The sun had dipped low enough to tint the hills in a warm orange when the warband reached the final rise. The air felt cool and steady against their faces as they stepped up to the edge of the ridge. Below them stretched the broad river that cut the land into distinct territories. The sight of it made the group slow their pace. The river carved a silver path through the earth, its surface rippling with the last glimmers of daylight.

  Where the river narrowed, a stone bridge stood. It was pale and sturdy, built long before any human kingdom existed. No carvings marked it, and no banners flew above it. It was simple, practical, and unchanging, like the land itself. On the far side, the road split into three long routes. One slanted south toward the villages of Arnathe. Another wound northwest into the cold, steep territory belonging to Yzati. The third veered north, where the Green Hills spread out with roaming ogres and trolls.

  Azandra slowed her steps without meaning to. Her eyes fixed on the stone arch in front of them. She felt something tighten in her chest, and the feeling only grew sharper the closer they came. This bridge meant separation and reunion at the same time. It marked the boundary between the weeks she had been missing and the moment she was about to walk back into her family’s life.

  She tried to imagine what she would say first. She had gone missing for too long. She had chased stories about ancient relics and traveled through danger that her father would never have let her face if he had known. She had stood in a ruined temple with a dark sorcerer’s voice curling inside her mind. How could she ever put any of that into words he would understand

  She took a breath and let it out slowly. “I am not sure what I will be walking into,” she said quietly.

  Maruzan turned his head toward her. He slowed until he walked side by side with her. “Then we will walk in with you,” he said. “Whatever waits for you on the other side, you will not be meeting it alone.”

  His voice was calm but firm, the same tone he used in dangerous places when he wanted the group to listen without fear.

  Xonya came up from behind, bow resting on her shoulder. “Families can be unpredictable,” she said. “Some embrace you without hesitation. Others want answers the moment they see you.”

  Azandra gave a small, tired nod. “My father is complicated.” She paused, searching for the right words. “He is a good man, but he is always thinking about politics. Every decision he makes is tied to the governor’s seat. Even when he talks to me, I sometimes wonder if he is talking to a daughter or a future responsibility.”

  Ennett gave a soft grunt from behind Xonya. “Sounds like half the nobles I have guarded back home.”

  Azandra looked forward again. The bridge felt larger now, as if it had grown while they walked. “When we reach the guards,” she said, “they may not know what to think of us. They are used to farmers bringing grain carts or merchants with pack animals, not a group like ours. Keep your hands clear of your weapons. They will watch every movement we make.”

  Xonya rolled her shoulders, “We have no reason to scare them. But if they startle easily, I will do my best not to breathe too loudly.”

  Azandra managed a smile. “My father will want introductions as well. He likes proper titles and origins. He believes every visitor represents something larger than themselves. It is how he was raised.”

  Xonya smirked. “And here I thought this would be a quick visit.”

  A few of them laughed, though it faded quickly. The river crossing felt like standing at the edge of something larger than any of them wanted to admit.

  Nethira and Winnum walked a short distance behind Azandra. Both of them appeared steadier than the day before, but they were still worn down by what had happened in the ruins. Nethira watched the shifting light on the water with a thoughtful expression. Winnum kept glancing at Azandra’s shoulders, as though trying to sense any lingering magic that could hurt her.

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  Maruzan gave a soft whistle. “Does it always look this quiet at the borders”

  Azandra shook her head. “Only when trouble is far away. And trouble has not been far lately.”

  They moved closer to the bridge until they reached the gentle slope leading down to it. The stone surface had a faint shine from years of wind and water. The railings were only knee high, carved in thick blocks. The river rushed beneath it, though not violently. It was the kind of sound that could lull someone to sleep if they stood still long enough.

  Azandra’s steps slowed again. She pressed a hand against her chest without thinking. Her heart was beating harder than she expected. She wondered why she felt more nervous now than she had while standing face to face with Nezzarod. That felt ridiculous, but she could not shake the truth of it.

  She felt Maruzan’s presence beside her again, silent but steady.

  “The last time I crossed this bridge,” she said quietly, “I was angry with him. He never agreed with how we needed to guard these things.”

  Maruzan nodded slowly. “The relics?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He wanted me to stay home and stay safe. But I grew up listening to stories about ancient cities and wars that reshaped the world. I wanted to see those stories for myself. I wanted to learn something that mattered.”

  “Then you did,” Maruzan said. “You learned that history is not a quiet thing. And you survived.”

  She looked at him. “He will say I should have stayed home.”

  Maruzan shrugged. “Parents say many things. Usually because they are afraid to lose you. Not because they are trying to cage you.”

  Azandra looked down at the river. Her reflection stretched and broke across the water. “Are you speaking from experience” she asked.

  He gave a small sigh, eyes drifting ahead. “Yes. But that is a long story.”

  Xonya stepped closer. “We have time.”

  Maruzan shook his head. “Not today.”

  For a moment they walked without speaking. The bridge was only thirty paces ahead. Two guards stood on the far side, spears resting upright beside them. Their armor gleamed faintly in the dying sunlight. They were alert, but not hostile. They watched the warband approach, their expressions difficult to read at this distance.

  Azandra touched the sleeve of her tunic. She rubbed the fabric between two fingers, trying to ground herself. She looked back at the warband and said, “Remember, let me speak first. If my father is in a poor temper, he will calm quickly once he sees I am safe.”

  Bram nodded. “You lead the way. We will follow.”

  Nethira stepped beside Azandra, voice low. “If things become difficult for you, even for a moment, tell me. I can help soothe tensions.”

  Azandra appreciated the offer but shook her head. “Let me try first.”

  They approached the bridge. The sunlight reflected off the river in bright ripples that danced against the stone walls. Somewhere upstream, a bird called out, the sound clear and sharp. The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of damp leaves and distant woodsmoke from the villages.

  Ennett looked across the river and said, “What happens after this”

  Azandra breathed deeply. “We go home,” she said, though the word felt strange on her tongue. “And then we face whatever comes next.”

  The guard nearest them raised a hand. “State your names,” he called. His voice echoed across the water.

  Azandra stepped forward with a clear, steady tone, removing the hood on her tunic. “I am Azandra Sofine, daughter of Governor Klymenos Sofine. These people are my escorts. I have been missing, but now I am home.”

  The guards stiffened at her name. One of them glanced toward the road behind him, as though expecting riders or messengers to appear. The second guard lowered his spear in respect. “Governor Sofine has been searching for you,” he said. “He feared the worst.”

  Azandra swallowed. The words felt heavier than she expected. “I know. And I am ready to speak with him.”

  The guard nodded. “Then welcome back to the Three Corners.”

  Azandra stepped onto the bridge first. The warband followed. The stone beneath their feet was cool and firm. Every step felt louder than it should have. The river flowed below them, steady and constant.

  Azandra lifted her chin and kept walking.

  Her father was waiting somewhere beyond the bend of the road, and whatever he had to say, she knew she had changed too much to return to the girl he remembered.

  She only hoped he was ready to meet the person she had become.