Kael awoke in silence, his mind moving like an old battlefield surgeon—taking stock, cataloging pain by habit more than necessity.

  Nothing.

  No flare of agony. No sharp edge of memories tearing through his skull. Just a dull ache—old, distant. He blinked into the dark that came before Solanir’s rise, disoriented but… calm.

  Content, even.

  He stayed there for a long moment, breathing softly. The fragments of the dream clung like morning mist—familiar eyes, fading light, a voice he couldn’t name but knew in his bones. It left behind an ache, but not the kind that hollowed him out. This one... warmed, somehow. A scar, not a wound.

  Beside him, Runt was curled around a pillow, limbs tangled tight like she’d fought sleep and lost. Her chest rose and fell with slow, steady breaths—exhausted from shouldering the weight of him when he couldn't stand on his own. He reached to brush a lock of hair from her cheek, but stopped short. Let her rest.

  Near him, Kavari was a tight bundle under a thick, patterned blanket—tribal stitching woven into it with dyes from the southern wilds. He’d seen those same designs hanging in the tents of her people, draped over elders or used as windbreaks in winter camps. She must’ve brought it from the pride lands. She really was moving in.

  Kael sighed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

  Four ears twitched.

  Of course they heard him.

  He stepped lightly, navigating the chaos of his room like a man tiptoeing through a battlefield. Kavari’s things were everywhere—armor leaned against the corner, her Pridefang wrapped in freshly oiled leather near the foot of the bed, sitting on his dwarven chest. Bundles of clothes spilled everywhere. She hadn’t asked permission. She didn’t need to.

  Kael smirked to himself and pushed open the door to the office.

  That’s when he saw them—tucked against the far wall in neat rows: tightly-bound travel kits. Woodman-style packs. Every buckle wrapped to muffle sound, every stitch blackened or matte to avoid reflection. No shine. No noise. No mistakes.

  Inside: fire kits, flint and tinder, spare blades and oilcloths, soft rations, hunting snares, bone-carved utensils, thin-spooled rope, and a half dozen low-flare mage tokens—when crushed, they burned a whisper of light, just enough to be seen by a trained eye.

  Kavari had packed everything.

  He didn’t even remember telling her what they needed.

  Kael shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Ancestors, she was thorough.

  Downstairs, the boathouse was quiet. He moved like a shadow through the long hall, bare feet silent against the cold floor. In the small kitchen, he lit a burner and set a kettle to boil. Found a tin of lavender tea and—unexpectedly—a small jar of honey tucked behind the dried meats.

  He paused.

  Shrugged.

  Why not?

  Moments later, he was back upstairs, a steaming cup in hand, settled into the weathered chair near the broad window that overlooked the harbor. He took a sip, letting the warmth spread through his chest, the floral scent soft and grounding.

  Outside, Solanir broke the horizon.

  Light spilled across the rooftops and chimneys, gilding the sky in golds and pale pinks, setting fire to the mists curling through the alleys. It was the kind of morning the city rarely saw—clear, crisp, fleeting.

  Kael didn’t run.

  Didn’t stretch, didn’t spar, didn’t do drills until the pain dulled the thoughts.

  He just… sat.

  And sipped his tea.

  And let the warmth settle behind his ribs like an ember refusing to go out.

  As the sunlight crept higher, his eyes caught the edges of something just beyond the window—a patch of yellow blooms curling along the stone ledge, half-wild, stubborn things clinging to life in cracks and corners.

  Runt called them happy flowers.

  His gaze lingered.

  And for the first time in what felt like five long years, Kael felt it bloom in him too—soft and slow and terrifying in its gentleness.

  Hope.

  The word came unbidden.

  And he let it stay.

  Kael didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there. The tea in his cup was long gone, the sun cresting over the horizon in slow golden strokes. He felt... still. A strange kind of stillness. Like everything had stopped spinning just long enough for him to catch his breath.

  Then—footsteps.

  Soft. Bare.

  Arms wrapped around him from behind, strong and warm. She leaned close to his ear, breath brushing his skin.

  “Boo,” she whispered playfully. “I’m a ghost.”

  He smiled without looking. “Morning, Kavari.”

  She drew back, just enough for him to glance up at her.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  But she didn’t smile back.

  Instead, she looked at him like he was the ghost. Her lips parted slightly, pale rising in her cheeks—not with embarrassment, but unease. Kael’s mind, ever the tactician, began to catalog.

  Poltergeists. Revenants. Wraiths.

  Bad signs. Bad omens. Bad things.

  Kavari stepped back a pace, eyes scanning him like a battlefield.

  “I’m just gonna go grab my kit real quick,” she said too lightly. Her tone was a little too careful.

  Kael raised his brows. “I’m not possessed, or a thrall.”

  She sniffed the air.

  Then hesitated. Came closer.

  She sat down slowly on the edge of the desk. Her shirt fell just past her thighs, her hair a mess of red and sleep. Her expression? Unreadable.

  “You… look different,” she said.

  “I feel fine.”

  “That,” she said, jabbing a finger at him, “is exactly what I mean.”

  Kael just shrugged. “Want some tea?”

  She nodded, still blinking like she hadn’t quite figured out if this was real. He poured her a fresh cup, handed her the honey. She took it without looking, stirred it absentmindedly, then blew softly on the surface.

  “I went to sleep,” she muttered, “and now you’re smiling and making tea.”

  Kael offered no answer. Just sipped.

  He took a breath. “So… we still need to get to the Ash Claws. Runt’s Name Day is coming. Where are we going?”

  Her eyes flicked up at him. He was grinning. She blinked again. “You’re really not possessed?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  She huffed. “The camp’s moved. Closer to the city. Northwest side closer to the Greyvein Peaks.”

  Kael frowned. “That’s unusual.”

  “Very,” she said, finally taking a sip of tea. “But the last message I got was the same as before—High Shaman arrived, camp relocating closer… and instructions to do whatever I had to do, burn whatever bridges I had to burn, to get you and Runt there.”

  Kael’s eyes narrowed. “Trap? Ambush?”

  Kavari shook her head. “No. If they wanted a fight, they’d come here. We don’t hide. We don’t lure.”

  She paused. Then added with a small, sheepish smile, “Most of us.”

  Kael leaned back in his chair, watching her.

  “Travel time?” Kael asked, eyes scanning the map in his mind more than the one on the desk.

  “Day and a half if we’re lucky,” Kavari replied. “Two if we’re not.”

  He gave a slow nod. Realistically? Four days. That’s what he was planning for. Two out, two back. Maybe more depending on how bad the wilds were this time of year. Runt’s Name Day, her trial, whatever the High Shaman demanded—it would all take time.

  Time they didn’t have.

  Kael’s jaw flexed as he did the math again. Fadefall wasn’t going to wait for anyone.

  They’d have to push. Hard.

  He looked up at Kavari. “Frank will hold things down. Lucien’ll be back on his feet once the Brothers finish the healing, and Yuri’s got the fallback plans. But I still don’t like leaving the Iron District right now.”

  She didn’t argue. She never did when it came to the weight of leadership. Instead, she watched him, waiting for the real reason he hadn’t exhaled yet.

  He gave it to her.

  “Runt doesn’t have much experience in the outlands. Not like this. Not when the stakes are this high. We’ll teach her what we can along the way, but we need to move fast. I’ve got a district full of hungry mouths, unstable lines, and not enough fire to last through what’s coming. If we don’t make it back before Fadefall starts…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Everything we’ve pulled together in the last week? It won’t matter.”

  Kavari followed his gaze toward the bedroom. Runt was still sleeping, curled in a tangle of sheets and dreams.

  “I’ll wake her,” Kavari said quietly. Her voice was calm, but there was a note of something else—something heavier. “She still has a lot to learn about the battle born.”

  Kael watched her walk away, the weight of the coming days pressing into his shoulders like another set of armor.

  There was no more time to waste.

  They got ready quickly.

  Kavari stepped into her blackened full plate with practiced ease, the enchanted metal whispering as it settled across her form. Her Pridefang hung low across her back, the massive blade wrapped in a travel cover stitched with clan sigils. Somehow—despite the sheer bulk of armor—she managed to slip on her travel pack like it weighed nothing. Kael didn’t question it. There were many kinds of magic in the world. Kael had a spear brought from the pit for him, it weight comfortable in his hands..

  Runt practically bounced with excitement as Kael knelt to help her adjust her gear. He’d had the pit craftsman make her something new—something like what he wore now. A dark, reinforced long coat, leathers with iron-threaded cloth. It hung just right over her frame, hood draped for shadow or shelter. Sturdy boots, padded joints, and hidden loops for blades and trinkets. She was growing fast.

  He cinched the pack higher on her back so the weight rested across her hips, not her spine. “There,” he said quietly. “Now it won’t pull you crooked.”

  She grinned, tail flicking with delight.

  The trio moved out through the boathouse, and the city was already alive—if barely holding together. Migrants filled the Iron District like floodwater, spilling into every alley and open space. Toughs shouted orders, guiding the flow. Clearing a path for them.

  But Kael noticed the problem immediately.

  They weren’t heading south. And then west to go north.

  They were heading across the bridge. Into the middle districts.

  He slowed his pace just a little. “This isn’t the route we talked about before.”

  Kavari gave him a sidelong glance. “Remember the Greyvein Quarries?”

  Kael nodded.

  “They’ve got chain-lifts,” she said, adjusting her pace to match his. “Steel-line ferries that haul ore from the peaks. Workers use them all the time to get into the high passes.”

  Kael frowned. “So… we’re going north? Into the Smog Quarter and then past?”

  Kavari nodded. “Up through the lifts. Then we’ll cut across the ridgelines to reach the Ash Claws.”

  He ran a hand down his face. “When you said north, I didn’t think you meant all the way north.”

  Behind them, Runt practically vibrated with excitement.

  “We get to ride a lift?!” she said, eyes wide as she looked between them. “Like… up the cliffs?”

  Kael exhaled. “Apparently.”

  She squealed and darted ahead, already imagining the wind in her face and the mountains stretching forever.

  Kael looked over at Kavari, who was biting back a smirk. He sighed again and shook his head.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “But if that lift breaks, I’m making you carry me the rest of the way.”

  Kavari bumped his shoulder with hers, metal clinking softly. “Deal.”

  The lift groaned as it climbed, iron chains creaking with every meter they ascended into the haze. The wind whipped through the open platform, tugging at cloaks and coats, making the steel frame hum beneath their feet.

  Kael stood rigid near the center, a white-knuckle grip on the nearest support bar. His other hand was locked tight around one of the straps on Runt’s pack—anchoring her like his life depended on it.

  Which, to be fair, it might.

  “I can see everything!” Runt shouted over the wind, half-hanging over the edge with wide eyes. “The harbor! The district! Look—that's the river! And the temple spires!” She pointed, tail flicking with excitement as she leaned even farther out.

  Kael didn’t look. Wouldn’t look.

  “I see it,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Very impressive. Now please get your ass back from the edge before I age ten more years.”

  Runt only grinned.

  Kavari, leaning casually against the opposite rail, couldn’t stop laughing. “You survived an explosion, fell from the central bridge, Kael,” she said between chuckles. “And this is what gets you rattled?”

  “It’s not the height,” he grunted. “It’s the falling from it.”

  The lift jolted slightly as it passed one of the upper support towers, making the floor quiver. Kael’s grip tightened instinctively. Runt squealed in delight.

  “Gods above, she’s fearless,” he muttered.

  “She’s young,” Kavari corrected, amusement still dancing in her eyes. “And she knows you’d catch her.”

  “I’d try,” he grumbled.

  “You’d succeed,” she said, softer now.

  Kael didn’t answer. The wind whipped around them again, colder now. Crisper. Cleaner. They were nearing the mountain ledges—the smog thinning, the peaks looming close like jagged sentinels. The city stretched out behind them in a patchwork of smoke and color, and beyond that… the wilderness. Untamed. Waiting.

  Kael exhaled and loosened his grip slightly. Just slightly.

  Runt turned back toward him, eyes bright and flushed from the cold. “Kael,” she beamed. “This is the best day ever.”

  And despite the rising altitude, the gut-lurching creaks, and Kavari's cackling—it almost was.