The dining hall was quiet.

  Sunlight slid through the tall windows, catching on polished tile and the dull edge of untouched tea. Three places were set. Only one had been eaten from. The rest sat cooling.

  Zafran tightened the last strap on his bracer.

  “I’ll be leaving the city by the middle of this week.”

  Isolde didn’t look up. She kept spinning a fork on her finger, slow and steady.

  Roland blinked. “What, sir? You’re leaving?”

  Zafran nodded. “Yes. I need to find my friends.”

  There was a pause.

  The kind that draws tension straight through the air like a string pulled taut.

  Roland cleared his throat. He glanced at Isolde, who still hadn’t spoken, then back to Zafran. “And… do you know where they are?”

  “No,” Zafran said. “Not exactly. But I know where to start.”

  Isolde’s fork clinked once against her plate.

  “Of course you don’t,” she muttered.

  Zafran didn’t respond.

  Roland hesitated. “Are you sure now’s the time? The city’s just starting to hold. We need people like you here. And you’re barely recovered.”

  Zafran gave a small nod. “Academia’s aligned. Ealden is in command now. And I’m not much use as a strategist anyway.”

  Roland frowned. “If you’re not useful, then who is?” he murmured.

  He tried again, softer. “And… your wounds, sir. Shouldn’t they have more time to heal?”

  Isolde spoke then, almost to herself.

  “Today the squire is wiser than the knight.”

  That silenced Roland. He sat still, unsure if he should keep speaking. But after a breath, he tried again.

  “What about my training?”

  He looked toward Lady Isolde.

  Zafran followed his gaze. “If she’s willing, you can keep learning from her.”

  “No, he couldn’t,” Isolde said, setting her fork down with precision.

  Zafran didn’t look at her.

  “I’m going with him,” she added. “Obviously.”

  Roland blinked. Of course she would.

  “I’d rather watch his back myself than hear he got torn apart chasing some other woman’s flame.”

  Zafran’s reply was quiet. “That’s not why I’m going.”

  “Yeah,” Isolde said, still not looking at him. “That’s exactly the problem. You don’t know what you’re chasing.”

  A beat passed in silence.

  Roland looked between them, then cleared his throat once more. “Then… maybe I could come too?”

  They both turned toward him.

  Zafran answered first. “No.”

  Roland’s brow furrowed. “Why not?”

  “You’re not ready.”

  “I can fight. I’ve trained under both of you. I—”

  “It’s not about skill,” Zafran said. “Staying here is safer than the chaos out there.”

  Isolde stood.

  Zafran’s voice softened. “Stay. Help them prepare. That’s where you’ll matter most.”

  Roland didn’t argue.

  Isolde passed behind him without a glance. “You have no right to tell anyone to stay away from danger, Ocean Tide,” she said flatly, without even stopping.

  Zafran didn’t speak.

  She paused at the door.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Go pack, squire,” she said. “If you want to come with us.”

  Then she left. The door closed behind her—calm, but cold.

  Zafran sat still for a moment, then exhaled. “You heard the lady…”

  Roland shifted, uncertain. “I’m not… sure if I should…”

  “That…” Zafran exhaled again, tired. “Just… don’t go against her.”

  The war chamber was quiet, cloaked in the hush that followed too many meetings and not enough victories.

  A map of the eastern provinces lay stretched across the table—Goldburge’s ridges, the winding roads, the tightening choke of the Narrow Pass. Just south of it, inked in gray: Cursed Forest.

  Zafran stood at the table’s edge, hands behind his back.

  Ealden’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward. Seren sat still, fingers laced lightly beneath her chin, her gaze on Zafran, steady and unreadable.

  “Are you serious?” Ealden asked, voice low but stern.

  “Yes,” Zafran said. “I’m leaving mid-week.”

  Silence followed. Brief. Heavy.

  Ealden spoke again, slower now. “You know Lucian’s army is hitting the Narrow Pass, right?”

  Zafran gave a slight nod. “I’m not going that far. Just to the Cursed Forest.”

  “Which is right beside the Pass,” Ealden said. “Lucian’s pushing toward the ridge. That whole line’s heating up.”

  “I know,” Zafran said. “That’s why I won’t cross it.”

  Seren leaned forward slightly. “You’re not fully healed. Your shoulder—”

  “It’s better,” Zafran cut in. “I can ride.”

  Behind him, Isolde let out a long, thin breath. “He’s said that every time I argued with him. I lost count after the third.”

  Ealden’s voice tightened. “You’re walking toward an active front. Wounded. With no certainty you’ll even find what you’re looking for.”

  Zafran’s tone dropped, quiet and firm. “Ysar was last seen heading east. Toward the Cursed Forest. I need to go there.”

  He hesitated.

  “He’s… my family.”

  The words landed not with drama, but weight.

  Seren’s hands unclasped. Ealden said nothing.

  Zafran went on, lower still. “Kivas is gone. Elsha too, as far as we know. Ysar’s the last one left. I owe him more than silence.”

  Seren glanced toward Isolde, almost asking without words.

  Isolde tilted her chin, gave a small motion toward her own temple—a signal without flair. Try the crown.

  Seren sat straighter. “You’re my knight,” she said softly. “Sworn to follow my command.”

  “I remember,” Zafran said.

  “And if I told you to stay?”

  He looked her in the eye. “I would still go.”

  Seren breathed out—not quite a laugh. “You’ve denied me since we were kids.”

  “I’m the obedient type,” he said evenly.

  That earned a small chuckle from both her and Ealden.

  “Your memory’s faulty,” Ealden muttered.

  Zafran didn’t respond.

  After a moment, Ealden tapped the map near the southern slope. “Avoid the roads. The low ridge behind the forest might still be quiet. If Lucian redirects, you’ll get no warning.”

  “I won’t linger,” Zafran said.

  Seren leaned back, finally allowing a trace of emotion into her voice. “Then send word when you can. You still carry my crest.”

  “I’ll honor it.”

  He bowed, precise and without flourish.

  Isolde didn’t bow. She turned to go. But before she reached the door, Seren called after her.

  “Lady Isolde.”

  She paused.

  “Thank you,” Seren said. “For what you said. In the Academia.”

  Isolde turned just enough to glance over her shoulder. Her voice was cool.

  “Sorry if it offended.”

  The apology sounded more like a challenge than remorse.

  Then she walked out.

  The hallway beyond the war chamber was quiet, save for the soft echo of their boots on stone.

  A few paces ahead, just before the arch that led to the outer courtyard, Roland stood waiting.

  His pack hung awkwardly off one shoulder. His boots were half-laced. The strap on his sword belt had come undone again, and he was fidgeting with it—not out of habit, but nerves.

  He straightened the moment he saw them.

  Isolde gave him a quick once-over.

  “You packed already?” she asked.

  “I… thought I should be ready,” Roland said.

  Isolde’s eyes dropped to his boots, then back up to his face—unimpressed. “If that’s how you prepare, you think we’re heading out to sightsee?”

  Roland flinched. “No, Lady Isolde.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Good. Then since you’re feeling so efficient, you’ll be sleeping in the servants’ quarters for the next two nights.”

  Roland blinked. “Sorry?”

  “And you’ll spar with me. Twice a day. Dawn and before supper.”

  She turned away, cloak snapping lightly behind her. “Special sessions.”

  Roland stood frozen. That wasn’t training. That was sentencing.

  Isolde didn’t slow. “And if I see those laces loose again, I’ll tie them with arrowheads and make you run the eastern cliffs in full plate.”

  Zafran didn’t say a word—just clapped Roland once on the shoulder, almost gently.

  “You’re lucky,” he said.

  Roland exhaled. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

  “Yard. One hour. Bring water,” Isolde called back. “And bandages.”

  Roland wilted slightly. “Yes, Lady Isolde.”

  Zafran smiled faintly. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice low as he passed.

  “She’s not actually mad at you.”

  Then he walked on.

  And Roland, alone in the echoing corridor, whispered to himself, “That doesn’t help.”

  Karin rose from the edge of the crater, breath drawn deep and slow.

  She had been still too long—watching, thinking, trying to understand the shape of loss laid out before her. But stillness gave no answers. And the cold only deepened.

  Seethar leaned against a broken wall, arms folded, one foot tapping softly on stone. “So,” he said. “Lucian’s moving southeast. Toward Goldburg. That much we know.”

  He nodded toward the trail beyond the ridge, half-buried in frost and ash.

  “You want to follow him?”

  Elkinu said nothing. He never needed to. He simply stood there—present, unreadable.

  Karin looked toward the horizon. “Yes.”

  Seethar squinted. “You’re not the type to let go, are you?”

  “I want to see what he’s after. Whatever’s driving him… to this.”

  Seethar gave a short grunt. “Fair enough.”

  Then, to Elkinu: “Fastest way down?”

  Elkinu tilted his head, as if the question bored him. “You’re the wind god. Why ask a nobody like me?”

  Then—cutting through the air—Afree’s voice rose in a dry scoff, carried clearly from within Karin:

  “You’re not calling yourself a nobody.”

  All three heard it. None of them replied.

  Elkinu glanced at Karin, then to Seethar. “You lift the girl. She’s not my responsibility.”

  Karin’s brow furrowed, unsure what that meant—until Seethar rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, a grin curling across his face.

  “If you say so.”

  The wind pulled tight around him—curling, rising, lifting dust and broken snow in spiraling lines. It wrapped the edges of his cloak like fabric spun from pressure.

  “We don’t need to walk.”

  Karin felt it a moment later—air thinning beneath her boots, weight sliding from her limbs. Not flight. Not lift.

  Just the sudden, simple realization that she was no longer falling.

  Seethar’s voice came from just ahead, half-laughed, half-called over his shoulder.

  “We ride the wind.”

  And they did.