The following day, after dismantling the camp at dawn and eating cold rations in silence, the column resumed its march toward the mountains.
The terrain was now more irregular, the path narrower and winding. Rock formations rose on both sides like silent guardians, and the wind brought a cold more penetrating than the day before.
It was noon when they finally reached Crucelágrima.
The village owed its name to the confluence of three rivers that converged just south of its limits, forming a junction where the water swirled in complex patterns before continuing toward the Southern Sea. It was a strategic location for trade, which was why it had grown to house nearly a thousand inhabitants.
The village was built on both banks of the rivers, connected by three wooden bridges reinforced with stone. The houses were simple but solid, with thatched roofs and white-painted wooden walls. Movement was constant: carts loaded with goods crossing the bridges, fishermen checking their nets on the banks, merchants negotiating prices at small, improvised stalls.
The smell was a mixture of river—fresh water, silt, fish—damp wood, and the smoke from kitchens preparing lunch.
Torin ordered a thirty-minute halt.
"The horses need to drink. Eat something. Quick and efficient."
The column dismounted with practiced movements. The veterans led the horses toward the nearest riverbank, allowing the animals to drink the cold water while they themselves took out their travel provisions.
Rylan dismounted from Thunder and led the steed toward the river, watching as the animal dipped its muzzle into the water and drank in long gulps. Around him, the veterans moved with an efficiency that seemed almost choreographed. There were no wasted movements. There were no unnecessary conversations.
Garron—the two-meter giant with an axe hanging from his back—took out a piece of smoked jerky and aged cheese wrapped in waxed cloth. He chewed in silence, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings.
Zella sat on a nearby rock, methodically cleaning the tips of her arrows with a cloth while eating dry oat and nut cakes that didn't spoil on long journeys.
The twins Vek and Tor sat back-to-back, sharing a loaf of dense rye bread with salted butter, eating their rations while speaking in low voices. Even at rest, they maintained a posture that allowed them to react in seconds if necessary.
Rylan took out his own ration—smoked jerky, aged cheese, and travel biscuits made with flour, honey, and spices that gave them flavor without needing refrigeration—and ate in silence, observing.
These men and women were not legendary heroes. They were not the protagonists of the stories the bards sang in the taverns. They were survivors. Professionals. Warriors who had learned that glory was for the dead and efficiency was for the living.
Thirty minutes later, exactly as Torin had ordered, the column remounted and resumed the march.
The road after Crucelágrima became more difficult.
The rolling hills gave way to rocky terrain, with formations of gray stone rising like broken teeth from the earth. The road narrowed considerably, flanked by shallow ravines and thorny bushes that scratched the armor when the horses passed too close.
The trees here grew twisted, their branches permanently bent by the constant winds sweeping down from the distant mountains. The leaves rustled with every gust, creating an unsettling sound that seemed to follow them.
It was Garron who broke the silence this time, his grave voice resonating over the sound of the hooves.
"Master Torin, do you remember the Battle of the Three Valleys?"
Torin did not turn his head, but Rylan saw his shoulders tighten slightly.
"Which part? There were many battles in those valleys."
"The one about the young lord who sought personal glory," Garron replied. "The blonde idiot in the golden armor."
Zella spoke without looking up from her bow.
"Lord Theron Valcrest. Heir of a minor house in Elyrion. Eighteen years old. Fourth-layer Apprentice."
"That's the one," Garron confirmed. "The boy was convinced he was going to become a hero that day. He had read all the epic stories, heard all the songs about legendary warriors. He believed glory was waiting for him."
Aldwen grunted.
"Glory waits for no one. Only death does."
"Exactly," Garron continued. "We were in formation, waiting for the signal to advance. The enemy was entrenched on the opposite hill, with archers and spearmen. Our plan was to flank them from the east while another unit pressured them from the front. Simple. Effective. But this young lord... decided that wasn't 'heroic' enough for him."
There was a pause.
"He charged the enemy formation alone," Zella said in a flat voice. "He rode straight into them, shouting something about his house's honor and the justice of the Eternal Sun."
"How long did he last?" one of the veterans asked from the back.
"Three seconds," Garron replied. "Maybe four. Spears pierced him before he could even reach their lines. He fell from his horse and died in the mud, still clutching his useless golden sword."
Silence.
"And what happened afterwards?" Rylan asked, his voice lower than he intended.
"Nothing," Torin replied. "We went ahead with the original plan. We flanked the enemy, we won the battle. Lord Theron's body was recovered and sent back to his family for a funeral with honors. Bards wrote a song about his 'bravery.' And no one mentioned he died like an idiot who ignored orders and wasted his life for an abstract concept of glory."
Rylan felt a weight in his stomach.
"Then... glory doesn't matter?"
"Glory is for bards," Aldwen said in a firm voice. "Survival is for warriors. If you survive long enough, maybe you'll get both. But if you seek glory first, you'll only get a pretty grave."
Zella finally looked up, staring directly at Rylan.
"I've been in thirty-two battles. I've killed forty-seven enemies I can confirm. I've saved countless allies with my bow. And do you know how many songs have been written about me? None. Because I'm not dead. Bards don't sing about the living. Only the dead."
Vek and Tor spoke almost in unison.
"Stories lie."
"They make war seem glorious."
"But war is mud."
"And blood."
"And screams."
"And comrades dying in your arms."
"That's the truth."
Garron nodded slowly.
"And the other truth is that fear kills you faster than any sword. I've seen trained warriors panic in their first real combat. An archer who shot all his arrows into the air in ten seconds because he was too scared to aim. A spearman who dropped his spear and ran, only to be run through from behind. Fear paralyzes you, makes you stupid, kills you."
"How do you control fear?" Rylan asked.
"You don't control it," Torin replied. "You accept it. Fear is always there. It's part of being alive. But you learn to function in spite of it. You learn to make your hands move even when your mind is screaming to run. That's what separates a soldier from a corpse."
Aldwen looked directly at Rylan.
"And there's one more thing you must understand, boy. You wear the storm on your chest. That symbol means something. When enemies see you with that emblem, they attack you harder because you're Drayvar. Because they want to say they killed one of the warriors of the strongest House in the south. You are a bigger target than any other soldier on the battlefield."
"But," Vek continued.
"They also respect you more," Tor finished.
"When you survive," they added together.
Garron smiled, though there was no humor in his expression.
"I've seen enemies retreat when they recognize the Drayvar emblem. I've seen bandits drop their weapons when they realize who they're fighting against. Because they know that if you wear that storm on your chest, you've been trained by the best. You've survived the worst. And you won't fall easily."
"That is the weight of the symbol," Torin said. "Pride and responsibility. It's not just a pretty drawing. It's a promise. A promise that you represent something greater than yourself."
Rylan looked at the emblem engraved on his own chest. The black spear piercing the storm of silver lightning bolts.
For the first time, he truly understood what it meant.
It wasn't just his family's symbol. It was the symbol of generations of warriors who had fought, bled, and died to maintain the south under House Drayvar's control. It was the symbol of discipline, strength, and survival.
And now, he wore it.
"I understand," he finally said.
"Not yet," Torin replied. "But you will. When you're in the mountains, when the bandits attack you, when you see your comrades fall... then you will understand. And in that moment, that symbol on your chest will be the only thing reminding you who you are and why you cannot afford to fail."
There was no further conversation after that.
The column continued to advance in silence, the sound of hooves against the compacted earth marking a steady rhythm as the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon.
The landscape continued to change gradually. The rock formations became steeper, more uneven. The path snaked between increasingly steep hills, and the ravines on both sides deepened, turning into dark crevices where the sunlight barely penetrated.
Rylan watched everything with renewed attention. After the veterans' stories, every detail of the terrain seemed more significant. Every blind curve in the road was a potential ambush point. Every elevated rock formation was a position for enemy archers.
He was beginning to see the world as they saw it. Not as a landscape to admire, but as a potential battlefield.
Torin raised a hand, signaling forward without a word.
The column slowed.
"From here," he said in a firm voice, "the terrain becomes more hostile. The ravines are deeper. The path is narrower. And we are entering territory where regular patrols don't frequently reach."
He turned his horse slightly to face the entire column.
"From now on, we move as if we are in enemy territory. Tight formation. Absolute silence when I order it. And everyone keeps their eyes open. Understood?"
"Understood, Master," several veterans replied in unison.
Torin looked specifically at Rylan.
"Is your armor well-adjusted? Are there no loose pieces making noise?"
Rylan quickly checked his gear, verifying every strap, every buckle.
"All secured, Master."
"Good. Because one sound at the wrong moment can betray us for miles. And I prefer the bandits not to know we're coming until it's too late for them to flee."
Aldwen moved slightly forward on his mount.
"Change formation. Zella, Mika, take the vanguard as scouts. Five hundred meters ahead. If you see anything suspicious, hand signal, no shouts."
Zella nodded briefly and spurred her horse, followed by another veteran Rylan had barely noticed until now: a thin man with scars on his hands and eyes that never stopped moving.
"Garron, Vek, Tor, rear guard," Aldwen continued. "No one surprises us from behind."
The three veterans slowed down, letting the rest of the column advance while they took position at the back.
"The rest, tight formation. Keep a distance of two horses between each. If the road narrows further, single file."
The column reorganized with silent efficiency. There was no confusion. There were no questions. Every veteran knew exactly what to do.
Rylan found himself positioned in the center of the formation, right behind Torin and Aldwen. It wasn't a place of honor. It was the most protected spot. The place where an inexperienced warrior should be until he proved he could take care of himself.
Part of him wanted to protest. He wanted to be in the vanguard, proving his worth.
But another part—the part that had been listening to the veterans' lessons—understood that pride had no place here. This was not a duel in the training yard. This was survival.
They continued advancing.
The sun slowly descended, tinging the sky with orange and red tones that reflected on the rock formations, making them seem to burn with internal fire. Shadows lengthened, becoming deeper, darker.
The wind increased in intensity, bringing a cold that cut through the light armor. The smell also changed: less cultivated earth, more stone, moss, and the damp aroma of the wild vegetation that grew in places where water collected among the rocks.
Rylan noticed how the veterans were moving now. Their postures had subtly changed. They were no longer relaxed. Each of them kept a hand near their weapon, and their eyes constantly scanned the surrounding terrain.
They didn't look scared. They looked... alert. Prepared.
Like predators in unknown territory.
Zella appeared on the horizon, riding back toward the column. She raised a hand in a specific signal: two fingers down, then a closed fist.
Torin nodded.
"Difficult terrain ahead. We'll stop soon to set up camp."
Twenty minutes later, Torin found what he was looking for: a clearing between elevated rock formations that offered natural protection on three sides and a clear view of the road they had traveled.
"Here," he commanded, dismounting with a fluid motion. "We set up camp."
What happened next was something Rylan had seen the night before, but which he now observed with greater understanding of its purpose.
The veterans moved with the same military efficiency as always, each executing specific tasks without needing additional orders. Rylan now recognized the patterns: two veterans led the horses to the protected area, another unloaded the saddlebags with precision, Garron collected dry firewood, selecting only pieces that would burn with little smoke.
This time, Rylan didn't just observe. He joined the work, helping to unload supplies and spread out the small travel tents they had brought. They were simple structures of waxed canvas and wooden poles, barely large enough for one man to sleep, protected from the rain and wind.
Aldwen walked around the perimeter, marking the same three strategic positions for guards he had identified the previous night.
Zella climbed an elevated rock formation, seeking the highest vantage point.
In fifteen minutes, the camp was complete.
The small campfire burned in the center, carefully controlled. The tents formed a semicircle around the fire, each positioned so its occupant could emerge and be ready to fight in seconds. Blankets were prepared for those who preferred to sleep under the stars.
The sun finally set behind the distant mountains, and darkness descended upon the camp.
The contrast was dramatic. During the day, the terrain had been visible for miles in all directions. Now, beyond the small circle of light from the campfire, everything was absolute blackness. The rock formations became menacing silhouettes against the starry sky.
The night wind was considerably colder, carrying unsettling sounds: the creak of branches, the rustle of dry leaves, the occasional distant cry of a nocturnal bird.
Rylan wrapped himself in his blanket near the campfire, feeling the cold penetrate through his clothes. Around him, the veterans ate in silence: simple stew prepared by Garron in a small pot over the fire, accompanied by jerky and aged cheese, with water from the canteens.
There was no conversation. Only the soft crackling of the fire and the sound of the wind.
After eating, Aldwen stood up and began assigning guard shifts.
"First watch: Mika and Jorn. Second: Vek and Tor. Third: Garron and Rylan. Fourth: Zella and me. Torin supervises all."
Rylan nodded when he heard his name. Third rotation guard. The same as the night before.
The veterans began to retreat to their tents or settle into their blankets, each with their weapons within reach. Some fell asleep almost instantly, their breathing becoming slow and regular in minutes.
Others remained awake a little longer, gazing at the fire or the starry sky, lost in their own thoughts.
Rylan entered his small tent, lying down on the blanket he had spread on the ground. The interior was barely warmer than the outside, but at least it shielded him from the direct wind.
He looked up, watching the canvas move slightly with each gust.
His mind reviewed the lessons of the day. Torin's words about Aether and joints. Garron's stories about warriors seeking glory and only finding death. Aldwen's warning about the weight of the Drayvar symbol.
'Four more days until the mountains.'
'And then... real combat.'
The exhaustion of the journey finally overcame him, and he fell asleep with the sound of the wind in his ears and the cold biting his skin.
He was woken by a firm hand on his shoulder.
Rylan's eyes snapped open, his hand moving instinctively toward the hilt of his sword before recognizing Garron's silhouette leaning over him.
"Your watch, boy," the giant said in a low voice. "Get up. Silence."
Rylan sat up, feeling every muscle in his body protest the cold and the hardness of the ground. He emerged from the tent, wrapping his blanket around his shoulders as an improvised cloak against the cold, and followed Garron toward the camp's perimeter.
The veteran guided him toward one of the guard positions: an elevated rock formation that offered a clear view of the road they had traveled and the surrounding clearing.
"From here you can see any movement on the road," Garron explained in a barely audible voice. "And if you hear something among the rocks on the sides, you wake Torin immediately. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Two hours. Then we wake Zella and Aldwen. Don't fall asleep."
"I won't fall asleep."
Garron studied him for a moment, his eyes shining faintly in the darkness.
"Good. Keep your sword close. And if you see anything, don't act alone. Wake the camp."
The giant moved away, leaving Rylan alone at his guard post.
The nocturnal silence was deep and oppressive. Every small sound seemed amplified: the crackle of a branch in the distance, the rustle of the wind between the rocks, the occasional distant cry of some nocturnal animal.
Rylan kept his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes constantly scanning the visible terrain.
The shadows played tricks on his vision. A distant rock could look like a crouched human figure. The movement of a bush by the wind could resemble someone stealthily approaching.
But he forced himself to stay focused. To distinguish between paranoia and real danger.
'This is part of the training.'
'Stay calm. Keep your senses alert. Don't let fear dictate your actions.'
Time passed slowly. Rylan estimated he had been on guard for at least an hour when he heard movement behind him.
He turned quickly, his hand tightening on the sword hilt, only to see Torin's silhouette emerging from the darkness.
He moved without making any sound, as if he were a ghost.
He positioned himself next to Rylan, gazing toward the same dark horizon.
For several minutes, neither of them spoke.
Finally, Torin broke the silence in a barely audible voice.
"Tomorrow's journey will be heavier. The terrain becomes mountainous. The path almost disappears in some stretches. We'll have to dismount and lead the horses on the steepest sections."
Rylan nodded, keeping his voice equally low.
"How long will it take us to cross those sections?"
"All day, probably. If we're lucky and there are no landslides blocking the way, we'll reach a valley where we can camp again. If we're not lucky..." Torin left the sentence unfinished.
"How likely is it to find bandits tomorrow?"
"Unlikely. Tomorrow we are still too close to the patrolled routes. Bandits keep deeper in the mountains, where they know regular garrisons won't pursue them."
There was another pause.
"But," Torin continued, "that doesn't mean you let down your guard. Bandits are unpredictable. And the most desperate sometimes risk operating closer to the protected routes."
Rylan processed the information in silence.
"Have you hunted bandits in these mountains before, Master?"
"Three times. Two expeditions were successful. The third..." Torin paused for a long time. "We lost four men. The bandits ambushed us in a narrow defile. Rocks rained down on us from above. We couldn't respond effectively."
"How did you escape?"
"We didn't escape. We fought. We eventually killed all the bandits. But the cost was high."
Rylan felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold.
"What makes them so dangerous? They're just criminals without formal training, right?"
Torin glanced sideways at him.
"That is your first mistake in thinking. The bandits in these mountains are not common criminals. Many are military deserters. Soldiers who fled their units out of cowardice or crimes. They know tactics. They know formations. And they know the terrain better than anyone."
He paused.
"Plus, they're desperate. A desperate soldier is more dangerous than ten disciplined soldiers. Because the desperate one has nothing to lose. He will fight to the death because he knows capture means public execution."
Rylan nodded slowly.
"Any advice for when we find them?"
"Don't underestimate any of them. No matter how poorly equipped they seem. No matter if they are older or smaller than you. A rusty knife can kill you as easily as a noble sword. Treat them all as lethal threats until they are dead."
Torin turned to look directly at Rylan.
"And one more thing. When combat begins, maintain formation. Do not separate from the group. Bandits use that against you. They isolate you. They surround you. They kill you."
"Understood, Master."
Torin nodded once, satisfied.
"Finish your watch. Rest when you are relieved. Tomorrow will be a long day."
He walked away as silently as he had arrived, dissolving into the darkness.
Rylan returned his attention to the horizon, his thoughts swirling around Torin's words.
'Bandits who are military deserters.'
'Ambushes in defiles.'
'Four men lost.'
This was not going to be a simple training expedition. This was going to be genuinely dangerous.
And for the first time since they had left Stormvale, Rylan felt something more than determination.
He felt genuine fear.
But he didn't let it paralyze him. He accepted it, just as Torin had said. Fear was part of being alive. The important thing was to function in spite of it.
Half an hour later, Zella and Aldwen emerged from their tents and approached the guard post.
"Go to sleep," Aldwen ordered briefly. "We'll take over from here."
Rylan nodded and returned to the camp, entering his tent and wrapping himself in his still-cold blanket, closing his eyes.
This time, sleep came faster, driven by exhaustion and the need to regain strength.
Because tomorrow, the journey would continue.
And every step brought them closer to the mountains.
Closer to real danger.
Closer to finding out if Rylan Drayvar truly had what it took to be a House Drayvar warrior.
Or if he was just another noble destined to learn the hardest lesson of all.