It was colder than he remembered on the north path toward Greimdall. With his hood drawn low against the stinging wind, Edran strolled by himself under a gray sky. Firya's untamed roads wound between skeletal trees and fields of charred heather. Except for the crunch of his boots on the frost-hardened ground, the land was quiet.
The old man's words clung to him like smoke, even though the Dragon Fang tavern behind him had disappeared into the fog. Twelve years... Twelve years of combat, hunting, and training. A truth painted in flames, pursued for twelve years. And that rage now felt as lifeless as a dulled sword.
Beyond Greimdall, the refugee camp spanned across the low hills, a patchwork of sagging shelters and weathered tents held together by survival. Thin trails of smoke were painted into the pale afternoon sky as it curled from sporadic cookfires.
Like birds in flight, children's laughter was brief as they scuttled through crates and broken carts. Around them, cloaked figures huddled against the cold, some whispering tales too old to cheer them up, while others gazed out to the horizon with waiting eyes.
It was a space between the little that was left and what had been lost.
Edran looked around the camp until he saw a bent figure standing next to a pile of firewood. A slender, gray-haired man sat muttering to himself while he struggled to use a dull blade to split kindling. His hands were shaking with every swing, and his back was more curved than Edran remembered. His father.
Edran's chest tightened. He hadn't seen him since the day he departed for the guild, promising to return with honor and a title. But now, those assurances seemed far away—clouded by uncertainty and ash.
Slowly, uncertainly, he moved closer.
"Papa," he spoke softly.
Squinting through the smoke and haze, the elderly man raised his head. His eyes didn't register for a long time. Then his face broke into a frail smile.
"...Elaine? You're back, my darling."
Edran's voice paused. He touched the elderly man's shoulder tenderly. "It's me. Edran."
The smile faded away. His father nodded slowly after blinking as though he was trying to navigate through a dense fog. "Ah, of course.. Of course."
His voice grew softer as his eyes strayed to the sky. "Poor Elaine, your mother... It was too much for her. Something inside her was broken after we lost our little songbird."
Edran's chest narrowed as he lowered his head. "I know."
His hands were still shaking as his father turned back to the firewood. "They said it was standard procedure. Just clearing land with a controlled burn. claimed that the location was deserted. There is nothing left inside." His voice trailed off as he dropped the kindling from his grasp.
"However, I do recall that evening. The sound of boots. They were marching in time, dozens of them." The memory became clear to him as his eyes grew piercing. "Armoured and heavy. I know the sound of soldiers because I spent half of my life in a forge. It wasn't a beast attack. It was a unit."
The words weighed heavily on Edran's chest as he knelt next to him.
Quieter now, his father went on. "Then the fire broke out. The streets were filled with shadows that did not snarl or crawl. Like men, they moved fast. I heard hoofbeats. They yelled orders. clashing metal. After that, everything starts to burn."
His father's eyes were fixed on the firewood pile, seemingly waiting for it to speak. Edran put a hand lightly over his quivering fingers.
It was enough. The weight behind the words, not just the words themselves. The old man in the tavern who told stories about knights who were disguised as illusions came first. The same truth is now being echoed by these shards of memory from a tired, broken mind. Too similar to be a coincidence.
Edran got up silently. As he left the camp, the wind grew stronger, piercing the quiet like a blade.
Someone had to find out even if the truth was hidden. A seller. A quartermaster. a person who keeps records. Those soldiers had been spotted by someone in Greimdall. Someone recalled the events of Vaelridge's burning night.
He would return to the city, not as a hunter, not as a soldier, but as a shadow chasing the last flickers of a forgotten fire.
With questions gnawing at his brain, Edran set out for the capital the following morning. Greimdall was alive, but he passed through it without being noticed. He walked silently and cloaked past vendors yelling prices, guards in polished boots, and kids giggling while gripping roasted fruit with sticky fingers. The sound seemed far away, unreal. He didn't get any of it.
The market square, where the cobbled streets were packed with vendors under drooping canopies, was where he started his search. Older hands sold cracked goods, cloth, and herbs. Edran paused at a stall where an elderly woman was arranging dried root and lavender in bunches. Under her faded shawl, her eyes were small.
"Do you recall a village called Vaelridge twelve years ago?" he inquired quietly. "south of this location. It was scorching."
The woman frowned as she looked up. "So long ago... Boy, fires come and go. It would be better for you to let go of some memories."
Her response was predictable but still painful, like a dull blade. Edran went on. A soot-covered blacksmith merely shrugged. A leatherworker waved him off. Not even a gray-haired stablehand who said he had spent decades traveling Firya had anything to contribute. The heads trembled. People's faces turned. Some felt sorry for him. Suspicion from others.
It was history to them. It was an unhealed wound for Edran.
The bustle of the central streets subsided as Edran ventured farther into Greimdall. The city seemed to breathe differently here, and the cobblestones grew smoother and older. He went under a small arch of old stone, its surface carved with runes that glowed softly blue. Ether, soft, living strands that shimmered faintly in the light, bloomed from the carvings like invisible mist. The Arcanist's Way was this.
The heady mixture of exotic spices, alchemical herbs, and incense thickened and warmed the air. Like glowing spores, faint specks of Ether floated between arching storefronts and hanging lanterns. Edran felt a strangeness with every breath, a feeling, a memory, a presence too soft to describe. Quiet power pulsed through the street. A forgotten part of Adanels was awakened here, even though he was rarely attuned to Ether.
From under silk awnings, merchants called, their stalls brimming with stones that hummed with energy in the distance, enchanted cloth, luminous sigils, and bottled light. Instead of the markets' chaos, there was a regulated vibrancy and a well-organized hum, as though the path itself was directing him.
He went by a stand of stones with runes on them, their light faint but steady. Behind it was a slender man with a dark glass mask covering his face, wearing a layered vest of threadbare gold. As he leaned forward, the light caught the two bronze rings that hung from each long ear.
With a voice as smooth as smoke, the vendor questioned, "Looking to disappear something?" "My friend, the answer lies in illusions. Cover up a scar, a name, a history? I've sold lies for less."
Edran slowed as he became intrigued by his words. He looked over at the vendor in the mask. "You work with illusions?"
Although it was obscured by the glass, the man's smirk was evident in his voice. "Among other things. Anything that needs to be hidden, including faces, voices, and posture. Since before your hands understood the weight of steel, I have sold lies wrapped in runes."
Edran took a step forward and spoke more softly. "Is it possible for someone to make one of these appear completely different? Something darker, not just another man. Something..." Before he finished, he paused. "Or even a shadow?"
Bronze rings clinked softly as the vendor bent his head. "Boy, it looks like you don't know much about the art of bending Ether." After pausing, he went on, "It depends on the sigil. The easy ones are merely disguises. Modify your expression, tone, and posture. However, the more powerful ones..." A faint blue glow came from a carved stone that he tapped. "They can bend air around you. Enough to temporarily fool a moving eye or even an entire room. However, they are not cheap."
"Do they have a limit of what can be disguised?" Edran enquired.
"Size," the vendor stated simply. "A goblin cannot be transformed into a wyvern. But a tall, rune-clad man riding a horse in the perfect wind? If the lighting is good and the audience wants to believe it, that might pass for a beast."
Edran's mouth clenched. His thoughts had shifted from the vendor to the screams and smoke of a dozen years ago.
The vendor questioned, "Why the interest?"
Edran slowly shook his head. Turning away from the vendor, he said, "I just wanted to know if it was possible."
The vendor called after him, "Wait." "So, are you looking or are you buying?"
Edran remained silent. He continued to walk, the incense and Ether lingering behind him like an unanswered question. A pull, a conviction, rather than fear, tightened something in his chest. He was starting to suspect what he had heard, and he couldn't deny it. Someone had to find out if there was any possibility that the fire that occurred twelve years ago wasn't caused by monsters. Someone he could rely on.
-break-
Edran entered Greimdall's middle quarter, where the streets widened precisely and the air grew colder, as the haze of the Arcanist's Way dissipated behind him. At the end of the avenue stood the tall, orderly, and unmistakable military barracks. With blue banners featuring the emblem of Greimdall's power—a two-headed eagle holding a storm hammer—on either side, twin spires rose toward the sky like spears.
Soldiers in silver armor paced the stone courtyard, their movements precise and methodical. Edran went straight to the main door, although his heart thumped under his cloak.
With a spear in hand, a guard advanced. "State your business."
With a firm voice and unwavering eyes, Edran declared, "I need to speak with Captain Halric."
The soldier's tone was even as he scowled. "The captain is occupied. What is this about?"
Edran took a step forward, his voice urgent but low. "Vaelridge. The night it burned. I believe I have gathered some new information. Something significant regarding what might have occurred twelve years ago."
The guard paused at that. Even though he remained silent, his expression changed as his eyes scanned Edran. After saying, "Wait here," he turned and vanished through the inner gate.
The minutes sluggishly passed. Another soldier finally showed up and nodded. "Come along with me."
Edran trailed behind, his boots resonating on the barracks' spotless stone floors. The hallways were chilly, neat, and marked with order. But they were sacred to him. He had once envisioned himself walking there as one of them, not as a visitor.
After guiding him to a peaceful office, the soldier opened the door. "You are welcome to wait in his chamber. Captain Halric will be back soon."
Edran entered. It was a large, practical room. Along the walls, lanterns flickered. Beside a battered banner was a row of gleaming armor. The far wall was dominated by a large map of Firya, which was pinned and annotated. There was a subtle scent of parchment and oil.
He did not sit.
He paced uneasily as the chamber's silence closed in around him. The sound of a far-off lantern chain ticking. Outside the door was the gentle creak of leather armor. And beneath it all was the growing weight of his conclusions.
Then something caught his attention. A drawer that was left open a little.
After a moment of hesitation, he moved closer and opened it with shaking fingers. Parchments. reports. Letters. One had the sigil of House Ardrin, one of the noble families that controlled the Greimdall council, a crimson wax seal.
And beneath it, written in faded ink, was a name that made his chest swell: Vaelridge.
With his heart racing, he grabbed the letter and ran his fingers along the edge of the seal. Just as he was about to open it, he heard distant footsteps.
Boots. heavy, and swiftly approaching. Just as the door creaked open, he folded the letter without thinking and stuffed it deep into his cloak.
Captain Halric intervened, taking off his gloves as his piercing eyes instantly focused on Edran.
"You," he said calmly. "Name and purpose for being here."
Edran straightened up. "Edran. You told me something years ago, which is why I came. You advised me to locate you when I was older in order to enlist."
Halric hesitated, furrowing his brow. "Did I?"
"Yes, sir," Edran said steadily. "My hometown is Vaelridge. You were present when my village burned twelve years ago.
A moment of quiet. Then Halric let out a low laugh. "Oh. Now I recall. You were only a boy. Look at you, grown into a fine man."
Edran's face, however, remained unsoftened. He stated simply, "I want to serve." "But I didn't come for that."
Halric squinted.
"I don't think dragons destroyed my village. or Shadows. I believe men attacked it. Perhaps from another Kingdom.
Those words landed. Halric's posture changed slightly, but it was noticeable.
His voice was now slower as he asked, "And what makes you believe that?" He wasn't dismissing it. He was paying attention.
Edran acknowledged, "I don't have all the evidence yet. But I'll do everything in my power to find more information if I join and serve Greimdall. And if another country was responsible for what transpired, I'll expose them. For the honor of Greimdall."
Halric remained silent for a while. He stared at Edran, unreadable. Then he nodded slightly, thoughtfully, and inhaled through his nose.
He remarked, "You have fire." "Belief. Greimdall is constantly in need of men with conviction like yours."
With a flicker of hope, Edran tightened his hold on his cloak.
But, Halric continued in a composed yet abrasive tone, "belief doesn't outrank proof." Furthermore, it doesn't develop a soldier."
Edran blurted out, "I've already joined the Guild." "I've killed dragonkin. I've witness what's out there."
Halric answered, "Then continue climbing." "Fight. Make it through. If you're correct and you live long enough, perhaps people will listen to your truth. Halric stepped past Edran, reaching for a folder on his desk. Then he whispered, "You're dismissed," without turning around.
After a half-heartbeat, Edran nodded curtly and turned to go. Like final thoughts, his boots reverberated throughout the hallway. The discomfort in his chest persisted even after the door closed behind him.
The sky over Greimdall had grown gloomy outside, with heavy clouds engulfing the city. Edran slipped out of sight of the barracks and swerved through the congested streets until the noise subsided behind him. He turned down a dim, quiet alley where the world seemed far away and the walls closed in.
He took the folded letter from his cloak as he ran his fingers over the seal. He slowed his breathing. Then he opened it.
Plain, inked, and official, the words stared back. Once, he read them. But then again.
Something deeper, something buried, was struck by each line. The weight of the page continued to increase, but his eyes ceased to move. He tightened his hold on the paper. In his hand, the edges wrinkled.
His breath caught, sending a chill up his spine, then he turned and ran without thinking. Through the alleys again. beyond the throngs. In the direction of the camp In the direction of his father.