03:40 p.m. - At Shadow Causeway, Gagin.
Wind pushes red-lantern smoke across the road. Warded pylons stud the ditch line, each carved with spider-runes that catch the low sun and throw it back in dull silver.
Snowball plants his hooves and hums in his chest like a drum. Marcellus rides him hard to keep pace, jaw set.
Marcellus (checking the reins): "Keep rank. The wood hears mistakes before the spear does."
Snowball shivers, tilts his rack of antlers, and slides sideways under him with a sudden corkscrew. Marcellus clutches mane, boots scraping stone.
Seraphina (reaching across from the other Antlersteed): "Damn you!! Hold, beast."
Snowball snaps back into a straight line, then tries the same trick two breaths later, this time with more malice. Marcellus rides it out, breath tight.
Lyscia (dry, heels in): "He understands us. He simply hates you."
Snowball feints again, aiming for a low branch. Marcellus ducks. Bark explodes. He straightens, patience frayed.
Marcellus (flat): "We trade. Now."
Seraphina bumps her Antlersteed close and eyes Snowball's flashing eyes, the familiar tilt of his ears. Something softens, then tightens again as it slides away before it forms.
Seraphina (studying the beast): "Uh huh."
Lyscia swings a leg, lands light, and keeps the reins steady while Seraphina moves. They switch mounts in a clean, practiced motion like changing partners in a knife-dance.
Lyscia (mounting behind Seraphina on Snowball): "Let's analyze our enemy's movements carefully. Wisdom always triumphs over strength in the end."
Snowball's head drops. A long breath leaves him. He steps sweet, almost proud. The other Antlersteed stomps once under Marcellus and settles into a steady lope.
Marcellus (grudging): "I prefer honest grudges. This one's personal."
Seraphina runs a hand along Snowball's neck. The coat lifts under her fingers.
Seraphina (low to the beast): "We've met, haven't we?"
Snowball answers with a small, pleased grunt and lengthens his stride.
Lyscia (glancing at the ward pylons): "Do we cut west now or keep the shadow-road?"
Marcellus points ahead where the red lanterns thin and the coastal wind smells of salt and old iron.
Marcellus (to the line): "We march at dusk. One watch now, another at night. Sleep when you can."
Seraphina looks across the marsh where silhouettes move in easy patrols—humans in lacquered half-helms flanked by a tall, robed shape whose shadow moves a heartbeat slower than its body.
Seraphina (serious): "We are not mindless tools for conquest! We fight for our ideals, our homes—never forget that!"
Lyscia flicks a look back, finger tapping her thigh in time with the pylons.
Lyscia (Cautious): "Let's consider every angle before we move. We mustn't allow impulsiveness to lead us into danger."
Marcellus eases the borrowed reins and drops his voice.
Marcellus (measured): "Gagin is a hinge. Human watch on the piers. Demons keep the wards honest. Vampires handle the coin at night. They preach the Red Moon, but they keep the docks running. If you look like trade and keep your hands where they can count them, you pass."
Seraphina studies the crimson banners strung between shrine-spires. The silk stirs like a slow heartbeat.
Seraphina (curious): "Is that really what we're up against? Belmara and Drakensvale at each other's throat, and we cross their table like rats."
Marcellus nods toward a distant shrine where a procession in violet files past, heads bowed, lanterns cupped.
Marcellus (steady): "Belmara declares open war two weeks ago, under the Red Lantern code. Shadow-gates in our marches. Raids in the badlands to split our patrols. The Council of Chains fights for the Emperor's attention, but the order holds. Rhamnale answers by closing the ridge—beacon towers lit at noon to show the patrol line and the Aerie flies twice a day."
Lyscia leans forward, curiosity slicing through annoyance.
Lyscia (Inquisitive): "Have you ever stopped to think about the possibilities? If Gagin's shadow-ways link to the badlands spurs, we can ride under their noses and still come up at Rhamnale's stairs. Who keeps those keys?"
Marcellus tips his chin at the watch-post where a human cantor checks a slate and a demon magister idly braids smoke.
Marcellus (to a magistrate, under his breath): "We answer plainly because plain is what men die for, not ornament."
He urges the Antlersteed to the side path just as a patrol rounds the bend. The leader eyes them—travel-worn riders, one towering woman in a hood, one lean man whose eyes miss nothing, one small figure whose calm reads as dangerous.
Cantor (raising a hand, bored): "Names. Purpose. Moon-tithe."
Marcellus reaches without fuss and flips a small cloth bundle over. Five thin silver disks spill into a gloved palm.
Marcellus (bows slightly): "Your Grace. I bring the spears and the names you required."
The cantor's eyes track the stamped stag on the edge—Aurelthorn issue, not Gagin mint—but the demon next to him twitches a finger and murmurs. The silver tarnishes to a neutral gray in a breath.
Demon Magister (wry hiss): "They smell of road and fear, not plots. Let them pass."
The hand lifts. The trio rides on into the wind and the thrum of distant surf.
Lyscia exhales slow.
Lyscia (Playful, quiet): "If you think this is impressive, just wait until you see my strategy in action!"
Seraphina doesn't laugh. Her eyes snag on a roped-off yard behind a storehouse where a familiar rack of antlers thrusts above a fence.
Seraphina (pointing): "There."
Snowball stops dead. He stares at the yard. The other Antlersteed snorts and dances.
Marcellus shifts to cover.
Marcellus (hand to crossbow string): "Keep rank. The wood hears mistakes before the spear does."
They edge along the fence.
Inside, the Antlersteed—Snowball—stands tied short to a post, flanks flecked with salt foam, nostrils cut raw from a bad halter. A sailor snores on a coil of rope, hat over his face. Two more dice at a crate, not looking this way.
Snowball reaches for Seraphina's hand over the fence like he owns her.
Seraphina strokes his brow. The beast melts and presses in. Her mouth tightens again at the slip of memory that won't form.
Seraphina (low): "He shouldn't be here."
Lyscia weighs angles, eyes flicking between patrol patterns and the roped yard.
Lyscia (Leadership): "Stay sharp, everyone. Remember, tactical advantage comes from the elements we control."
Marcellus tests the lower rail with a boot and speaks without looking up.
Marcellus (soft): "You stole my last crust—owe me a round of sparring and I'll collect it fair."
He tips the rail out of its socket and slides through. One quick knot, one clean cut. The bad halter falls. Snowball lifts his head, shakes free, and steps through the gap like a king. The sleeping sailor snorts and rolls, hat slipping. The dice-men laugh at their game and never look up.
Seraphina swings into the saddle in one move, Lyscia vaults up behind her, and Snowball flows under them like a river finally turned toward home.
Marcellus lands back on the road, sets the rail, and kicks dirt over the cut knot.
Marcellus (to the line): "We march at dawn. One watch now, another at noon. Sleep when you can."
They move before the yard even remembers it owns a rope.
Wind slams off the sea and drives them inland. The red lanterns thin to scattered posts. Gagin bleeds into badland scrub and iron-tinted stone. The ward-pylons fade into thorn and ash grass.
Seraphina draws Snowball to an easy lope and glances at Marcellus.
Seraphina (thoughtful): "Sometimes I wonder if we're fighting for the right reasons."
Marcellus keeps his eyes on the ridge where black iron teeth rise.
Marcellus (steady): "You speak new words on old ground. Keep them, but keep your head. Belmara's tricks won't stop at Gagin. They run the grottos and rifts. We were lucky they didn't take an interest."
Lyscia sweeps the horizon with a hand, sketching in the air.
Lyscia (Strategic): "Rhamnale sits on a basalt spine. Iron gates. Portcullis stacked on portcullis. Ballista lines on the terraces. The Aerie of Chains crowns the top. They fly a drake to ward the sky. Doctrine is 'Edicts of Iron'—curfew tight, oaths tighter."
Marcellus's mouth quirks.
Marcellus (to a magistrate, half-smile): "We answer plainly because plain is what men die for, not ornament."
Seraphina snorts once, almost a laugh now that home sits on the land like a promise.
Seraphina (encouraging): "We'll get through this, together."
A shadow slides across the sun. They all look up. Far above, a scaled shape arcs then vanishes into cloud. Not a dragon. A drake, smaller, faster, meaner on short wings.
Lyscia tracks it with bright eyes.
Lyscia (curious): "Is that really what we're up against? Or what stands for us?"
Marcellus points with his chin. Along the ridge, braziers burn even in daylight. Signal beacons. A rhythm of flame.
Marcellus (pointing at map that only he sees): "We march at dawn. One watch now, another at noon. Sleep when you can."
Seraphina leans into Snowball's neck and whispers a thank you the beast understands if no one else does. She pulls up the hood and lowers her voice.
Seraphina (to Lyscia): "Lyssy, you're looking cute today."
Lyscia rolls her eyes and smirks despite herself.
Lyscia (Playful): "If you think this is impressive, just wait until you see my strategy in action!"
They ride until the ward-pylons give way to iron posts painted black with ash-fire varnish.
A gatehouse squats over the road, flanked by two stair towers and a murder-hole balcony where four helmets glint.
A human officer steps out with a slate and a soldier's walk, no showy priest nonsense, no shadow-tail.
Gate Officer (sharp gesture): "Names. Oath-bands. Proof of service. State your intent."
Marcellus slides a leather strip from his wrist—Warborn iron ring cabled on it—and sets it on the table. The officer touches it with a vial, the iron warms, the ring seals glow pale.
Marcellus (bows slightly): "Your Grace. I bring the spears and the names you required."
Seraphina draws back her hood. The tower guards stiffen, then snap to. The officer's face shifts from suspicion to relief to the controlled blankness of a man who knows rumor becomes a noose.
Gate Officer (voice drops): "Radiant General."
Seraphina gives him a nod, all steel and grace.
Seraphina (serious): "Make no mistake, every life lost weighs heavily upon us all. We fight not just for victory but for those we stand beside."
Lyscia lifts her band and taps the slate with two knuckles.
Lyscia (Leadership): "Stay sharp. Tactical advantage comes from what we control. We will need clean lanes and clean messages. No temple zeal here."
The officer's mouth twitches.
Gate Officer (grim humor): "You'll find none. The dragon-cult keeps the prayers short and the drills long. Rhamnale stands."
He scans the ridge behind them, the badlands beyond.
Gate Officer (low): "Belmara raiders in the ravines north-west of the Eryndral spur. Shadow-gates cracked last night near the grottos, closed by dawn. You came through smoke. Lucky."
Marcellus answers with a soldier's economy.
Marcellus (to the line): "We march at dawn. One watch now, another at noon. Sleep when you can."
The officer steps aside. The portcullis clanks up. Heat from the ash-braziers folds over them. Drums thud on the inner terrace.
Snowball steps through first without a flicker of doubt. The other Antlersteed follows with a small snort as if to say fine, if he insists.
Seraphina glances back only once—to the south where red lanterns burn like open wounds along the coast.
Seraphina (angry, under her breath): "Damn you!!"
Lyscia touches her arm.
Lyscia (Reflective): "Sometimes I wish our paths could cross under different circumstances—without the specter of conflict hanging over us."
Marcellus rides between them as the second gate rises.
Marcellus (softly): "If you ask me to stand somewhere, I will stand there. If you ask me to leave, I will leave with the same honour."
Inside the iron throat of Rhamnale, the air tastes of coal, salt, and discipline. The beacons burn. The drake circles. The gates shut behind them with a sound like a final word.