Chapter 15
Colin didn’t sleep well that night.
What little rest he managed was fractured—haunted by shadowy dreams where friends turned into strangers, their voices warped into cruel accusations and punishments that echoed like judgment. Faces blurred. Voices rose.
He woke gasping, heart pounding, as if his guilt had grown claws and embedded them deep into his chest.
By the time he stirred again, dawn was just a whisper on the horizon, painting the treetops in the softest gold. He spotted Nectarine stepping down from the wagon, rubbing her eyes as she settled beside the smoldering ashes of last night’s fire.
He figured now was as good a time as any to rise.
As he began rolling up his bedroll and folding his tarp, Colin found himself humming—softly, absently—a song his mother used to sing to him. Something from an old rock band, long before his time. He didn’t remember the name, just the melody and the warmth in her voice when she’d sing it.
If only she could see me now…
He smiled, just a little. She’d be horrified. A sword on his hip. Traveling with strangers through wild lands. She’d probably faint on the spot.
But his dad? His dad would be grinning like a fool, giving him that stupid thumbs-up of his, the one that said: You go, son. I’m proud of you.
The smile faltered. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes—sudden and sharp.
He stopped what he was doing. Sat back on his heels. Let the weight of it all settle for once. The grief. The loneliness. The way he never got to say goodbye.
A quiet sob broke free, then another. He didn’t try to hold it in.
A gentle hand touched his shoulder.
Colin looked up to find Nectarine crouched beside him, her face etched with concern, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You alright, Colin?”
He nodded, not trusting his voice at first. The others were still asleep—only the birds and the wind bore witness.
“Yeah… just remembering my family,” he said eventually. “It’s been hard without them. I feel like… like ever since the Goblin thing, I’ve been moving nonstop. No time to actually feel what’s happened. No time to grieve. Everything’s changed, and I haven’t had a second to process any of it.”
Nectarine looked down at her boots, then back up at him. There was something unreadable in her expression. Pity, maybe. Or shared pain.
“I get that,” she said softly. “And if you ever need to talk—about them, about anything—I’m here. I mean that.”
Colin sniffled, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He managed a shaky smile.
“Thanks, Nectar. I appreciate it. I probably do need to talk. Sooner or later.”
But the truth was… something felt off.
He knew he should be more upset. Should feel something rawer, deeper. But instead, there was a strange kind of distance behind his sorrow. Like his grief had been packed in cotton, dulled around the edges. It disturbed him—not because he wasn’t crying, but because it felt like something in him had stepped in and said: Not now. Not yet.
And even more unsettling… he’d let it.
A cool, unshakable logic settled over his thoughts. Familiar now, like a warm cloak draped over his shoulders.
His newly acquired skill had activated again, unbidden. A passive clarity that silenced the chaos of the heart.
Thinking about the past won’t help anyone right now.
The caravan needs to move.
____________________________________________________________________________
Far from the kingdom of the Rykes, a brutal war was raging. The battlefield was carpeted with corpses, blood-soaked earth churned beneath boots and hooves alike. The air stank of iron, sweat, and death. Carrion birds circled above in greedy flocks, cawing over their future meals as the surviving warriors clashed in frenzied combat.
The daemonic legions from the Wastes fought like beasts unleashed. Their jagged blades dripped with gore, their armor adorned with the skulls of fallen foes. They barked guttural threats in their infernal tongue, voices like gravel and fire. Every swing of their wicked weapons promised death.
Holding the line against them were the soldiers of King Berk, newly crowned ruler of the fledgling kingdom of Berkshire. They stood bloodied, bruised, but unbroken—though barely. And at the very front of the chaos, fighting shoulder to shoulder with his men, was Berk himself. A towering figure in shining plate, his blade dancing through the enemy with divine fury.
He brought his sword down in a brutal arc, cleaving a daemon clean in two. Its entrails splattered across the dirt, but Berk’s gleaming armor remained untouched, the gore sliding from it as if the metal itself rejected corruption. The sight of their king wading through monsters like an avenging angel sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through the men beside him. They roared, and they fought harder.
Berk knew this battle was a losing one. Dozens had already died—too many. But if this horde breached the border, thousands more would follow. He should’ve called for reinforcements, he knew that. But pride, politics, and desperation had kept him rooted. Now all he could do was pray that something—anything—would intervene.
The daemons had the numbers. And they didn’t die easily.
Forty men became thirty. Thirty became twenty. The ground grew slick with blood, littered with severed limbs and ruined armor. The screams of the wounded echoed in every direction, blending into a nightmarish chorus.
Twenty became fifteen. Then ten.
The remaining soldiers formed a desperate knot around Berk, backs to each other as the enemy circled like wolves. The daemons jeered, testing for weaknesses, eyes gleaming with hunger.
Still Berk held the line. When ten became five, he still held.
He shouted with raw fury, voice hoarse, sword stained to the hilt. The surviving men rallied to him, clinging to his presence like a lighthouse in a storm of blood and madness.
And then—time broke.
A daemon's axe was arcing toward Berk's neck, its jagged edge singing through the air. At the same time, Berk’s blade was buried in the creature’s chest. They locked eyes, both mid-scream, both mid-kill.
Then—nothing.
The daemon’s head vanished. Not severed—gone. No blood. No explosion. Just a sudden absence. Its body collapsed, spraying a thick curtain of blood from the ragged stump of its neck.
Berk turned, blade raised.
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No more daemons.
Only silence.
Only his four remaining men, panting and blood-soaked, and one figure standing calmly amid the ruin.
The man wore robes woven from black feathers, the edges fluttering despite the still air. A porcelain raven mask hid his face, but not his voice.
“Ahhh, Berk. Lovely to see you again. Shame about the circumstances.”
That voice—it was like silk dragged across broken glass. The smile in his tone sent a chill down Berk’s spine. The mask’s eyeholes revealed pupils like slit moons, sharp and predatory. Daemonblood pulsed in his veins, barely restrained.
“Graves,” Berk rasped. “Can’t say I’m disappointed. Though, if you’d gotten here a few minutes earlier, we might’ve had more men for the trip back.”
His voice was strained, but laced with that stubborn warmth. Everyone here had known this might be their last stand. Even Berk.
Graves tilted his head, amused. “You know how it is with time magic, Berky boy. Can’t hit the precise second, but give or take five minutes? I show up right on cue.”
He stepped forward and offered his arm.
Berk clasped it, pulling the man into a brief, hard embrace. As their arms locked, a surge of raw magic rushed into him—cool, stabilizing, easing the burn in his muscles and the tremble in his limbs.
“We need to talk,” Graves said quietly. “Something’s happening. Something big. And the boys upstairs? The old ones? They’re not happy.”
That stopped Berk cold.
If Graves was worried, the sky itself might as well be falling.
Berk sheathed his blade, eyes narrowing.
“My camp’s a mile back. Let’s go.”
____________________________________________________________________________
“To get to the other side!”
Lyra burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. Nectar just blinked, clearly confused. Kae gave Colin a light slap on the back of the head.
“Stupid joke,” the Frosk muttered—but he was grinning.
“You just wanted to hit me,” Colin replied, smirking.
“That was certainly a benefit to your bad joke, yes.”
“Why would a chicken cross the road? Aren’t chickens raised in coops?” Nectar asked, genuinely puzzled.
“That’s why it’s funny,” Colin said. “Why would a chicken cross the road?”
Nectar’s expression didn’t change. Still lost. Lyra, steadying herself as her laughter died down, threw an arm over Colin’s shoulder.
“Oh gods, thank you for that, Colin. Can I steal that for a show sometime?”
“Yeah, of course. It’s an old favorite back in my… village.”
He hesitated for only a second on the word. Village was easier than world.
They’d covered a solid ten miles that day, the flat terrain a welcome relief. Grayne had paused them for lunch and mentioned they were just a day’s walk from the next stop. Colin looked forward to it—another break from the relentless march and training. A chance to catch his breath and learn more about this strange world.
More importantly, he had questions for Bram.
He’d been tinkering with the system again earlier that morning, trying to get a better feel for how it actually worked. That’s when he’d noticed one of his skills—[Tranquil Edge]—was tagged as automatic. He couldn’t activate it. He couldn’t turn it off. It just... was.
It hadn’t caused any real harm. Actually, it had helped him stay calm, stay sharp. But it bothered him all the same. There was something unsettling about not being able to feel everything properly. As if some part of him was being muted, held just out of reach. He could remember grief, but he couldn’t feel it the way he knew he should.
Hopefully, Bram could shed some light on it.
Before he realized it, the sun was already sinking beneath the treeline. The day had bled away in a blink. Time to start looking for a spot to camp.
Colin’s eyes swept the forest edges on instinct. Quiet. Calm. Uneventful. Until a harsh CAW cut through the stillness like a knife.
He turned toward the sound and spotted it—perched on a low-hanging branch was a large raven. But not just any raven. This one was albino, its feathers pale as snow, its beady eyes locked straight onto his.
Huh. That’s weird.
The bird tilted its head, tracking his movement as he stared back at it. It didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
A nudge at his side made him jump.
“Watcha lookin’ at?” Lyra asked.
Colin blinked and pointed toward the branch. “There—what? Where did it go?”
He scanned the treeline, eyes darting from shadow to sky, but the raven was gone. No rustling branches, no sound of wings.
“Where did what go?” Lyra tilted her head, watching him curiously.
“There was a white raven. Right there. I swear.”
“Huh. Weird. Ravens are pretty common out here, but I’ve never seen a white one.”
“Yeah... it was beautiful. Really unusual. Maybe it nested somewhere in the woods?”
Even as he said it, Colin knew it wasn’t likely. That raven hadn’t felt... normal. He hadn’t even had time to toss it a scrap of food or anything. And yet it had watched him like it knew him. He thought about what he remembered of corvids—how smart they were. How they could remember faces. Hold grudges. Pass on stories.
If he saw it again, he’d be ready. Maybe he could earn its trust.
“Well, crap,” Lyra muttered suddenly.
Colin’s thoughts snapped back to the present as a loud crack echoed across the road. One of the wagons had hit a pothole, and the wheel had given out—snapped clean through several spokes. The whole thing sagged hard to the side.
Colin sighed.
Of course.
____________________________________________________________________________
The campfire crackled and spit out sparks, casting golden flickers against the faces gathered around it. The mead was warm—almost too warm—but still went down easy. The company, though, was better than the drink.
Colin sat shoulder-to-shoulder with the rest of the Dusk Rose. Everyone was here tonight. Bram had taken center stage, regaling them with one of his well-worn tales from the mines.
Most of the crew had heard the story before. They listened anyway—for Colin’s sake, mostly. He was still soaking in every bit of dwarven culture he could.
“So there I was,” Bram began, gesturing broadly with his mug, “sittin’ on me bott’m, nary a pick in sight. My boss’s up top, hootin’ an’ hollerin’ like I’d just started the bloody collapse meself. So I grab the first tool I can find—”
“What was it?” Lyra interrupted, grinning, like a kid hearing a favorite bedtime tale.
“A damn bucket,” Bram declared. Laughter rippled around the fire. “Still mined more'n anyone else there that day. Quit the next mornin’—wasn’t worth the hassle. That’s when I started trainin’ to be a priest.”
“That’s quite the shift,” Kae said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah, ‘tis. But best damn decision I ever made.”
Bram took a long pull from his flask, the firelight catching in his beard.
They were staying up late tonight. Grayne had told them they’d get a chance to sleep in—the shattered wagon wheel would take half the morning to fix. If they made good time after that, they might still reach Hallowed Deep before nightfall.
Colin leaned back, letting the warmth of the fire and the hum of conversation wash over him. Nectar had settled beside him, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. He didn’t mind—her presence was warm and grounding, but his mind kept drifting. He was just starting to lose himself in the flames when—
CAW.
He jerked upright, startling Nectar.
“What is it, Colin?” she asked, lifting her head and blinking at him.
“You didn’t hear that?”
“Hear what?”
His mouth opened slightly. The albino raven was perched atop the rope that held up his tarp, its pale feathers glowing faintly in the firelight. Just ten feet away.
“…Never mind,” Colin muttered. “I must’ve been dozing.”
He kept his eyes locked on the bird. It stared back, unmoving.
“You do seem a bit out of it,” Nectar said softly. She stood, brushing off her knees. “Maybe you need to tuck in. Get some rest?”
“Maybe…”
The raven hopped down from the rope, landing with a soft thump in the dirt. It bounced once, twice, then disappeared into the shadows of Colin’s shelter.
Nectar’s fingers slipped into his as she gently tugged him to his feet. Her eyes were soft with concern.
“Just get some rest,” she said, guiding him toward his tarp. “I’ll let you know if anyone does anything ridiculous.” She winked, then turned back toward the firelight.
Colin knelt in front of his bedroll, the fire’s warmth fading behind him. The forest pressed in quiet and dark around the camp.
There, atop his pillow, the albino raven waited. Watching him. Eyes sharp, unreadable. Like it knew him. Like it had been waiting for this moment.
“Well,” Colin said quietly, “hi there, birdy.”
He reached slowly into his pack.
“Want some jerky?”
Thank you all for reading so far. Chapter 15 also marks over 100 pages of the story written in royal road! I wouldn't be here without you consistent readers, so thank you!!!
Should I post Lore Chapters?
