The train whispered through the night, steady and low, its wheels humming over the southern track. Steam curled past the windows like breath on glass, rising and vanishing in rhythm. Outside, the hills had leveled—fields, low ridges, and the faint glint of the distant sea.

  Ocean Tide was close.

  Zafran sat forward on his bunk, elbows on his knees, cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He hadn’t moved in a while—eyes fixed on the blur of landscape slipping past.

  The door eased open behind him.

  Soft steps crossed the cabin floor. He didn’t turn.

  Then she sat—just across from him, back to the bench, knees drawn up beneath her coat.

  Isolde. Her hair was loose for once. No braid. No pins. Just falling past her shoulders in dark waves. The coat she wore looked too thin for the cold, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  He glanced up—and paused.

  Moonlight angled through the window, catching her cheek, her lashes, the quiet curve of her jaw. Pale and still, like something carved into the moment by accident.

  She didn’t speak. Not right away.

  “You’ve been quiet all day,” she said finally.

  Zafran looked down. “Thinking.”

  “Dangerous habit,” she said, voice low.

  He didn’t smile.

  “I keep wondering,” he said, “if we’re already too late.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  He exhaled. “It’s hard to know what’s what anymore. A few months ago, I was just moving crates and keeping knives sharp. Now… this.”

  She didn’t interrupt.

  He looked at her again—quickly this time, less direct. That line of light still held to her face. It hadn’t moved.

  “She’s not fragile,” Isolde said.

  “No,” Zafran murmured. “If she wanted, she could level a city. That’s not what worries me.”

  “Then what?”

  He hesitated.

  Isolde shifted, hugging her knees a little closer. “You care for her?”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Zafran’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost something else.

  “She’s just… a friend. A real one. First I’ve had in a long time, since everything turned to ash.”

  Isolde’s eyes stayed on him.

  “Not pushing back this time?” he asked, half expecting her usual smirk.

  “Maybe I believe you,” she said. “You’ve said it often enough.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “What about the other two? The quiet one and the loud one.”

  Zafran gave a faint breath of laughter. “They’re like little siblings. I’ve known them since they were kids. Elsha used to cry every time Ysar stole her fruit.”

  “That’s… unexpected.”

  “Right? Now it’s reversed. These days Ysar looks ready to cry anytime Elsha glares at him.”

  Isolde chuckled—soft, genuine.

  “Then don’t fall apart before you reach them,” she said. “You’ll need every part of yourself to stand upright in what’s coming.”

  That surprised him—not the words, but the way she said them. Gentle. Earnest.

  “How’s your wound?” he asked after a pause.

  “Mostly healed.”

  Silence again.

  Then she stood, slowly, and moved to the bench beside him. Close, but not too close.

  “It’s colder than I thought,” she murmured, pulling her coat tighter.

  He glanced sideways. “Strange, coming from you.”

  She made a small sound—not quite a laugh. Just the shape of one.

  They sat like that for a while, not touching. Not speaking. Just watching the dark roll past.

  Eventually, she leaned slightly, just enough for her shoulder to brush his. A simple weight. Not heavy.

  “You know,” she said softly, “you’re the first person I’ve spoken to like this in years.”

  “I figured,” he said. “Must be lonely.”

  “I don’t think we’re that different.”

  Another pause.

  Then she shifted again—unintentionally, slowly—and rested her head against his shoulder.

  He didn’t move.

  Her posture had changed. No tension in her neck. No alert in her shoulders. Just rest.

  He watched the moonlight on her face—calm, soft, at peace. And he whispered, more to himself than her—

  “You should rest.”

  But she already had.

  The morning was soft.

  Sunlight slanted across the canvas tents, catching the ropes and iron hooks in warm gold. Market stalls lined the edges of the Azure Wind camp, buzzing with the easy rhythm of trade. Somewhere nearby, someone hammered at a wheel rim. Steam hissed from the forge.

  Karin wiped her brow, smearing soot higher across her cheek. Elsha sat nearby on an overturned crate, boots half-laced, eyes scanning the horizon out of habit.

  A little farther off, Ealden walked behind princess Seren between the tents— Seren carried a small satchel of herbs, something she’d bartered for with surprising charm.

  “You should wear something more casual coming to a place like this, you know?” she said, brushing a breeze-tangled braid from her shoulder. “You invite too much curiosity in that.”

  Ealden gave a long-suffering sigh. “It’s a duty, your highness.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Maybe I should rewrite some knights’d duty document.”

  They were halfway between rows of tents when a rider veered into the path—one of Ocean Tide’s scouts, so hurry that some of the caravan’s shopkeeper swear after him. Dust streaked his coat, and his eyes were sharp, unfocused, like he hadn’t blinked in a while.

  “Commander,” he said quickly, “There’s a situation.”

  Ealden’s entire stance changed. Stillness sharpened into tension.

  “What is it?”

  “We spotted something on the ridge—metal, maybe. Not cavalry. No horses. They don’t walk right, but they’re coming this way.”

  Ealden’s eyes narrowed. “How many?”

  “Couldn’t tell. Five? Ten? Could be more in the fog. Not fast, but… steady. And weird. Real weird.”

  A long pause. Ealden’s mind was already moving.

  “How far?”

  “Twenty minutes, maybe less.”

  Ealden turned instantly. “Your Highness—you need to return to the city.”

  Seren blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not safe here.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “This isn’t a request,” he said, quieter. “If you remain, I can’t guarantee your safety. And if anything happens to you—Ocean Tide falls into chaos.”

  She frowned. “And what about you?”

  “I will hold this line.”

  He turned to the scout. “Escort Her Highness. Do not stop. Get her past the gate, and tell the knights to be prepare, wait for my signal, if anything happen send them here.”

  Seren’s lips parted like she might argue again—then closed.

  A beat passed.

  “You’ll owe me tea when I return,” she said.

  “You’ll have a year’s supply, Your Highness.”

  She nodded once, sharply, and turned.

  Ealden moved fast through the camp, cutting between wagons and cookfires with that clipped, military pace only a few in Azure Wind could read properly.

  He found Kivas by the central line of the caravan, half-bent over a crate of spare saddle leathers, arguing with a smith about weight distribution.

  “Kivas,” Ealden said. “My scout reports company on the eastern ridge.”

  Kivas straightened. “What kind of company?”

  “Hard to say. Said he saw figures. Metal glint. Walked… wrong.”

  Kivas raised a brow. “Wrong how?”

  “Like mechanic, and they’re coming this way.”

  There was a beat of quiet between them.

  Then Kivas sighed and rolled his shoulder.

  “You think it’s a threat?”

  “I think it’s not normal,” Ealden said. “And when something feels off this close to the capital, I don’t wait for certainty.”

  Kivas scanned the camp, squinting toward the misted slope in the distance.

  “We’re not a military camp,” he muttered. “No reason for anyone to pick a fight here.”

  Ealden’s jaw tightened slightly. “They might not be here for the caravan. But we’re between them and something.”

  “Quiet alarm,” Kivas muttered. “Double the outer watch. I’ll pull what hands I can east—”

  Then the wind changed.

  A high, mangled whinny tore across the camp from the ridge.

  Everyone froze.

  Then—

  A scream.

  The lookout came down hard—limbs twisted, face bloodless.

  Then the sound came.

  Clanking. Mechanical. Too fast. Too clean.

  And suddenly they were there—cresting the slope, sprinting.

  Dozens of shapes broke through the fog—

  Charging.

  Things no one ever seen or imagined,

  Their limbs moved with impossible symmetry. Steam hissed from their joints. Arcane lines pulsed bright along their arms and torsos—like veins wired wrong.

  Kivas froze. “What the hell—”

  Ealden didn’t.

  He drew a small flare tube from his belt, bit the cap off, slammed the ignition crystal with his palm—

  BOOM.

  A streak of red fire arced into the morning sky.

  “Sound the alarm!” Kivas shouted. “Get everyone away from the east line!”

  The first Hollowbound hit the base of the slope like a warhammer. A cart flipped, shattered. Two guards were thrown into the dirt—.

  Kivas shouted, “Swords up! Pull the kids west!”

  Ealden ran straight into the oncoming crush, sword drawn. The nearest Hollowbound struck with an arcing arm—Ealden ducked, rolled, slashed beneath its elbow. Sparks, not blood, no feeling at all.

  Karin looked up from the forge—eyes wide, fists already glowing.

  “Elsha!”

  “I’m with you!” Elsha grabbed her blade and was running.

  More Hollowbound were pouring down the ridge.

  Too many.

  Kivas appeared beside Ealden, panting. “What are they!?”

  “Doesn’t matter!” Ealden parried another strike, shouted. “We hold the line!” His sword and body glows with green and blue, imbued with the auxilary magic of Ocean Tide Royal knight, but more dense that what we saw in Zafran, a level fitted for the knight commander, then a slash from him cut the hollowbound into two, but even with just the upper half, it slowly creeps toward him.

  “What was these things…”

  A hollowbound surged toward a cluster of tents—toward the infirmary.

  “WREN!” Kivas roared.

  The medic was already sprinting out with a half-packed satchel, Ysar and another injured followed him. “I see it!”

  “Where’s my blade!?” Ysar shouted,

  “You’re not fighting!” Wren

  “No one can not fight now!” Ysar said,

  A Hollowbound veered toward them. Elsha met it, blade up, slicing for the throat—but it had no throat.

  Karin’s fire erupted—controlled, focused. It smashed into one of their chests.

  The gem cracked.

  The glow inside flickered—and the machine dropped.

  Karin gasped. “The core. Aim for the core!”

  Elsha shouted it down the line.

  “Core! Go for the core!”

  The slope caught flame.

  The Hollowbound didn’t stop.

  The firelight from the slope cracked and danced, painting shadows across broken carts and torn canvas. Screams rang out between metal groans and arcane shrieks.

  Karin’s flames flared again—another Hollowbound dropped, its core split in two. Elsha spun beside her, blade gleaming red and gold, cutting through limbs that didn’t bleed.

  Ealden held the front with five others. Three of them were already wounded. The others were running out of breath.

  “They’re not slowing down!” a guard yelled.

  Ealden didn’t answer. He drove his sword through a Hollowbound’s throat—useless, but he followed the motion through to its core and cleaved it down.

  “Hold formation!” he barked. “Anchor left!”

  Then—

  the wind shifted.

  Not a breeze.

  A pressure. A shift.

  Mist stirred at the far ridge—then parted.

  From its heart, figures walked.

  Lucian emerged first.

  Tall. Unhurried. Regal without ornament.

  His armor was a polished silver—not mirror-bright, but matte, designed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Across its surface ran intricate filigree—a fusion of arcane glyphs and mechanical inlays, like veins of magic soldered into metal. The breastplate bore faint, humming lines that shifted with a soft glow—not merely decoration, but purpose. Every joint moved with unnatural precision, aided by subtle fittings of copper and blacksteel.

  In his hand: the Royal Lance of Fyonar—long and slender, its haft wrapped in lacquered leather, the head split into three curved blades converging into a piercing point. Etched along its spine were old Fyonari runes for command and conquest. The weapon didn’t spark or burn, but hummed, like something aware of being drawn into war.

  Draped across his shoulders was a deep navy cloak, silver-trimmed and clasped with a gilded sigil—the vanished crest of Fyonar’s first dynasty, outlawed decades ago. His gloves were soft-grain leather, stitched tight. Every piece of him looked measured. Engineered.

  His black hair fell just past the collar—tousled, but too immaculate to be unintentional.

  And his expression?

  Still. Empty.

  The look of a man who no longer wonders whether the world will follow him—only how long it will take.

  Beside him: Varzen.

  Burned robes, right sleeve torn off. One arm still bandaged—smoke faintly rising from beneath the wrap. His grin was crooked, half-mad.

  He limped forward like he owned the field.

  Behind them—six figures followed in silence.

  A towering woman with hair floating unnaturally behind her—shards of glowing glass hovered around her like flies orbiting a flame.

  A man in steam-forged half-plate, thick-limbed and glowing from every joint. His face was hidden behind a mask of brass slats.

  A robed figure flickering like a candle’s shadow, hood drawn, robes stitched with inked runes that bled across his shoulders.

  A blindfolded woman walking barefoot, sparks crackling from her fingertips with every step.

  A man with two sickles dragging from each hand, their edges singing as they scraped along the earth—he hummed something low and dissonant.

  And last: a childlike frame, face pale and motionless, a heavy tome chained to one wrist, the other hand curled unnaturally.

  The Hollowbound froze.

  Dozens of them—in motion, mid-strike, mid-charge—stopped.

  Like strings pulled tight.

  Then:

  Karin’s breath caught.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Then louder— “He’s here.”

  Elsha followed her gaze—and her eyes locked on Varzen.

  Burned. Bruised. Still walking.

  Elsha’s fingers clenched the grip of her sword until her knuckles paled.

  “Varzen… and the prince?”

  Karin’s fists lit with orange heat.

  Ealden stepped forward. His breath caught. His eyes fixed—not on the cultist. But the man at the center.

  The man not hiding. The one leading.

  “…That’s Lucian,” he said.

  Kivas blinked. “Who?”

  “Crown prince of Fyonar.”

  Kivas looked again, stunned.

  “Two royal visitors in one day…”

  Lucian raised a hand.

  The Hollowbound halted—then bowed in eerie, mechanical unison.

  He stepped just past the front line, gaze sweeping across the wreckage: firelight flickering on broken tents, smoldering wood, scattered bodies.

  He spoke—not loudly, but the words carried like a blade drawn in silence.

  “Commander Ealden. Let us talk.”

  The battlefield stilled—if only for a breath.

  Ealden stepped forward. His grip tightened on the sword, but he kept his voice level.

  “Prince Lucian… what is this?”

  Lucian met his gaze, calm and inevitable.

  “Where is the Flame-Touched?”

  Ealden’s jaw tensed. “Flame-Touched? Why?”

  “I’ve come for her.”

  “You’re trespassing on Ocean Tide territory.”

  “I know. Hand her over, and I’ll withdraw.”

  “I can’t do that,” Ealden said. “The Azure Wind is under our protection while within our lands.”

  Lucian gave the faintest nod. No anger. No flare of offense.

  “Then so be it.”

  He turned without hurry, without doubt.

  “Find her,” he said. “Take her.”

  The Hollowbound surged forward.

  And the battlefield shattered open again.