Morning broke slowly, bleeding pale light through the heavy boughs above. The forest hadn’t woken yet. No birdsong. No rustling wind. Just mist curling around the roots and the low creak of branches settling in the chill.

  Zafran was already awake.

  He sat near the cold remains of the fire, his gear packed neatly beside him. His sword leaned against a log, freshly oiled. Boots laced tight. His breath fogged faintly in the cold as he scanned the quiet camp.

  Karin groaned softly in her sleep, turning over in her blanket. She’d burned through half the clearing last night trying to launch herself with fire. Lucky the trees didn’t catch.

  Ysar snored once and shifted violently, pulling the blanket over his head. Elsha, as always, was the most composed—even in sleep, she looked alert, her body curled with subtle readiness.

  Zafran rose without sound, brushed dirt from his coat, and turned toward the treeline.

  That’s when he saw her.

  Isolde.

  Standing at the clearing’s edge, half-shadowed beneath a wide oak. Her back to him, pale cloak dusted with early dew. She moved with deliberate quiet, folding a small cloth around something in her hand. Her pack—barely a thing, really—lay open beside her boots.

  She hadn’t noticed him. Or maybe she had, and just didn’t care.

  After a breath, he stepped closer. His boots barely whispered on the damp earth.

  “You’re up early,” he said.

  She didn’t turn.

  “You sleep too much,” she replied evenly.

  He walked a little closer, stopping just outside her reach. “You always move this far ahead without a word?”

  Her hands didn’t stop working. “You always follow strangers into the dark?”

  He didn’t answer that.

  Instead, his voice lowered slightly. “Can you tell us where you’re leading us?”

  She tightened the roll in her hands, tied it clean, then finally turned her head enough to glance at him. The pale teal of her eyes cut through the mist like knives. Cold. Clear.

  “If you assumed there was a path, that’s on you.”

  Zafran stood still. “We’re not trying to get in your way.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You were in my way.”

  He met her gaze without flinching. “We’re not your enemy.”

  Her expression didn’t shift. “That doesn’t make you my ally.”

  The forest seemed to press in around them—still hushed, still waiting.

  Zafran let out a long breath, half a sigh. “Alright… guess I’ll go wake the others. Before you decide to disappear again.”

  He turned, taking a slow step back toward the camp.

  Behind him, Isolde turned as well, crouching to close her pack. She gave no response. No farewell. Her presence felt less like part of the group—and more like something the group simply orbited around.

  When Zafran glanced back once more, she was already standing again, hood raised, pale cloak still unstained by the morning mud.

  The gap between them hadn’t narrowed.

  Not in steps.

  Not in words.

  Just another stretch of frost between dawn and whatever waited ahead.

  Zafran stepped back into the clearing.

  The camp was already beginning to stir.

  Elsha stood near the remains of the fire, cloak fastened, hair tied, checking over her belt and boots with practiced precision. She didn’t glance up—just gave a quiet nod, already sensing his return.

  Karin was halfway through tightening her boots, arms resting on her knees. She looked up as he passed and gave a slow smirk.

  “So?” she asked, voice light. “Did the frost princess melt for you?”

  Zafran gave her a flat look. “She’s leaving.”

  Karin stretched her arms, cracking her neck. “Of course she is.”

  Near one of the trees, Ysar stirred with a groan, rubbing his face. He sat up slowly, hair mussed, one boot halfway on. “You people really don’t believe in gentle mornings, do you?”

  “You snored,” Elsha said calmly, securing the last strap of her gear. “So you owe us the quiet.”

  Ysar blinked at her, then squinted toward Zafran. “So what’d she say?”

  “She didn’t,” Zafran replied, shouldering his pack.

  Karin sighed dramatically. “And yet somehow we keep chasing her like lost dogs.”

  “She doesn’t wait,” Zafran said simply. “Be ready.”

  Ysar grabbed his pack, muttering. “Yeah, yeah… I’m up.”

  Within minutes, the fire was stamped out, bedrolls tied, and the camp stripped clean—just another ghost of travelers in the forest, already vanishing with the morning mist.

  Ahead, somewhere through the trees, a pale cloak moved again. And like always, they followed.

  The trail twisted upward, dew still clinging to the undergrowth. Morning had deepened, but the trees stayed thick, filtering sunlight into gold-tinged shafts. Birds returned in hesitant songs, their calls faint beneath the rustle of leaves.

  They moved in a quiet line.

  Isolde walked in front—her pace deliberate, her footing unbroken. She never looked back. Her cloak barely shifted as she passed beneath the branches, a figure carved from stillness and sharp motion.

  Zafran followed at a measured distance.

  The others trailed farther behind. Karin’s footsteps came light but tired. Ysar’s boots occasionally scuffed against roots. Elsha said nothing, though her eyes flicked between them now and then.

  But up front—it was just the sound of breath and boots on soil.

  And silence.

  Until Zafran spoke.

  “Your swordplay is unique.”

  Isolde didn’t break stride. “So?”

  “I mean, it’s not one that can be seen anywhere.”

  He wasn’t trying to provoke—his tone was soft, conversational even—but it brushed against something in the air. A weight not visible, but felt.

  She exhaled through her nose. “You talk too much for a swordsman.”

  Zafran smiled faintly. “That’s because most swordsmen die before they get to explain.”

  She said nothing.

  But she didn’t walk faster, either.

  He let the moment stretch. Then:

  “Where did you learn?”

  A longer pause.

  “That’s not your business to know, Ocean Tide.”

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  Zafran slowed half a step—brows raised in surprise.

  She added. “Ocean Tide Royal knight, Anyone could tell from miles away. That stance. That discipline. That magic you’re not using.”

  His jaw tensed slightly.

  “I’ve met your kind before,” she said, voice quieter now. “The ones who follow orders and pretend they don’t have questions.”

  “That’s not me.” he answered, softly.

  They kept walking, his eyes flicking between her and the path ahead.

  “Stop analyzing me,” she muttered.

  “I’m not,” he said. “I’m trying to understand.”

  “Don’t.”

  This time, it wasn’t a warning.

  It was a wall.

  The forest closed again around them, whispering with leaf and wind. Between root and rock, their pace continued.

  After half day of walking, they stopped near a stream—unspoken, unplanned, just as they always did.

  Isolde slowed first, stepping down toward the water without a word. The others, without instruction, drifted to a halt several paces behind her. Not close. Not far. Like they were all part of the same shadow trailing her steps.

  The stream murmured low through damp rocks and roots. Sunlight cut through the canopy in narrow beams, dancing faintly across the water’s surface.

  Ysar sighed as he dropped onto a flat stone. “Finally. I was beginning to think she’d keep walking us unto death”

  Karin stop nearby on a moss patch, frowning at her sleeve. “She might still.”

  She held out her hand and sparked a flame—bright, small, but twitching. She shaped it slowly, then pushed her weight forward—slipped.

  Thud.

  The flame burst wide and vanished. She hissed as her sleeve singed again.

  “Damn, why is it so hard”

  Elsha knelt by the stream, filling her flask. “You alright?”

  “Just mildly roasted.” Karin leaned back on her palms. “Next time I’ll wear metal armor.”

  Zafran stood off to the side, crouched by a stump, checking the straps of his sword and the contents of his pack.

  Karin narrowed her eyes slightly. “Three times.”

  Elsha raised a brow. “Hm?”

  “He tried talking to her—three times just this morning.”

  Ysar leaned in with a grin. “You counted?”

  “Three’s not hard to count.”

  “Maybe he’s finally in love,” Ysar said, stretching.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Karin scoffed. “Zafran doesn’t do love. He does sharp edges and bad sleep.”

  Elsha capped her flask. “He’s just trying to understand where we’re going. If she’s going to drag us off a cliff, he’d like to know ahead of time.”

  Karin muttered, “He could’ve just asked me.”

  “You don’t know either,” Ysar pointed out.

  She sighed, flicking a pebble into the stream. “I’m not so sure that’s the case.”

  “It is,” Elsha answered steadily.

  Before any of them could say more, Isolde was already on the move.

  She didn’t say a word—just rose from the water’s edge, turned, and walked on.

  “Wait, what? That’s it?” Ysar flailed a hand. “I was just starting to enjoy this stop!”

  But Zafran had already shouldered his pack.

  Elsha stood, tightening the strap on hers.

  Karin gave one more look toward the stream—then toward the trail.

  Then she followed too.

  No call to move. No warning.

  Just the way forward, again, shaped in the silence of her footsteps.

  By the time the light thinned and shadows stretched long, they stopped.

  The campfire took shape as the sun dipped below the treetops.

  Ysar set up the pot. Karin tossed a few twigs into the center and nodded toward Elsha. “Your turn.”

  Elsha knelt and focused, hand hovering. It took a moment before the spark caught, flame curling to life.

  Isolde sat against a tree, apart from the group—again.

  No one commented.

  It had become rhythm by now.

  The fire cracked gently.

  They shared a quiet meal—dried meat and roots boiled into thin broth.

  No complaints.

  Not even from Ysar.

  As the last light died, and their makeshift camp settled into stillness, Karin stood.

  “I’ll be over there,” she said vaguely, nodding to a patch of cleared ground just beyond the ring of firelight.

  No one asked. She walked off, her hands already kindling flame. She wasn’t trying to burn. She was trying to understand.

  Elsha watched her go. Then rose too—quietly, but with something sharper in her step.

  Ysar raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re—”

  “You’re joining.”

  He groaned. “You’ve got a cruel sense of timing.”

  “You’ve got a lazy sense of urgency.”

  He smirked but stood. “Fine. But if I break something, I’m making you carry me.”

  They moved to another edge of the camp—cleared ground under a loose canopy.

  Each drew their blades.

  No warm-up needed.

  From the first step, it was clear—they had trained together for years.

  Elsha struck first, sharp and direct—a clean thrust aimed at Ysar’s center. He sidestepped with a grin, parried the blade down, and rolled it into a sweeping arc, forcing her to retreat half a step.

  Their rhythm was honed, measured in instinct and memory. Elsha advanced with tight footwork, each strike deliberate—no wasted movement. Her blade danced in clean lines, high guard shifting to low with the grace of repetition drilled a thousand times.

  Ysar met her head-on—more reactive, more reckless, but no less skilled. He ducked under her slash, pivoted on one foot, and brought his sword up in a rising arc that kissed the edge of her collar. She spun aside, caught the next blow with the flat of her blade, and twisted—locking his wrist for a heartbeat before disengaging.

  Steel rang. Sparks flickered.

  Ysar launched a feint to the left, then curved inward, blade slicing low. Elsha read the trick and countered with a kick to his shin, driving him off balance. He stumbled, caught himself, and laughed.

  “Not fair.”

  “You blinked.”

  Another exchange followed—faster this time. Ysar pressed in with a flurry of quick cuts, all speed and flair. Elsha didn’t falter. She absorbed his momentum, deflected each strike, and turned the last one into a riposte that nearly disarmed him.

  Steel rang. Sparks flickered.

  Zafran watched from the fire, silent. Observing.

  After a few minutes, he walked over.

  “Ysar,” he called, “stop showing off. It’s slowing you down.”

  Ysar ducked under a narrow arc and grinned. “Not that easy! You try blocking her!”

  Zafran didn’t argue. Elsha was sharp tonight. Calm, but fierce. One of the best blades from the younger Azure Wind ranks—and it showed.

  He gave a few more notes. “Too wide on your follow-through. Tighten it. Elsha—good read, but don’t lean too far forward. Reset your weight.”

  They adjusted mid-motion.

  The spar picked up pace. More clash. More grit. Boots skidding in the dirt, breath drawing tight between movements.

  Then—

  A voice, from just beyond the firelight.

  “If you want them to improve,” Isolde said, cool and clear, “then stop circling and show them something.”

  Zafran turned.

  She stepped from the edge of the trees, sword already in hand. No tension. No flourish. Just presence.

  “Demonstration,” she said. “Unless you’d rather keep giving advice from the sidelines.”

  Zafran gave a long sigh.

  “Come on,” he muttered. “I don’t want to fight.”

  “Sparring,” she said flatly, “is not a fight. Unless you make it one.”

  Another pause.

  Then, without another word, Zafran drew his sword.

  Elsha and Ysar stepped aside quickly, watching with widened eyes. Even Karin paused—her training forgotten, the flames in her palms slipping into stillness.

  All eyes turned to the clearing.

  Zafran squared his stance.

  The clearing held its breath.

  The moment Zafran’s sword left its sheath, Isolde was already on him.

  She didn’t wait.

  Her sword came in sharp—a streak of silver that trailed frost in its wake. Zafran caught it in time, metal shrieking against metal. The shock of the blow reverberated through his arms.

  “That’s cheating,” he muttered, sliding backward.

  Isolde followed, not giving space. “That’s how a fight is.”

  “You said it’s spa..!”

  Another slash. Then a thrust. Then a turn and a feint that almost broke through his guard.

  Zafran blocked, parried, dodged. Barely.

  Her strikes weren’t wild—they were intentional. Too fast. Too sharp. Like she was reading the next movement before he even made it.

  Boots kicked up dust and frost. Sparks flew again.

  “She’s fast,” Elsha murmured.

  “She’s terrifying,” Ysar corrected. Eye widened in the fight before him.

  Zafran ducked under a diagonal cut, twisting to reset his stance. But her footwork mirrored his like water around stone.

  “Isn’t this a little too much!?” he said, deflecting a jab that nearly took his shoulder.

  “Stop talking,” she answered. “You’re not here to talk.”

  One cut grazed past his cheek—a thin line of blood trailing down.

  Isolde stopped.

  But not to relent.

  Her free hand lifted.

  Lightning.

  The crackle surged in her palm with a sudden flash—and before Zafran could move, she fired.

  The bolt struck his guard with a deafening snap. He braced, sword raised, but the force sent him flying—backward into a thick tree trunk with a thud that shook the roots beneath them.

  The whole camp froze.

  Karin stood. “She—she’s using two second-tier elements…”

  Elsha’s eyes widened. “Lightning and Ice…”

  Zafran groaned, forcing himself upright. His breath came rough, muscles trembling from the shock.

  Isolde walked toward him, slowly, sword still in hand, pace deliberate.

  “If you keep holding back, Ocean Tide…” her voice was cold, calm. “You’ll regret losing someone.”

  With a flick of her hand, ice bloomed across the ground.

  A narrow spike rose behind her—angled toward Karin.

  Just a silent message.

  A memory.

  A warning.

  Karin’s eyes narrowed. Flames curled in her palm—brighter than before. “That’s not his fault.”

  “Is it?” Isolde asked, slowly turned to her.

  Karin didn’t speak.

  But her stance shifted, lower, ready.

  She didn’t care if it was sparring or not.

  Isolde raised her sword again.

  The flame in Karin’s hand surged.

  But just before she moved—

  “Let’s call it a night,” Zafran said.

  His voice was quiet. Steady. But final.

  He stepped forward—wounded, strained—but sword still in hand. He moved between them without fear, as though the ice beneath him wasn’t still alive.

  Isolde’s eyes flicked to his face. Her sword didn’t lower.

  Still—no glow.

  Still—no magic from him.

  “Stubborn,” she muttered.

  “You too,” he said, this time with a faint smile.

  A long beat passed.

  Then, with a soft sigh, she turned her sword aside.

  “Do whatever you want.”

  She stepped away, leaving only frost and tension behind.

  Karin slowly let her fire dim. Her heart still pounded, but the anger in her chest didn’t.

  Not fully.

  Zafran let out a long breath.

  Elsha shook her head. “That wasn’t sparring.”

  “She’s being… kind…” Zafran said, voice quiet.

  Both Karin and Ysar turned toward him at once.

  Karin turned sharply, eyes still burning. “Kind? now that’s your standard of being kind?”

  “She’s warning… me,” Zafran said, defensively, but steady.

  Karin’s jaw tightened. “If she wanted to talk, she could’ve used words.”

  “She did,” he said. “Just not the way you wanted.”

  Ysar lifted a hand between them. “Alright, alright—let’s take a deep breath before anyone flings actual fire or ice again.”

  No one laughed, but the tension dropped a fraction.

  Karin looked away, jaw still clenched. The flame in her palm flared once—then dimmed.

  She didn’t argue further.

  She just walked off.

  Back to her corner of the clearing.

  Zafran didn’t stop her.

  And Ysar let out a breath that tried to be a whistle but came out more like a sigh. “Next time we spar, I vote we use sticks.”

  “No,” Elsha said, already rising. “Pick up your blade.”

  “What!?” Ysar blinked. “I thought I’d earned a break after such a theatrical performance.”

  “We didn’t even break a sweat,” Elsha replied—and lunged at him.

  Steel hissed as Ysar scrambled back, just barely drawing in time.

  “Hey! That’s cheating!”

  She didn’t answer—only pressed forward, strikes crisp, steady, relentless.

  And just like that, the rhythm resumed.

  The clearing lived again with the clash of blades, while fire crackled, and frost slowly faded from the earth. The night wrapped around them— quiet, tense, unfinished.

  And so the days stretched forward—quiet trails by morning, sparring echoes by night.

  Zafran kept trying—careful questions, moments of quiet beside her shadow. Karin trained harder, burned hotter. Ysar joked. Elsha watched. And Isolde walked ahead, always silent, always just far enough.

  But now, sometimes, when she slowed…

  Zafran didn’t trail so far behind.

  On Magic and Elements

  Hey, thank you for reading this far! I think this is a good moment to explain how magic works in the world of this novel—for those of you who’ve been following along up to this chapter.

  Magic in this world is drawn from planar forces and structured around six fundamental elements:

  ? Order – Often used in barriers, bindings, and enchantments that stabilize or enforce form.

  ? Water – The manipulation of liquids, water, needed a body of water to see its potential.

  ? Air – fast and light, used for mobility, some might create a cut by sending wind force.

  ? Chaos – the element of entropy and instability; used for disruptive magic, illusions, and unpredictable energy, one of the most dangerous magic.

  ? Fire – direct and volatile, used for raw heat, combustion, and propulsion.

  ? Geo – grounded and solid; shaping terrain.

  These six form a planar ring and can be visualized as points on a hexagram. Elements sitting next to each other can be combined into secondary magic, which is more complex than the base but still intuitive:

  ? Order + Water → Ice

  ? Water + Air → Mist

  ? Air + Chaos → Lightning

  ? Chaos + Fire → Ash / Black Fire

  ? Fire + Geo → Metal / Magma

  ? Geo + Order → Crystal

  Combinations of elements that are not adjacent form tertiary magic—far more complex to control, and usually rare outside of specialist:

  ? Water + Geo → Nature

  ? Order + Air → Life

  ? Water + Chaos → Dark

  ? Air + Fire → Blight

  ? Chaos + Geo → Poison

  ? Fire + Order → Holy

  These tiers don’t reflect how powerful the magic is—just how complex it is to produce and maintain. Most mages choose to master a single primary element, which allows for deeper control and less energy loss in conversion. Specialization usually yields stronger, more reliable results.

  Auxiliary Magic

  Zafran is trained in a unique discipline known as Auxiliary Magic, a form of channeling where the mage doesn’t release magic outward but instead internalizes the elemental flow to enhance their own body.

  The core element for auxiliary magic is Mist—a secondary magic formed from Water + Air. Normally, Mist is used for cover, stealth, and environment manipulation. But for Auxiliary users, like the Ocean Tide Royal Knights, Mist has been used in a totally different way:

  They concentrated internal flow—using the planar force to enhance reflexes, perception, breathing, and fluid movement. It requires constant planar control, without letting the magic disperse. It’s difficult, mentally taxing, and completely impractical without rigorous training.

  But in the hands of someone physically trained, this turns into a powerful enhancement.

  Thank you! Hope you enjoyed the story!