The sun stretched high above them, casting its relentless heat over the road as they pressed forward. The horses galloped steadily, hooves kicking up trails of dust in their wake. The wagon rattled along the uneven dirt path, its wheels creaking with each passing mile.

  Lucian sat atop his horse, his body aching from the prolonged ride. The constant movement sent dull waves of soreness through his still-recovering muscles, but he gritted his teeth and endured it. Pain was a small price to pay for time.

  Holt let out a grunt as he adjusted his grip on the reins. “Feels like we’ve been riding for a damn lifetime,” he muttered.

  Tarek, who was guiding the wagon, nodded. “You’ll miss this when we’re back at the fortress, dealing with drills instead of open roads.”

  Elara didn’t respond. She rode ahead, her golden eyes scanning the horizon, her focus razor-sharp. She had one thought in her mind—keep moving.

  Inside the wagon, Fey barely moved, her fingers wrapped tightly around Isla’s frail hand. She hardly acknowledged Lucian when he rode close to check on her. Her focus was on Isla. Only Isla.

  Renn remained silent, riding slightly behind Lucian, adjusting her posture occasionally. She seemed to be getting used to riding with one arm. She didn’t complain. She never did.

  The day dragged on.

  Every now and then, someone would exchange glances of exhaustion, but no one spoke of stopping. They ate in motion, drinking from waterskins without slowing their pace.

  No one wanted to say it out loud, but the thought lingered—would Isla make it?

  The second day was harder.

  The wind was dry. The road felt endless.

  Fatigue sank its claws into them.

  Even the horses, trained for endurance, began to slow, their breaths labored. The group felt it too. The stiffness in their bodies. The weight in their limbs.

  Lucian fought to keep his mind sharp, but his thoughts wandered.

  Back to the battlefield. Back to Vraxxis.

  The echoes of power still lingered in his bones. Gildren had whispered to him before vanishing, but the voice was absent now. That emptiness was unsettling.

  Renn rode beside him, shifting in her saddle. “You look lost,” she murmured.

  Lucian blinked, shaking himself from his thoughts. “Just… thinking.”

  Renn smirked slightly, though it was half-hearted. “I’d tell you to stop, but I don’t think that’s possible for you.”

  Lucian gave a weak chuckle, but the weight in his chest remained.

  Further ahead, Fey hadn’t let go of Isla’s hand since they left the village. Her own body swayed slightly with exhaustion, but she refused to rest.

  Elara watched them carefully. She knew Fey’s limits—but this wasn’t something she could force her to stop. Fey was holding on as much as Isla was.

  Then—it happened.

  Without warning, a surge of white energy rippled through the air.

  The wagon shook violently. The horses neighed in distress.

  Isla’s body arched upward, glowing.

  A white aura—**wild, unstable, uncontrolled—**poured from her fragile frame.

  The air around them shifted, thickening with something unseen. A deep, suffocating presence.

  Then—she spoke.

  “There are voices… whispers…” Isla’s voice was distant, her eyes still shut. “I see… shadows… a place… a void…”

  Lucian felt a shiver crawl down his spine.

  Something cold. Familiar.

  Fey gripped her tighter, her heart pounding. “Isla—what are you saying? Isla! Stay with me!”

  Isla’s body trembled. Her words came faster.

  “A presence… no… many… too many—whispers, chains rattling—something is watching. I feel them. Cold hands. Shadows crawling—waiting—"

  Isla’s voice broke into incoherent murmurs, her lips forming words that didn’t exist.

  A sharp pulse of energy radiated outward.

  Elara’s horse reared up slightly, forcing her to steady it.

  Holt threw an arm up, bracing himself.

  Renn winced, feeling the strange energy ripple against her Ascen.

  Lucian felt his breath hitch.

  The way she spoke… the way she described it…

  The Void. The chains. The whispers.

  Isla was seeing something between life and death.

  Then—

  A burst of white energy exploded outward.

  A pulse so strong that it sent a deep boom echoing through the landscape.

  Lucian clenched his teeth as the wave of power rushed past him.

  And then—silence.

  The energy was gone.

  Isla fell limp.

  Fey’s hands shook as she hovered over her. “Isla—Isla! No—”

  Tarek was already checking her pulse, his expression grim.

  “…She’s alive,” he finally confirmed.

  But her breathing was shallow. Her body barely held on.

  Fey let out a shaky breath, but her hands didn’t leave Isla. She stayed close, her grip firm, as if afraid to let go would mean losing her all over again. Holt ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. “Damn… for a second, I thought…” He didn’t finish.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Elara’s hands tightened around her reins.

  She scanned the faces of her companions—each one carrying their exhaustion, their worry, their unspoken fear. Renn rubbed at her temple, still feeling the residual energy, while Holt exchanged an uneasy glance with Tarek.

  The moment Isla spoke, something inside Lucian seized in recognition. His body stiffened.

  He had heard whispers like those. Felt the presence of something unseen, lurking. The chains. The weight of something ancient.

  For the first time since Vraxxis… he wasn’t sure if he was truly alone.

  Elara inhaled sharply, then turned back to the road, her voice sharp and commanding.

  Elara's grip on the reins tightened. 'We push twice as hard …We have to move faster,” she said, her voice sharper than ever.

  No one argued.

  No one complained.

  They rode harder.

  The sound of hooves thundered against the earth, a relentless rhythm that echoed the urgency of their mission. Every muscle in their bodies screamed for rest, but there was no time. Isla’s condition worsened with each passing hour—they had to ride harder.

  The air was thick with tension.

  Elara’s golden eyes flicked toward the wagon, where Fey sat beside Isla, gripping her hand tightly. Isla’s breathing was faint, her once-radiant white aura flickering like a dying flame. If they waited too long, she wouldn’t make it.

  Elara’s jaw clenched. She had no choice.

  She turned toward Renn. “Renn—ride ahead to Emberfang.”

  Renn pulled back on her reins, her weary eyes snapping to Elara in understanding.

  “Tell them what’s happened. Let them know we’re coming.” Elara’s voice was firm, but beneath it was desperation. “Ask the Wise One to meet us halfway. We might not make it in time otherwise.”

  Renn didn’t hesitate.

  She adjusted her grip on the reins, straightened her cloak, and prepared to ride ahead. Despite her missing arm, there was no hesitation in her movements.

  But just as she was about to spur her horse forward—

  A figure stepped into the road.

  A large man, built like a fortress, draped in white robes with armor underneath.

  The group immediately tensed. Holt reached for his axe. Tarek adjusted his stance. Even Lucian’s body stiffened, his instincts warning him that this man was dangerous.

  Elara’s golden eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  The man studied them, his gaze sharp yet composed. Then, he placed a fist against his chest in a gesture of respect.

  “I am a Praevian. A Warrior-Scholar under the command of Tyra Orrel, the Wise One of Emberfang.”

  A Praevian?

  Lucian had never heard of them before, but the name carried a certain weight.

  Elara’s breath hitched slightly as she noticed the **banner on his robes—**the sigil of Emberfang. He was one of them.

  Then—another presence.

  From behind the Praevian, a hooded figure approached slowly. Their movements were measured, deliberate. Each step commanded attention.

  Lucian felt it instantly. A pressure in the air—not of brute strength, but of wisdom and power intertwined.

  The figure stopped before them.

  Then—a hand reached up, pulling back the hood.

  Beneath it was a woman of striking presence. Her long white hair was tied up in a warrior’s knot, a symbol of both discipline and battle-readiness. Her piercing eyes carried an ageless intelligence. She was neither young nor old—but something timeless.

  When she spoke, her voice was smooth, yet absolute.

  “You have done well to bring her this far.”

  She glanced toward the wagon, her sharp gaze immediately landing on Isla.

  Then, she turned back to them.

  “I am Tyra Orrel.”

  Her eyes met Elara’s.

  “The Wise One of Emberfang.”

  Elara’s instincts screamed at her to be cautious.

  A stranger—no, a legend—stood before them, claiming she had come for Isla. But how? How did she know?

  Her muscles tensed, her grip tightening on her daggers. Before she could demand an explanation—

  Tyra moved.

  No, she didn’t move—she simply wasn’t there, and then she was.

  The air twisted around her, as if reality itself had hesitated for a fraction of a second, trying to catch up.

  One moment, she stood before them—the next, she was beside the wagon. The shift was so unnatural it sent a cold shock through Elara’s veins.

  Elara’s breath caught.

  Her eyes darted to the others—Holt, Tarek, Renn, Fey. Their expressions mirrored her own. They hadn't followed Tyra’s movement. They hadn’t even seen it.

  For an instant, it felt as though time had stopped.

  The silence was suffocating.

  Lucian, however, was calm.

  Not because he wasn’t wary—but because he had seen her before.

  The day Orin Kael had introduced him to the Guardians of the Crest, she had been among them. He had not spoken with her then—only observed.

  But now, standing here, he realized something was off.

  How was it that Elara, Holt, Tarek, and the others did not recognize her?

  Lucian’s brow furrowed, but he quickly pushed the thought aside. There were more pressing matters.

  He stepped forward, his movements measured, his gaze locked onto Tyra’s back as she stood near Isla.

  Then—he bowed his head slightly in greeting.

  "It is a relief that you are here, Wise One."

  Tyra did not immediately respond.

  She kept her gaze fixed on Isla, her sharp eyes scanning the girl’s fragile state.

  Then—she smirked.

  A smirk filled with confidence, yet tinged with something else. Amusement? Understanding?

  Lucian hesitated before speaking again.

  "How did you know we were coming down this road?" His voice was calm, but beneath it, curiosity burned. "More than that—how did you even know about our situation?"

  Tyra finally looked at him.

  She studied him, her piercing gaze sweeping over his entire being.

  Then, her smirk widened.

  "Threads of fate are not as hidden as you believe, boy."

  Lucian tensed.

  Then—she moved again.

  This time, she blinked directly in front of him.

  Lucian barely flinched. But the others?

  Holt let out a curse, his hand gripping the handle of his axe. Renn’s remaining hand twitched, her instincts screaming at her to react. Even Fey visibly stiffened.

  The Wise One stood before Lucian now, far too close, far too knowing.

  Her voice was smooth, confident—and absolute.

  "I also know what is inside you, boy."

  Lucian’s breath hitched.

  A silence fell over the group.

  The others turned to Lucian, their expressions shifting from confusion—to shock.

  What did she mean?

  Elara’s grip on her daggers tightened.

  Lucian clenched his fists. His mind raced, but his body remained still.

  She knows.

  The realization settled in Lucian’s chest like a weight, cold and heavy. His instincts screamed to ask her—what do you know? But something about her gaze held him in place.

  There was no arrogance in her smirk. No mockery. Just… certainty.

  "What… do you mean?"

  Tyra didn’t answer.

  Instead, she turned back toward the wagon.

  "That mystery will have to wait."****"

  Her sharp eyes locked onto Isla once more.

  "First, I need to see to her."

  As Tyra focused on Isla, the tension in the air remained thick.

  Holt slowly stepped beside Lucian, lowering his voice so only he could hear.

  "Hey, kid… that’s really the Wise One of Emberfang, right?"

  Lucian stared at him.

  Not in shock.

  Not in confusion.

  But with an expression that screamed, "Are you serious?"

  Holt immediately groaned, running a hand through his hair.

  "Yeah, yeah, I get it, wipe that dumb look off your face."

  Lucian didn’t. If anything, his expression became even more smug.

  "Holt."

  "Shut it."

  "You're a mercenary of Emberfang. How do you not know what one of the Guardians of the Crest looks like?"

  Holt huffed, clearly embarrassed. "Of course, I don’t know! Nobody does! The Wise One is a damn ghost—moving in the shadows, gathering intel. The only Guardians we know by face and name are Lord Jorah, Sir Darius, and Sir Henrik—because they actually fight in the frontlines."

  Lucian chuckled. "Huh. I guess that makes sense."

  Then, with a smirk, he added, "Good thing I already know what all six of them look like."

  Holt froze.

  Then—his arm shot out.

  "You cocky little—"

  Before Lucian could react, Holt had him in a tight headlock, ruffling his already messy black hair like an older brother punishing a younger one.

  Lucian sputtered, struggling to escape. "Holt—wait—!"

  Holt grinned. "Where’s that arrogance now, huh?"

  Lucian shoved at his arm. "You’re—gonna—break my neck!"

  Elara, Fey, and Tarek watched the scene unfold with varying degrees of amusement.

  Renn—despite her exhaustion—let out a small laugh. "It’s good to see things somewhat normal again."

  Tyra, however, paid them no mind.

  She had more pressing matters.

  Stepping forward, she reached for Isla, placing a gentle but firm hand against the girl’s core.

  A faint hum filled the air.

  Tyra closed her eyes, her expression unreadable. Her own Ascen—vast and controlled—flowed into Isla’s shattered one.

  Lucian immediately felt the shift. The moment Tyra’s aura touched Isla’s—it was like everything aligned.

  The chaotic, scattered energy inside Isla began to settle. The wild, flickering light that had threatened to consume her dimmed, softened, became stable.

  Seconds stretched into moments.

  Then—with a quiet exhale, Tyra withdrew her hand.

  She opened her piercing silver eyes and smiled.

  "She’s stable now."

  A collective breath was released.

  Fey’s shoulders sagged in relief. Tarek rubbed his face, exhaustion finally catching up to him. Even Elara—who had remained tense this entire time—visibly relaxed.

  Tyra straightened, dusting off her robes.

  "That said—" she turned back to Elara, eyes sharp once more. "She’ll still need proper care. I need to examine her further in my private quarters."

  Elara nodded, not even hesitating. "Understood."

  Tyra smirked slightly.

  "Good. Then let’s not waste any more time."