The day was long and grueling. The sun burned hotter than Colin thought it should, and their march through the hills and valleys was thick with a quiet tension.

  During breaks, he and Lyra passed the time with idle chit-chat and an impromptu game of I Spy.

  “I spy with my little eye… something hairy,” Lyra said with a smirk.

  “Bram. Too easy.” Colin chuckled.

  Lyra burst into laughter and slid closer to walk beside him. “Man, you’re way too good at this game. Where’d you learn it? I’ve never played before.”

  Colin smiled, though the warmth of it faded as quickly as it came. “Ah… Just a game my dad taught me growing up.” A lump formed in his throat, and for a moment, he struggled to swallow past it.

  Lyra didn’t seem to notice his shift in mood. “You caught on fast, though. Quick learner, you Rykes, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s basically all we ever do. Learn, learn, and then learn some more. I’ve probably forgotten more about music than most bards will ever know.” She gave a casual shrug. “Thankfully, we have magic to help us keep track of things.”

  Colin raised a brow. “You are a wonderful bard. That ballad from last night brought tears to my eyes. How long have you been working on that one?”

  “That? Oh, that’s an old war song. I learned it from an Elvish bard over a decade ago. It’s pretty simple if you’ve heard it sung to you and know the language. Still hits hard, though, eh?”

  Colin nearly tripped over his own feet. A decade? He had figured Lyra was in her late teens—maybe her early twenties at most. She definitely seemed younger than him.

  “A decade? That’s a long time to remember something. How old are you, anyway? I thought you were the youngest in your adventuring group.”

  Lyra snorted. “Youngest? No way. That title actually goes to Sskarin. She’s nineteen—which is older for a Rexlan. Me? I’m twenty-nine.”

  Colin gawked. “You’re older than me?!”

  She grinned, clearly enjoying his shock. “Yeah, that tracks. You humans have such short lifespans. The only people I know with shorter ones are the Rexlan. They might live to sixty if they’re lucky.”

  “Damn… That’s insane. So you’ve been a bard for, what, fifteen years?”

  “Twenty, actually. I started as a kid. My parents always said: If you can walk and talk, you can strum and sing. It’s the family tradition, so it wasn’t exactly unexpected.” She smiled, glancing up at the sky. “I’m just glad it lets me live freely. Some careers don’t offer that.”

  A thought struck Colin. “Wait. Do you know a Ryke named Graves?”

  Lyra’s expression shifted, her eyes darting around almost conspiratorially. “Everyone does.”

  She lowered her voice. “He was a prodigy—scared some of the elders, even. He started with necromancy. Not too uncommon. Most healers have at least some necromantic magic in their arsenal to help stave off death. But Graves? He took it way further than most.”

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  “Necromancy?” Colin frowned. “I figured that would be, like… illegal.”

  “Oh, it is in some places,” she admitted. “But most of Kythros understands it’s necessary sometimes. People can sign away the use of their bodies for research. It usually pays a hefty sum to their loved ones, so it’s not like anyone’s being taken advantage of. Unsanctioned necromancy, though? That’s punishable by death.”

  “So what did Graves do? What made him a legend instead of some creepy necromancer dude?”

  Lyra exhaled, a spark of admiration in her eyes. “He mastered two schools of magic.”

  Colin blinked. “That’s rare?”

  She nodded. “Extremely. Most Rykes pick a single school and focus on pushing it forward—advancing magic for everyone. It’s every Ryke’s goal to create a new spell that changes the field they’ve dedicated their life to.”

  Her voice took on a rhythm as she spoke, like she was reciting a history she’d long since memorized. Colin found himself captivated, hanging on to every word.

  And as their march stretched on, he listened.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Some twenty miles away, a man sat upon a throne of steel and bone, his fingers drumming lazily against the armrest as he listened to the report. The surviving members of the force that had attacked the caravan knelt before him, their heads bowed in shame or fear—or both. He sifted through the information, plucking out the details that interested him most, and dismissed the rest.

  “The Dusk-Rose,” he mused, his voice low and contemplative. “Once again, you’ve landed on my radar. A pity. I had hoped you would prove more useful to me than as a mere example.”

  His eyes flicked to a trembling servant standing at the edge of the room, his presence barely worth acknowledging. The man pointed at him with a single, deliberate movement.

  “You,” he said, his tone sharp enough to cut. “Send word to our contact. The head of the Dusk-Rose must be removed as soon as possible. If they fail, the Bloom will wither.”

  The servant flinched and scuttled away, moving as quickly as his limp would allow. Veyfeyst’s lip curled in disdain. Weakness. He would need to correct that.

  Turning his attention back to the written report, his slitted pupils narrowed. The Dusk-Rose had gained a new member. Young, untested—an unknown. Not even a name had been attached to the report. No matter. Songbird would reach out soon with a full update. Spies were always such a hassle. Were it up to him, he would have handled this with a more direct approach—challenged Bram to single combat, split his skull open, and left his corpse for the vultures.

  But no. This mission required patience. Tact.

  He took a slow breath, schooling himself against the irritation bubbling in his gut. He WOULD succeed. He WOULD find that necromancer.

  The tent village sprawled before him as he stepped outside, a miserable pit of mud and canvas. He had barely taken two steps before something collided with his leg. A small boy—scrawny, underfed—stared up at him in horror before scrambling to gather the papers he had dropped.

  “S-Sorry, sir,” the boy stammered, keeping his eyes on the ground. “Please forgive my thoughtlessness and clumsiness.”

  Veyfeyst didn’t even pause. His boot lashed out, catching the boy square in the gut. The child crumpled, tumbling backward into a wooden support beam, papers fluttering into the dirt. A sharp cough rattled from his throat as he curled in on himself, but Veyfeyst had already moved on. The weak did not deserve his attention.

  At the barracks, the guard at the entrance snapped to attention, stepping aside without a word. Inside, the so-called ‘elites’ were already waiting. They stood rigid, faces schooled into impassivity. Only their leader had the nerve to speak.

  “Lord Veyfeyst, sir! We are ready to move on your command.”

  Veyfeyst smiled. It was not a pleasant expression. His sallow features stretched with effort, and the gesture carried no warmth, no kindness—only scorn. It was a reminder, silent but absolute, that he was better than them.

  He exhaled slowly. “Let’s go ransack a caravan.”

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Back at the caravan, Colin felt a shudder run through him. They had finally stopped for the evening but something was nagging at him. A feeling of impending doom.

  He shook it off as Lyra came and dragged him towards the fire Bram had built. He wouldn’t let his negative thoughts take away from the joys of comradery that night.