The wagon was moving too fast.
Elayas knew this with the distant certainty of a mind still capable of measurement. Even through the poison-softened haze, even as consciousness ebbed and surged, the speed was unmistakable.
No horse ran like this.
The wheels did not strike the ground so much as skim it. There was no cadence—no hooves, no rhythm—only a breathless glide punctuated by sudden, impossible lurches. The air folded inward around the frame, shrieking softly as it tore past, a sound that set his teeth on edge even when sensation barely reached him.
Elayas drifted.
Darkness rose. Fell away. Returned.
In one fragile pocket of clarity, he turned his head.
There were no horses.
Where muscle and harness should have been, distortion stretched forward into the night—elongated shadows pulling against reality like stains that refused to lift. Their forms would not settle. The longer he looked, the less they made sense, as if his eyes demanded answers the world refused to provide.
Voidstriders.
The word surfaced unbidden. Academic. Half-myth. Half-forbidden research. Constructs—or creatures—bound to absence. Anchored not to motion, but to refusal.
They did not run.
They declined to remain where they were.
No wonder the escort had never stood a chance.
The realization cost him. His vision collapsed inward, edges bleaching to white and black. Something warm pressed against his chest, steady and deliberate, holding him in place.
Hands.
Careful. Trained.
A hooded figure leaned over him, robes the color of moonlight drowned in fog. Not white—something thinner. The fabric flowed as if underwater, trailing faint afterimages when they moved, as though time itself hesitated to release them.
Mana brushed his skin.
Not invasive.
Supportive.
Spellwork layered with surgical precision, threading through his body and bracing against collapse. Where the poison eroded will and balance, this magic held failure at bay without undoing the damage.
A holding pattern.
"Condition?" a woman asked.
The one who had knelt beside him in the dirt. The one who had used his name.
"Critical," the robed figure replied. Their voice echoed oddly, doubled, as if spoken from just behind itself. "Advanced compound. Designed to erode will through equilibrium."
"Time?"
A pause.
"Hours," the figure said. "Less, if the strain continues."
Silence tightened.
"And options?"
Elayas felt it then—threaded through her composure like a blade drawn just far enough to cut.
Fear.
"There is a path," the figure said. "Narrow. Incomplete."
The wagon surged.
Space stuttered—stretching too far, then snapping forward. Elayas's stomach lurched as distance folded in on itself, the world briefly refusing its own rules.
"If we fail," the woman said quietly, "she'll erase us."
The robed figure did not argue.
Elayas's heart stuttered.
She.
Not the Guild. Not Silas.
Understanding spread slowly, painfully. This was not a rescue gone wrong. It was a violation—of borders, treaties, lines no one crossed unless desperation outweighed survival.
His mother.
The woman leaned closer. "Elayas. Stay with us."
He tried to answer. Tried to tell her he was still fighting.
Darkness took him instead.
The last thing he saw was the robed figure's hands flaring brighter, runes spiraling outward in impossible geometries.
The Voidstriders screamed without sound.
The wagon surged—
—and inevitability began, for the first time, to miss.
The wagon slowed.
Not gradually.
Decisively.
The glide shattered into something almost ordinary. The screaming air thinned into silence. Elayas felt inertia reclaim its rights as the world snapped back into alignment with a dull, aching finality.
They had arrived.
Hands steadied him as the wagon stopped. Strong. Controlled. He was lifted—not dragged, not carried—but guided upright as pain flared along his spine.
Then sound.
Trumpets—low, distant, sustained. One note became many, rolling outward like a tide. Drums followed, slow and deliberate.
Not alarm.
Music.
The kind reserved for war declarations and royal arrivals. Meant to be heard miles away so no one could pretend ignorance.
Elayas forced his eyes open.
Dawn thinned the night. Mist curled along stone foundations and iron gates. Ahead rose walls—angular, brutal, efficient. No banners. No ornament.
A stronghold.
Built to endure.
It squatted at the border like a clenched fist. Beyond it lay an enemy empire.
Yet the gates stood open.
Torches burned along the battlements despite the growing light. And lining the approach—
Knights.
Red armor caught the dawn, polished to a hard gleam. Spears stood perfectly aligned, shields locked edge to edge, forming corridors of steel.
This was not defense.
It was reception.
The wagon rolled forward at walking pace, Voidstriders suppressed and unseen. Each drumbeat landed like punctuation.
For me, he realized dimly.
Thirteen.
Dying.
Welcomed like an invading monarch.
They passed beneath the gates. Mana pressure thickened, wards layered so densely the air hummed. Not barriers—systems. Identification. Containment. Annihilation.
Nothing hostile entered uninvited.
Nothing inside escaped.
The woman's grip tightened as his strength faltered. "Almost there."
Soldiers knelt as they passed—not all, but enough. Fists struck breastplates in silent acknowledgment.
No cheers.
Only recognition.
At the inner keep, his knees buckled. Arms locked around him instantly, bearing his weight. The robed figure adjusted their spellwork, reinforcing what little stability remained.
"Easy," they murmured. "You're still here."
The keep was no palace.
It was a vault.
Its doors bore sigils etched so deeply they seemed carved into the idea of stone itself. Old magic. Territorial magic.
The drums ceased.
Silence fell.
The doors opened without a sound.
Warmth spilled out—controlled, prepared, calibrated to a single failing body.
As they crossed the threshold, Elayas felt the cost.
Mana drained from reserves that would take years to recover. Treaties bent to fracture. Borders violated without apology.
And deeper still—
If this failed, there would be no forgiveness.
From the empire.
Or from his mother.
They laid him at the chamber's center. Runes ignited beneath him in perfect, merciless symmetry. The robed figure began something intricate and terrible, movements sharpened by urgency.
The woman leaned close.
"Elayas D. Krause," she said softly. "This will hurt."
He met her gaze. Vision blurred. Resolve held.
"Do it."
Her jaw tightened. "Good. There's no turning back."
The doors sealed.
The wards flared.
And an empire held its breath—
for a dying boy who refused to disappear quietly.