The wide northern road was slick with an early-morning frost, the kind that warns of snow waiting just beyond the horizon. Pines pressed close to the lane, their needles catching the faintest blue light.

  According to Torbin, Verrinport lay five days north by winter road. Today was only the first stretch —barely half a day gone —and already the cold was working its way into our bones. Behind us, the last warmth of the city slipped away like a door quietly closing.

  I’d told the others what I’d seen earlier, the strange shimmer in the air above the forest line, but they brushed it off as sunlight or nerves. Maybe they were right. Still, unease tugged at the back of my thoughts and refused to let go.

  The caravan creaked along at an easy pace, our wagon trailing near the rear. Merric leaned against the back rail, his hammer strapped across his shoulders, whistling a tune that kept losing its own melody.

  “Strange how quickly the quiet settles in,” he said, glancing over the treeline. “You get a few miles out, and the world forgets your name.”

  Elaria smiled faintly, her voice softer than usual. “I enjoy it. The quiet, I mean. It reminds me of home.”

  Merric plucked a pine needle from a branch overhead and rolled it between his fingers. “Where exactly is home? I remember you saying you’re not from Etrielle.”

  “A small village outside Kestmere,” she said. “My mother didn’t want my gift for healing to go to waste, so the village pooled what coin they could and sent me here for training.”

  For a breath, Merric’s usual grin faltered. His expression softened into something thoughtful, almost solemn, before he forced a crooked smile back into place.

  “That’s sweet,” he said. “Takes a good mother to see a future that far ahead.”

  Elaria looked down at her hands. “It was hard for her to let me go. But harder if I’d stayed.”

  “Guess I know a little about that.” Merric’s tone thinned to something quieter. “My family had to leave our old home. Noble in fighting, and my family was the cause of it. One day, we oversaw the city. The next, nothing but smoke.”

  Her head lifted slightly. “I’m sorry, that must’ve been awful.”

  He shrugged, eyes still on the trees. “It was at first. But… Etrielle isn’t so bad. I like the noise. Feels alive.”

  He hesitated, then with a forced cheer said, “Anyway, since we’re all baring our hearts, what about you, Lady Vaelaryn?” He stood and offered Lira a mock bow. “What’s it like running half of Etrielle from your family’s fancy estate?”

  “No different than yours, Mr. Caldren,” Lira said coolly, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.

  Merric sighed dramatically and dropped back into his seat. “You’re no fun.” He looked toward me. “Alright then, Vaelyn. Your turn. Why’d you end up in the Guild dorms?”

  The question hung there longer than it should have. Even the wagon wheels seemed to quiet.

  “My mother died,” I said finally. “And my father didn’t see a use for me after that.”

  No one spoke. The cold wind filled the silence instead.

  Merric rubbed the back of his neck. “I… shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” I said, though my voice came out lower than I intended.

  The road rumbled beneath us, steady and uneven at once. I let my fingers drift over the wooden floorboards, tracing the vibrations as the wheels rolled across cobblestone. For a moment, the sound almost felt like breathing.

  I closed my eyes and reached for the threads that always brought me comfort. I didn’t see them like others did, in colors or strings of lights, but I could feel them pressing faintly against the edges of my awareness, like the warmth of air before a storm. Today, they were quiet. Too quiet. As if holding their breath.

  “It’s a little too calm,” I murmured.

  “And calm is good,” Lira said, glancing back over her shoulder from the front of the carriage. “After what happened with the Glassfang, I’d rather not have any more surprises.”

  She’d tied her hair into a tight ponytail for the ride, but the wind had worked two strands loose. She tucked one behind her ear and turned her eyes back to the road.

  Merric tapped his boot against the floorboards, the steady rhythm breaking the silence. “I don’t mind a few surprises,” he said with a grin. “Makes the mission go by quicker.”

  “At the expense of our lifespans?” Lira shot back, tightening her grip on the reins. “I’d rather this mission be uneventful than feed your need for excitement.”

  “The noble girl carved from the finest ice hates when someone has fun,” Merric teased, not unkindly. “You should learn to lighten up, you’re always such a buzzkill.”

  Elaria let out a quiet laugh, her tone light but careful. “If you two bicker like this the entire trip, we’ll need another healer by the time we arrive.”

  “That’s assuming we get there,” Merric said, flashing her a wink.

  “I mean it,” Elaria replied, shaking her head but smiling anyway. “You’ll scare off every bit of wildlife from here to Verrinport.”

  Lira gave her a small glance, almost smiling herself. “If only it worked on bandits.”

  I finally spoke, leaning forward a little. “Can we not tempt fate? The last thing we need is another fight waiting for us up ahead.”

  “Oh-ho, the quiet one’s got some bite.” Merric nudged my shoulder. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “I just have a bad feeling, that’s all,” I said, adjusting in my seat as the wooden floor creaked beneath me.

  Elaria turned slightly toward me, the humor fading from her face. “You felt something before, didn’t you? Back in the forest.”

  I hesitated. “Maybe. The threads were… off.”

  Merric snorted. “Careful, you keep worrying like that and you’ll put Lira out of a job.”

  That earned the faintest chuckle from Lira. “Good luck with that,” she said, the reins tightening in her hands.

  The horse’s ears flicked forward, then back, then forward again, as if it had caught a sound none of us could hear.

  Turning my head, I caught Elaria’s concerned gaze for a brief moment.

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  A crow cut across the lane, black against the bright blue sky, and vanished into the trees.

  The wagon kept its rhythm, wheels murmuring against the frost-hardened road. Still, the unease pressed deeper into my chest, that same instinct I’d felt in the woods crawling back to the surface.

  For a stretch of road so empty, it felt like we weren’t alone.

  The sun climbed higher, now looming over the treetops. The lane narrowed to a crooked path, stones pushing through frost like ridges on an old scar. Lira slowed the horse to a careful trot while Merric dropped from the rail to walk beside the wheel.

  “Easy,” he said, his palm hovering near the hub. “These ruts will bite if we let them.”

  I shifted forward on the bench, bracing as the wagon dipped. Worry pressed against my ribs, climbing toward a breaking point. I closed my eyes and reached for the threads around us. There it was again, that faint, deliberate pulse, like something tapping through the dirt to warn us.

  The rhythm wasn’t wind. It wasn’t the horse. It was too regular. Too alive.

  “Merric,” I called.

  “What?” he said, looking up.

  Before I could shape the feeling into a warning, the horse screamed. The reins snapped tight in Lira’s fists, and the wagon lurched sideways. A ripple of Essence knifed across the road like cold water through cloth. The world went thin.

  “Look…” Lira started.

  Arrows hissed through the air.

  The first struck the wagon’s side and quivered. Another sliced past my cheek, tearing a bright line across the hood of Lira’s cloak. Merric swore and threw his shoulder into the wheel, forcing the wagon hard toward the ditch. A third arrow buried itself deep in his right shoulder.

  They were in the trees on both sides, figures in mottled leathers and half-masks, moving with precision. No drunken jeers. No chaos. Just the clean rhythm of trained killers.

  They advanced in staggered formation, three across and two behind, bows rising and falling in measured cadence. A hand cut a signal, and another volley followed almost instantly.

  Merric slammed his hammer into the ground. The road answered, rising in a low earthen bulwark that threw frost and stones into the air. Arrows thudded into it and stuck like teeth.

  Lira’s hands were already moving, her threads forming with a sound I’d come to recognize. Water surged from the air and soil, shaping into lances. The pattern shimmered, then snapped. Shards of water screamed forward through the trees. Cries followed, brief, wet, final.

  “Elaria!” Lira barked. “Tend Merric’s wound, then get to Torbin!”

  She vaulted from the carriage. I followed close behind.

  Not counting the archers in the trees, there were at least twenty of them. We were outnumbered, badly. Aside from the four of us, only the merchant’s ten guards stood between the caravan and slaughter.

  Lira’s first volley had dropped at least four archers, but more emerged, and their coordination didn’t falter. I was about to make a break for the treeline when a fireball split the sky.

  It struck the lead carriage, turning it into an inferno.

  The heat hit like a wall. I threw a water sigil instinctively, the pattern flaring from my palm. The flames hissed and collapsed into steam, smoke rolling across the road. When it cleared, I met Lira’s eyes, both of us wide with disbelief.

  “These aren’t mere bandits,” she shouted. “They have Arcanists among them!”

  Her words froze the air. Everything changed. If they could wield Essence, we’d be picked off one by one unless we found and silenced their casters.

  Before I could plan, a stone bullet screamed through our formation. It hit one of the guards square in the chest. The impact ripped through his silver armor, an exit wound gaping where his lungs had been. He fell without a sound.

  For a second, everything inside me froze. Then instinct took over.

  I didn’t think. I couldn’t.

  “Vaelyn, wait…”

  Tuning out Lira’s cries, I pulled Essence into my limbs, augmenting muscle and bone, and sprinted toward the trees. Arrows rained down, slicing the air like a storm of needles. I drew my sword, deflecting what I could, the rest grazing skin and cloth. Pain driving me forward toward the line of archers.

  By the time I broke the treeline, the barrage had ceased. Shadows closed around me. I moved between the trunks, searching. Ten archers. Maybe more. But one of them was casting, hiding, waiting for the right opening.

  He was smart. He wasn’t revealing himself.

  Fine. I’d take them all.

  They were already drawing their next volley when I hit the first one.

  Too close for arrows now.

  I moved like a storm of steel and essence, the world shrinking to sound and motion. Arrows hissed past, but I was already climbing, boots against bark, breath burning in my throat.

  The first archer barely had time to gasp before my blade found his abdomen. His body sagged, eyes glassy as I kicked free and dropped back to the ground. He hit the earth a heartbeat later, bow tumbling beside him.

  The rest followed quickly. I slipped through the underbrush, closing distance before they could nock another arrow. Heart. Lungs. Spine. Throat. Each strike was quick, practiced, an ugly rhythm born from instinct more than grace.

  A normal human was no match for an Arcanist.

  When the fifth one fell, I stood among the wreckage of it all, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The air stank of iron and sap, the ground slick with blood. Five down, and yet I felt no tremor in my hands.

  I should have felt something, revulsion, horror, anything, but there was only silence. My pulse stayed even, my breath smooth. It was as if some part of me had already accepted the killing before I’d even done it.

  The realization lingered, cold and distant, before the next sound pulled me back to motion.

  A branch creaked to my right. I turned toward the sound, the sixth archer was already moving. Our blades met, steel ringing, the shock jolting to my elbows.

  “So you’re the caster, huh?” I said, pushing off hard. The clash sent him tumbling from his perch, crashing through brittle branches.

  “That makes this easy.”

  I drew water threads from the air and shaped them into three scythes, each curving like glass under moonlight. They shot forward and cut through the last three archers before they could scream, bodies severed cleanly, falling in halves that hit the dirt with dull, wet thuds.

  “Now it’s just you and me,” I said, stepping toward the fallen caster.

  He didn’t respond.

  I lunged, blade flashing low for his ribs. He caught the strike, our swords locking. Sparks spat between us as we traded blows—his footing sloppy but fast. I slipped inside his guard and drove a kick into his temple. He flew sideways, rolling through the mud.

  I threw a fire sigil as he landed. The sphere streaked toward him and erupted—orange light, heat, and the smell of scorched cloth.

  When the smoke cleared, he stood there, half his shirt burned away, a blackened mark crawling up his right hand.

  He’d caught the spell.

  “That was cute, little boy,” he sneered, flexing his fingers. “But this is a battlefield, not a Guild exam.”

  He wiped the blood from his mouth, eyes narrowing. The shift in his threads hit me before he even raised his hand, faster, sharper, like the air itself was bracing.

  He raised his palm, and the air itself twisted.

  A torrent of sigils burst from his hand, faster than I could track. I barely ducked the first wave, the second singed my sleeve before detonating behind me. The air filled with shrieking heat. His speed and precision was unreal; each cast came before the last one finished. But why was such a talanted caster aligned with mere bandits?

  Before I could finish my thought, a shape blazed through the smoke; a bird, wings of fire stretching wide. It came straight for me. I barely had time to weave a barrier of water threads. The flaming construct slammed into it, exploding in a burst of smoke and steam that swallowed the road.

  The shock knocked me off my feet. My abdomen burned, threads fraying under strain. I’d underestimated him.

  “I’m surprised you survived that,” the bandit said, stepping through the haze with a grin. “Maybe you’re not half bad after all. Let’s see how you fare against this one.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. His next sigils bloomed overhead, spreading like cracks in the sky. The flames fell slowly, like snow on a winter day.

  Each mote that touched my skin seared like a brand. I covered my face and tried to put up a barrier of water threads, but there was nothing I could do; the world had become an inferno, flakes hissing as they ate through my sleeves and filled the air with burning leather. For him to command this many threads at once, his Clarity must be insane. I pushed toward what I thought was the edge, but the heat never thinned—seconds dragged like minutes, and the inferno felt wide enough to swallow the whole clearing with me in it.

  When the fiery rain finally ended, I was barely standing. My clothes smoking from the ash, my body screaming in protest. Steam rose from my arms. He was laughing somewhere in the haze, and for a moment, I thought this might be it. That I’d run into an opponent who proved Clarity really was everything. I couldn’t let that happen.

  “Round of applause,” he said, voice dripping with mockery. “Not many walk away from that.”

  I didn’t answer. The last thing I’d give him was satisfaction.

  His smile thinned. “Fine. Then I’ll just end this.”

  His next sigil flared to life, but this time I was ready.

  I reached out, threading every trace of water I could find—from the soil, from the mist, from the sweat burning down my face. I shoved it into the air around him, saturating it until the atmosphere shimmered with humidity.

  When he ignited his sigil, nothing happened. The spark choked, swallowed by the damp. Confusion flashed in his eyes, but it was too late.

  I was already moving, the world tunneling to a single line between us. Our eyes met, his filled with fury, mine with something close to pity, before my blade found his neck.

  The steel slid clean through. Warm blood climbed down the hilt and met my fingers.

  He tried to speak, but only a wet gasp came out. I pulled the blade free.

  He collapsed to his knees, then to the dirt, vanishing beneath the weight of his own blood.