Chapter 3: Chapter 2-The Caravan

The road carved through the rolling hills like a pale scar, dust rising with every unsteady step Shade took. She moved more by instinct than intent, her limbs aching, her side pulsing with the dull throb of a healing wound. Every breath caught like glass in her throat, every shuffle a silent war against collapse. The sun hung high and heavy, casting golden light that made the blood on her skin seem like rust.

She didn’t know how long she’d walked—hours? A day? She only knew her destination: Faeyren. The neutral city. A place where people didn’t ask too many questions. The rumble of wheels and the clatter of hooves broke her trance.

Shade stopped, one hand instinctively moving to the hilt at her hip. Her eyes narrowed as the caravan came into view, a sizable procession of two carriages flanked by six mounted escorts—three to a side, each armored and visibly alert. The first carriage gleamed with polished wood and iron reinforcements, clearly meant for passengers. The second, larger, and boxy, was loaded with crates and sealed containers. The smell of spice, hay, and leather drifted on the breeze.

A broad-shouldered man atop the lead carriage pulled the reins and raised a hand. His traveling coat was fine but dusty, and a jeweled ring glinted on one thick finger. His beard was trimmed, his hair tied back, and his voice was loud but not unkind.

“Well now,” he called, eyebrows raising as he took in her condition. “What happened to you, girl? You look like you wrestled a manticore and lost the bet.”

Shade remained silent, her body tense.

One of the riders trotted closer, a cautious hand resting on his weapon. “Is she armed?”

“Looks like it,” the merchant replied. Then to her, “You headed somewhere, lass? Or just trying to bleed to death where the crows won’t have to search?”

Shade hesitated. She didn’t like attention. But her vision was beginning to tilt, and the warmth of her blood had long since turned cold.

“…Faeyren,” she finally murmured, voice hoarse.

The merchant whistled. “Is that so? Lucky for you, that’s exactly where we’re bound. Got room in the second carriage—unless you’d rather limp the whole way and die halfway to the gates.”

Shade swayed slightly. Her body screamed to rest, but her mind remained locked behind layers of habit and suspicion.

The merchant’s gaze softened, just slightly. “No tricks. My name's Gellric. Trader out of Faeyren. These men ride for me. You’ve my word—take a seat, patch yourself up. Or don’t. But the offer stands.”

Shade didn’t answer. She simply nodded, the smallest, slowest gesture, and allowed herself to be led to the back carriage. The door creaked open, revealing a cushioned interior and crates stacked in the corners. It wasn’t safe. But it was safer than the road. And she needed time.

The interior of the second carriage was warmer than she expected. Padded benches lined the walls, and beneath the crates of supplies, there were neatly packed bags and bundles of fine cloth. Shade sat across from a woman in a deep blue travel dress, her posture elegant despite the bumping of the road. Her hair, silver with age but styled with care, was pinned back with jade combs. A jeweled ring identical to Gellric’s adorned her left hand. The woman looked up from a book and studied Shade with the mild curiosity of a noblewoman inspecting a weathered sculpture.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said gently, setting the book aside. “You look like you’ve been through the worst of it. Gellric, honestly, how do you always find the strays?”

The man’s voice called from the front as if he’d heard every word.

“Strays are where the stories live, Meris,” Gellric bellowed, then added with a laugh, “Besides, she’s lucky to have run into us, we’re the last good folk on the road to Faeyren!”

Meris smiled, though her gaze lingered on Shade’s face a moment longer, as if searching for something beneath the grime and blood. Shade met the look without flinching, silent as ever.

From the front of the carriage, Gellric began to ramble in earnest. “You know, it’s funny—we just came from the eastern ports and already spices have nearly doubled in price. It’s the damned sea routes, I tell you. Too many storms and not enough crews willing to brave the Isles anymore. And Damastyl! Don’t get me started on Damastyl.”

Shade tilted her head slightly. That word she knew. Damastyl—crystalline residue drawn from processed dama. A catalyst used in large-scale magic rituals. Expensive. Rare. Dangerous in the wrong hands.

“Prices are up thirty percent in Wyrdwood and still climbing,” Gellric went on, “and of course that means half the arcanists are panicking. Demand's sky-high, but nobody wants to deal with the guild taxes or the shipping risk. I told them—mark my words—this time next year, people will be treating refined Damastyl like mithril.”

He leaned back against the driver’s perch, content in his insight. “Of course, I only know all this because I’ve earned my position. Guild folk don’t tell just anyone what’s moving across the land, eh?”

Shade blinked, her expression unreadable.

Meris leaned over and added in a whisper, “He’s being modest. Gellric’s a board executive of the Merchant’s Guild. Supposed to be on leave.”

“And this is my leave!” Gellric called back. “What better way to unwind than among caravans, couriers, and cutthroat markets? The Guild doesn’t stop moving, so neither do I.”

“You haven’t taken a real vacation in twenty years,” Meris murmured dryly.

“And I never will! You see, girl, merchants are the veins of the world—move the blood, keep the kingdom alive. That’s what I always say. You can keep your thrones and magic towers. Gold and grain keep people fed and clothed. Magic? That’s just another commodity.”

Shade said nothing. Her breathing was steadying now, the pain dulled enough to listen.

“And if Faeyren’s taught me anything,” Gellric continued, oblivious to her silence, “it’s that everything’s for sale. Even secrets. Especially secrets.”

Meris gave her husband a pointed look but didn’t argue. Shade sat quietly, her cloak pulled tighter, listening. She didn’t know if she believed him. But it was good to know the kind of man she was riding with.

The caravan rolled on beneath a muted sky, the sun veiled behind a quilt of thin clouds. Wind rustled the golden grasses that flanked the road, and the occasional squeak of the wheel broke the otherwise steady rhythm of the journey. One of the escorts—a broad-shouldered dwarf with a streak of grey in his beard—rode beside the passenger carriage. He glanced in through the window and gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

“Don’t worry, miss,” he said gruffly but kindly. “You’re safe with us. These roads’ve seen worse than bandits, and we’ve handled worse still. Ain’t no monster sniffin’ this wagon without losing its snout.”

The other escort, a younger woman riding with an arbalest across her back, added with a grin, “And if it’s a rogue mage you’re worried about, relax. We’ve got dispel runes carved into the wheel frames. Ol’ Gellric doesn’t travel light.”

Shade’s eyes flicked toward them, but she gave no response. Just a silent nod.

Inside the carriage, Gellric had shifted from boasting to philosophizing. He leaned in through the separating curtain, his sleeves rolled up as he gestured animatedly with one hand, the other holding a steaming mug of something spicy.

“You know, I’ve always said, roads tell you more than any city ever could. Out here, you see who people are. You’ve got pilgrims walking for days to see a stone idol in Wyrmbane, farmers hauling grain with oxen older than their children, and then there’s folks like you.”

Shade’s eyes narrowed faintly.

Gellric smiled but didn’t press. “I mean no offense. You’re not the first mystery we’ve picked up. And you won’t be the last. My job isn’t to ask questions—it’s to keep moving forward.”

Meris, still seated across from Shade, gave her husband a look over the rim of her book. “And talk the entire way there, apparently.”

Gellric laughed. “Words are mostly free, love. That’s why I trade in them so often.”

He turned back toward the road ahead, leaving Shade once again in quiet shadow. The rhythmic creaking of the wheels became a lullaby. Her body ached under her cloak, pain pulsing softly in her side where the mage’s spell had landed. Each breath was shallow, but tolerable. Her fingers still twitched with phantom resistance from the backlash of her last shadow step. There was no fighting left in her. Not now. Shade leaned her head back against the side of the carriage and let her eyes fall shut. Outside, Gellric’s voice continued in the background.

“…anyway, I told them if you’re going to raise tariffs on luxury fabrics, don’t be surprised when nobles start buying armor instead of robes. Fashion changes faster than steel prices, you know…”

Shade didn’t hear the rest. She slipped into darkness without ceremony—no dreams, no visions. Just stillness. A rare kind of peace. Even if it wouldn’t last.

***

Night had draped the land in a shawl of stars and chilled wind by the time the caravan made camp. The two carriages were circled with the escort horses tethered and fed. A fire crackled gently in the center, surrounded by bedrolls and the comforting clatter of tin bowls. The smell of broth and cooked root vegetables mixed with roasted meat hung in the air. Shade sat slightly apart from the others, close enough to feel the fire’s warmth but distant enough to remain unnoticed—until she stood.

“I’ll take the first watch,” she said softly.

Heads turned. The young escort, the one with the arbalest, looked surprised.

“You sure?” she asked. “You were dead on your feet earlier.”

Shade nodded. “I’ve rested enough.”

The dwarf from earlier—Branik—grunted from behind his steaming bowl. “Suit yourself. Just wake me when your eyes start droopin’. No sense in havin’ someone keeled over while we’re tryin’ to sleep.”

“Branik,” the girl added teasingly, “try not to make her regret volunteering.”

He snorted. “Don’t get all sentimental, Naera. I’m just saying what needs saying.”

The other two escorts were quieter. One was a lanky man with dark tattoos climbing up his neck—a quiet sort who had introduced himself only as Yern. He simply nodded at Shade in approval and returned to sharpening his twin shortblades.

The last, a grizzled veteran called Joral, had a scar that split his top lip and made every word sound like a growl. He didn’t speak much, but he often lingered at the edge of conversations, listening with sharp eyes. He gave her a long stare now before speaking.

“You see anything strange, you don’t wait. You wake us.”

Shade didn’t respond, but her silence carried a weight that passed for agreement. Gellric, cheerful even at the edge of sleep, sat on a foldable stool with a leather-bound flask in hand and a wide grin on his face.

“Ah, the night. Cool air, quiet sky, and the smell of a good fire. Nothing better. Except, of course, profit margins.” He chuckled to himself, leaning against his wife, who rolled her eyes affectionately.

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t have taken the northern route,” Meris murmured into her book, eyes flicking over the pages.

Gellric gestured broadly with his flask. “Because the northern route cuts through two minor baronies who are taxing merchants like we’re hauling gold dust. Not worth the delay or the bribes.”

He leaned forward conspiratorially, voice lowered just enough for Shade to catch.

“And besides, what’s a little adventure? That’s what makes the road fun.”

“Your idea of fun might get us all killed,” Meris said flatly.

“Not with this crew.” Gellric motioned to the escorts. “Best guards coin can buy—and I’ve bought plenty.”

Shade glanced from Branik’s hammer resting beside him, to Yern’s blades catching the firelight, to Joral’s distant, ever-watching gaze. Then to Naera’s crossbow, unstrung but never out of reach. They weren’t just hired swords. They were seasoned, disciplined. The kind who’d seen worse than highway skirmishes. For the first time in a while, Shade felt something faintly unfamiliar. A sliver of trust. She slipped away from the fire’s warmth, settling into a crouch on the edge of the camp, near the woods where shadows stretched like spider legs across the dirt. The night sang with insects and wind. Her breathing slowed. Still sore. Still aching. But quiet. The kind of quiet that made her think. Of questions she hadn’t asked. Of names she couldn’t say. Of blood on her hands and the way Commander Darrek’s last words had lingered. Her eyes narrowed. Not here. Not now. For tonight, she was the watch. And nothing would get past her. The wind shifted sometime past midnight.

Shade’s ears twitched. She rose from her crouch, gaze scanning the tree line where a soft, rhythmic rustle disturbed the silence. Not footsteps—slithering. A low, guttural hiss followed. She stepped into the shadows, body melting into the dark like ink into water. It emerged from the brush with a snarl. A young cockatrice. Barely the size of a large hound, its scaly body twitched with tension, feathers bristling across its neck, beady eyes flashing with a pale yellow glow. Its hooked beak clicked as it crept closer to the horses. It was a rank 3 threat. Dangerous to travelers. Lethal to livestock. But not to her.

Shade struck from the dark. The creature hissed, but the sound cut off in a wet gurgle as her blade pierced its throat in a clean, practiced stroke. It writhed once, talons scraping at the air, then stilled. She didn’t stop moving. In the same motion, she flipped the creature onto its back, drove a second blade into its heart, and began dismantling it with swift, clinical efficiency.

***

By dawn, the air smelled faintly of iron and fresh meat. The first to stir was Branik, grumbling into the cold light of morning as he reached for his hammer. He blinked blearily at the gutted remains near the fire.

“...Is that what I think it is?”

Naera, rubbing her eyes and stretching, froze halfway through tying her hair back.

“Cockatrice,” she muttered. “That’s a young one. Damn thing must’ve followed the scent of horses.”

Yern crouched beside the carved remains, impressed. “You killed it alone?”

Shade nodded. She held up a neatly cut thigh, skewered on a stick, and calmly turned it over the flame.

“Figured we’d run out of salted meat soon,” she said.

Branik laughed once—a low, bark of a sound. “You’re all right, mystery girl.”

Naera was already reaching for spices. “We eat like kings tonight.”

Gellric, emerging from his carriage in a thick fur-lined robe, sniffed the air. “Is that a cockatrice?” he asked, delighted. “We haven't had a fresh catch in days!”

Meris, stepping down behind him with her ever-present book tucked under one arm, stared at the pile of bones and sinew and raised a brow.

“Charming breakfast.”

Shade said nothing as the meat sizzled. She just turned the spit one last time, eyes distant, body still sore but lighter than the day before. The others began to gather. There were no words of praise. Just nods, small glances of respect. The kind only earned in silence. The road stretched on beneath the slow-turning sky, winding through green hills and patchy woodlands touched by early spring. For three days, the caravan moved unbothered by beast or brigand. It was the most uneventful period Shade could remember in years. During the days, she sat quietly in the people’s carriage or atop the cargo cart, bruised and quiet but present. Gellric often rode beside her, full of anecdotes and harmless rambling.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Now the thing about saffron,” he was saying one morning as the sun crept over the ridgeline, “is that it’s a bastard to grow. It takes patience and the right soil. But the moment a noble house runs out of it? Hah! They pay thrice the market price. Nobility has no palate for bland stews, you see. No offense, dear,” he added to Meris, who was reading beside him.

“None taken,” she replied absently, not looking up.

“They paid a small fortune for a spice auction in Faeyren last month,” Gellric continued. “And don’t get me started on Damastyl. Gods, the price of that ore is climbing like wildfire. Needed for large-scale enchantments, weapon cores, transportation matrices—can’t run a city without it these days.”

Meris glanced at Shade with a knowing look. “He’s always like this. You get used to it.”

Shade didn’t smile, but something in her shoulders eased. The escorts were easier to read. Branik told stories in the evenings, loud tales of bar brawls and narrow escapes from beasts in the wild. Naera spoke less, but she was always sharpening something—knives, arrows, her senses. Yern, the youngest of the trio, asked Shade about her knives with quiet curiosity. She offered little in return, but not nothing. The rhythm of travel took over: wake, ride, rest, repeat.

***

They camped by a shallow stream on the second night. Meris played a slow, quiet tune on a stringed instrument that Shade didn’t know the name of. It filled the silence between firelight and darkness. Shade watched the sparks dance skyward, thinking of nothing. Letting the pain dull into the background. On the third day, Gellric offered her a bit of lemon star candy from a velvet pouch. She blinked at it.

“Try it,” he said. “Best you’ll find on this side of the continent.”

She took it with a gloved hand and sucked on it silently.

“Good, isn’t it?”

“…It’s sweet,” she murmured, the taste dragging some long-dormant memory across the edges of her mind.

He chuckled. “Sweet’s all right once in a while. Life’s bitter enough.”

The caravan moved onward. They were about a week from the city now, perhaps less. Faeyren’s massive spires would be visible soon, if the roads stayed safe. Shade didn’t believe in peace lasting. But for now, there was still warmth in the fire, food in the cart, and quiet in the night. She let herself linger in that moment a little longer than she should have. The sun was just beginning its descent when the caravan rolled to a stop. Up ahead, a massive oak lay across the road, split clean through at the trunk. Its roots were ragged and unnatural, as if something had pulled rather than felled it. The dense woods on either side loomed quiet and still.

Branik clicked his tongue. “That wasn’t there this morning.”

Gellric leaned out from the people’s carriage. “Problem?”

“Tree in the path,” Naera replied curtly, already dismounting. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her blade. “Too clean a break.”

Yern hopped down behind her. “Could’ve been a storm.”

Branik scowled. “Then where’s the mess? No branches, no drag marks…”

Shade didn’t move. She had already sunk halfway into her cloak, eyes scanning the treeline.

Naera signaled the others. “Let’s move it quickly. I don’t like this.”

The three escorts made their way to the trunk, grunting as they braced to lift it—and that was when the forest laughed.

It came from everywhere at once. A dry, mocking chorus.

“Well now, look at this fine little trail party,” a voice drawled from the shadows between the trees. “Thought you’d get through Galviran land without paying the toll?”

The first figure emerged from the brush, perched atop a low boulder like a smug crow. His leather coat was stitched with mismatched patches, and a jagged blade hung from his hip. He grinned with far too many teeth.

“Thirteen of us, and only six of you. That’s poor odds, friends.”

Others stepped into view, one after another—some from the treeline, others from the brush behind. They had bows, spears, axes, and worse. Faces painted, some masked, some bare. Scarred. Grinning. One—tall, bald, with gold piercings across his face, dragged a hooked chain through the dirt behind him. He licked his lips when he saw Shade.

“We’ve been bored,” he rasped.

Naera drew her weapon slowly. “Galviran scum.”

The first one gave a theatrical bow. “We do try to live up to our reputation. Now, let’s not make this bloody. Give us the carts, the goods, the girl there—and maybe we'll let the rest of you walk.”

Shade said nothing. Her body didn’t move.

Gellric climbed out, voice raised, trying diplomacy. “Gentlemen, surely we can—”

“Shut it, spice-man,” one bandit snapped. “This is a toll, not a negotiation.”

The air was tightening. Branik and Naera flanked the tree. Yern looked ready to bolt, his hand trembling on his bow.

Meris stepped halfway behind the carriage. “This is bad.”

Gellric’s face had gone pale. “Stay calm,” he murmured. “Stay calm and maybe—”

The chain-dragger took a step forward. Shade blinked slowly, the old chill creeping back into her limbs. This was what she understood.

“Name’s Varrek,” he said, voice low and rough like gravel scraping stone. “Used to be one of the Crown’s finest—Rank Six Hunter. Retired now. I thought I’d have a quiet life until I realized the real treasures were easy pickings out here.” He spat on the ground. The mention of Rank Six sent a ripple through the caravan. Naera’s grip on her sword tightened, her jaw clenched, but even she glanced sideways at Branik and Yern. Their faces were pale, eyes darting.

“Varrek’s name alone scares off more than you can imagine,” Yern muttered.

Gellric swallowed hard. “So... what now?”

Varrek’s grin turned cruel. “Now? You hand over the girl and the goods, and maybe we'll let you leave without a scratch.”

He leaned forward, voice a sinister purr. “Or you try to play heroes and find out just how sharp these old claws still are.”

Naera glanced at her companions, uncertainty flickering behind her steady exterior.

“We’re outmatched,” Branik admitted quietly. “We can’t protect her and the cargo.”

Yern lowered his bow slowly. “Better to lose this fight than lose all our lives.”

The escorts exchanged looks, nodding in reluctant agreement.

Naera drew a deep breath, stepping back. “We’re leaving.”

Shade felt the weight of their decision settle on her like a stone. But she said nothing. Varrek laughed—a low, savage sound that echoed through the trees.

“Smart choice.”

The escorts melted into the shadows as if swallowed by the forest itself, the crackling of breaking branches and hurried footsteps growing distant. Naera spared one last glance back, her face grim but resolute.

“We move. Now.”

Behind them, Varrek’s laughter carried on the wind, chilling and victorious. Shade’s eyes flicked to the merchant and his wife, their hands bound and faces pale but defiant, caught in the cruel trap.

One of the bandits stepped forward, voice low and venomous. “Your precious payment will come—and when it does, don’t expect a reunion. We’ll return you in pieces, just to make sure your allies remember what happens when they cross us.”

He spat on the ground. “And you, beastborn, don’t think you’re any different. The Containe Kingdom’s lust for beastpeople slaves is legendary. They’ll pay a high price to get you—and once they do, you’re nothing more than property to be broken and sold again.”

The merchant’s wife clenched her jaw, fighting tears.

“We... we’ll find a way,” she whispered.

The bandits just sneered. “Not if we get there first.”

As the bandits tried to drag Gellric away, the forest seemed to close in, swallowing their cries beneath its cold, indifferent canopy.

Before the bandit could tighten his grip on the merchant’s wife, a shadow flickered through the trees like a living wraith. A dagger gleamed cold in the dim light—swift, precise. The bandit barely had time to gasp before Shade’s blade sliced through his throat, crimson spraying onto the fallen leaves. Chaos erupted among the bandits, their shocked cries shattered by the sound of another dagger whistling through the air. Shade moved with lethal grace, every step a whisper of death, her eyes cold and unreadable.

“Not today,” she said, voice like ice.

The remaining bandits hesitated, a flicker of fear rippling through their ranks as they realized their prey was no helpless cargo.

Varrek’s growl sliced through the night.

“Kill her! No mercy!”

The bandits lunged forward, blades flashing and arrows whistling. But Shade was already gone—melding into shadow, her form vanishing like smoke on the wind. She reappeared silently, twin daggers drawn, dancing between attackers with fluid precision. Her body bent and twisted with impossible grace—ducking beneath blades, sidestepping spear thrusts, and weaving through a hail of arrows. Each movement was a whisper of death.

A spear came flying at her next. With a flick of her wrist, a dark, shimmering spear materialized in her grasp—a conjured weapon formed from hardened void dama. She caught the thrust mid-air, twisting the spear around to impale her assailant through the chest. The man gasped, staggering backward before collapsing in a heap. Before another attacker could close in, Shade conjured a bow from the void. The string hummed as she notched a spectral arrow and loosed it in one fluid motion. The arrow streaked through the air, piercing the throat of a rogue mage just as he began to cast a spell. His eyes widened in shock, the spell sputtering out as he fell silent.

Returning to her daggers, Shade darted between foes, slashes and stabs flowing seamlessly. One dagger sliced the tendons of a charging bandit’s wrist, disarming him instantly, while the other plunged deep into his side. Another foe lunged, and she shadow-stepped out of reach, the backlash burning her mind, before reappearing behind him to drive her daggers through his back.

The dance of death continued—dashing, weaving, summoning, striking—each kill swift and merciless.

From the shadows, Varrek’s rage simmered, his voice low and venomous:

“How dare she defy me?” His fists clenched tight, burning with fury.

The battle was far from over.

The last of the bandits had fled into the trees like shadows melting into the night, leaving only Varrek, towering, battle-worn, eyes blazing with fury. His reputation as a retired Rank 6 hunter was no exaggeration. Now, all that fury focused on the lone figure before him. Without hesitation, Varrek charged, greatsword raised high, its heavy blade gleaming with lethal intent. Shade tightened her grip on her dual daggers, muscles coiled like springs, ready for the clash.

The first strike came with the weight of a hammer, crashing down toward Shade’s crossed blades. She twisted at the last moment, parrying with the edges of her daggers, sparks flying from the brutal impact. Varrek’s follow-up slash was a lightning-fast horizontal sweep — Shade dropped low, spinning under the blade, her daggers flashing upward to stab at his ribs. Varrek grunted, the strike glancing off his armor. Shade didn’t pause. She dropped the daggers and summoned a pair of shortswords with a swirl of void magic. The lighter blades hummed with cold energy as she pressed forward, slashing in a brutal, fluid rhythm. Varrek blocked and countered, his greatsword a relentless wall of steel, but Shade’s agility let her dart in and out, slicing shallow cuts across his arms. Frustrated, Varrek shifted tactics. He unleashed a brutal overhead strike. Shade caught it mid-swing with her shortswords, using the momentum to roll away, then immediately conjured a pair of kama—curved, wicked blades that she spun like deadly whirls of wind. The kama danced close, slashing across Varrek’s legs and forcing him to stagger back, though his grimace told of mounting pain, not defeat. He recovered quickly, gripping his greatsword tightly and charging with a guttural roar. Shade anticipated, dropping her kama and summoning a scythe — its wicked crescent blade shimmering in the fading light. She swung low, the scythe’s blade singing through the air as it caught Varrek’s greatsword with a loud clang, forcing them apart. The two circled, breathing heavily, eyes locked in mutual respect and determination.

Varrek lunged again, parrying and countering with brutal precision, each exchange ringing with the harsh sound of steel on steel. Shade shifted between weapons — scythe to shortswords, then back to daggers, never giving him a chance to settle. The battle became a deadly dance, both fighters pushing their limits. Varrek’s strength met Shade’s speed and versatility. Her attacks became more daring, weaving feints and strikes to keep him off balance, but every move was met with fierce resistance.

Sweat mixed with blood as the sun dipped below the horizon. Neither gave ground.

Finally, with a whispered breath and a subtle shift in stance, Shade readied herself for the decisive moment — the balance of power teetering on a knife’s edge. Amidst the clashing steel and ragged breaths, a faint whisper curled through her mind, soft but insistent. Call it… the blade forged beyond time… the shadow that rends space…

A name flickered inside her, ancient and heavy: Tenebrae.

She uttered it without hesitation.

In an instant, a greatsword formed in her grasp—not forged from steel, but from solidified dama, denser and darker than anything she had ever hardened before. The blade absorbed the light around it, a deep abyssal black so profound it seemed to pull the very air inward, swallowing all color and warmth. Streaks of darkness trailed behind each swing, lingering in the air like smoky afterimages—ghostly marks of Tenebrae’s passage. The hilt was matte black, cool and unyielding in her hands, crowned by a single, flawless purple gem embedded in the pommel. The gem pulsed faintly with an eerie light, like a heartbeat resonating from some distant, unknowable source.

Varrek’s eyes widened as she matched his steel greatsword with this unnatural weapon. The two collided, the sound hollow and resonant—a clash of earthly metal against something that felt otherworldly. Though she had yet to fully understand Tenebrae’s full power, its presence infused her strikes with a dark grace and overwhelming force. With every swing, the blade seemed to warp the space around it, a shadow carved solid and wielded as a weapon. Gathering her will, she unleashed a relentless flurry of wide, sweeping arcs, each stroke sending ripples of shadow trailing in the air, forcing Varrek onto the defensive as the dark greatsword carved through the battle.

The tide of the fight shifted. With Tenebrae in her grasp, the weight of the blade became a rhythm pulsing through her veins—each strike a thunderous echo that vibrated deep into her bones. Her movements grew sharper, more ruthless, fueled by a gnawing fire that burned through exhaustion and pain. Varrek’s defenses wavered under the relentless storm of shadow and steel. His breaths came harder, his parries slower, as if the very air around him thickened with the oppressive darkness of Tenebrae. She pressed the advantage, her swings growing brutal and precise—slashes that cut not just flesh but spirit, each blow landing with a weight that shook the ground beneath them. Minutes stretched like lifetimes as the battle became a brutal dance of fury and endurance. Then, at last, she saw it: a fleeting gap in Varrek’s guard, a moment when his balance faltered and his eyes flashed with desperation. Without hesitation, she gathered every ounce of strength and surged forward. Her greatsword arced low and swiftly, cleaving horizontally across Varrek’s torso. The strike landed with a sickening finality, tearing through armor and bone alike. He crumpled, blood spilling like ink onto the dirt, and the darkened air around her seemed to still.

For a breath, there was only silence. Then, as Varrek’s ragged breaths slowed and faded, she withdrew Tenebrae from the wound, the blade absorbing the last flickers of his resistance and drawing a shadow from within him into the blade. The battle was over. No sooner had Varrek fallen than the toll of wielding Tenebrae and pushing her shadow step beyond its limits crashed down on her. Her legs buckled beneath the weight of exhaustion and pain. A raw, burning agony gnawed through her chest and lungs. She collapsed to the ground, coughing violently—thick, dark blood spattering the dirt beneath her. Her breaths came ragged and shallow, each inhale stabbing like shards of glass. Writhing in torment, she clutched her side, the world around her dimming at the edges. Her vision blurred. Darkness crept in from all sides. Then, finally, silence.

***

Two days later, her eyelids fluttered open to the soft glow of dawn filtering through the trees. The ache in her body was relentless—a dull, persistent reminder of the battle and the strain of summoning Tenebrae. They were still miles from Faeyren, but closer now. The merchant’s wife sat nearby, her gaze gentle, filled with quiet gratitude as she watched over the wounded shadow. No longer distant, her eyes held a softness reserved only for those who had spared her life.

The merchant himself stood, careful not to disturb her, preparing a simple meal — something nourishing yet easy on her battered body.

“Eat, you’ve earned it,” he said quietly when he noticed her stirring.

The two carriage drivers and the merchant couple gathered around her camp, voices low but warm with thanks.

“You saved us,” the wife whispered, voice thick with emotion.

“More than we could ever repay,” the merchant added.

Shade, still weak but resolute, simply nodded — silent in her acceptance of their gratitude. Shade’s eyelids fluttered closed again, but the rich aroma of the meal tugged her senses back to wakefulness. The food before her was unlike the bland rations she had long endured—each bite infused with care and rare spices that danced on her tongue. The tender meat was seasoned with cinnamon, crushed peppercorns, and a hint of smoky paprika, a blend meant to revive both body and spirit. As she ate slowly, savoring the complex flavors, a fragile warmth bloomed within her—something she hadn’t felt in years beyond the cold discipline of survival. Her throat, still raw from exertion and shadow stepping, welcomed the food like a healing balm. The pleasure of the meal wove itself through her, grounding her in the present despite the chaos trailing her steps.

As the fire died down and the last embers glowed faintly beneath the darkening sky, Shade felt the familiar ache in her limbs slowly ebb with the warmth from the meal and the company around her. The merchant and his wife busied themselves with preparing the carriages, their voices low and comfortable in the cool night air. When they finally mounted and the wheels creaked back into motion along the road, Shade’s voice broke the silence.

“Faeyren... What is it like?” she asked quietly, eyes fixed on the stars overhead, but her mind was already chasing the image of the city.

The merchant chuckled softly, glancing sideways at his wife before turning back to Shade.

“Faeyren’s a beast of a city,” he said with a wistful smile. “Vast, sprawling, a place where fortunes are made and lost in a heartbeat. Streets packed with merchants hawking everything from enchanted trinkets to rare spices, alleys thick with shadows, and a market that never truly sleeps. You’ll find every kind of folk there — some friendly, some deadly, but all chasing their own kind of freedom or fortune.”

His wife, seated beside him, stole a gentle glance at Shade. Her eyes softened as if recognizing the quiet storm the young assassin carried beneath her calm.

“You’ll need patience,” she said kindly. “And a little kindness from strangers. It’s a city that can swallow you whole if you’re not careful. But it’s also a place where you might finally find what you’ve been missing.”

Shade nodded, her fingers tightening around the reins as a flicker of something unfamiliar — hope — settled quietly within her.

For a moment, the road stretched ahead under the silent stars, and for the first time in a long while, Shade felt like she was moving toward more than just survival.

Nearby, the merchant muttered to his wife, barely concealing his frustration. “Those damn escorts... left us to rot when things got hot. I’m demanding a refund the second we’re back. No way I’m paying for cowards.”

His wife nodded, shooting him a look. “At least this one saved us. Whoever she is.”

The merchant waved a hand dismissively but then turned his attention to Shade. “Here,” he said, pressing a small card into her palm. “That’s my business card. Gellric & Sons — we deal in spice, damastyl, and all sorts of rarities. If you make it to Faeyren, stop by. I can point you to some decent places to stay, not the usual dives. There’s a tavern called The Dragon Tear Inn just off Merchant’s Row — good food, better company. And if you like, I’ll introduce you to a contact who deals in rare goods — you’ll find no shortage of work or information there.”

He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying himself as he rambled. “Faeyren’s a city like no other — sprawling, noisy, and bursting at the seams with every kind of folk. Merchants from the farthest corners of the continent bring everything from desert spices to mountain-forged damastyl. You’ll see magicians flaunting their wares, thieves lurking in the shadows, and nobles strutting like kings. It’s a place of opportunity... and danger. Keep your wits about you.”

Shade listened quietly, absorbing the words like a lifeline to a world she barely remembered. The slow warmth of the meal and the unexpected kindness wrapped around her like a fragile shield against the lingering pain. As the fire died down and the last embers glowed faintly beneath the darkening sky, Shade felt the familiar ache in her limbs slowly ebb with the warmth from the meal and the company around her. The merchant and his wife busied themselves with preparing the carriages, their voices low and comfortable in the cool night air.