Godric flinched at the sudden knocking on his door. He hadn’t slept well the night before—something gnawed at the edges of his mind, an unease he couldn’t put into words. It felt like a void, vast and unrelenting, keeping him restless through the night. He turned to the window, noting that the morning had long since passed.

  The door swung open, and Michael stepped inside, clad in his sleek, custom-made white armor, the insignia of the Seven gleaming against the metal. The greatsword, Fortitude, rested on his back. His presence alone meant only one thing—the time had come.

  “Get dressed,” Michael said, his tone clipped. “Sir Byronard and the others are waiting for you at the gates.”

  Without another word, the royal guard departed, leaving Godric alone with his thoughts.

  Two days. That’s all it took, and now it’s here. Anxiety settled in his chest, a slow, creeping sensation that threatened to overtake him.

  “You barely slept, Uhrihim.”

  Godric turned toward the corner of the room, where Ziyad emerged from the shadows.

  “You again,” Godric muttered. “How long have you been watching me?”

  Ziyad smirked. “Long enough to see that you’re nervous.”

  Godric exhaled sharply, rubbing his hand against his temple—only to notice the slight tremor in his fingers.

  “But that’s a good thing,” Ziyad continued.

  Godric shot him a skeptical look. “And how, exactly, is that a good thing?”

  “Because it means you’re not a fool,” Ziyad replied smoothly. “Most young men in your position would rush toward danger, thinking themselves invincible. Do you know what they all have in common?”

  Godric shook his head.

  “They end up dead,” Ziyad said simply. “Overconfidence kills. You, at least, have the sense to fear the unknown. But don’t worry—I swore to my brother I’d watch over you. Between the two of us, we have a fighting chance at surviving this monstrous task.”

  He strode toward Godric’s bookshelf, idly flipping through a book, his eyes scanning the pages.

  As Godric donned his armor and strapped Death’s Lament onto his back, he stole a glance at Ziyad. Since the foreigner’s arrival in the Capital, Godric had felt his ever-watchful gaze following him, calculating, waiting.

  “Tell me, Ziyad,” Godric asked at last. “What happened between you and Xhiamas? He seems like an entirely different person when you’re around.”

  Ziyad’s fingers hesitated over the book’s spine. For a moment, he said nothing.

  “It’s a long story,” he finally replied, his voice measured. “Let’s just say we had… differing views. He grew tired of the conflict and left the family.”

  Godric studied him. He had nearly forgotten that Ziyad hailed from one of the three major clans, which meant Xhiamas carried royal blood—a fact he had concealed remarkably well.

  “In mannerisms and beliefs, you’re nothing alike,” Godric mused. “And yet you were raised in the same home.”

  Ziyad chuckled, though there was little humor in it. “Yes, a peculiar thing, isn’t it? But Xhiamas was different from the start. As the eldest, he was trained to inherit our clan’s leadership. He wields greatness, Uhrihim—a power that only manifests once every hundred years within our bloodline. Normally, anyone can challenge for the title, but once he inherited that, his ascension became unquestioned.” Ziyad closed the book, his golden eyes dark with memory. “There’s more to it, but that’s a story for another time. Shall we?”

  Godric let the matter rest for now. The two of them left the room, shutting the door behind them.

  At the Capital’s northern gate, Wyatt and the others were already waiting.

  Three dozen royal guards sat astride their steeds, clad in heavy armor reinforced for the brutal cold of the North. Wyatt and Cassian had been given new armor as well, each piece tailored to perfection.

  Ziyad stepped back, melting into the shadows to let Godric have his moment.

  “Now that’s fancy armor,” Godric remarked as he approached Wyatt and Cassian. “Suits you both. Try not to die while you’re up there, yeah?”

  Wyatt let out a laugh. “Look at us. Months ago, we were farmhands, smiths, and healers. Exiles, scattered like leaves in the wind. And now? We stand here, redeemed.” His expression sobered. “If Hawk were here, we’d be unstoppable.”

  A heavy silence settled between them.

  Cassian clapped Wyatt on the shoulder, breaking the tension. “Don’t go ruining the moment, Wyatt. He’s out there somewhere. That man has a knack for finding things, remember? He’ll show up—whether in Stagvalley or back at the Capital.”

  Wyatt offered a small, knowing grin.

  The rhythmic clatter of hooves drew their attention. A mounted figure approached—it was Uriel, the expedition’s commanding officer.

  “Khandem says the weather’s shifting. We ride out in a few minutes.” His gaze swept over them. “If you have anything left to say, now’s the time.”

  He turned, trotting back to the supply caravan, barking orders to his men.

  Wyatt exhaled sharply. “Guess this is it.” He met Godric’s gaze. “May the Divines guide you safely back home.”

  Godric clasped his forearm. “And you, old friend. Cassian, keep an eye on him, will you?”

  Cassian snorted. “Are you joking? Hawk and I could barely stop him once. The man’s a force of nature.”

  Godric chuckled. “Blackwood blood runs strong in his veins.”

  A final embrace was exchanged before Wyatt and Cassian mounted their horses, seamlessly joining the ranks of the cavalry.

  Godric stood back, watching as they rode off into the distance, disappearing beyond the Capital’s towering gates.

  He exhaled, a quiet prayer forming on his lips.

  Uriel glanced up at the gatekeeper stationed atop the city walls and, with a swift wave of his hand, signaled for the gates to be opened. The deafening blare of horns echoed across the Capital, a final farewell to the departing convoy. As the massive gates groaned and swung wide, the procession moved without delay, a disciplined column of soldiers escorting the dwarven emissary back to the dwarven capital. Before long, the silver-clad figures faded into mere white specks on the horizon, vanishing into the distance.

  “You made it just in time to see them off.”

  Godric turned to find Byronard approaching, flanked by Michael.

  “Ah, Sir Byronard,” he greeted. “Yes, we managed to exchange a few words before they left. I have Michael to thank for that.”

  Michael gave a small nod but seemed troubled. “You're welcome. But Godric, I can see it in your eyes—you’ve barely slept these past few days. You should take small breaks when you can. Gather your strength and wits. We still have a long road ahead.”

  Godric exhaled. “I know, I’m trying to—wait. What do you mean by ‘us’?”

  Byronard sighed. “Despite my protests, Michael here has persistently requested to join your journey to Azane.”

  Godric raised an eyebrow. “You wanted him stationed here, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” Byronard confirmed. “I intended for him to oversee the Capital’s defenses and root out any emerging threats. However, he raised a valid point. Your unique form of magic, coupled with Ziyad and Xhiamas speaking in your favor, would usually be enough to gain the audience you need. But Azane is a land where strength dictates status. Having the leader of the Seven by your side sends a message—one that cannot be ignored.”

  A wave of relief washed over Godric. “That’s reassuring. Knowing you’re joining us puts my mind at ease.” He then turned to Michael. “But what about the Capital? If you’re gone—”

  Michael grinned. “Not to worry. Byronard, Gabby, and Jophiel remain. Any sane enemy wouldn’t dare lay siege to the Capital with them here. Not unless they have a death wish.”

  Before Godric could respond, a voice called his name.

  He turned to see King Ithilien approaching, flanked by Faelar and the sibling members of the Seven, Chamuel and Azrael. The elves carried bundles of rations, enough to sustain them for the journey back to Mistveil Forest.

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  “Gentlemen, my lady,” Ithilien addressed the group with a regal nod. “Might I have a private word with Godric?”

  A glance was exchanged, but no one objected. They gave the king and Godric the space they needed.

  “What is it, Your Majesty?” Godric asked, sensing an unusual gravity in Ithilien’s presence.

  “I know of the task bestowed upon you, and I wish you well on your journey,” Ithilien said. “But that is not why I sought you out.”

  Godric frowned. “Then… what is it?”

  Ithilien hesitated, his gaze shifting briefly over his shoulder. The movement was subtle, but Godric caught it—the king was uneasy. It was unlike him.

  “Is something wrong, Your Majesty?” Godric pressed.

  “I do not know,” Ithilien admitted. “Something has been troubling me these past few days. A shadow lingers at the edges of my mind, yet I cannot grasp its form. My senses are dulling, for reasons I cannot explain. And because of that, I fear my time is nearing its end.”

  Godric felt his breath hitch. “S-Surely, you jest, King Ithilien.”

  But the king’s solemn expression told him otherwise.

  Taking a step back, Godric tried to process the weight of his words. “By the Divines… you’re serious.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

  “I would not burden you with this if I were not,” Ithilien replied. “That is why I have come to you with a request. Watch over Anarór? for me.”

  Godric’s heart pounded. “Your Majesty, I don’t even know if I’ll return alive from this expedition. What about Faelar? The Seven? Do they know?”

  “No,” Ithilien said firmly. “And they must not. The last thing they need is the burden of knowing my strength is waning. You are the only one I trust with this.” He placed a reassuring hand on Godric’s shoulder, anchoring him amidst the storm of emotions. “I have lived through ages of war and peace, seen rulers rise and fall. But in you, I see something rare—potential. Listen to your heart, trust in your moral compass, and keep your wits about you. A great change is coming, and you will stand at its center.”

  Godric swallowed the lump in his throat. He had no words, only the weight of responsibility pressing down on him.

  Ithilien gave him a knowing smile. “You need not answer now. Simply remember my words.”

  Godric nodded. “I… I’ll do what I can, Your Majesty.”

  Ithilien’s smile deepened. “That is all I ask.”

  The young man turned to leave, only for Ithilien to call out once more.

  “Oh, and Godric—”

  Godric froze. The tone in Ithilien’s voice sent a shiver down his spine.

  “I know what happened between you and my daughter.”

  A wave of panic surged through him. “Uhh—yes… about that, my king—”

  Ithilien let out a deep, amused chuckle. “Worry not. I have no qualms about it whatsoever. You breathed new life into her—I can never thank you enough for that.”

  Godric exhaled, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Oh… well, thank you, Your Majesty. I’m honored.”

  Ithilien nodded. “Time is of the essence. Go now. May the old gods bless your journey and bring you home.”

  As Ithilien rejoined his kin, Godric made his way back to the others.

  The distant sound of galloping hooves caught his attention. Turning, he saw Xhiamas approaching, leading a group of fine-bred horses, each one equipped with supplies for a fortnight’s travel.

  “Seems he’s eager to go,” Michael observed.

  “No…” Ziyad muttered, watching his brother closely. “He just wants to get this over with. The sooner we’re done, the sooner he can be rid of me—and his past.”

  Godric glanced at him, intrigued. A part of him wanted to ask more, but he held his tongue.

  Xhiamas rode up, dismounting briefly to hand out instructions regarding the horses. He never once acknowledged Ziyad, not even sparing him a glance.

  “As expected,” Ziyad murmured bitterly as he mounted his steed.

  Byronard stepped forward, addressing the group one last time.

  “I presume you’re all ready?” He scanned their faces, noting their resolve.

  They nodded.

  “Good. I’ve already sent word to Lady Emilie of House Blackstone. When you reach Vandralis, a ship will be waiting for you. Only a handful of people know of this mission—the lords, the monarchs, the Seven, and the four of you. That secrecy should ensure a smooth passage through Primera.”

  His expression darkened slightly. “The fate of this continent may rest in your hands. Here, we will prepare and wait for your return.”

  He then turned to Xhiamas and Ziyad. “I know the two of you don’t see eye to eye, but put your differences aside. This mission is bigger than any personal feud.”

  Xhiamas clenched his jaw but nodded. Ziyad simply sighed.

  “Understood,” Xhiamas said at last.

  Byronard stepped back. “Then go. And may the Divines watch over you.”

  With that, the four departed, leaving the Capital behind. The road ahead was uncertain, but there was no turning back now.

  ***

  The journey began slowly, but as the minutes stretched into hours, the company raced along the King's Road, heading east toward the Evergleam Coast. They covered great distances, the trees and towns blurring past them as they rode with relentless urgency, as if time itself was against them. Each night, they stopped only when the sun dipped below the horizon, allowing their horses and themselves time to rest and eat. Watches were assigned, though they all knew the likelihood of danger was slim. Even so, they had silently agreed: it was better to be cautious.

  One night, Godric noticed something peculiar—whenever Ziyad took the watch, Xhiamas remained awake as well, quietly observing him from a distance while keeping a lookout for potential threats. Despite all the time spent together, Godric still couldn't grasp the tension between the two. Had there been an incident? Betrayal? A broken promise? Questions plagued his mind as he struggled to fall back asleep.

  ***

  At the dawn of the twelfth day, they crested a hill and beheld the coastal city of Vandralis. The ancient seat of House Blackstone stood in all its splendor, its charcoal-colored watchtowers and onyx-stone castle rising proudly against the sea. The walls, kissed by crashing waves, seemed both a barrier and a welcome to the restless tides.

  "Behold, the port of Vandralis," Michael announced as they descended toward the city. The dense forests gave way to a well-paved road that hugged the coastline, offering an awe-inspiring view of the Evergleam Ocean, its waters shimmering with an almost otherworldly beauty.

  Godric was spellbound. "It's so... beautiful," he murmured. "It just... stretches on for leagues."

  Xhiamas rode beside him and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "And we are barely seeing even a fraction of it, my friend. I remember my first glimpse of the ocean as a boy—I wore the same look you do now. It is a remarkable place. But be warned: even in the face of beauty, one must never let down his guard."

  At the gates of Vandralis, the black banner of House Blackstone fluttered high above a watchtower. A steady stream of merchants, travelers, and sailors flowed through the entrance, many of them foreigners. A guard spotted them from above and called out. Moments later, half a dozen soldiers in ink-black armor approached.

  "Sir Michael! On behalf of the Nyxguard, it is an honor to welcome you," the lead soldier said with a respectful nod.

  "Corwin!" Michael greeted warmly. "Good to see you again. How's the family business?"

  "Steady as ever, praise the Smith," Corwin replied.

  Michael dismounted, handing his horse off to a waiting soldier. "Gentlemen, meet Corwin Steelmantle—Captain of the Nyxguard and heir to Steelwave Shipworks, the cornerstone of Primera's naval fleet. A pleasure as always, lad. Tell me, is Lady Blackstone...?"

  "Waiting for you at the port. Your vessel was completed days ago, though we hadn't expected you so soon. It’ll take another day or so to gather the crew and supplies." Corwin turned, gesturing for them to follow.

  As they navigated the city's bustling streets, Corwin cast Michael a knowing glance. "Azane, eh? What business does a member of the Seven have in the Continent of Sand?"

  Michael smirked. "Just a simple diplomatic mission."

  "Bah, you're lying. If the Seven send one of their own, it’s never simple."

  They reached the docks, where Corwin pointed toward a sleek, medium-sized ship. "There she is. Built to withstand long voyages. Good luck, gentlemen." With a curt nod, he departed, leaving them to inspect the vessel.

  As they drew closer, Godric ran his fingers over the hull, recognizing the distinct grain of Stormsong wood—rumored to ward off ill fortune. But before they could board, an unseen force suddenly gripped Godric, Xhiamas, and Ziyad, rendering them immobile.

  "Blessed dunes! What is this sorcery?!" Ziyad bellowed, struggling in vain.

  "Hey, what’s going on?!" Godric shouted, his muscles locked in place.

  Michael, entirely unaffected, sighed and placed his hands on his hips. "This isn’t funny, Emilie. Let them go."

  The invisible restraints vanished, and the three stumbled onto the deck. A musical trill filled the air.

  "My apologies, gentlemen," a melodic voice rang out. "I was merely entertaining myself."

  A woman clad in ebony-hued garments stepped onto the deck, a lute resting against her hip. Her jet-black eyes twinkled with mischief, and her short brown hair swayed in the sea breeze. Lady Emilie Blackstone, ruler of Vandralis, studied them with a bemused expression. "Hello, dear cousin. Has it really been twelve years?"

  Michael smirked. "It has. I see your string magic has only improved."

  "String magic?" Godric echoed, still recovering.

  "Yes," Michael explained. "While I manipulate metal, Lady Emilie manipulates strings. Individually weak, but properly reinforced, they can become near-invisible weapons."

  Emilie produced a pouch, revealing thin, glimmering strands. "Nyxsteel strings. Almost invisible to the naked eye, yet as strong as grimthorne ore and as sharp as obsidian. I could have killed you three if I wanted to."

  Ziyad muttered to Xhiamas, "This woman is... insane."

  Xhiamas replied dryly, "For once, we agree."

  Emilie smirked. "Your ship will depart at dawn. Feel free to rest at the castle or roam the city as you please. Until then." She turned and disappeared down the docks.

  That evening, Michael and the workers went drinking, while Godric and Ziyad chose to rest aboard the ship. Xhiamas, ever the loner, sat silently at the bow, lost in thought. The night passed uneventfully.

  ***

  Morning arrived with hurried footsteps and crisp sea air. As Godric emerged from below deck, he found the others assembled with Lady Emilie and a contingent of soldiers.

  "Meet the Nyxsteel Dragoons," Emilie announced, nodding toward the battle-hardened men. "The pride of Vandralis. They’ll see you safely to Azane."

  She handed Michael a pouch. "For protection. Should trouble arise." Godric pulled out a silk string doll, its shimmering fabric shifting between silver and deep blue. He couldn't explain it, but something about it felt... familiar.

  Michael chuckled. "Aethermoth silk? You've outdone yourself."

  Emilie huffed. "At least thank me for the effort. Safe travels, gentlemen."

  With that, she departed. The Dragoons set to work, and soon, the ship was cutting through the waves. As the port of Vandralis shrank in the distance, Godric stood at the helm, staring at the endless expanse of the ocean.

  "Michael," he asked, "do you think we’ll make it?"

  Michael exhaled. "Our chances are slim. But slim is better than none. Keep faith in what matters most to you—that’s always guided me. Perhaps the Divines will favor you more than they did me."

  As Vandralis vanished beyond the horizon, Godric closed his eyes. He thought of those he cherished. Of what lay ahead.

  And with destiny waiting beyond the waves, he sailed forward—ready for whatever the unknown had in store.