They walked onward, leading the Ringhorns by their reins across the uneven, ashen terrain. The ground was a brutal tapestry of shattered rock and soot-stained earth, a monochrome nightmare that threatened to twist an ankle with every step. Behind them, the vanquished salamander continued its smoky farewell, its crispy edges crackling like overdone bacon in the arid air.

  His armor clung to him, heat trapped under the layers of padded gambeson and iron. Sweat pooled at his neck and behind his knees. Every step felt heavier than it should. The memory of the fight was a bitter pill. His body ached, his pride worse. He had barely kept up, and worse, they all knew it.

  The constant drip of sweat down his neck made him adjust the straps. Ahead, Gregor trudged onward in the gleaming full plate, seemingly unbothered. The metal shimmered under the haze, more radiant than before.

  "Doesn't that shiny armor cook you alive?" Vaan asked, quieter than intended.

  Gregor didn’t turn. "It’s rune-laced. Emberward glyphs. They burp the heat out through the fancy lines. Doesn’t do squat for your whining, though."

  Vaan squinted, finally noticing the faint, pulsing glow along the seams of Gregor’s armor, thin veins of light diligently ferrying heat away. He stared for a moment, digesting this information in silence.

  A soft rustle to his left announced Tara’s arrival at his side. Her silver-white robe seemed as pristine as before, reflecting light as she slipped by closer, though the luminescence was dulled by ash. Her blemishless porcelain skin was untouched, not a single bead of sweat marring its perfection. Wayfarer’s Breath, he reminded himself, a perk that clearly came with a complimentary personal weather protection system by the looks of it. She moved with an ethereal grace, a distant poise that was undeniably captivating, the faint floral aroma momentarily distracting Vaan from the dull ache in his legs.

  She studied him for a moment, not unkindly.

  "Your gear wasn’t made for this region," she noted. "But there’s a way to help."

  From a side pouch, she drew a bundle—slender green stalks bound by twine, the scent clean and mineral-rich even through the heat.

  "Mossleaf and glassvine bark. Wrap them in the lining. They wick heat, hold in moisture, and won’t rot quickly. Fieldcraft from the outer ranges."

  He took them, surprised by how cool they felt. "Thanks," he said, uncertain if that was enough.

  The scent of the mossleaf and glassvine bark made Vaan pause for a moment. It reminded him of his mother, Brenda, with her herbalist hands always busy with some remedy. He could almost hear her soft voice as she spoke of the plants she gathered from the outskirts of Wragford: "Nature always knows, if you know how to listen." The memory hit him like a wave—a blend of comfort and nostalgia.

  He wondered what she would say if she saw the bundle Tara had handed him. For a fleeting moment, he imagined his mother’s approving nod at such resourceful use of nature’s bounty. But then, Tara was a princess. Did she really make it herself? He wondered what Marianne would think if she knew her brother was now traveling with a Princess. He almost smiled, imagining his younger sister’s wide-eyed astonishment at the idea.

  "You fought well," Tara said quietly. "Hard terrain, unfamiliar enemy. No one expects perfection."

  Vaan caught a snort from Gregor at her words. Thankfully, Tara seemed to possess the remarkable ability to ignore blatant rudeness. Vaan already felt like the group’s designated novice; a public reprimand of Gregor on his behalf would have only amplified that feeling.

  "Want me to rub it in for you?" Tara asked.

  Vaan’s cheeks ignited, the heat having nothing to do with the Ashlands. "No thanks… I've, uh, got it covered," he mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

  She moved ahead, her boots whispering across the ash, leaving a smirking Lyra to sidle up to him.

  “How about your big sis rubbing it on you? My hands can go wherever you want 'em to,” Lyra teased with an impish grin.

  "No thanks, sis. Maybe I can do it for you, though," Vaan replied without missing a beat.

  She merely chuckled and walked along with her usual ease, not a hint of fatigue in her stride. She moved with fluid economy, the short sword from earlier now hanging by her side—longer than a dagger, shorter than his own blade. A fine chain coiled near her hip, hinting at a concealed whip or garrote. Her smoky gray leather armor moved with her like a second skin, revealing the subtle weave of stormweave mesh beneath her arms and along her thighs – practical, breathable, and undeniably stylish for surviving a volcanic wasteland.

  Strapped to her outer thigh were several throwing knives, sleek and balanced, their minimal hilts designed for a lightning-fast draw. They were tools of precision, whispering tales of swift, silent strikes in the heat of a sudden ambush. Vaan’s father had once described such weapons, tools for moments where a heartbeat could mean the difference between life and death.

  Her dark brown skin had taken on a deeper sun-kissed tone thanks to their journey, and the faint scar tracing her jawline like a whisper stood out more clearly now. A strand of her dark hair, usually braided tight against her scalp, had come loose during the fight—but aside from that, she showed no signs of strain.

  There was always a spark of irreverence in her movements, a sharp wit dancing in her eyes. Her flirtations were more playful jabs than serious advances. But in the heat of battle, that playful grin vanished, replaced by a chillingly efficient precision. Not rage, just a cold, decisive violence.

  The trio ahead didn’t look much older than Vaan, yet they carried themselves with an effortless confidence that spoke of a deep familiarity with this brutal world. The weight of his own inexperience settled heavier in his chest with each step, as suffocating as the omnipresent ash. It felt almost unfair. He’d only just received his class, but traveling with these obvious prodigies was a constant, painful reminder of the vast gulf between them. Tara alone possessed five class skills – a staggering number. He hadn’t even glimpsed the full extent of the others’ abilities.

  Vaan paused, tucking the Ringhorn’s reins under his arm, and set about his task. He carefully slipped the mossleaf and glassvine bark beneath his gorget and into the crook of his elbow. The relief wasn’t instantaneous, but a subtle softening of the oppressive heat was already noticeable. It was… bearable.

  They continued their trek, the rhythmic plodding of the ringhorns behind them a steady counterpoint to the crunch of their boots on the uneven ground. Vaan’s mind still felt a little bruised from the earlier encounter, the tension lingering like the smoky scent of the salamander, when a sharp rustle ahead shattered the silence.

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  A creature darted from the sparse, thorny brush – quick and rabbit-like, yet disturbingly wrong. Its shape was reminiscent of the thornhare from Wragford, but its skin was a rough, scaly hide that shimmered unnervingly in the harsh ashland light. Its eyes glowed with an unnatural intensity.

  Lyra moved with practiced speed, drawing a throwing knife. The blade sailed through the air and struck in its side. The force of the strike was just enough to stagger the ashland rabbit, its movements faltering as it reeled back with a pained whimper.

  Gregor’s response was immediate and focused. His spear, already in hand, thrust forward with practiced precision, pinning the creature to the ground without delivering a fatal blow. The ashland rabbit thrashed uselessly, trapped but alive.

  Vaan understood the unspoken choreography. They were holding back, deliberately avoiding the final strike. They were treading carefully, wary of triggering the next awakening milestone.

  Without hesitation, Vaan stepped forward, his sword feeling surprisingly steady in his grip. One clean, swift strike, and the level 3 ashland rabbit was no more. No triumphant level-up notifications this time.

  They walked in silence, leading their ringhorns by the reins through a narrow, crag-laced pass. The ground here was broken and uneven, ridged with sharp veins of obsidian and long-cooled magma flows. The air pulsed with a dry, baked heat that seemed to rise from below rather than above.

  His sword remained sheathed for now, resting in his regular scabbard from back home, not the warped one. One of the perks of traveling through these quiet, desolate stretches.

  “You’d think the ash rabbits would be smarter than to charge a group our size,” Lyra muttered, flicking a stray speck of soot from her sleeve.

  “They’re not exactly known for their strategic brilliance,” Gregor grunted. “Mostly just good at running in the wrong direction.”

  Vaan offered a small, noncommittal shrug. “Worked out for me.”

  “You’re welcome,” Gregor said, his tone drier than the surrounding air.

  They continued their uneven progress, the reins of the ringhorns chafing slightly in their hands. Vaan walked slightly behind the others, a quiet tightness coiling in his chest as he watched their easy competence.

  Why hadn’t he spotted the ash rabbit first? Gregor had done the hard part, leaving him to finish it off like a tag-along backup that he most definitely was. Maybe he should be walking ahead, reading the terrain instead of trailing behind. That way, he would at least have the chance to react first. It felt like he was falling short of what they needed, and the weight of that realization pressed down harder than he’d anticipated… a burden they’d likely come to regret.

  Funny how Vaan remembered Garix’s story now. His father hadn’t given up on adventuring easily. Even after being crippled and losing an eye, he’d tried to keep going, taking on a quest or two. But his former teammates, the very ones he’d saved at the cost of his own injuries, had finally told him, bluntly, to quit. He was a liability, not an asset. That was when Garix had returned to Wragford and settled into the smithy with Brenda. Vaan had been six at the time, his memories hazy. He only knew the story Garix had eventually told him.

  This was how his father must have felt then… Inadequate.

  With Tal and Ronald, things had always been balanced, a true partnership. But here, the dynamic felt skewed, off-kilter. The hollow pressure of being the weak link clung to him, a soft, persistent unease. Maybe, just maybe, things would feel different once he actually mastered that other new skill he’d acquired yesterday.

  His gaze drifted almost involuntarily, catching the subtle sway of Tara’s golden-blonde hair in the shimmering heat, until he realized he’d been staring.

  Too long.

  Tara glanced back, one perfectly sculpted brow arched in silent inquiry. “Something on your mind, Vaan?”

  He hesitated, the lie forming easily on his tongue. “Just… trying to understand my class and skills. What it all means.”

  She studied him for a moment, then shook her head with a hint of amusement. "Men and their delicate egos," she muttered, before meeting his gaze. "Listen, Vaan. Pay attention to how we move. There's a rhythm to it. You’re not here to be the lone star. No one expects you to impress us. Even Gregor gets it, despite all his bluster."

  She turned and walked beside Lyra.

  Vaan said nothing. The reins shifted slightly in his hand. He didn’t adjust them.

  When Vaan’s mount snorted and tugged at the reins, its ears twitching nervously, a flicker of irritation sparked within him. Saints! If they’d known the terrain was going to be this brutal, why had Gregor insisted on bringing the beasts? Especially if they were just going to drag them through this ashen hellscape. Walking would have been infinitely easier. Vaan knew, however, that there were no rental stables in the Kanwa plains, and once they crossed the ashlands, the mounts might be essential for navigating the vast, unforgiving wastelands toward the borders. Still, he found a small, petty comfort in directing his annoyance at the surly knight in his thoughts.

  A moment later, Tara’s ringhorn shifted uneasily too, its ears flicking back and forth as if sensing something unseen. Gregor’s mount mirrored its agitation, stomping restlessly and pulling at its reins. Gregor muttered a low curse under his breath, his grip tightening as he scanned their surroundings warily.

  “Something’s spooking them,” Lyra said, her voice hushed. “You feel that?”

  Vaan glanced around. The air was still, the only sound the faint crunch of their boots. But then he noticed it too: a subtle vibration beneath the soles of his worn leather boots, irregular and distant, like something immense shifting far beneath the surface.

  “They sense tremors,” Tara murmured, laying a calming hand on her ringhorn’s neck. “Not unusual in the Ashlands.”

  “But they’re reacting wrong,” Gregor countered, his gaze sharp. “That’s fear.”

  They crested a low rise, and a disturbing sight unfolded before them. A wide patch of scorched earth, blacker than the surrounding ash, was streaked with a strange, white, salt-like dust. At its center, half-sunken into the ground, lay the charred skeletal remains of something enormous. Whatever creature it had once been, it was long gone.

  “Recent?” Vaan asked, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach.

  “No scavengers,” Tara replied, her voice low. “Not even the flies.”

  They gave the unsettling site a wide berth, the ringhorns surprisingly compliant this time, moving quickly with flattened ears.

  Only when the cracked, unstable ground gave way to firmer footing did Lyra finally break the tense silence.

  “Are we even still within the perimeter? This place looks the same in every direction – ash and rock, no landmarks. And we haven’t seen a single soul all day. No mercs, no Imperials, no other foolhardy adventurers.”

  Tara nodded, producing a worn map briefly before tucking it back into the folds of her robe. “We’re on course. The path cuts just east of the Obsidian Scar – should see a signpost before dusk.”

  Lyra let out a breath that was almost a sigh. “I just hope we run into Elara soon. She always had a knack for not dying in places like this.”

  No one offered a lighthearted retort.

  They didn’t get the chance.

  From behind a jagged rise, the monotonous terrain suddenly erupted with movement.

  Once again, Lyra was the first to react, a blur of motion as she dashed forward without hesitation. Her short blade flashed, carving a deadly arc toward whatever stirred in the gloom.

  Gregor followed immediately, his spear already leveled, his shield still slung across his back – a silent declaration that he wouldn’t need it… not yet.

  Tara’s hands lifted, a soft luminescence coalescing around them as a spell began to take shape.

  It was another Salamander, level 7, its form writhing in the dim light.

  Vaan did not move.

  Not yet.

  This time, he watched.

  Intently.

  Garix’s words echoed in his mind: Rushing in without thinking is how adventurers earn early graves – and worse, how they dig graves for those around them.

  His sword remained sheathed, his hand resting lightly on the hilt as his eyes darted, tracking every movement – the enemy’s lashing limbs, his allies’ spacing, the deadly rhythm of strikes and counters.