The northern road was cruel.
Winding through broken hills and tangled woods, it bore little resemblance to the paved merchant paths near Caerwyn. Here, the dirt trails were overgrown, the bridges splintered by time, and the milestones half-buried by moss. Few dared travel so far from the cities unless driven by desperation—or worse, a purpose.
Sylas and Alira moved in silence for most of the journey. Words felt heavy, unnecessary. Survival came first now.
Every night, they camped in hidden groves or abandoned watchposts, setting small, smokeless fires and taking turns standing guard. Sylas found himself awake even when it wasn't his shift, the shard humming beneath his skin, keeping him alert when his body cried for rest.
One night, under a slivered moon, Alira sat sharpening her daggers by the fire. Sylas watched the steady movements of her hands—methodical, precise. It was a strange comfort, seeing something so normal amidst the storm they now carried within.
"You never asked why I know about the scholar," Alira said suddenly, not looking up.
Sylas shifted his weight, stretching his legs toward the warmth of the fire. "I figured you'd tell me when you were ready."
Alira smirked faintly, a rare crack in her guarded expression. "Maybe I'm ready now."
She paused, the whetstone hissing softly along the blade.
"Years ago, before I joined the Silent Pact, I worked for her. Briefly. She wasn't exactly what you'd call... reputable. Took in runaways. Taught them things they weren't supposed to know. Runes, forbidden histories, the truths the kingdoms buried."
Sylas tilted his head. "Sounds dangerous."
"It was," Alira said, her voice low. "But it was the first time anyone treated me like more than a weapon. She believed knowledge could be more powerful than any blade."
Sylas leaned back, gazing up at the stars. "Maybe she was right."
For a while, only the fire spoke between them. Sparks drifted up into the night like lost souls.
When morning came, they pressed on, their destination clear: an isolated hamlet known as Greystone, perched at the edge of the Wraithpine Forest. If Alira's memories were right, the scholar lived somewhere beyond it.
The days blurred together, fatigue gnawing at their bones. Food grew scarce. Trust, however, quietly grew.
Sylas noticed it in the way Alira no longer flinched when he brushed past her. In the way she sometimes offered him water first, or how she paced herself to match his steps even when she could have easily gone faster. Small things, unspoken things.
Trust built not by grand gestures, but by surviving side by side.
Finally, after a week of relentless travel, the trees thinned, revealing the broken remnants of Greystone.
It was worse than Alira remembered.
The village was half-abandoned. Roofs caved in. Doors swung on broken hinges. Fields overgrown with weeds. Only a few signs of life remained—a threadbare curtain fluttering in a window, smoke rising thinly from a single chimney.
"Looks welcoming," Sylas muttered.
Alira pulled her cloak tighter. "We don't stay longer than we need to."
They entered cautiously, weapons ready but hidden. The few villagers they saw—a bent old man stacking firewood, a woman leading a sickly cow—barely spared them a glance. In places like this, survival bred suspicion. Strangers were better ignored than questioned.
At the center of town stood the old inn, its sign a battered thing swinging on rusty chains.
"The Crooked Oak."
Alira led the way inside. The inn's common room was nearly empty—only a handful of patrons hunched over their mugs. The innkeeper, a stout woman with arms like tree trunks, glanced up with tired eyes.
"No trouble," she said flatly, wiping a mug with a dirty cloth. "Or you're out."
"None," Alira said, sliding a few silver coins across the counter.
They secured a room upstairs—small, cold, but with a door that locked. It was enough.
That night, while the wind howled against the shutters, Sylas dreamt.
He stood in a field of blackened earth, under a sunless sky. Shadows towered around him, whispering in tongues he almost understood. In the distance, he saw a figure—cloaked and faceless—beckoning him forward.
"Find the heart," the figure intoned. "Before the chains shatter."
Sylas woke with a start, sweat chilling his skin.
Across the room, Alira stirred but didn't wake. He rose quietly, splashing water on his face from the cracked basin. His reflection stared back—paler now, the veins at his neck faintly darkened.
The shard was changing him.
And whatever the dreams meant, he had no doubt they were tied to it.
By dawn, they were ready to leave Greystone behind.
Their path took them beyond the village into the Wraithpine, a dense, ancient forest where the light barely touched the ground. The trees twisted like gnarled hands, and the air smelled of damp earth and something... older.
Alira led them through narrow animal trails, avoiding the main paths. Every step deeper felt like a step back in time.
"How far?" Sylas asked after a while.
"Another day's walk," Alira said. "Maybe less if we push."
They did.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, they finally saw it through the trees: a stone cottage half-swallowed by vines, standing defiantly against the creeping wilderness.
Smoke curled lazily from its crooked chimney.
Alira approached first, hand on her dagger, and knocked sharply.
The door creaked open.
An old woman peered out—her hair a wild mane of white, her sharp eyes glinting with intelligence—and something else. Recognition flickered across her face as she spotted Alira.
"Took you long enough, girl," she said. Then her gaze shifted to Sylas.
And she frowned.
"You bring me trouble," she said, voice rough as gravel. "And it wears a man's skin."
Sylas stiffened instinctively, but Alira stepped forward.
"We need your help, Merith," she said simply. "He's carrying something... ancient. Something wrong."
Merith's eyes never left Sylas. She studied him as if peeling back his skin with her gaze.
Finally, she opened the door wider.
"Then you better come in," she said. "Before the forest decides to eat you both."
They stepped into the cottage together, the door shutting behind them with a final-sounding thud.
Inside, the shadows seemed to press close.
And the real answers waited.