The road leading east was long and mostly quiet. It wound through rolling stretches of grass that swayed gently whenever the wind picked up. Small stones cracked under the warband’s boots, marking a steady rhythm that kept everyone moving even when tiredness tugged at their ankles. They had been walking for several hours, giving their bodies something simple to focus on after days of danger and fear.

  The group talked more freely than they had since the ruins. Most of it was easy conversation. Bram and Ennett argued lightly about what food they missed most from home. Farrin told a story about the time she mistook a magistrate’s ornamental pear tree for a wild one and was chased halfway across a courtyard by an angry gardener. Even Xonya cracked a smile during that story, though she tried to hide it.

  Azandra walked in the center of the group. She kept her pace steady but slow, still recovering. When she spoke, her tone stayed calm, but her eyes carried the weight of what she had survived. She told them about her family, who had worked closely with the Magisters for generations. She explained how they learned to guard relics, study them, and keep dangerous knowledge out of the wrong hands. Her father had mostly forgotten these things when he became more involved in governmental affairs, but her lessons still stayed with her.

  Maruzan listened quietly. Her voice reminded him of students in the college, thoughtful and cautious, trying to understand more than they could ever touch. He found himself thinking of Velthur again and again. It happened whenever Azandra mentioned artifacts or history. He could almost hear Velthur’s curiosity rising behind her words, eager to ask questions she had not answered yet.

  He wondered if Velthur would worry about him. He wondered if the boy had already sensed the danger growing in the world. Velthur had a strange way of feeling things before they fully happened.

  Maruzan shook the thoughts away and scanned the treeline out of habit. His eyes moved from shadow to shadow. Everything seemed peaceful, but peace had fooled him too many times before. As they rounded a bend in the road, he spotted something ahead.

  A lone figure stood in the middle of the path.

  Maruzan slowed. “Hold up,” he murmured.

  The group stopped. Even the air felt tense. The figure did not move. A faded green cloak hung from his shoulders, torn at the ends, and his hood covered most of his face. He stood with a stillness that felt almost unnatural, as if the world moved but he did not.

  As they approached, he finally spoke.

  “No time for salutations.”

  The voice was unmistakable.

  The Seeker.

  He stepped toward them, passing the humans without pause. His attention was fixed on the dwarves, but his presence pulled the entire group tight with caution. The Seeker was not someone who appeared unless something important was about to unfold.

  “Kellen Tir is no longer quiet,” he said, stopping a few paces from Bram and Farrin. “Whispers in the taverns have grown into shouts in the streets. A dwarf named Deepbrand gathers the restless and feeds their anger. He calls for the removal of the golems. Hundreds now listen. Every day the crowd grows.”

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  Bram’s face shifted, his usual calm replaced by concern. “Has there been violence?”

  The Seeker looked at him with eyes that seemed too old for his face. “Blood stains the stones. Some of it spilled by hands that pretend to serve the king. Some spilled by men who choose their path willingly.”

  Farrin crossed her arms. “And the king? What is he doing?”

  “He tries to hold the mountain together,” the Seeker replied. “But a mountain does not mend easily once cracks appear.”

  He paused, and the silence between his words felt heavy. The wind rustled through the leaves beside the road, but no bird called.

  “They will need help soon,” the Seeker continued. “More than they know.”

  He turned to Maruzan, as though the others no longer existed.

  “They must go home. The time for wandering roads is ending. The dwarves are needed in the mountain.”

  Maruzan nodded once. “If they need to go, I will not hold them here. They belong to their homeland first.”

  The Seeker’s attention shifted to Azandra. His gaze sharpened, and she swallowed nervously.

  “Guard your artifacts with everything you have,” he said.

  Azandra frowned. “How do you know? Is someone—”

  “No questions,” he said gently. “There is no time for explanation. The cycle quickens, and you must be ready.”

  Azandra looked unsettled. Maruzan could see fear buried in her expression, but also determination. She had survived Nezzarod’s binding. She would not be frightened easily again.

  The Seeker stepped toward Nethira next. His voice softened, taking on a rhythm that reminded her of forest wind.

  “The Grove Matron listens,” he said. “And Ylla listens for you as well. The trees whisper more than you think. Keep your ears open.”

  Nethira drew in a breath and nodded, her eyes wide with meaning she did not share. She looked as though she wanted to speak, but the Seeker had already shifted his gaze.

  He stopped in front of Winnum.

  “Holy man,” the Seeker said simply.

  The words struck Winnum more deeply than anyone expected. He stiffened, startled not by the title, but by the strange certainty behind it. He had doubted himself since the day his brother died. Hearing someone name him with such firmness lit a spark he had not felt in months. He didn’t know anything of the dryad in front of him, but he felt his presence.

  The Seeker moved on before Winnum could respond. He returned to Maruzan, stopping close enough that Maruzan could see the faint lines around his eyes, lines carved by old grief and older fights.

  “Stay strong,” the Seeker said. “For Velthur.”

  Maruzan did not hide his surprise. “You saw him?”

  “I see many things,” the Seeker replied. “And I see his place in the world growing larger than anyone expects. You must be steady for him.”

  Maruzan’s chest tightened with worry and pride at the same time.

  Before he could say anything else, the Seeker stepped back. He gave the group a final look, one that carried warning and hope mixed together.

  Then he walked into the forest.

  No leaves rustled under his feet. No branches snapped. One moment he was there, cloak hanging still behind him. The next, he was gone, as though the forest had swallowed him whole.

  Silence settled over the road. The warband looked at each other, unsure what to say.

  Azandra spoke first, her voice small. “Does he always appear like that?”

  Maruzan nodded slowly. “Whenever he needs us to know our place.”

  No one had an answer for that. They stood a moment longer before Bram finally cleared his throat.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess that means we are heading west eventually, to return and finish this struggle.”

  And with the Seeker’s warning still echoing in their thoughts, the warband continued down the road.

  The sky had darkened at the horizon.

  They did not know if it meant rain… or something far worse.