To call it the silverlands is to declare it ours. To silence their word, their Prolog, is to ensure that no one will remember it was ever theirs.

  — Emperor Aethworth, upon the surrender of the bastion of Rythien

  The silence after Baerbald’s fall was suffocating. The clang of Elreak’s dagger hitting the stone floor reverberated through the chamber, a sound far louder than it should have been. I felt frozen, the stillness around me amplifying the frantic rhythm of my thoughts. Every breath felt heavy, like inhaling ash.

  Folmon was the first to speak, though his words were a whisper. “We were supposed to be better than this.” His gaze lingered on Baerbald’s lifeless form, then shifted to the fragments of Elidyr. A shadow passed over his face, something dark and bitter. “This... this isn’t justice.”

  “It’s survival,” Elreak said sharply. He turned to face us, his expression cold but unreadable. “And survival doesn’t ask for permission.”

  Halaema stepped forward, her hands clasped tightly as though in prayer. “But it does demand reckoning.” Her voice was quiet yet resolute, carrying a weight that filled the room. “What we do now will shape the echoes of this moment.”

  Elreak didn’t respond immediately. His gaze flicked toward me, lingering for a second longer than I expected. “Then we keep moving,” he said finally, his tone brusque. “The empire won’t wait for us to finish debating morality. Considerations for our safety must extend beyond the immediate threat of the GOLEMs.” Elreak turned to Folmon. “What of the students? Where might they find sanctuary in this turmoil?”

  Folmon, standing a few paces ahead, hesitated before answering. His eyes flicked briefly to Baerbald’s lifeless form in the chamber behind us, then to the faint sigils etched into the wall. “Their best hope would be a hidden space,” he said finally, his tone lacking its usual conviction. “There may still be wards concealing such a refuge nearby.” He moved toward the wall with a briskness that felt more like an escape than a plan, his fingers tracing the sigils with deliberate care.

  I watched him carefully, my instincts picking up on the slight tremor in his hands, the furrow between his brows. Folmon was always decisive, always certain. Now, doubt clung to him like smoke after a fire. Was it Baerbald’s death? Elidyr’s petrified remains? Or something deeper, something unspoken?

  Halaema moved beside him, her expression calm yet keenly observant. “You’re sure?” she asked softly, her voice carrying a quiet authority that drew Folmon’s gaze. It wasn’t an accusation, but a question that demanded an honest answer.

  “I’m sure,” he said, though the words rang hollow. His hands moved over the wall again, and after a moment, he stepped back. “Here,” he said, gesturing to a section of the wall that shimmered faintly under his touch. “The concealment here is arcane. It should still hold.”

  Elreak stepped forward, his movements precise as he ran his hand along the glowing lines. With a click and a low groan, the stone shifted, revealing a narrow passageway beyond. “Move quickly,” he said. “We don’t have time to linger.”

  Inside the hidden chamber, six students huddled together, their faces pale with fear. They rose cautiously as we entered, relief flickering in their eyes as Elreak’s commanding presence filled the room. A thiwen girl barely older than a child stepped forward, her voice trembling. “Are we safe?”

  “For now,” Elreak replied, his tone firm but not unkind. “Stay quiet. Follow instructions. We’ll keep you safe.”

  Folmon stepped into the room next, his expression softening as he greeted each student by name. His voice was steady, but there was a weight behind it, as if every kind word came at a cost. He crouched to speak with a yan boy clutching a small bundle, his hands briefly trembling before he stilled them. “You’re safe now,” he said quietly. But his eyes told a different story—they flickered toward the darkened passage we’d come from, toward the dangers that loomed just beyond.

  I noted the way he lingered, how he seemed to avoid looking back at the rest of us. It wasn’t just fear. It was something heavier. Guilt.

  Halaema knelt beside a wounded student, her hands glowing faintly as she worked. Her voice was low but reassuring, her presence a steady anchor for the group. “This will sting,” she said as she pressed her fingers over the injury. The student winced but nodded, their breathing evening out under her care. “You’re stronger than you think,” she added softly, a small smile curving her lips.

  She glanced toward Folmon once, her expression unreadable, before returning to her work. Whatever she thought of his wavering resolve, she didn’t voice it. But I could see the questions in her eyes.

  Elreak lingered at the edge of the room, his presence quieter now. I joined him, standing close enough to feel the tension radiating from him. For a long moment, neither of us spoke, content to watch the quiet interactions unfolding before us.

  “Thank you,” he said suddenly, his voice low. I turned toward him, surprised by the unexpected sincerity in his tone. “For rescuing me back there.”

  His gaze met mine, and for the first time, I saw something raw in his expression—a vulnerability that lay beneath his sharp confidence. His emerald-green eyes held mine, steady but with an unspoken weight. His blond hair framed his face, its length exposing the elegant tips of his ears, a detail I might have missed if I hadn’t learned to notice such things. His faint smile, fleeting and genuine, left a warmth in my chest that startled me.

  “A yanthi,” I said softly, my detective instincts pushing me to reveal what I knew but tempered by a deeper purpose, “protects other yanthi.”

  Elreak’s reaction was swift—his eyebrows raised, his lips slightly parted in astonishment. His eyes widened, and though he didn’t speak immediately, the question in his expression was unmistakable: You?

  I nodded.

  He took a deep breath and let it out sharply. His eyes darted around, avoiding mine, as if trying to process what I had just revealed. When his gaze finally returned, his expression softened slightly. A faint smile tugged at his lips—not triumphant, but almost relieved.

  “You’re the only yanthi I’ve ever met,” he said quietly. “I thought I was the last one.”

  “Surely there must be more of us,” I said, though my voice faltered under the weight of his certainty.

  Elreak shook his head, his movements deliberate. “If there are,” he said, his eyes drifting toward Folmon and the students, “they fled Giantridge long ago. The GOLEMs wouldn’t have left anyone like us alive.”

  “Then we’ll leave,” I said. “All of us.”

  A flicker of something unreadable passed over Elreak’s face, but the faint smile that followed was tinged with sadness. “It’s not that simple,” he said after a pause, glancing toward Folmon and the students. “I’m sworn to protect them. I can’t abandon them.”

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  “I’m not asking you to abandon them,” I replied, meeting his gaze directly. “But we can’t stay here.”

  “Elreak’s right,” Halaema said, stepping closer. Her calm, measured voice carried the weight of pragmatism. “We can’t make that decision without a plan. Leaving Giantridge with nowhere to go would be suicide.”

  Elreak gave a curt nod, his emerald-green eyes sharp. “Exactly. And where would we even go?” he asked, his tone cutting through the faint hope I had tried to spark. “Althea would never accept us, and the yan kingdoms are no friends to strangers.”

  “I know a place,” one of the students said hesitantly. A boy stepped forward, his thin frame almost trembling under the weight of all our attention. “Freeport. I have a contact there. He could help us.”

  The name hit me like a ripple in still water. Freeport. I had heard of it in passing—an island bastion at the edge of the Greatsea, straddling the tenuous balance between the yan kingdoms and the westfolk empire. It served as a neutral ground, a rare liaison that kept both worlds at arm’s length while belonging to neither. Or perhaps it belonged to both.

  Folmon’s head tilted slightly, the faint glimmer of an idea sparking in his eyes. “Freeport,” he said slowly, testing the word. “It could work.”

  Halaema frowned, crossing her arms. “Could it? It’s far, and the journey across the Greatsea is dangerous. And even if we reach it, how do we know they’ll take us in?”

  “It’s not perfect,” Folmon admitted, his voice steady but thoughtful. “But it’s a place neither the empire nor the yan kingdoms would pursue us. It’s independent. Safe.”

  Elreak’s skepticism was immediate. “Safe?” he repeated, his voice edged with doubt. “Maybe from the empire. But it’s not some haven for lost causes. It’s a yan city, Halaema—if they even let us through the gates, it’ll be because they want something in return.”

  “Better that than staying here,” I said quietly, surprising even myself. “If we stay, we know what happens. Freeport might not be perfect, but it’s a chance.”

  Elreak’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue further. His gaze shifted to Folmon, who straightened and addressed the group.

  “We leave Giantridge,” Folmon said, his voice rising above the tension. “Freeport is far, but it’s possible. And right now, possible is the best we can hope for.”

  “Or, we could always stay here,” a thiwen student suggested, her voice hesitant but steady. “We could hide.”

  The suggestion hung in the air for a moment, but the weight of the idea settled heavily on the group. Folmon shook his head, his expression drawn. “The GOLEMs will undoubtedly be in pursuit,” he said, his voice calm but resolute. “To remain stagnant, to stay hidden exactly where they expect us to be, is a risk we can’t afford to take.” He glanced at the students, his gaze softening. “Even if the path ahead is fraught with danger, it’s a better choice than the inevitable fate that awaits us if we stay.”

  The students exchanged uncertain looks, but one by one, they nodded. Folmon’s words carried a quiet wisdom that seemed to anchor their fear, if only for the moment.

  Halaema stepped forward, her voice cutting through the quiet. “If we’re truly considering leaving,” she said, her tone measured but purposeful, “then we need to prepare. Properly. That means gathering supplies—water, food, medicine. We won’t make it far without them.”

  “What do you suggest, Halaema?” Folmon asked, his voice steady.

  “There’s plenty we can use in this place,” she replied. “We’ll have to be quick, but there should be enough to sustain us for the first leg of the journey.”

  Elreak nodded, his expression sharpening. “Gather anything that could aid in transmutation,” he instructed the students. “Odds, ends, fragments—anything that can be repurposed. The GOLEMs will be on us sooner or later. If it comes to a fight, we’ll need every advantage we can get.”

  The students dispersed quickly, their fear channeling into a focused urgency as they scavenged for items. Halaema moved among them, offering quiet reassurances as they worked. Folmon lingered by the wall, his expression contemplative as his hands brushed against some discarded metal fragments.

  I watched him. There was something heavier about him now, a shadow of disappointment that clung to him even as he participated. But he didn’t resist the preparations. He seemed to understand the necessity, even if it warred with his principles.

  As the others worked, I turned my attention to finding something I could use. My gaze fell on the body of the slain est, slumped against the cold stone. My stomach twisted briefly, but I moved toward it, stepping carefully around the pooling blood. With deliberate care, I rolled the body over, my eyes catching on the daggers sheathed at its belt.

  The hilts were intricate, adorned with fractal patterns that seemed to flow seamlessly into the blades. The sheaths themselves curved elegantly, echoing the same intricate design. I crouched down, hesitating briefly before drawing one of the daggers. The blade was unique—silver, almost luminous, reflecting the flickering torchlight with an ethereal glow.

  “You’re missing a belt,” Elreak’s voice reached me, low and intimate, sending a shiver down my spine. Before I could respond, he was behind me, his presence close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. His hands moved with practiced grace as he threaded the belt through the loops of my pants, his fingers brushing my hips with deliberate slowness that left my breath catching in my throat.

  The air between us felt charged, the faint crackle of torchlight only heightening the sense of closeness. He leaned in slightly, the scent of steel and something faintly earthy clinging to him. My pulse quickened as his hands lingered just a moment longer than necessary, securing the belt firmly in place.

  “There,” he said softly, his voice like a low hum that seemed to settle in my chest. As he stepped back, I turned to face him, and he took the daggers from my hands with an almost possessive ease. “They’ll look better here,” he murmured, his tone a mix of practicality and something deeper, as he attached the sheaths to the freshly fastened belt.

  Elreak’s gaze lingered on mine, his emerald eyes flickering with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. A faint, knowing smile curved his lips as he straightened. “I was right,” he said, his words carrying a quiet confidence that left my thoughts spinning.

  I swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond as he turned away, retrieving his spear and joining Folmon and Halaema. I watched him go, my gaze trailing over the way the torchlight highlighted the lines of his back, the deliberate ease of his movements. There was a fluidity to him, a grace that was impossible to ignore. My heart raced, and for a fleeting moment, I wished I could reach out, to bridge the space that now stretched between us.

  “Is everyone ready?” Halaema’s question rang out, pulling me back to the present. Her gaze swept across the room as she assessed the group. A tentative ripple of nods moved through the students, though unease lingered in their expressions.

  Folmon stepped forward, his presence commanding as he took up a wooden staff resting against the wall. His voice rose, strong and steady, filling the chamber with its cadence. “We stand on the edge of the empire’s reach,” he began. “Its gaze is heavy upon us, unyielding and relentless. It claims dominion over all it surveys—over land, over life, over thought itself. And it will not stop until we are crushed beneath its heel.”

  The students exchanged uncertain glances, shifting their weight from foot to foot. Folmon’s grip tightened on the staff, and the wood beneath his hands began to shimmer faintly, as though responding to the force of his resolve.

  “To stay here is to surrender ourselves to their chains,” Folmon continued, his voice gaining strength. “To run is to risk stepping into the unknown, a journey fraught with storms and shadows. The road ahead will test us—our courage, our bonds, our very will to go on.” His gaze swept across the room, meeting the eyes of every student, every companion. “But the empire’s grip is not unbreakable. Its reach does not touch the hearts of those who refuse to kneel.”

  As he spoke, the staff in his hands began to change. The pale wood darkened, its surface shifting as if reshaped by unseen hands, until it gleamed like polished obsidian. Threads of gold spiraled up its length, glowing faintly, their light matching the growing fervor in Folmon’s voice.

  “We carry within us the fire of defiance,” he declared, his words unwavering. “Not even the gods will shape our fate—it is ours to forge, through our choices, our courage, and our unity.”

  The gem at the top of the staff, cradled between ornate golden horns, began to glow with a pure white light. The illumination spread outward, erasing the shadows that clung to the walls and casting a radiant halo around Folmon as he raised the staff high.

  “Yes, we will face the trials of the Greatsea,” he said, his voice swelling like a rising tide. “Yes, we will be hunted. Yes, we will falter. But we will rise again. We will endure.” He struck the staff against the ground with a thunderous crack, sending a wave of energy through the chamber. The torches extinguished in an instant, plunging the room into darkness save for the brilliance of the gem atop the staff.

  “And we will prevail,” Folmon finished, his voice ringing out like a vow etched into stone. “For survival is not a gift—it is a right we will claim.”

  For a moment, silence reigned, the light from the staff pulsing gently in the dark. Then, as if ignited by his words, the students erupted into cheers, their voices filling the chamber with a renewed sense of determination. The sound nearly drowned out the distant rumble of stone—the unmistakable sound of the GOLEMs breaking through the corridor wall.

  But I heard it. And so did Elreak. Our eyes met in the flickering light, a silent acknowledgment of the danger hurtling toward us.