motivation they needed.

Dressed and considerably more awake, the three of them made their way to the grand hall, where a long table had been set with an impossibly beautiful spread. Bowls of golden porridge, thick with cream and drizzled with honey. Fresh fruit, bursting with color, some from trees Karzon had never even seen before. Platters of delicate pastries dusted with powdered sugar, still warm from the oven. And, of course, a heavy assortment of meats and bread for the dwarves and Drenna.

Which was fitting, because the dwarves and Drenna were already there.

Drenna waved a piece of bread in greeting, already halfway through a plate of something that looked suspiciously like roasted boar. "Took you long enough," she said around a mouthful.

Mira smirked, sipping from a mug of thick, frothy ale—because of course the dwarves had ale at breakfast. "Enjoy your beauty sleep, did you?"

Briena plopped down beside them, stealing a bite of Drenna's bread before grabbing her own plate. "If I'd slept longer, I would have become part of that bed."

Aisri settled beside her, sighing as she poured herself a cup of steaming tea. "I still might."

Karzon, shaking his head in fond amusement, took his seat.

It was a rare thing, a meal like this, not just food, but warmth and laughter, the feeling of having survived. Drenna was telling some ridiculous story about a bar fight in Haldrim, Mira was arguing with Orla about whose axe was sharper, and Briena was engaged in an entirely unnecessary competition with Elska about who could eat the most fruit tarts in a single sitting.

It was good.

But there was something else, something lingering beneath it all. A quiet knowing, an anticipation they had not yet spoken aloud. It was Karzon who finally said it.

"We leave soon," he said, his voice steady and certain.

The table quieted. Briena set down her fork, meeting his gaze with unwavering trust. Aisri sighed softly but nodded.

The dwarves exchanged glances, then Mira grinned. "About damn time."

Drenna clapped her hands together. "Guess we'd better pack, then."

Karzon glanced around at this group, this family forged through fire and battle. He smiled at each of them in turn, then looked at the bracelet on his wrist. The magic felt like it was sitting just beneath the palms of his hands, just waiting to be called forth.

He had a really good feeling about what would happen next.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Annabelle Hawthorne is a mythical being who lives somewhere deep in the Rocky Mountains with a loving family and at least one furry familiar. If encountered in the wild, the elusive Hawthorne can be pacified with a caffeinated beverage or a really good dirty joke.

To learn more about Annabelle or the Horny Monsters series, visit www.AnnabelleHawthorne.com

Colin Gold is excited to release their first book and hopes you can enjoy their journey with you.

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