Jax chewed slowly, savoring every bite like it might be his last. "So… you're saying it's just a day and a half left?"

  Arelos didn't look up from his cup. "If the weather holds." He flicked a glance toward the window. "And there are no surprises."

  Jax wiped his fingers against a napkin that was already mostly crumbs. "Just a day and a half. Practically halfway done."

  "It's the last stretch," Viktor added, nudging a heel against the leg of the table to shift himself upright. "And the least miserable, I'd hope."

  "That's what worries me," Jax said, tearing another bit of bread. "Too easy."

  Mira leaned back in her chair. "You could try just appreciating things, for once."

  "I will—when we're riding," Jax said, lifting his eyebrows. "Which brings me to my next brilliant idea: horses."

  Arelos snorted faintly. "Oh no."

  "Hear me out," Jax said, raising his hands like a priest giving sermon. "We rent a few horses, cut at least half a day off the trip, maybe more. Avoid the entire next camp."

  "And pay for them with what?" Arelos asked, brows pinched. "Your sparkling wit?"

  Jax turned toward Fenric instantly. "He's got more than enough."

  Fenric pushed his bowl farther from the edge. "You will pry my coin from dead, cold fingers."

  "Oh come on," Jax complained. "You've been hoarding coppers like a dragon with stage fright."

  "It's called saving," Fenric replied. "You should try it before you go spending other people's hard-earned coin."

  "Saving, my ass," Mira muttered quietly.

  "Renting horses can't be that expensive," Jax pressed. "There are rest stations all along the big routes, right? People do this."

  "They rent them when they know how to ride," Arelos said dryly. "Which, unless things have changed, eliminates most of us."

  "Excuse you," Jax said, indignantly. "The guild arranged those two riding lessons."

  Soren blinked across the table. "The ones where you immediately fell off?"

  Jax pointed at him. "That only happened once."

  "No, it happened twice," Mira said, fighting a smirk. "First time, you tried to mount from the wrong side."

  "You said nothing!" Jax accused, now pointing at her.

  "I was curious what would happen," she replied.

  "Technically," Viktor interrupted, "you weren't supposed to mount at all until the instructor told you to."

  "Technically," Jax grumbled into his cup, "everyone's a critic."

  Arelos leaned forward slightly. "And, who was the only one that stayed upright the entire time?"

  Everyone turned their gaze to Viktor. He blinked.

  "Don't act surprised," Mira said. "You looked like you were born on a saddle."

  "It's just balance," Viktor offered. "And trying not to die."

  Fenric shook his head, looking sincerely offended. "Balance nothing. Those things are unnatural."

  "You refused to even get on," Mira reminded him.

  "I approached it," Fenric said, jabbing a finger. "It turned toward me like I owed it money. I made the wise, life-preserving decision to walk away."

  "Oh gods," Jax groaned. "We've got a war coming, and you're afraid of horses."

  "Wars are fought with strategy," Fenric replied. "Horses are just chaos with hooves."

  Soren smiled faintly down into his tea. "I'm fine walking. Riding always feels like falling, just slower and a little more humiliating."

  "Fine, let's all just be miserable," Jax muttered.

  Arelos gave a final shrug. "Settled. We walk."

  There was a brief, accepting silence around the table.

  Fenric tapped the rim of his mug with two fingers. "At least the weather doesn't hate us yet."

  Viktor stretched his legs beneath the table, wincing only a little. "I'm good with walking. Better than being curled in the back of that cart like a rolled-up rug."

  "You should've snored less if you wanted sympathy," Jax grinned.

  "I don't snore."

  "You do," Mira said without looking up.

  He gave her a betrayed glance.

  When the last bite was eaten and the cups drained, they rose with the quiet efficiency of travelers used to early departures. Coats were pulled close, packs gathered without fuss. No words passed between them—just the soft shuffle of readiness, and the weight of the road ahead.

  Mira hovered near Viktor as he stood, watching for a stagger. But his footing was steadier. Just tired, not fragile.

  Arelos reached the counter first, slipping a few coins into a rough hand behind it.

  "That should settle us," he said.

  Gilda, drying a mug with a cloth older than patience, flashed him a grin. "You've been quiet. Respectful. My favorite kind of customer."

  "Appreciated," Arelos replied, with a ghost of a smile.

  She nodded toward the door. "Watch your backs. Trouble's coming quicker than sense these days."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  "Trouble seems to be following us," Jax muttered as he passed.

  Viktor paused at the threshold with a nod toward her. "We'll remember the cider."

  Gilda's grin deepened. "If anything I thought you might remember the stew?"

  Viktor shot her a glance over his shoulder, dry. "I'm trying not to."

  She laughed loud enough that it followed them out the door.

  The morning was clear and cold. Sunlight stretched over the rooftops as shopkeepers swept their stoops, half-awake. Somewhere, a child laughed.

  They followed the main road in silence. For once, their pace wasn't pressed by urgency. No glances over shoulders. No talk of what might be behind them.

  Just steady steps and solid ground.

  That night, wrapped in canvas beneath bare branches, they barely spoke—not for lack of words, but because there wasn't much left to say. Just Jax, grumbling for the hundredth time about how his legs were going to fall off, or how they'd be walking forever, or how this was all someone else's terrible idea. No one called for a watch. No one bothered with the cold. Just blankets. Quiet. Sleep.

  By the next afternoon, the road widened. More travelers passed—wagons piled with grain, guards at their flanks. A man in a three-plumed hat cursed at his mule as it refused to budge. Flags hung limp on merchant carts, faded by dust and sun.

  "Feels different," Soren murmured, adjusting his scarf.

  "It is," Arelos said. "We're close."

  They crested a low ridge—and there it was.

  Onyra.

  The capital spilled across the horizon, stone and shimmer and sheer scale. High walls flecked with silver, weathered towers rising behind like a crown worn proud. A city built to be seen. And remembered.

  Jax squinted. "Doesn't look like the kind of place that welcomes mud-covered nobodies."

  "Good thing we're not mud-covered nobodies," Fenric said, brushing dirt off his sleeve.

  Mira snorted. "You're at least half mud."

  Their steps slowed as the road widened. A broad stone arch loomed ahead, carved with royal sigils and manned by bored-looking guards with spears and polished boots.

  One of them stepped forward, unimpressed.

  "State your business in Onyra," he said, tone flat and by-the-book.

  The group stilled.

  Viktor exchanged a look with Mira.

  She looked to Arelos.

  Arelos took one quiet step forward.

  The wind stirred around them.

  They had arrived.

  Arelos stopped a few paces short of the guard post, hands loose by his sides.

  "We're here to see an old friend," he said, calm as still water. "Might be looking for work, too."

  One of the guards leaned lazily on his spear. His armor had the color of old milk, splotched and dull. The other didn't bother looking up until the first one spoke.

  "Friend?" the first guard repeated, squinting. "Where you lot from?"

  Arelos didn't flinch. "Lycona."

  That earned them a pause. The guard straightened the barest inch and made a long, slow noise through his teeth.

  "Lycona, huh… That's Duke Jularios' nest, right? The one lighting fires all over the kingdom."

  "We're not with the duke," Arelos said, voice still even.

  "No?" The guard raised a brow and glanced at his quiet partner. "Good, ‘cause I'm real tired of rogues spilling trouble down the road and expecting us Onyra folk to clean it up."

  "We're not here to make trouble," Arelos said again. "We're just passing through."

  The guard chewed that over, jaw working behind a tight-lipped frown. Then, with a grunt, he shifted his weight and nodded toward the gate.

  "Right. Well. No law against wanderers just yet," the guard muttered. "Go on then."

  He waved them through like they were just another load of hay.

  They walked quietly for a while, the noise of the gates falling away behind them. Onyra stretched ahead, gleaming in places, decayed in others. Horses clattered past. Children darted between slats of shadow. Overhead, clouds crowded the sky like they were waiting to pounce.

  Jax gave a long, theatrical groan as they entered the east quarter. "Tell me again why we're trudging through this rat maze with no directions?"

  "I've got a pretty good idea of where it is," Arelos said, not breaking stride.

  "A 'pretty good' idea" Jax countered. "That's all I need to hear."

  "It's an old mansion," Arelos snapped. "Near the collapsed temple of the Goddess of Knowledge. East quarter. It's not complicated."

  "East quarter," Jax repeated flatly, "is a bloody maze with more alleys than there are rats."

  "Quit whining," Mira said, stepping around a puddle.

  "Have you not noticed the way this city warps sideways every five minutes?" Jax answered. "Wouldn't put it past old gods to move their broken statue while we loop another block."

  "Then stop staring at roofs and help me find the damn thing," Arelos muttered.

  They passed a crooked bakery that smelled faintly of ash and cloves, and then—beyond the next bend, rising behind a tangle of bramble and stone—the temple appeared.

  "See," Arelos said, slowing.

  A few beat-up pillars still stood under the grey light, their inscriptions half-eaten by weather and neglect. Beside the ruins, a crooked gate surrounded a mansion with sagging stones and a rust-touched gate.

  "This is it?" Jax asked. "I thought we were looking for a headquarters, not a haunted house."

  Arelos stepped forward to the fence. "The guild likes to keep a low profile."

  Behind the gate, a man stared back at them. He stood relaxed, one hand over a belt notched with wear, the other resting casually near a sheathed blade. A red scar cut down the curve of his chin.

  "We're here to report," Arelos called. "Guild business."

  The man raised an eyebrow. "Guild, is it?"

  Viktor caught the flick in the man's eye—amusement or skepticism, he couldn't tell.

  "That's right," Arelos said.

  "You don't look familiar," the man replied, slow and unhurried.

  Arelos didn't move. "We're not from the Onyra chapter."

  The man's tone didn't warm. "Uh-huh. Password?"

  Viktor flicked his eyes toward Arelos.

  Arelos didn't blink. "'The candle burns brightest where no light is welcome.'"

  Immediately, the guard's shoulders loosened, just a hair. He tugged the corner of his mouth into a smile—but it didn't reach the eyes.

  "Well, then," the man said. "Didn't expect any visitors at this hour."

  "We understand the need for caution."

  "That's right," the man said. "Now, mind showing me your marks? Can't trust just anyone reciting pretty passwords."

  Viktor watched as Arelos slowly unrolled his sleeve and turned his arm. The black ink sat ghostly pale against road-dried skin.

  There was a flicker. Not hesitation. A calculation.

  "That's Lycona's brand," the guard said, his voice a little too light now. "You lot are… luckier than most."

  "We're here to report to Warden Faros," Arelos said, his tone sharp now.

  "Faros? Of course," the guard replied, grin tightening. "Just give me a moment, then. Wait here."

  The gate squeaked closed behind him. The wind tugged the latch. They stood still. Minutes passed.

  "How long's it take to fetch a warden?" Jax asked.

  Soren's eyes didn't leave the shuttered windows above. "This doesn't feel right."

  "Agreed," Arelos said lowly. "It shouldn't take this long."

  Silence wavered. Gravel shifted under Soren's heel. Fenric clicked his tongue once, then stopped.

  Then—bootsteps.

  The guard re-emerged, flanked by six others. Viktor's first thought was strange relief—familiar hooded coats and worn guild brass. But the feeling cracked when he saw their faces.

  Wrong.

  Too many smirks, not enough questions.

  The original man stopped just short of the gate, grinning as if at a joke no one else heard.

  "Apologies," he said. "We didn't know anyone from Lycona made it out. Faros says you're lucky dogs."

  Arelos narrowed his eyes. "Where is he?"

  The guard didn't blink. "Inside. Said he wants to hear everything himself."

  He turned toward the latch, then waved them forward. "Come on in. Don't linger. Bad air near the street."

  Arelos said nothing. Neither did Mira.

  They stepped through the gate.

  The men shifted aside, flanking slowly—too close.

  Viktor stepped beside Mira, lowering his foot on the courtyard gravel.

  Then—

  Crack.

  Pain. Flashing white. Dagger-hilt to temple.

  Viktor's knees folded. He collapsed, shoulder first into stone.

  Mira's voice cracked the quiet.

  "VIKTOR!"

  She'd drawn steel before her scream finished echoing. Her blade slashed across the first attacker, splitting through cloak and skin alike.

  A second man lunged. Mira rammed her elbow into his sternum. He reeled.

  Someone shouted—behind her. A blur of movement. Viktor, dazed, reached a hand forward—

  "Mira—don't—"

  Too late.

  The third attacker slid in low. Knife like a whisper. It tore through fabric, flesh, spine.

  Mira jerked, gasping—but there was no sound. Only the wheeze of stolen air.

  She tried to speak. Nothing came.

  She dropped. Her knees hit first. Then her blade. Then shoulder. Then nothing.

  Her eyes found Viktor's across the courtyard.

  Open. Empty.

  "Mira!" someone shrieked—Jax?

  "Son of a bitch—" came Fenric's snarl, followed by steel drawn fast and hard.

  Soren's voice—brief, panicked. Cut off.

  Shouting.

  "Orders were to take them in alive!" someone roared above the chaos.

  "She cut me," another snarled. "Fucking bitch cut me—she—"

  Viktor raised a hand blindly. Her name tried to leave his throat and failed.

  Everything turned black except her eyes, still wide, still empty.

  And then—

  Nothing.