Kyle’s eyes snapped open, his chest heaving as if he’d just run for miles. He sat upright, gasping for air, the sunlight streaming through the trees almost blinding after the oppressive darkness of his vision.

  His hands trembled as he reached for his waterskin, uncapping it and taking a long, desperate sip. The cool water ran down his throat, grounding him back to reality.

  The clearing was as it had been before, peaceful, untouched by his strange experience. The rustling leaves and distant chirping of birds reminded him that, thankfully, no beast or monster had stumbled upon him in that vulnerable state.

  Still breathing heavily, Kyle leaned back against the tree, wiping the sweat from his brow as he tried to process what he had seen.

  ‘Two days… it felt like two days,’ he thought, shaking his head. Yet, the sun’s position had barely shifted. At most, only a few minutes had passed.

  Gathering his composure, Kyle stood and stretched, his muscles aching slightly from the strange ordeal. The memory of the man’s footwork was fresh in his mind, as vivid as if he’d just practiced it himself. With a cautious gnce around the clearing, Kyle moved to an open patch of grass and began to imitate what he had learned.

  His movements were deliberate at first, each step calcuted as he traced the intricate patterns in his mind. Slowly, the rhythm came to him, and his pace increased. His steps grew lighter, his motions smoother, and for a moment, he felt a flicker of satisfaction.

  The footwork slightly increased his speed, his bance sharper than before. But it was nowhere near the level of that man, or even how he had moved in the vision.

  Kyle paused, frowning. He pced a hand on his abdomen, remembering the strange warmth he’d felt there during the vision. That energy, the so-called “threshold,” had clearly been the key. Without it, his movements cked the fluidity and power he’d experienced before. He sighed, shaking his head.

  ‘So, that’s the difference,’ he thought.

  Pushing the thoughts aside, Kyle returned to his horse, patting the animal gently before mounting it. The horse snorted, almost as if sensing Kyle’s unease, but it didn’t protest. With a light nudge, Kyle set it into motion, steering it back onto the forest path.

  His destination was Fenwick, and he couldn’t afford to waste more time.

  The ride was long and uneventful, the forest giving way to open fields and, eventually, the worn cobbled roads leading into the outskirts of Fenwick. The familiar sight of weathered buildings, bustling vendors, and tired travelers brought no comfort, only a heavier reminder of the reason he was here.

  Kyle entered the familiar, dimly-lit tavern in Fenwick, the smell of ale and roasted meat heavy in the air. The faint buzz of chatter filled the room as he made his way to an empty table near the corner. This was the spot where he was supposed to meet with Albert.

  He ordered a gss of beer, though the thought of drinking barely appealed to him. His mind was already clouded, consumed by thoughts of his mother and whether Albert had managed to pull any strings.

  Hours passed. He sat there, fingers lightly tapping the mug, his gaze lost in the ripples of the amber liquid. The noise of the tavern became background static, until a group of soldiers seated nearby caught his attention.

  They were loud, boisterous, their words sharp enough to cut through his thoughts.

  "Man, that new healer they brought to the prison... damn," one of them said, his voice slurred with drink. "She's got this look, you know? That 'I'm better than you' thing. Makes it all the more fun when she’s on her knees."

  Kyle’s grip on his mug tightened.

  Another soldier ughed, a crude bark. "You’re telling me! That ass? Hells, I’d volunteer for guard duty every day if I could get close to her."

  "Shit, the way she looks at you, though," the first soldier chimed back in. "Cold as ice. But I swear, you get her in the right spot, she'd melt like any other bitch."

  A third soldier leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly, though not enough to keep Kyle from hearing. "I heard Killian got her right after Rowan. Of course he did, the bastard. Always licking Rowan’s shoes."

  "Yeah," the second one replied with a sneer. "But you know how these things work. Eventually, she’ll be passed around, one way or another. No way a body like that stays untouched for long."

  “It’s such a tragedy that our guard duty is scheduled for next week.” One of them said, “It’s been a few days since I saw her, and I already want her back.”

  The others agreed with a sigh.

  Laughter erupted from their table, loud and vile.

  Kyle’s jaw clenched as a wave of fury surged through him. His vision blurred for a moment, rage threatening to boil over. He forced himself to stay seated, to not act recklessly, but every muscle in his body screamed for violence.

  The mug in his hand creaked under the pressure of his grip. 'Stay calm,' he told himself, though the words felt meaningless. He had to wait for Albert. Anything else would ruin his chance to help his mother.

  But the soldiers’ ughter echoed in his ears, each word cutting deeper than the st.

  The hour dragged on, and Albert still hadn’t shown up. Kyle had long since finished multiple jugs of beer, the once enjoyable taste now bitter on his tongue. The sun started to dip beneath the horizon, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch across the room.

  His impatience gnawed at him, his thoughts constantly returning to his mother and whether Albert had made any progress with his connections. But the longer he waited, the more his mind turned darker, deeper into anxiety and fear.

  Finally, unable to stay idle any longer, Kyle stood up, throwing a few coins onto the table to pay for his drink. He was going to meet his mother.

  The walk to the prison felt longer than st time, his heart racing as he approached the familiar stone walls of the grim facility.

  He walked past the gates and approached the same guard who had been stationed the st time he was here. The guard, a burly man with a gruff expression, caught sight of Kyle and paused mid-conversation with another soldier.

  "Ah, you're back," the guard said, his voice rough but not unfriendly. "Looking for your mother again?"

  Kyle nodded, his throat tight. "Yes,"

  The guard's face shifted, a grim expression settling over him. "She's not here anymore," he said bluntly. "She was moved earlier today."

  Kyle's stomach dropped. "What do you mean moved?" he asked, his voice rising in pitch.

  "She was taken to another location," the guard expined, leaning against the prison gate with his arms crossed. "I am not sure. I reckon she's probably headed to the eastern border. They took her this morning."

  Kyle’s breath hitched. The world seemed to tilt beneath him as the guard’s words hit him like a physical blow. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to feel. His mind spun wildly as he took a few unsteady steps back, unable to process the overwhelming sense of loss and helplessness flooding through him.

  His heartbeat pounded in his ears, growing louder and faster with each passing moment. His eyes, wide with disbelief, darted around the surroundings as if searching for something to anchor him.

  "No," he whispered to himself. "No… no, this can’t be happening."

  His thoughts became a blur. The prison, the guard, the entire town—it all felt distant, as though he was walking through a nightmare. Kyle’s legs felt weak, his knees threatening to give way. He staggered a few steps away, his chest rising and falling rapidly, like the air had suddenly become too thick to breathe.

  His pulse thudded in his throat. He could barely focus on anything except the overwhelming rush of thoughts tearing at him from every direction. His mother, his only connection, his only hope, was gone.

  His hands trembled as he gripped the sides of his head, as if trying to keep it together, but he couldn't. The sight of the prison faded into the background as he stumbled away, his body moving instinctively, carrying him further from the pce, further from everything he knew. His mind was a blur of frustration, rage, and despair.

  And that is when he came across a group of ughing guards.***The Baron sat at the head of the long table in the spacious hall, a look of quiet contemption on his face. His fingers drummed lightly against the surface, his eyes scanning the room as he spoke. Beside him, Rowan stood at attention, a stoic expression on his face, though his eyes glinted with something darker, something satisfied.

  "I am sorry, Rowan," the Baron said, his voice low, almost regretful. "But it was the Count's order to deal with that healer as soon as possible. We can't afford any deys, not with everything at stake."

  "Speaking of which," the Baron continued, his gaze shifting to his wife, who stood nearby, adjusting her dress. "I’ll be heading towards the Count's estate tomorrow, with my wife. It’s a matter of importance, and I expect it to be handled swiftly. So I was hoping you could spend the night here and guard my daughter."

  Rowan's lips curved into a faint smile, but he remained silent for a moment.

  "Of course, sir," he said with a slight bow. "I’ve already had the privilege of enjoying her healing for two days straight, as you know. After that, even my underlings had their share. I must admit, sir, I was starting to get bored of her. But as for guarding the young miss, rest assured, I will protect her with my life."

  The Baron gave a slight nod, a satisfied grin curling his lips as he stood up. "Excellent. I knew I could count on you, Rowan"

  With that, the Baron turned and walked out of the hall.

  Rowan went out to check on the soldiers of the Barony.

  Soon enough the Baron and his wife left the estate.

  As soon as Rowan saw them leaving from the window of a hallway, he made his way towards the Baron’s daughter’s room, the sound of his boots clicking, echoing throughout.

  Rowan pushed open the door to the baron's daughter's chamber, his boots echoing softly on the wooden floor. The room was warm, filled with the soft glow of candles that cast a golden hue over the intricate tapestries and polished furniture.

  The daughter, a young woman with porcein skin and raven-bck hair, sat on her bed, her legs crossed demurely beneath a short green dress that hugged her curves and stopped just above her thighs. In her hands, she held a pair of knitting needles, the soft cck of wool filling the air as she worked on a scarf, though the tension in her shoulders suggested her mind was elsewhere.

  "Rowan," she greeted, her voice steady but with a underlying current of something unspoken. She set aside her knitting and looked up at him, her eyes meeting his with a mix of wariness and something else—something that hinted at familiarity, perhaps, or resignation.

  "Good evening, miss," Rowan replied, his tone polite.

  "May we have a moment alone?" he asked, his voice low, almost a whisper, though there was no need for secrecy.

  The two maids who had been in the room scuttled out at the girl’s gesture, their expressions unreadable as they bowed and left, closing the door softly behind them.

  Rowan locked the door from the inside. The click of the lock echoed in the sudden silence, and he turned back to face her, his expression serious.

  "What is it, Rowan?" she asked, her voice calm, though there was a tremor beneath it that he couldn't miss.

  "I am sorry, miss," he began, his voice heavy with apology, "but your father has assigned me to guard you tonight. I just returned from a four-day-long excursion into the woods to search for the Wyvern, and I must confess, I am... experiencing something I cannot control."

  Her eyes widened slightly, and she gulped. "You can't keep making me do this," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "This is the fourth time you've come to me.”

  I am sorry," he said, his voice filled with a mixture of fake guilt and real desperation, "but your father transferred the healer prisoner I was using to relieve myself, and my wife isn't home either."

  The girl sighed, a heavy breath that seemed to carry the weight of the world on it. "This is the st time," she said, her voice firm, though there was a note of pleading in it as well. "Make it quick."

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