Two weeks had been spent following the majestic Merada River, tracing her long, unhurried curves through the land. Sunflower fields once lined her banks, their golden faces now wilted and darkened, bowing toward ash-stained soil. The scent of embers and old smoke lingered everywhere; an inescapable reminder that these were the same territories Dresdi and his armies had left broken behind them.

  Little was said as the trio traveled. Tyrus, in particular, had grown distant: cold, withdrawn, as though something within him had turned inward and closed its doors.

  “We may want to think about setting up camp soon,” West said at last, breaking the silence. “See if the river has anything left to offer us.”

  “We’ve tried the river,” Omni replied flatly. “There’s nothing in these waters. We’re better off rummaging along the banks for seeds and whatever vegetables we can still find.”

  “I’m so sick of river cabbage,” West muttered, grimacing.

  He was about to say more when movement caught his eye. Something slipped through the brush ahead, low, quiet, watching. West turned fully, breath catching.

  It was a coyote.

  Not an ordinary one. Its fur shimmered silver, so pale and bright it nearly reflected blue in the daylight, as if moonlight had somehow learned to walk. West reached out without a word, gripping Omni’s sleeve and pointing.

  Tyrus felt them stop and followed their gaze.

  The coyote stood still, red eyes fixed on them.

  “Should we try to eat it?” West whispered. Then, barely a breath later, “Tyrus… Hand me the Red Dragon.”

  Tyrus did not move.

  To his people, the white coyote was sacred; a bearer of messages, a herald of change that never came without meaning. To Omni, it was something far worse. An omen. He slipped his hands free, fingers already shaping the beginning of a quiet prayer.

  Before either could act, the coyote’s ears twitched. It turned and vanished into the brush, silver dissolving into shadow as if it had never been there at all.

  “Aww,” West said, exhaling as he resumed walking. “That would’ve made a nice coat. Winter’s coming, you know.”

  “We should rest here,” Tyrus said suddenly.

  It was the first thing he had offered in days.

  He moved toward the riverbank without waiting for a response. Omni and West exchanged a glance, surprised but relieved, and followed. West stepped closer to the water beside Tyrus, while Omni began clearing a patch of ground, preparing a place where they could finally lay down and sleep.

  “You know,” West said lightly, settling beside the river, “you worry the old man and me when you do that strong, silent thing.”

  He glanced sideways at Tyrus, a grin already forming. “Makes us think you might snap and kill us in our sleep.”

  Tyrus didn’t look at him. “Must you always joke?” he snapped, irritation sharpening his voice.

  “I’m not joking,” West replied easily. “In fact, between the two of us, I think it might ease everyone’s mind if you let me hold onto the Dragon for a bit.” He lifted his brows. “Purely for safety.”

  A short laugh escaped Tyrus, dry and humorless. “You want it? Take it.”

  He turned and pressed the Red Dragon into West’s hands.

  West reached for it without thinking and nearly lost his grip as the weight of Evokian steel dragged his arms down. The blade dipped dangerously close to the ground before he steadied it.

  “Oh,” West breathed, startled. “That’s… heavier than it looks.”

  Omni saw the exchange and froze.

  “West!” he barked. “Put that down!”

  The sharpness in Omni’s voice made West flinch. He straightened at once, fingers tightening around the hilt.

  “Let him hold it,” Tyrus said coolly. “After all, it was the Legendary West who defeated Dresdi.”

  West blinked, then smiled crookedly. He let the sword sway, guiding it through the air as though it were alive. “Imagine that,” he said, half-laughing. “A slave like me, wielding the mighty Red Dragon.”

  He shadow-dueled an invisible foe, light on his feet despite the blade’s weight.

  “West,” Omni pleaded, stepping forward, “do not make a mockery of this. What you hold is holy.”

  West shuddered at the word. “My apologies, Master Omni.” He turned, offering the sword back to Tyrus. “Truly.”

  Tyrus didn’t take it. He simply raised a hand, palm out, refusing.

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  West hesitated, then looked at Omni, confusion flickering across his face.

  “I lost your staff,” Tyrus said brusquely, eyes fixed on the sky, “and you bought me these pants. Let’s call it even.”

  Omni’s mouth opened, then closed. Disapproval darkened his expression.

  “Well,” West said carefully, as he inspected the sword, “can’t argue with that.”

  “Tyrus,” Omni began again, voice measured, restrained, “though you do not follow our people’s ways, I must ask that you respect them. The Red Dragon is a…”

  “I am no longer its keeper,” Tyrus cut in.

  He turned away, lowering himself onto the grass, his back to Omni. “Tell your stories to West.”

  Omni’s irritation simmered just beneath the surface. He was not accustomed to being dismissed so casually, especially when it came to matters of worship. Tyrus, however, seemed unmoved. The religions and myths of the northern peoples meant nothing to him; the gods Omni prayed to, and the promises he clung to were, in Tyrus’s eyes, little more than inherited nonsense.

  “West…” Omni began, then faltered, unsure where authority ended and stubbornness began. Tyrus had rejected the Red Dragon outright. He could command West to return it, but he could not force Tyrus to reclaim what he no longer wished to bear.

  “Do not trouble yourself over who’s holding what, Master Omni,” West said gently, offering a reassuring nod. “I’ll treat the Red Dragon exactly as it’s meant to be treated.”

  Omni was unconvinced. The thought of anyone other than Tyrus wielding the blade felt wrong; dangerously so.

  “The Red Dragon is not a thing to be handled like any common weapon,” Omni said, unease creeping into his voice. “It carries power beyond our understanding.”

  He stepped closer to the ancient relic, drawn to it despite himself.

  “Let us not forget,” he continued, voice lowering as if the land itself might be listening, “it was this blade that pierced the heart of the god Karamh… Forged from the irons of heaven.” He swallowed. “Given to Queen Rah-Kell by the prophet Meshi himself.”

  “The weight distribution is terrible,” Tyrus said scoffingly, eyes still on the sky. “Not the blade of a fighting warrior.”

  The words cut sharper than any raised voice.

  Omni felt his frustration rise, but he smothered it, schooling his expression. Tyrus didn’t notice. His attention had already drifted back to the river, its steady flow reflecting a calm he clearly did not share.

  “This is not just a blade, Tyrus,” Omni pressed. “It is the seed of an empire… A reminder that the Promise must be wielded with control.”

  There was no response.

  Defeated, Omni turned to West. “Please,” he sighed, the weight of the moment settling into his shoulders. “Put the Red Dragon down, it is not yours to wield.”

  “No,” Tyrus said suddenly.

  He turned his head just enough to glance at them. “Either one of you carry it or I'm throwing the damn thing into the river.” His gaze shifted to West, and he gave a single, dismissive nod. “It’s your choice.”

  West looked from Tyrus to Omni and shrugged helplessly. “You heard him Master Omni, it’s me or the river.”

  Omni shot him a sharp look, then released a long, defeated breath.

  “I am going to rest,” he said at last. “You two may do as you please.”

  He walked off toward a lone tree near the riverbank, his steps stiff with restrained offense.

  “I’ll wake you when the food’s ready, Master!” West called after him, lifting a hand in farewell.

  Omni did not turn back.

  West let his arm fall and glanced over at Tyrus. He lay with his eyes closed, face tilted toward the open sky, as if nothing of consequence had been said at all, utterly unconcerned with Omni’s anger, or the fracture quietly widening between them.

  “You know you made him mad,” West said lightly as he tied a thin cord around the hilt of the Dragon. He settled down in the grass beside Tyrus, careful not to touch him.

  “He must see through his delusions,” Tyrus replied, voice passive, “before he ends up like Dresdi.”

  West threaded a piece of fruit onto the end of the line he’d fastened to the blade, then with a casual flick cast it into the river. The Red Dragon rested across his palms, transformed into a makeshift fishing pole. “You’re probably right,” he said. “But they’re still the man’s beliefs.”

  “It is the same beliefs,” Tyrus said, eyes closed, face turned toward the endless blue above them. “The same prophecies and visions the Evokians cling to. A promise that comes at the destruction of everything that does not fold to conform with their vision…His jaw tightened. “It’s all nothing but Northern madness.”

  “The Evokians twist the faith,” West countered. “There are good people in the north.”

  Tyrus sat up sharply and fixed his gaze on West. “Like who? Omni?” His voice hardened. “He is a zealot! He’s no different than Dresdi, no different than the Evok. He believes his religion gives him the right to bend nations, to chain those who do not kneel. His pursuit of relics and promises is uncompromising.” His eyes burned. “He is a slave holder who is determined to bind me to some promise in the manner he has bound you.”

  West didn’t answer right away. He let the words hang, let the anger spend itself. He stayed loose, patient, eyes on the water as the line drifted.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “What do you want me to say, Tyrus?” West sat up, turning fully toward him. “That you’re right about everything? You might be. But what does that change?” His voice stayed calm, steady. “I warned Master Omni about you. He refused my warning. That doesn't change anything between us. Regardless of whos choice it was to be here we are here. Together.”

  West paused, then continued, quieter but firmer. “I freed you from the Evokians. I saved you in the Old King’s Castle. And I’ll keep trying to make sure you’re alright… Not because I like you,” he added with a faint huff, “but because I have a duty. Not just to Master Omni.”

  He met Tyrus’s eyes.

  “To myself. I refuse to become another heartless monster in a world already drowning in them.”

  Tyrus grunted and turned away, facing the river once more. He didn’t know how to answer.

  Then the Dragon jerked.

  “A catch!” West exclaimed, gripping the hilt as the line went taut.

  Tyrus reacted on instinct, grabbing the cord and hauling back. “It’s a big one,” he said through clenched teeth as the resistance fought him.

  With one final yank, the fish burst free of the river, landing hard on the grass behind them. A massive bass, larger than anything either of them had ever seen, flopped and gleamed in the dying light.

  “Master Omni!” West shouted toward the tree line, laughter in his voice. “The Red Dragon! She has delivered!”

  As the sun sank low, bleeding gold and crimson into the river, West and Omni set about cleaning and grilling the fish while Tyrus slept the long day away. Smoke curled gently into the evening sky, and for a moment, the world felt almost still.

  None of them noticed the eyes watching from beyond the curtain of leaves and tangled green; silent, patient, and very much aware that the Red Dragon had been drawn once more.