Year 400,
Northern Valleys,
Duskrend
Two weeks since Thalen.
The road was nothing but dust and silence — jagged hills rolling endlessly beneath a sun that refused to soften.
Takaya walked with the map half-folded in his hand, tracing faint lines toward Vel'Cain — a small merchant town said to cling stubbornly to life in the Northern Valleys.
His throat burned; each breath felt heavier than the last. The wind that once carried the scent of pines now reeked of dry earth and sweat.
Veyl's voice broke the monotony, sharp and amused:
"Aha, yes. Go to the most remote town in the middle of the valleys. You really do want to be cow fodder."
Takaya ignored him, tightening the strap of his pack.
His silence only made the spirit chuckle.
"Oh, don't sulk. You'll fit right in with the rest of the corpses."
Takaya said nothing — just kept walking.
The sun sank behind the hills, staining the sky in orange and red — a horizon bleeding into night.
Shadows stretched long across the scrublands, thin and brittle as the grass underfoot.
Takaya's pace slowed. He scanned the uneven terrain for shelter — somewhere hidden, somewhere quiet. His legs ached; the soles of his boots had begun to split.
Down the slope, he spotted a stone bridge arched over a narrow river, the current spilling into a small waterfall below. The air there was cooler, the steady roar of the water swallowing the desert silence.
He decided it would do.
Better the noise of water than the sound of his own breathing.
As he approached, the last of the light flickered against the weathered stones.
For a moment, he thought he saw movement near the far side — but it vanished just as quickly.
Veyl murmured, almost lazily:
"Footsteps behind the noise. Don't pretend you didn't hear them."
Takaya didn't answer.
He dropped his pack beneath the bridge, unrolled his cloak, and sat down — eyes half-closed, every sense awake.
The sun disappeared.
And somewhere in the woods, something waited for him to sleep.
Night crept over the valley, swallowing what little color the day had left.
Takaya crouched beneath the bridge, the stones damp and cold beneath his palms.
He gathered dry twigs and brush, coaxing a thin flame to life.
The fire flickered weakly — a fragile thing, trembling against the dark.
He laid out his blanket, folded his cloak beside it, and set his pack within arm's reach.
Above, the waterfall's roar dulled the silence.
Below, shadows seemed to shift with every breath of wind.
Veyl's voice oozed from the back of his mind — smug, almost amused:
"Hate to break it to you, but usually these are the kinds of places people get jumped."
Takaya leaned back against the stone, eyes fixed on the wavering flame.
He muttered, "You talk too much."
"And you think too little," Veyl replied. "Like do you really expect to not get stabbed in your sleep? Duskrend is not a place where people honor others, kindly."
Takaya didn't answer.
He let the fire burn low, his hand resting on his knee.
The air felt heavier now — expectant, listening.
Somewhere beyond the water's rush, a twig snapped.
The wind shifted — faint, uneven.
At first, it was nothing more than a rustle in the trees. Then came the soft crunch of boots on gravel — one pair, then another, then many.
Different weights, different paces, but moving in rhythm, deliberate.
Takaya froze. The fire cracked once, too loud in the silence.
His gaze swept the tree line — nothing.
But his skin prickled; he could feel them.
"You're being watched," Veyl whispered, low and certain.
"Six… maybe seven. They've been circling since dusk."
Takaya's breath steadied. He doused the flame with dirt, darkness reclaiming the space.
"You could still walk," Veyl whispered, voice curling like smoke in his thoughts. "They haven't moved yet. They're just watching. Waiting for you to lie down."
Takaya's eyes narrowed. "Then I won't."
He adjusted his cloak, cinched his pack tighter, and stepped away from the camp — into the trees. The ground was soft beneath his boots, the scent of wet moss and iron in the air.
"Ah, yes, ye wise King Solomon" Veyl said, dry amusement in his tone. "You're going to them. Because walking into an ambush is such a brilliant strategy."
Takaya ignored him, senses taut, scanning the dark.
The footsteps followed.
Closer now.
Seven distinct sets — moving like wolves who thought their prey didn't know.
He kept walking until he could no longer see the bridge — until the darkness swallowed all sign of safety. Then he stopped, exhaled, and waited.
The silence that followed was final — the kind of silence that came before violence.
Footsteps came then — hesitant at first, testing.
Crunch of leaves.
A whisper.
A snicker that carried across the stones.
Seven shadows moved into view, spreading like a stain.
They weren't soldiers — their gear was too mismatched, too poorly kept. Rusted chain, cracked leather, a few broken sigils that once might have belonged to mercenaries.
Now, just bandits. Men stripped of order, turned to wolves.
The brute led them — broad chest, arms like clubs. His blade was a slab of rusted iron that looked heavy enough to break its wielder.
"Drop the pack, old man," he said, grinning through broken teeth. "Maybe we'll let you crawl away."
Takaya stayed silent. His face unreadable, eyes steady — the kind that made even fools hesitate for half a heartbeat.
Then one of the mages behind the brute spat. "He's deaf. Kill him quick, Gorn. We'll sort through the loot after."
The brute laughed. "No, no, I like when they squirm."
> "Oh, this'll go well," Veyl whispered. "Try not to die in the first thirty seconds."
Takaya didn't respond.
But the wind changed.
Ash began to drift — faint, gray flecks appearing from nowhere, swirling gently around him. It coalesced near his waist, as though forming from invisible fire.
The bandits noticed too late.
One of the mages muttered, "What the hell—?"
Before the thought could finish, there was sound — not of a sword being drawn, but of the air itself tearing apart.
A flash.
A line of silver.
The brute froze, eyes wide — a thin red cut forming across his throat.
For a heartbeat, he tried to speak. Then his head slid from his shoulders, landing in the dirt with a dull, wet thud.
The forest went silent.
Even the stream stopped sounding like water.
"Wh—what in the—" one of the mages stammered.
Then chaos erupted.
Two mages threw their hands forward, runes lighting up under their boots. Blue lines snaked across the ground, forming a trap circle — crude, unstable, rushed. It snapped open with a burst of light, dirt and smoke shooting up in all directions.
Except… they'd cast it too far to the right. The spell detonated harmlessly, scorching tree bark instead of Takaya.
The distraction was enough.
The three remaining footmen charged. Takaya turned too late — one blade slashed across his side, hot blood spilling through cloth.
Pain hit like lightning.
He stumbled, almost dropped to one knee — but instinct took over.
Solthar's sheath flashed once — and another man went down, clutching a torn arm. Takaya pivoted, clumsy, off-balance. His body moved without technique — but it moved.
He ducked another swing, rammed his shoulder into one attacker, then twisted Solthar's handle and drew halfway — the blade's edge finding flesh.
A scream ripped the night open.
"Clumsy. Messy," Veyl's tone was dry, almost entertained. "And somehow effective."
Takaya's breath came harsh and uneven. His vision blurred from the pain in his ribs. Blood wet his sleeve; his pulse thundered in his ears.
The two surviving mages looked at each other — one's hand trembling, the other already backing away.
"This isn't worth it," the wounded one hissed.
The last three men turned and fled into the darkness, stumbling through brush and rock, leaving behind their fallen.
For a moment, only Takaya remained — chest heaving, blood dripping onto the dirt. The bridge loomed above him, the air thick with iron and smoke.
He lowered Solthar — the ashes unraveling back into nothing, drawn back into the Veyl ring's glow.
Then silence.
Nothing but the faint rustle of trees and the whisper of the stream.
Takaya looked down at his side — at the thin red line bleeding through his shirt — and exhaled slowly.
He wasn't proud. He wasn't even relieved.
Just alive.
"Seven men dead," Veyl murmured. "You should eat something to celebrate."
Takaya sank to his knees, wiping blood from his jaw. "They escaped." he muttered.
"Same thing" The Veyl replied
Takaya didn't respond.
He cleaned the wound with water from the stream, bandaged it with torn cloth, and dragged himself back beneath the bridge.
The smell of blood clung to the night.
Above, stars flickered faintly — indifferent.
He lay back against the stone, exhausted, the Veyl silent at last.
Sleep came in fragments — until, hours later, something nudged his arm.
A deer. Sniffing him, curious.
Takaya opened one eye, stared at it, and sighed.
"…still alive, then," he whispered.
The deer blinked, then bounded away into the trees.
Takaya stood, pulled his cloak tighter, and turned north — toward Vel'Cain.
He didn't know that word of this small, brutal fight would travel faster than his footsteps ever could.