Arc 2 Chapter 1: A Familiar Face

The forest remained deathly silent after the explosion, a stillness so dense it felt as though the very air was holding its breath, waiting—expecting—something to break it.

Nariel Kaeryn urged her silver-armored steed forward, her sharp blue eyes scanning the fractured landscape. The brilliant flash of light and the distant roar had pulled her off course, an unmistakable sign of destruction even from miles away. Whatever had caused it was dangerous. And as a knight of the Morning Flame, it was her duty to investigate.

She rode alone. Her unit was further behind, and she had broken ahead to meet with their scout—yet he never appeared at the rendezvous point.

The third knight to vanish while on duty since they arrived in Ignisia.

A sick weight settled in her chest at the thought.

Sir Jared was experienced. Cautious. And yet, he was gone. She could only hope he had somehow escaped the gruesome fate that had claimed the other two. But she knew better.

The creatures lurking in these forests and mountains were not of this world.

She had only glimpsed one from a distance, a monstrous shadow against the trees, but every sign pointed to the truth she had been dreading—a mythical beast. One that had not been seen in Nytheris for centuries—millennia, even.

Until now.

Until they began their hunt.

For thousands of miles, she had pursued them, tracking the trail of destruction they left in their wake. And now, as she neared the site of the explosion, dread curled in her stomach.

Were they too late?

Had the cult already achieved what they came for in this remote town?

Was this explosion the sign of it?

The ruins stretched below her like jagged teeth, their ancient stones bathed in the flickering glow of dying fires. Smoke curled into the night, twisting in ghostly tendrils beneath the pale moonlight. The remnants of battle were scattered across the crumbling terrain—shattered weapons, charred stone, and bodies.

Her gaze swept over the pyramid’s peak, where several figures lay lifeless, their forms burned and broken. Then, her eyes drifted lower—toward the forest’s edge.

A single figure.

Motionless.

It looked as though they had fallen from the pyramid, perhaps thrown by the force of the explosion.

Among the dead, she spotted the remnants of ember-colored tunics, the scorched but still-distinct sigil of the Black Phoenix. The Ashen Veil. She barely spared them a second glance.

But the one near the forest—

A slow, creeping nausea curled in her stomach, dread slithering up her spine.

Without hesitation, Nariel swung down from her horse, her silver hair catching the dim light as she sprinted forward. The closer she got, the heavier the air became—blood, burnt stone, the sharp sting of lingering magic.

And then, she saw it.

Auburn hair, matted with sweat and crimson.

Nariel’s breath hitched. Her knees hit the ground beside the fallen figure before she even realized she had moved.

Cold fear settled deep in her chest.

“Irelia!”

Irelia’s face was ghostly pale, her breaths shallow and uneven. Burns marred her skin, and the battle had left its mark on every inch of her battered body.

For a moment, Nariel froze.

Her gloved hand hovered just above Irelia’s chest, trembling slightly.

She swallowed hard, forcing down the surge of memories that threatened to overwhelm her—

A younger Irelia, all sharp edges and stubborn defiance, eyeing her with both suspicion and reluctant curiosity when they first met. The way she bristled at Nariel’s authority, pushing back at every turn. The slow, unspoken shift between them, her emerald eyes softening in stolen moments. That night under the stars—

Not now.

There was no time for hesitation.

“Stay with me,” Nariel murmured, pressing her hands gently over Irelia’s wounds.

A soft, golden light bloomed from her palms, flowing over Irelia’s broken body like rippling sunlight. The worst of her burns began to fade, skin knitting together where it had been scorched. Beneath Nariel’s touch, fractures realigned with quiet, sickening snaps.

The magic worked steadily, but the strain was undeniable. Beads of sweat formed along Nariel’s brow, her breathing growing heavier. Healing magic demanded both energy and unwavering focus—and Irelia’s injuries were many.

As the golden light dimmed, Nariel pulled back, exhaling shakily. The worst of the damage was stabilized, but exhaustion gnawed at her limbs.

She let out a slow breath, brushing a stray silver strand from her face.

“I don’t know how you keep surviving these things,” she murmured, her voice quieter now.

Her fingers hovered just above Irelia’s hand, hesitation flickering in her expression before she added, softer still—

“You’re still as reckless as ever.”

She allowed herself a brief moment to look at Irelia—truly look at her. The years apart hadn’t dulled the sharp angles of her face, the fierce determination etched into her features, even unconscious.

Something stirred in Nariel’s chest, something fragile and unwelcome.

Something she wasn’t ready to confront.

Duty.

Focus on the duty.

A rustling in the underbrush snapped her out of her thoughts. Nariel’s hand went instinctively to the hilt of her sword as a small figure emerged from the shadows.

“Who’s there?” she called, her voice sharp and commanding once more, the softness from before vanished.

A halfling stumbled into view, his hazel eyes wide with worry. He froze when he saw Nariel, his gaze darting between the unconscious Irelia and the imposing knight.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice trembling slightly. He looked worn—exhausted, even—his body bearing the marks of injury, yet his determination hadn’t wavered. His grip tightened around the slingshot in his hand, though the fear in his eyes was unmistakable.

Nariel regarded him cautiously, noting his disheveled appearance and the dried blood on his clothes. “I could ask you the same thing,” she replied, her tone steady but firm. “Who are you, and what happened here?”

The halfling hesitated before stammering, “I… I’m Pip. Her friend. We were fighting—there were beasts and a cult—and she… she saved my friends.”

Nariel’s expression darkened at the mention of the cult. The Ashen Veil. She had suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed sent a fresh wave of fury through her.

Irelia had crossed paths with them.

They were responsible for this—for her near death.

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Those bastards hurt her.

Nariel clenched her jaw, forcing herself to push the thought aside. Focus. No time for that. Duty first.

Her voice was steady, but there was a hard edge to it as she pressed, “Beasts? What kind of beasts?”

“Hellhounds,” Pip whispered, his voice barely audible. His small frame seemed to tremble at the memory.

Nariel’s sharp blue eyes narrowed.

“Hellhounds,” she repeated grimly, the weight of the word settling like a stone in her chest.

This was worse than she’d anticipated. A battle against both the Ashen Veil and hellhounds? Irelia always had a way of attracting the worst kind of trouble, but this—this—was a new peak, even for her.

And yet, she won.

Nariel’s gaze flickered to Irelia’s unconscious form. She could already picture it—an unorthodox, insanely dangerous plan, reckless to the point of self-destruction. A strategy that shouldn’t have worked but somehow did.

And, judging by the state she was in, one that nearly killed her.

Typical Irelia.

Stubborn. Reckless. And far too willing to gamble with her own life, as if it held no value at all.

“You’re from the Morning Flame, aren’t you?” Pip suddenly asked, his gaze catching the symbol on Nariel’s polished armor.

“I am,” Nariel confirmed with a slight incline of her head. “And you should be grateful I arrived when I did. She wouldn’t have lasted much longer without help.”

Pip’s grip on his slingshot loosened as relief began to replace his fear. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause, he asked, “Who are you to her?”

The question struck harder than Nariel expected. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came.

Who am I to her?

Friend? Former lover? The tangled weight of their past was impossible to sum up in a single response. Finally, she settled on the only answer that felt safe.

“Someone who knows her.”

Pip tilted his head, clearly unconvinced but choosing not to push. “Well, whoever you are, I’m glad you’re here.”

Nariel glanced back at Irelia’s still form, her jaw tightening.

“So am I,” she murmured, though uncertainty edged her voice.

The memory unfolded in vivid clarity, as if Irelia were reliving it moment by moment.

Four years ago, at just seventeen, she had been hired to escort a noble caravan through Sutir’s Arm. A lone mage, wary of others, she had kept her guard up—especially around the silver-haired knight assigned by the Morning Flame to protect the caravan.

“Keep your eyes sharp,” a firm voice commanded.

Irelia turned, meeting the piercing blue gaze of Nariel Kaeryn. The high elf scrutinized her with unnerving focus, as if she could see straight through her defenses.

Everything about Nariel was too much—too disciplined, too commanding, too much of a knight. Every inch the noble warrior. And, in Irelia’s opinion, insufferable.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Irelia had snapped, her tone sharp as steel.

Nariel had merely raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Their first exchanges were nothing short of friction—Irelia’s defiant independence clashing against Nariel’s structured, by-the-book approach. There was something about the high elf’s air of authority that grated on her, something that made Irelia bristle at every order, every unspoken expectation.

She kept her distance, choosing the company of her books over forced camaraderie.

Nariel, on the other hand, found Irelia’s sharp tongue and cold demeanor equal parts infuriating and—against all logic—intriguing.

The ambush struck on the second day, just as they crossed into Kaerith.

The attack was swift, brutal—bandits pouring from the trees, their movements practiced, emboldened by sheer numbers. Exiles from a tribe or clan, most likely.

Irelia reacted instinctively. Her fingers traced glowing runes through the air, weaving defensive barriers around the caravan. A shimmer of protection rose just in time to deflect a volley of arrows.

Nariel, ever the warrior, didn’t hesitate. She was already in the fray, her sword a blur of silver as she cut through their attackers with precise, devastating efficiency.

Despite their combined efforts, the tide of bodies pressed in. The bandits kept coming.

Irelia, focused on sustaining her magic, didn’t see the danger until it was too late. A shadow in her blind spot. The gleam of steel swinging toward her side.

She braced for the strike—

It never landed.

A sudden force knocked into her as Nariel stepped in, her body shielding Irelia just as the bandit’s blade bit into her armor.

Nariel staggered, her weapon slipping from her grasp as she dropped to one knee.

Irelia’s breath caught.

Blood.

Pale silver hair.

A grim smile from lips barely holding back pain.

Nariel exhaled sharply, forcing her gaze up to meet Irelia’s wide eyes.

“Your back,” she gritted out, “is covered.”

Irelia stared for a split second, stunned, before snapping into motion.

With a flick of her wrist, she incinerated the bandit in a burst of flame, then darted to retrieve Nariel’s fallen sword. As she lifted it, her fingers traced a quick rune along the hilt, a faint shimmer of magic settling into the blade before she tossed it back to the knight.

Nariel caught it effortlessly, raising an eyebrow at the rune’s glow but saying nothing. Instead, she pressed a glowing hand to her side, quickly sealing the worst of her wound while Irelia used range spells to keep the bandits away.

The battle raged on.

Nariel moved like a force of nature—her strikes precise, unyielding—until two orcs, shockingly well-coordinated, managed to disarm her. She lunged for her weapon, but the towering foes were faster. One raised its blade, ready to strike—

Irelia acted without thinking.

A spark of magic ignited as she activated the rune she had placed earlier. In an instant, Nariel’s sword vanished from the ground and reappeared in her waiting hand.

The knight didn’t miss a beat.

With a single, decisive swing, she felled both orcs.

Then, turning back to Irelia, she gave a slow, approving nod—accompanied by a small, knowing smile.

She turned back to Irelia, nodding in acknowledgment. But there was something else—a slight, knowing smile curling at the corners of her lips.

And damn it all, Irelia felt her face heat.

She quickly averted her gaze, scanning the battlefield with unnecessary intensity.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” Nariel teased, her voice laced with amusement.

“Keep your eyes sharp,” Irelia muttered, refusing to meet her gaze. Her heart pounded—though she refused to consider why.

Nariel’s laughter rang clear as she recognized her own words thrown back at her.

Several days later, as they were camping one last night before the quest came to an end Nariel had opened up.

“Do you ever feel like you’re trapped by what people expect of you?” she had asked, her voice quiet but tinged with vulnerability.

Irelia had remained silent for a moment, her gaze fixed on the flickering flames. The usual sharpness in her demeanor softened, stripped away by the quiet of the night.

“All the time,” she had admitted, her voice lacking its usual bite.

That moment—brief yet unshakable—was the beginning of something neither of them had expected.

The dream faded, leaving behind the ghost of Nariel’s laughter and the lingering warmth of her smile.

Irelia drifted into wakefulness slowly, her body heavy, as if she’d been through a grinder. Every muscle throbbed with exhaustion, and a dull, persistent ache pounded in her skull.

Her first thought was of the dream—the memory of fighting alongside Nariel, of steel clashing and trust forged in the heat of battle. It lingered, bittersweet, wrapping around her like an old wound that never fully healed.

She blinked against the dim light as her surroundings came into focus.

The camp.

Nearby, Pip sat with his legs crossed, his face a mixture of worry and relief.

“You’re awake!” he blurted out, leaning forward. “How are you feeling?”

Irelia exhaled sharply, trying to sit up—only to immediately regret it. Pain flared hot and sharp through her side, forcing her to bite back a groan.

“Like I got hit by a mountain,” she muttered, her voice hoarse.

Pip handed her a waterskin, and Irelia took a slow sip, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat.

Her gaze drifted downward, taking in the bandages wrapped neatly around her arms and torso. The work was precise—firm but not constricting, expertly placed to support without restricting movement.

She recognized it instantly.

She had been healed by her countless times.

Her eyes shifted to Pip. “Nariel. She was here, wasn’t she?”

Pip nodded. “She… yeah. She healed you. I tried to help, but she was really intense. Kind of scary, actually.”

Despite the ache in her body, Irelia managed the faintest of smiles. “That sounds like her.”

She let her head rest back against the makeshift bedding, eyes closing briefly. Even now, she could still feel the lingering traces of Nariel’s magic—warm, steady, calm. A stark contrast to the erratic energy that fueled her own spells. Despite everything, a part of her found comfort in it.

“Who is she?” Pip asked cautiously. “I mean, she clearly knows you.”

Irelia’s expression tightened, the vulnerability from her dream vanishing beneath layers of guarded composure.

“An old… acquaintance,” she said, the answer clipped, evasive.

Pip frowned, clearly unconvinced but wise enough not to push. Instead, he sighed. “Well, she’s intense, but she did save your life. So I guess I owe her.”

Irelia’s gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the first light of dawn began creeping through the trees.

The memory of Nariel’s smile lingered at the edges of her mind, unbidden and persistent.

“Yeah,” she murmured, more to herself than to Pip.

“You and me both.”