They left the keep at dawn, breath turning to mist as they crossed rolling hills swallowed by early fog.
Ironwill walked ahead with the steady rhythm of someone who trusted the world to shift around him rather than the other way.
They followed him across rain-swollen rivers, through narrow forest paths where branches scraped armor plates, and over slick stone ridges that challenged their balance at every step.
By the sixth day, the trees thinned, revealing broken rise after rise of jagged foothills. Roots clung to stone like stubborn hands refusing to release their grip.
Lightning-split pines leaned over shattered archways half-consumed by earth. At the center stood a ruin—immense, overgrown with vines that pulsed faintly with ancient mana.
Ironwill raised a torch despite needing no light.
"Stay close. Old places resent intruders."
They followed him inside.
The ruins smelled of damp stone and stale mana—wrongly sweet, metallic on the tongue. Ironwill led them through collapsed halls and forgotten gardens while speaking with the matter-of-fact tone of someone who had survived places like this too many times.
He taught them how to forage without dying. Which mushrooms sustained, which killed, and which held tiny creatures tucked inside their caps.
How to test unfamiliar water by threading mana across its surface to detect curse residue. How to smear crushed leaves and mud over their bodies to dull the warmth undead hunted.
Campfires became their only comfort, and even then, Ironwill didn't allow them to relax without thought.
On the first night, he made them sit in a circle facing outward, each watching a different direction.
"Comfort is death's invitation," he said simply.
Most nights they cooked small catches—thin strips of rabbit, bitter roots, mushrooms with a harsh iron aftertaste. Lira practiced forming perfect mana-bolt darts before firing them into logs. Miran sharpened his knife while boasting about future battles. Arden sketched shifting layouts of the ruin. Nale traced minor sigils in the dirt, sparks dancing as he practiced Elder Rhyden's support techniques. Cerys and Jhalen tapped weapons lightly in silent sparring.
Sometimes distant ghoul howls made the fire feel fragile. Ironwill only glanced toward the dark.
"Let them watch," he murmured. "They know better than to approach my fire."
They moved deeper on the second week. Skeletal wolves prowled outer halls, ribs clattering like loose wood. Ghoul packs lurked at vision's edge. Ironwill taught them to listen for silence—the unnatural kind.
"The living breathe," he said. "The dead don't. Listen for the absence."
He showed them how to dismantle skeletons properly, cutting mana threads binding joints. How to strike bone at angles that disrupted the magic inside it. How to move as one.
One night, a small pack of ghouls approached. Ironwill didn't rise.
"Handle it."
Cerys held the front line. Miran slammed into the ghouls like a crashing tide. Arden's staff cracked skulls with brutal efficiency. Lira loosed a rapid volley of mana bolts that burst like sparks, then followed with a blinding flash that staggered several at once. Jhalen slipped between them, severing limbs. Nale used soft mana ripples to steady footing under each ally, giving them precious moments.
When they finished, Ironwill stepped over the corpses with a short nod.
"Acceptable."
It was the closest thing to praise he ever gave.
In the third week, they stumbled into chambers still vibrating with dormant enchantments. Floating motes whispered in languages long forgotten. One room twisted space: steps sideways led upward, and sounds echoed from directions that didn't exist.
Ironwill taught them to anchor themselves by driving mana pulses through their feet.
They navigated runic traps—arcs of arcane lightning, illusions that drowned them in phantom water, altars that tried to siphon their mana cores. In one chamber, a glyph reached for Arden's essence, dragging him toward a blackened altar. It took Lira's scream and a blinding barrage of flashes strong enough to crack stone to snap the pull.
By week's end they were bruised, scraped, and stumbling.
Ironwill nodded, satisfied.
"Progress."
The fourth week was worse. The ruin resisted them—corridors collapsing behind them, whispers drifting like breath against their necks.
Ironwill blindfolded them and forced them to navigate pitch-dark chambers lined with brittle debris that would echo like thunder if touched. They sparred in complete darkness, learning one another's footfalls, breath rhythms, and subtle movement cues.
He showed them how to sense undead by tracking mana currents through stone. Nale excelled, lifting a hand seconds before anything stirred.
Nights were cold. Around the fire they shared quieter moments—Miran roasting mushrooms until barely edible, Lira practicing tiny flashes between her fingers, Jhalen carefully polishing his staff. The fire softened them even as the ruin sharpened them.
On the dawn of the fifth week, Ironwill strapped his pack and spoke without turning.
"You can think, fight, and survive. That's enough. Continue alone."
They stared.
"Where are you going?" Miran asked.
Ironwill started walking.
"Away. I will return."
They stared at each other with disbelief.
He didn't explain.
He simply vanished into the mist.
They traveled in silence the first day. When he didn't return, they relied on everything he'd taught. They mapped halls, cleared undead nests, marked fallback chambers. They rationed food, hunted small game, and strengthened their camp wards.
Nights felt emptier without Ironwill's presence. Lira's flashes lit their camp, Nale reinforced the protective runes, Miran volunteered for double watch. Cerys and Jhalen drilled together. Arden muttered about shifts in the ruin's mana, sensing a deeper pull.
On the seventh day, they found a half-collapsed stairwell leading into a buried library. Shelves leaned like dying trees, scrolls fossilized under layers of dust. The air hummed with something awake.
"This place is… aware," Lira whispered.
A soft chime rang in answer.
Cold spread through the hall.
A skeletal figure rose from the far end, robes drifting like drowned cloth. Blue fire burned in empty sockets. A shattered bone crown hovered above its skull.
Nale's voice shook.
"A lesser lich…"
"Aaazhi dor nik var," the lich intoned, raising a hand.
The library trembled.
Miran charged first. His staff, coated with arcana, struck an invisible barrier that cracked like glass and hurled him backward into collapsing shelves.
A wave of frost washed over Cerys, freezing her arms numb.
Jhalen moved to flank, but every strike passed through shifting mist—the lich flickering in and out of solidity.
Lira unleashed rapid mana bolts. They exploded in bright sparks across the ward but barely dimmed it. Her next flash scorched the air, but the lich turned as if bored.
Arden slammed his staff into the floor, creating a shockwave. For a heartbeat, the lich faltered.
They pushed—Cerys blocking, Miran smashing through debris, Jhalen striking bone seams, Nale reinforcing footing with stabilizing sigils.
For a moment, it seemed possible.
Then the lich released a shattering pulse of death mana. Shelves disintegrated. The floor cracked. They were thrown like rag dolls. A beam grazed Lira, burning through her cloak; Arden barely caught her.
Minutes stretched like an hour. Nothing they did pierced its defenses.
Nale shouted over the chaos, "Use Elder Rhyden's methods! Clean flow—anchor then project!"
They aligned instinctively.
Arden controlled expansion.
Lira compressed her mana bolts to razor precision.
Miran and Cerys timed their strikes with Nale's pulses.
Jhalen sharpened his mana edge to a surgical blade.
For several moments, everything clicked.
Lira's bolts hit harder.
Jhalen cut deeper.
Arden disrupted the lich's footing.
Nale kept their ground stable.
But the lich adapted. Its wards shifted, absorbing energy. It phase-shifted more often. Its counters turned vicious.
A shard of cold magic dropped Miran.
Cerys blocked a lethal curse but lost feeling in one arm.
Lira's final flash sputtered—her mana dry.
Arden's hands shook violently.
Their formation cracked.
"Fall back!" Nale yelled. "Now!"
They didn't argue.
They dragged each other—limping, bleeding—through twisting corridors until they reached their old campsite. The wards still held. The fire pit sat half-covered in ash.
They collapsed, too exhausted to speak.
The lich did not pursue.
It simply returned to its library, as if they had never mattered.
Near dawn, footsteps approached.
Ironwill stepped into the firelight, cloak torn, armor dusted, eyes heavy with understanding.
"You faced something beyond you," he said.
Arden nodded weakly. "A lich."
"And you lived." Ironwill's voice softened. "Good. That means you listened."
He didn't ask questions.
He didn't need to.
He lifted one of the packs.
"We leave. The situation has changed."
Their return journey was slower—they were injured, drained—but their morale was strangely higher. They had survived without him. They felt stronger, more independent. Capable.
After 10 days, they reached the final hill overlooking the coast and the Vaelorian citadel. Relief rippled through them.
Miran laughed weakly.
"Happy to still be alive."
Lira exhaled softly. " The ocean bNale finally relaxed his shoulders.
Each felt differently, but all shared the same truth—they were glad to be home.
As they neared the hill's crest, the citadel came into view.
Down the path, at the keep's entrance, stood carriages draped in gold banners embroidered with the Sun Church's radiant sigil. Other wagons bore the Imperial royal standard.
Ironwill stopped cold.
"The Sun Church," he growled. "And the Crown."
His voice hardened.
"Move. Now."
The six—bruised, limping, changed—followed him down the slope.