The first breath of dawn carried the scent of wet stone and spring leaves, dew clinging to everything like a blessing for their travels.
Oria still slept.
Its towers, half-mended, reached into the blueing sky with tired dignity. A few chimneys coughed out smoke, bakeries waking to light their hearths, unaware—or perhaps pretending not to know—that seven travelers stood at the eastern gate, packs at their feet and eyes on the horizon.
Their lone carriage was plain. Sturdy, broad-wheeled, covered in a dark canvas taut with knots and tension. Supplies were packed with practiced efficiency—extra boots, oilcloths, preserved meats, rolled maps, half-dried herbs, whetstones, and spare string for bow repairs. Two black mules, ugly but reliable, stamped at the dirt with visible irritation.
They would be walking most of the way.
Maia checked the tension on her staff sling while Seta double-counted their ration bags. Renn was arguing with Eno over who would get first rest shift in the carriage—neither willing to yield, though neither looked tired yet. Terron, already chewing something unidentifiable, grunted in amusement. Elise said nothing, crouched near the edge of the gate's shadow, watching the way morning light crept across the stones.
And Koda… stood still.
One hand rested on the side of the carriage. The other brushed the grip of his blade.
Behind him, Oria would begin to forget.
Ahead of him, the road would remember.
He unrolled the chart once more across the flat backboard of the cart. Ink on rough parchment, nothing elegant—but the paths were clear. Rough measurements. Trail markers passed down by caravans. Notes scrawled in the margins about what water might still be clean, what villages still traded fair.
The route was split into four distinct stretches.
First, through the hill spine east of the river valley. The trail twisted up into dense forests and uneven terrain, where the roots ran deep and strange lights sometimes wandered the treelines. Locals called it Thornreach. Within this tangle of mist and moss sat Sanctuary Blount, a fortified monastery-city built into the stone of an old cliffside fortress. It had stood for centuries as a neutral ground for travelers and acolytes of various powers.
Beyond that, the land opened into highland plains. Wide, wind-torn stretches of grass and scattered wildflower fields, where old roads ran like scars across the earth. There, smaller towns came and went with the seasons—but Callestan had endured. Built around a deep wellspring said to be blessed by the Guide, it housed a modest university and served as a waystation for messages bound toward the capital.
The third stretch would drag them into the basin-lands, a long, sunken valley peppered with abandoned farmsteads and struggling trade hubs. The city of Delrest anchored this region. Part holy site, part trading capital, it was known for its twin statues—ancient figures whose names had long been lost, their hands outstretched toward opposite coasts. A fractured city, but one still clinging to its role as a northern watchpost.
Finally, the mountain run. The jagged spine of the continent—snow-laced peaks and crumbling old strongholds tucked high in the frostbitten stone. Before the climb began in earnest, they'd pass through Sanctuary Cael'Rhain, a city built into the mouth of the pass itself. Founded by descendants of a fallen order, it served as both a final reprieve and a last test. The capital lay beyond.
Koda tapped a point just beyond Thornreach.
"There," he murmured to Maia, who had stepped beside him unnoticed. "Blount will be our first stop. We rest and resupply, and then move. Two weeks, if the weather holds."
No one spoke for a while. The wind picked up, brushing their cloaks.
Then Maia shouldered her pack.
"That's one step," she said, soft but firm.
Koda nodded. Folded the map.
And the seven of them—warriors, scouts, healer, and the world's newest burdened soul—began to walk.
The road opened wide and long.
The world, at last, began to stretch its limbs.
——
The first day was blessed with cool weather and soft light. Morning fog clung low to the grass, but the sky was clear above, streaked with the pale amber of early spring. The birds had returned to the woods. For the first time in weeks, the only sounds around them were wind in the leaves and the steady rhythm of boots on dirt.
They fell into a rhythm quickly—not quite coordinated, but natural.
Terron walked ahead, never far, but always with a slight lead. His massive frame didn't slow him. If anything, the road seemed to part for him. His hammer, slung across his back, gave an occasional thunk against his spine as he moved, but he never complained. He walked like a man who belonged to the earth.
Seta, meanwhile, kept closer to the cart. Her gear was heavier, built for precision rather than speed. Floating above her was a small, winged construct—dragonfly-like in shape but unmistakably arcane in nature. Its wings shimmered faintly with traced runes, catching the light with each slow, deliberate pass overhead.
It wasn't tethered by wire or signal but by her will alone—a practiced extension of her mind. A flicker of her focus sent it banking left or right, soaring ahead, or pausing to watch the treeline. She rarely looked up; her eyes, ringed with a thin trace of mana, saw what it saw. A scout's awareness without a scout's footsteps.
Elise still took the flanks, silent and swift. Seta stayed centered, steady, her construct sweeping the skies with tireless grace. They didn't speak much, but their occasional comments—sharp, knowing—cut the silence just enough to remind the others they were always watching. Two different tools. Same edge.
Renn and Eno claimed the rear, with the carriage behind them. They traded off pulling it when the mules grew stubborn, joking the whole time. Arguing about who was the better shot. Boasting about their kill counts. Complaining about the food. But their eyes, like the others, were always working. Eno in particular had a habit of turning back every few minutes—counting heads without meaning to.
Koda and Maia walked near the center. Not leading, not trailing. Together. He carried the heaviest burden of the pack rotation, not that anyone argued. Maia kept her staff loose in hand and hummed a tune under her breath when the silence stretched too long. Every now and then their shoulders brushed, and neither stepped away.
They took turns in the carriage—two resting at a time. Maia insisted Koda be first, but he only agreed if she came with him. They relaxed for an hour, not asleep, just still. Listening to the creak of wood and the distant calls of birds.
By late afternoon, they'd reached a soft bend in the trail beside a stream. The trees here were younger—birch and ash, slender and white. The water sang.
Elise found a dry rise for camp and motioned silently. No one questioned her.
Renn gathered firewood. Eno strung a line for drying socks. Seta hunted briefly and returned with two hares. Terron cleared a fire circle with his boot, then sat down like a tree planting itself. Koda checked their gear again. Maia went to the stream to fill their skins.
No one said it aloud, but they were all thinking it—how strange it felt to move without death at their heels. To camp without the smell of blood in the air.
The fire crackled high and clean. The hares cooked slow, and even the plain root mash tasted like something worth remembering.
Later, after the meal, Eno pulled out a carved flute and played a wandering tune. Elise leaned against a tree with her eyes closed. Seta carved something from a piece of scrap wood. Renn passed out half a bottle of something sharp and cloying. They drank in silence or in half-laughter. The world spun slower out here.
Koda sat beside Maia near the fire, his hands loose on his knees, the flickering light painting soft gold across his face. She had curled slightly toward him, head tilted, listening to the music.
They were tired, but it was the good kind of tired—the kind earned by honest miles and honest company.
——
The morning mist clung to the hallow meadows like silk, threading between the hills as the sun rose soft and golden. Their boots met dew-damp grass, not mud, and each breath tasted of clean air and wild thyme. Birds whirled in the sky above the rolling green, casting wheeling shadows on the trail ahead. Blossoms—violet and cream, some taller than a man's knee—dotted the hillsides like paint spilled from a god's hand.
Even the streams felt untouched. One ran parallel to their path, clear as blown glass, cold enough to sting the hands but sweet enough to drink straight from the palm. Terron called it paradise, and even Elise had softened in its light. The group moved lighter than the day before, laughter shared with less hesitation. The kind of land that made you forget war, forget gods, forget the weight of a world just beginning to rebuild.
And then—without warning, without sign—they crossed an invisible line.
The grass withered in places, yellowed and veined with rust-colored cracks. The flowers ended in a sharp, dead row. The stream, still flowing, turned darker, slower, like something sick had slipped into its current. The hills beyond were marred—raked by veins of red iron that tore through the earth like shattered bone beneath rotting skin. Thick, jagged deposits, gleaming under the midday sun like blood-wet scars.
Even the air changed. Still fresh, but too still—like something just beyond the trees had paused to listen. Seta's construct circled lower. Terron's hand moved subtly to the haft of his hammer. Elise stopped laughing entirely.
These were wounds, not of nature but of something older. Something deeper. The kind of place stories warned about, but never named.
The silence stretched.
Even the bugs avoided here.
The trail narrowed, though no cliff or thicket hemmed them in. It was the kind of narrowing that came from instinct—every step forward taken slower, more deliberate, as if the earth itself demanded silence.
Then they saw the bones.