The road heading northeast wound gently between low ridges and patches of alder trees. The ground was still damp from last night’s rain, and the air held a cool bite that made everyone breathe a little deeper. The sky was cloudy but bright, promising a dry afternoon if they were lucky.

  The warband moved at a steady but slow pace. Maruzan noticed it right away. Nethira and Winnum looked drained, as if a heavy weight clung to their bodies. Every step revealed their exhaustion, even when they tried to hide it. Nethira kept herself upright by sheer will, but her movements were sluggish. Winnum’s eyelids dipped often, and twice he stumbled on loose stone. Both times Nethira caught him without complaint, though her jaw tightened as if frustrated with herself for being so tired.

  Maruzan kept glancing back at them. He knew how much magic they had poured into the binding ritual and into saving Azandra’s life. Magic always demanded a price, and the price this time was clear.

  I should give them more time, he thought. But time is the one thing we do not have.

  Ahead of the group, Xonya scanned the ridgelines, her bow ready. She moved with a hunter’s focus, pausing now and then to listen to the wind. Ennett walked at the rear, watching the trees with her usual sharp confidence. Every time the wind carried a faint rustle, her hand drifted to her sword.

  At one point, Maruzan heard something too, a quick, sharp cry echoing from beyond the next rise. A sound like a kobold’s call. The trees swallowed it fast, almost as if it had never been there.

  Maybe it was only a bird, he told himself. But doubt lingered.

  He found his thoughts drifting, despite his attempts to stay focused. He thought of Velthur most of all. The boy would have been full of questions by now, questions about the sorcerer, the ruins, the ritual, the strange light that had swallowed half the sky. Velthur had always asked questions that made everyone else look at a problem from a new angle. His curiosity had been a bright place during dark months.

  He would have hated this silence, or at least, the heaviness of it, Maruzan thought.

  But silence ruled the road until Bram broke it.

  Bram walked beside Azandra, staying close enough to shield her from the wind. She looked stronger today, though she carried the pale, shadowed look of someone trying to make sense of memories that still felt sharp. Bram kept talking in his usual, friendly tone with simple stories, mostly about his childhood in Kellen-Tir. He told her how he had grown up fighting in street bouts behind taverns. “First hit usually won the match,” he said with a grin.

  Azandra listened politely at first, offering small nods. Farrin walked just behind them, adding the occasional comment about Bram’s history with “creative truth.” Her dry voice made Bram laugh, and Azandra managed a genuine smile at the exchange.

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  That was what Maruzan needed to see. Small moments of normalcy.

  After a while, Bram eased the conversation into more serious territory. “What you were carrying,” he said gently. “That package. You said it mattered.”

  Azandra’s features tightened, and the light mood faded. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders before answering.

  “It was a clasp,” she said. “It was an artifact sent by an old friend of my family. A piece of obsidian shaped into a clasp, yes, but infused with magic far older than I expected. My family said it came from Irellan, a city far to the south. Some historians there found it in their archives and weren’t sure it had any significance.”

  “What kind of artifact?” Farrin asked.

  Azandra paused before answering. “Something tied to dryad rituals. And though it was carved by their hands long ago, it contains magic that did not come from the trees. Something else mixed with it.” She hesitated, then added, “Some scholars believe it is connected to the dreaming relics.”

  Maruzan caught the seriousness in her voice, and the slight tremble in her hands.

  “So it was worth killing over,” Bram said quietly.

  “Or worth keeping me alive for,” Azandra replied. She glanced toward Nethira and Winnum. “Nezzarod wanted to know what I knew about it. He did not want to kill me, not until he learned whether I could help him open something.”

  Farrin frowned. “Open what?”

  Azandra shook her head. “I don’t know. But he wanted you as well. That much I am certain of.”

  Maruzan felt a chill. He is always thinking ahead. Always turning people into pieces on a board.

  Bram must have sensed the tension rising, because he shifted the conversation to something lighter. “Well,” he said, “Farrin and I once rescued an entire caravan of wine barrels by rolling them down a hill during a bandit attack. Saved every drop.”

  “It was his idea,” Farrin admitted, almost embarrassed. “And I still think it was reckless.”

  Bram puffed up his chest. “Reckless and effective.”

  Ennett snorted behind them. Even Xonya’s lips twitched with amusement.

  The laughter that followed warmed the group more than the weak sun did. It eased the heaviness on their shoulders, even if just for a little while.

  Azandra listened closely, and when the others were distracted by Bram’s dramatic retelling of the rolling barrels, she looked quietly at Maruzan. Her voice was soft when she asked:

  “You mentioned a Velthur earlier today. I do not know him, but… he feels important to you.”

  Maruzan was silent for a moment. “He is my son,” he said at last.

  Azandra’s eyes widened in surprise, but she nodded with respect.

  “Does he take after you?” she asked. “Strong mind? Strong heart?”

  Maruzan didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he agreed. Velthur was strong, yes, but not in the ways he was. Velthur’s strength was softer, more thoughtful. He hoped the world would not break that softness.

  Behind them, Winnum stumbled again. Farrin instantly left Bram’s side to help him steady himself, her face showing concern she rarely expressed out loud.

  Even Bram lowered his voice. “We need to stop soon,” he murmured.

  Maruzan nodded, but his eyes stayed on the ridgeline ahead. The road was quiet, the woods still, and yet something unseen pressed on his senses.

  A warning.

  A whisper of trouble waiting beyond the next bend.

  But for now, the group kept walking. They needed distance from the ruins, and they needed time to heal, before the next storm found them.