It had been a few days since the battle against the knights, but the echoes of violence still lingered in the air of Korr’s Maw.

  Now, the once-chaotic settlement was quiet—eerily so. Fires had died down, chains had been broken, and the great arena stood still for the first time in years. But amidst the silence, movement returned. The freed mythics, no longer shackled or silenced, worked in small groups, gathering what supplies they could for the long journey ahead. Blankets were folded, satchels packed, carts repaired. Hope—tentative and fragile—had begun to take root.

  Joran walked the skeletal remains of the streets alone, taking it all in. Every stone he passed felt different now. Korr’s Maw had been a pit of suffering for so many, and though the city’s spine had been broken, there were still wounds that would take time to heal.

  The supply stores had been emptied, their contents divided. Joran had made certain the bulk of it—gold, food, medicine, clean clothing—went to the freed slaves. Only a modest portion was kept for himself, Ragna, and Takeda as they prepared for their own departure. He hadn’t earned more than that. Not yet.

  As he made his way toward the edge of the central district, he paused—his gaze settling on a familiar shape.

  Thrunn stood outside the battered remains of his inn, motionless. The storm spirit’s body swirled slowly, his form shifting between cloud and vapor, streaked with threads of glowing static that crackled faintly in his chest. It was subtle magic—contained, restrained—but it gave him the air of a storm trapped in a bottle. His expression was unreadable as he stared at the inn’s weather-worn sign, now hanging by a single nail.

  “Hey, Thrunn,” Joran said quietly.

  The storm spirit turned at the sound of his voice. His face lit with a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Oh… Prince Joran,” he replied, his tone tinged with weariness. “How are the preparations coming?”

  “We’re almost done packing,” Joran said, stepping forward until he stood beside the spirit. “And... you don’t have to call me that. Just Joran is fine.”

  Thrunn nodded, but didn’t respond right away. They both stared at the inn in silence.

  The building still looked much like it had days ago—slightly crooked, patched with mismatched planks, and stubbornly standing in defiance of the chaos that had unfolded. Joran remembered the warmth inside, the scent of grilled meat and woodsmoke, the laughter before the storm. It had been the last place he felt peace before his trial against Ragna. Before everything fell apart.

  “I’m sorry,” Joran said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know you had a good thing here. And I know it’s not fair that this place has to go. You were one of the few decent souls I met here... and this inn, it was beloved.”

  Thrunn let out a low hum, the sound like a distant roll of thunder.

  “I knew it wouldn’t last,” he said softly. “Korr’s Maw was never built to stand. It was a fire waiting for a spark, and you lit it. I don’t blame you, Joran. I never agreed with what this place became... I only set up shop here because the pay was steady, and the hungry never stopped coming.”

  Joran looked at him, seeing the glimmer of regret in the storm spirit’s eyes. Not guilt—but reflection.

  “You didn’t just feed people,” Joran said. “You gave us shelter. After the battle with Dain and the knights, you gave the freed mythics a roof. You gave me a place to rest. You let us keep Sarrak’s body in one of your rooms so it could be preserved until we return him to Lothara. That matters.”

  Thrunn looked down, his swirling chest dimming slightly. “I just did what I could.”

  Joran turned to face him fully. “Which is why I want you to listen closely.”

  The storm spirit raised his head.

  “When you and the others reach Lothara... the king will want to speak with you. You and Daurial are going to be considered closely connected to me. That means people will listen when you speak.” He paused, then added firmly, “Tell my father what you did. Tell him I said you should be given a new tavern in the capital. A proper one. Somewhere clean. Somewhere safe.”

  Thrunn’s eyes widened, sparks crackling faintly across his cheeks.

  “I-I don’t deserve that,” he said, stepping back. “Joran... I stood by and watched things happen. I served food to monsters. I turned away more than I helped—”

  “Stop,” Joran cut in gently but firmly. “You did what you could. You bought slaves and set them free. You gave them work. You showed kindness in a place that had none. That is worth something. And I won’t let that be forgotten.”

  For a moment, Thrunn said nothing.

  Then slowly, reverently, he bowed his head.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “Not as a subject. As someone who... never thought anyone would remember.”

  Joran reached out and clasped his shoulder, feeling the static dance across his fingers.

  “I remember,” he said.

  And then, after a moment of stillness, the storm spirit smiled again—this time, genuinely.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  “Joran!”

  The voice called out above the bustle of the street—bright, familiar, and unmistakably hers.

  Joran slowed his steps and turned, catching sight of her weaving through the thinning crowd. Daurial ran toward him with a smile stretched wide across her dusky blue face, her hand raised in an eager wave. The light caught in her eyes—bright green and shining—and for a moment, she looked like a different person than the one he’d first met in chains.

  Her long hair was tied back in a neat tail, swaying behind her with each step. The twin horns curling along her brow glinted softly in the sun, polished smooth now. Her tail flicked with excitement as she approached.

  Gone were the silks meant to showcase her as property. She wore practical travel clothes now—stitched leather boots, a fitted tunic of muted green, and a soft brown cloak thrown over one shoulder. A dagger rested at her hip, more symbolic than functional, but it suited her all the same.

  She came to a stop in front of him, breathing lightly, her hands on her hips.

  “Where are you going, Joran?”

  He turned to face her fully, adjusting the strap of his satchel. “I was heading to see Sarrak.”

  Her expression faltered, the glow dimming just a bit. “Oh… I see.” She looked down, her voice quieter. “Do you want me to come along?”

  Joran shook his head gently. “Not this time. I wanted to see him alone.”

  Daurial hesitated, then forced a smile. “If that’s your wish,” she said softly.

  A silence passed between them—not uncomfortable, but heavy with everything unsaid. She glanced back up, her fingers fidgeting at the hem of her tunic.

  “Joran,” she began, voice trembling just slightly, “I know I told you I was okay with staying behind… but is there any way I could change your mind?”

  She stepped closer, eyes wide with hope. “Please? I’ve been training! Takeda says I’m picking it up quickly—he even said I could outrun one of the guards now.”

  As she spoke, she dropped into a stance, her feet planting firmly. She demonstrated a short flurry of strikes—quick jabs, a spin, a parry. Her tail moved for balance. When she was done, she stood up straight, a little flushed from the effort, but proud.

  Joran smiled—small, but warm.

  “You’ve improved a lot,” he said.

  Then he reached out and placed a hand gently on her head.

  “Daurial… you are brave. Braver than most.”

  Her tail lifted with hope again.

  “But you need to go with the others.”

  The words landed with quiet finality. Her tail drooped, curling low behind her legs as her shoulders sagged.

  “You deserve happiness,” he said. “Real freedom. A chance to live without fear.”

  She looked up at him with glassy eyes. “But… I only feel that way when I’m with you.”

  The admission caught him off guard. He looked away, a soft blush blooming across his cheeks. He cleared his throat, then gently placed a finger beneath her chin, lifting it until their eyes met.

  “We’re going to face things out there—things worse than anything we saw in the Maw. Takeda, Ragna, and I... we’re fighters. But even we won’t always be able to protect each other. If something happened to you because I let you come with us…”

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  He shook his head slowly.

  “I wouldn’t forgive myself.”

  Daurial stared at him, stunned by the raw honesty in his voice. “You wouldn’t?”

  “No,” he said simply. “I wouldn’t.”

  She stood in silence, biting her lip as her emotions fought for ground. Then, finally, she nodded—slow, reluctant, but sincere.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll go.”

  Joran withdrew his hand and gave a faint nod. “When you reach Lothara, ask my father for a place. Tell him you’re a friend of mine—ask to join the royal staff, or to be given your own home. Either way, he’ll make sure you’re looked after.”

  Daurial gave another nod, her expression difficult to read—a blend of sadness and quiet resolve.

  Joran took one last look at her, then turned and continued down the street, his footsteps echoing on the worn stone.

  Behind him, Daurial remained where she stood, the sun warming her shoulders as she watched him walk away. She didn’t follow. Not this time.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Joran pushed open the creaking door of the quiet house that stood along the main road—an old, forgotten dwelling repurposed for a sacred purpose. The boards beneath his feet groaned as he stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him. The air was still, heavy with the scent of dust, old wood, and something faintly metallic—preservation magic humming softly in the air.

  In the bedroom beyond the narrow hall, Sarrak’s body lay on a simple bed, arms folded over his chest. He looked unchanged from the moment he fell—his expression serene, features set in calm repose. Bandages were wrapped around his chest and forehead, hiding the wounds Vaelin had dealt him. Joran had cast powerful preservation spells the day after the battle, making sure the body wouldn’t decay. He wanted Sarrak buried with honors in Lothara—whole, respected, remembered.

  Joran crossed the room quietly, his boots tapping gently against the floorboards. He set Vermillion Fang down against the far wall and pulled a wooden chair beside the bed. With a soft sigh, he eased into it, resting his back against the wall and folding his arms.

  “Hey, Sarrak…”

  His voice came out low, uncertain.

  “I’ve never done this before. Talking to a dead body, I mean…” He glanced at the still form beside him and let out a short, dry laugh. “I guess I’m hoping you’re listening. Otherwise, I’m officially losing it.”

  He tilted his head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

  “Ragna, Takeda, and I are setting out today. Turns out when the Maw fell, a bunch of slavers and mercenaries fled and left behind their horses and wagons. We managed to claim one. It’ll make the road ahead a little easier.”

  He glanced at Sarrak again, the quiet pressing tighter around him.

  “But ever since the fight with the knights… things haven’t felt right. Takeda’s been meditating more than usual. He talks to me, but it’s like he’s watching me. Like I’m... I don’t know… a trap he’s not sure how to disarm.”

  Joran paused, his hands resting on his knees.

  “I tried meditating too. Thought maybe it would help. But my mind kept wandering. I kept seeing… them.”

  He didn’t have to say who.

  “I sparred with Ragna yesterday,” he continued. “I thought it would help. But every time I struck, she looked… disappointed. Like she was expecting me to bring out what I did in the arena. Like she wanted to see that side of me again.”

  He looked down, voice quieter now.

  “I haven’t been able to summon it. I don’t even know if I want to.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “There was a part of me that… enjoyed what I did to them, Sarrak. I wanted to make them suffer. I wanted them to feel what they made me feel all those years. And when I saw them begging… pleading…” His breath caught. “It felt good. And that scared me.”

  Joran let the silence return for a moment, heavy and cold. Then he exhaled and looked back at the bed.

  “And Thraza… she’s been watching me too. Not like the others, though. With her, it’s different. I catch her studying me when she thinks I’m not looking. When I asked her about it, she just muttered, ‘just in case,’ and went back to work. I don’t know what they’re worried about, but—”

  A voice, smooth and lightly amused, cut through the stillness like a blade through silk.

  “They’re worried about you, my dear lad.”

  Joran jolted upright with a yelp, nearly knocking over the chair. His eyes shot to the corner of the room.

  Standing there, arms crossed and leaning casually against the wall, was the stranger.

  He looked exactly as he had before—same long, tattered cloak, same tousled brown hair, same amused glint in his eyes. A thin, jagged scar cut down over his right eye, and his face carried the same infuriating calm that Joran could never read.

  “You again?!” Joran’s heart pounded. “I thought you left with the merchants and mercenaries. How—how did you get in here without a sound?!”

  The man smirked and scratched lazily at his cheek, right beneath the scar.

  “I’m a very sneaky man, Prince Joran. But that hardly matters now.”

  He stepped forward, his gaze drifting to the bed.

  “I came to pay my respects. For a human to lay down his life for a mythic… it’s a rare and beautiful thing.”

  Joran followed his gaze and nodded, lips pressed thin. “I just wish I hadn’t lost control. Those knights were cruel but they didn’t deserve to suffer before death…”

  The stranger sighed softly, hands folded before him.

  “A sad path, yes… But the ones you faced—those knights—they earned what they received. Maybe not the manner, but certainly the fate.”

  He turned toward Joran, his tone shifting.

  “I also came to deliver a warning.”

  Joran stiffened. “A warning?”

  “Yes,” the man said simply. “What happened in the arena... your transformation, the power you unleashed… it echoed far louder than you realize. It has drawn eyes. And stirred things that have not moved in a very long time.”

  Joran stepped forward, concern creeping into his voice. “What kind of things? Who’s watching?”

  The man gave a slow, regretful shake of his head. “I can’t say. I’ve already told you more than I should.”

  Joran frowned, frustration rising. “Why do you always do this? Speak in riddles, vanish without answering anything—who are you?”

  The stranger chuckled, brushing off imaginary dust from his shoulder.

  “Very well. If a name will ease your mind…” He tapped his chin thoughtfully, then smiled. “Call me Erik.”

  Joran narrowed his eyes. “Erik.”

  Erik gave a satisfied nod. “Until next time, Joran.”

  Joran stared at him expectantly, arms folded. The man didn’t move.

  After a beat, Joran raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You want me to look away so you can vanish mysteriously again, don’t you?”

  “If you would be so kind,” Erik said, entirely unbothered.

  Joran let out an exaggerated sigh, turned his head for half a second, then glanced back.

  Erik was gone.

  Joran stared at the empty space for a long moment, then turned back to Sarrak’s body.

  “What a weirdo,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “One day, I’m going to find out who—or what—he really is…”

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  It was time.

  What was left of the settlement was quiet—no shouting slavers, no roaring crowds, no death matches in the arena. Only the soft murmurs of farewells, the creak of a wagon’s axle, and the wind brushing through broken stone.

  Joran arrived at the main gate just as Ragna finished strapping down the last of their supplies onto the salvaged wagon. Takeda stood near the front, reins in hand, adjusting the harness on the pair of horses they’d claimed from the ruins of the Maw’s stables. Both warriors glanced up as the prince approached, but it was Thraza’s voice that called out first.

  “There he is!” she shouted, striding forward with grease still smudged along one cheek and a wrench tucked into her belt. “We almost thought you lost track of time, slowpoke!”

  Joran gave a faint smile, resting a hand on the hilt of Vermillion Fang as he approached. “Nah. Just saying goodbye to Sarrak.”

  Her grin softened, just for a moment, before she punched him hard in the arm—hard enough to make him wince.

  “Awww, don’t be so glum!” she said brightly. “You need to keep that optimism up for your big adventure, you little lizard.”

  Joran chuckled, rubbing the spot where her metal bracers had connected. “Thanks, Thraza. Give Eitri my best when you see him.”

  “Oh, don’t worry!” she said, puffing her chest out dramatically. “I’ll show him the best babies I’ve ever—oh, you mean tell him you said hi. Yeah, yeah, I’ll do that too.”

  He laughed again, then pulled her into a hug. She thumped him on the back twice, and when they parted, there was a twinkle in her eye that hadn’t been there before.

  Then he turned toward Daurial.

  She stood among the freed mythics near the gates, her posture straight, her face lifted toward him with a brightness that caught him off guard. The sadness from before was still there—buried, not forgotten—but something stronger had taken its place.

  “Be safe, Daurial,” he said as he stepped in front of her. “I’m sure you’ll love Lothara.”

  Before he could say more, she threw her arms around him, holding him tight. Her moonlit-blue skin was warm in the morning light, and her long tail curled instinctively around his leg. She buried her face against his chest, and he gently stroked her back.

  “I’ll see you again soon,” she whispered. “I just know it.”

  Joran closed his eyes briefly, holding her close, reluctant to let go. When he finally tried to pull back, she clung tighter.

  “Daurial…”

  “I know,” she said, voice small.

  Before the moment could stretch too long, Ragna strode over and hoisted Daurial up like a kitten, setting her gently but firmly back on the ground.

  “Okay, okay! That’s enough snuggling—we’ve got a continent to cross, remember?” she grunted.

  Daurial pouted and crossed her arms as Joran climbed up into the back of the wagon. He took one final look back at the crowd of mythics gathered to see them off—former slaves, gladiators, and wanderers—now beginning new lives.

  They all waved. Joran raised his hand and waved back as the wagon lurched forward, pulled down the dusty road by the steady rhythm of hooves.

  Ragna sat beside him in the back, arms crossed and hair whipping lightly in the breeze. Takeda guided the reins from the front, his expression calm, as always. Together, the three vanished down the road, leaving Korr’s Maw behind at last.

  Daurial watched until the wagon disappeared over the hill, her arms still crossed over her chest. Her tail flicked once, sharply.

  Thraza stepped up beside her, wiping her hands on a rag. “You seem weirdly cheerful,” she remarked. “Figured you’d be bawling your eyes out by now.”

  Daurial didn’t answer right away. Her gaze remained fixed on the horizon.

  “I was,” she said softly. “At first. But then I had an idea.”

  “Oh?” Thraza arched a brow. “What kind of idea?”

  The tiefling turned, eyes gleaming, and placed her hands on her hips with sudden determination. Her horns caught the morning light, her posture steady and proud.

  “I’m going to join the Royal Guard.”

  Thraza blinked. “Seriously?”

  Daurial nodded. “I’m going to prove that I can protect myself—that I deserve to stand beside him. And once I’ve earned that place…”

  Her tail swished behind her like a banner in the wind.

  “I’ll find him. No matter where he is in Orano, I’ll be ready.”

  Thraza stared at her for a moment, then let out a low whistle and gave a short laugh.

  “Damn. Remind me never to bet against you.”