The carriage smelled like fresh oil, old leather, and the faint bite of embarrassment.

  Not the normal embarrassment of a crowded room.

  The sharper kind—where someone had been knocked out, dragged, and stored like luggage.

  Yona sat upright against the cushions, blinking like her eyes didn’t trust what they were seeing yet. Her hand went to her cheek. Her jaw flexed. Her gaze snapped to the corners of the carriage as if an ambush could be hiding in velvet.

  Princess Diane sat across from her, posture perfect, irritation still simmering in her eyes like she’d been forced to swallow a loss in public.

  Garn sat beside the window, trying not to look like a man who had almost died three times in the last two days.

  Denis sat opposite him.

  Not properly seated.

  Half lounging, one boot propped, Telero laid across his knees like a lazy animal that didn’t believe in rules.

  His eyes kept drifting back to Garn.

  Not staring in a normal way.

  Staring in a way that felt like being tested for cracks.

  Diane kept doing it too—glances that lingered half a second longer than they should have.

  Garn pretended he didn’t notice either of them.

  He watched the city fade into road.

  Watched walls become fields.

  Watched the sky widen.

  The farther they got from the capital, the quieter everything became. Even the carriage wheels sounded different—less echo, more honest grinding. The air seeping through the cracks felt cooler too, like the world ahead had already decided to be Winter before Winter’s banners ever showed.

  Yona shifted her shoulders as if the carriage itself offended her. Her eyes flicked once to the door latch. Once to Telero. Once to Denis. Then back to the window, as if refusing to acknowledge she’d been placed in the same space as him.

  Diane, bored by silence, broke it with a sigh.

  “How long until we reach Winter’s edge?” she asked.

  Yona answered without looking at her, voice clipped. “Days.”

  Diane’s lips tightened. “Days is not a number.”

  Yona finally looked over, eyes sharp despite the haze still clinging to her. “Enough days to make you regret asking.”

  Diane’s brows lifted in irritation.

  Denis chuckled once, like the princess being annoyed was better than music.

  Yona’s gaze cut to him.

  He didn’t care.

  Garn tried—quietly, in the place inside him that didn’t need an audience—to feel for Vyse.

  Not mana.

  Not Akash’s warmth.

  Something deeper.

  Will.

  Life.

  That pressure Finn had described.

  He closed his eyes a fraction and reached for it like you reached for heat near a fire—

  Denis’ boot tapped the carriage floor once.

  A warning sound.

  Garn’s eyes opened.

  Denis was smiling.

  “Don’t,” Denis said.

  Garn’s jaw tightened. “Why.”

  Denis tilted his head like he’d been waiting for the question.

  “Because you’re loud when you try,” Denis said, and his grin sharpened. “And you don’t even know what you’re calling.”

  Garn’s eyes narrowed. “I’m just trying to feel it.”

  Denis’ gaze flicked down to Garn’s chest, then back to his face.

  “Yeah,” Denis said. “That’s the problem.”

  Garn stared at him. “You keep saying that like it means something.”

  “It does,” Denis said, and the smile disappeared for a heartbeat—rare seriousness breaking through his flicker. “You’re not reaching for Vyse like a normal person. You’re reaching like you already have something sitting on your ribs.”

  Garn didn’t answer.

  Denis leaned forward a little, Telero shifting with a soft metallic click, seams flexing like the sword was listening too.

  “And when you do that,” Denis continued, “it hears you.”

  Garn’s brow tightened. “Who.”

  Denis’ grin returned—too quick. “Depends.”

  Yona blinked hard, still dazed, her attention catching up to the fact that Garn and Denis were speaking like this was normal.

  Her eyes sharpened into alertness.

  Then her gaze snapped to Denis.

  And everything in her posture stiffened.

  Diane didn’t give her time to build dignity.

  She leaned forward and smacked the side of Yona’s head—not hard enough to injure, just hard enough to insult.

  Yona’s head jerked.

  Her eyes flared.

  “What—”

  Diane’s voice was sharp.

  “You embarrassed the royal knights,” she said. “You were thrown into my carriage like a sack.”

  Yona’s jaw clenched so hard it looked painful.

  For a second Garn thought she might actually draw in the carriage.

  Then Yona inhaled.

  Exhaled.

  Forced herself into control like she was strangling her own pride.

  “Yes,” Yona said, clipped. “My Princess.”

  Diane leaned back, satisfied.

  Denis chuckled like it was entertainment.

  Yona’s eyes cut to him.

  “You,” she said.

  Denis blinked, innocent. “Me?”

  Yona’s voice went colder. “Speak again.”

  Denis’ grin widened. “No.”

  The carriage went quiet in that dangerous way.

  Garn stared out the window harder, pretending he wasn’t trapped between aristocratic pettiness and Vessel-stage instability.

  Akash hummed inside him like she was bored.

  “So,” she murmured. “Winter roads. Wolves. A princess. A lunatic. Fun.”

  Garn ignored her.

  Denis didn’t.

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  He leaned forward slightly, eyes on Garn, and spoke like he’d gotten bored with the silence.

  “You keep trying to feel Vyse,” Denis said.

  Garn’s jaw tightened. “You keep bothering me.”

  Denis’ grin flickered—annoyed, amused, curious—then settled.

  “Why do you think I’m bothering you?” Denis asked.

  Garn met his eyes. “Because you’re obsessed.”

  Denis laughed once.

  Not offended.

  Delighted.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”

  Garn’s fingers curled on his knee. “Why.”

  Denis’ gaze sharpened—like he enjoyed the directness.

  Then he said something that made the air feel slightly thinner.

  “Why don’t you learn two at the same time,” Denis said.

  Garn frowned. “What.”

  Denis leaned back, Telero shifting with a faint metallic click like it listened.

  “Vyse,” Denis said, nodding at Garn. “Your body seems like it can handle it.”

  Garn’s brow tightened.

  Denis continued, voice casual and dangerous.

  “And once you apply that mana you’ve got—whatever it is—maybe you learn Vyse my way.”

  Garn stared. “Your way.”

  Denis’ eyes brightened, then dulled, then brightened again—like his thoughts were switching tracks mid-sentence.

  “Crossed,” Denis said, pleased. “Messy. Effective.”

  Yona’s eyes narrowed. “Stupid.”

  Denis looked at her. Smiled. Looked away.

  Garn didn’t blink. “Explain.”

  Denis shrugged.

  “Most people learn Vyse clean,” he said. “They pick a path. They stay in it. They respect the old rules.”

  He patted Telero with the flat of his hand.

  “I never respected rules,” Denis said. “I respected results.”

  Garn’s eyes flicked to the sword.

  Denis noticed.

  “Good,” he said. “Because you need a weapon.”

  Garn frowned. “I don’t use weapons.”

  Denis’ smile thinned. “That’s a mistake.”

  Garn’s voice stayed rough. “I fight with my body.”

  Denis tilted his head like he was studying an animal that refused a saddle.

  “Then get something like mine,” Denis said. “Or something similar. Not the same shape. Just… a tool that agrees with you.”

  Garn’s jaw tightened. “Why are you so sure I need one.”

  Denis shrugged. “Because you’re going to be fought like you’re valuable.”

  Garn stared at him.

  Denis’ grin returned, softer, almost conspiratorial.

  “After this mission,” Denis said, “how about you tag along with me.”

  Garn blinked. “Why.”

  Denis’ grin sharpened.

  “There’s a dungeon,” Denis said. “It has something you might like—if you can get through it.”

  Yona’s eyes snapped to him. “No.”

  Denis ignored her like she was weather.

  “I gave up on it,” Denis admitted, almost cheerfully. “Couldn’t get the thing to stop rejecting me.”

  He pointed at Garn with two fingers like a man pointing at a solution.

  “But maybe you can.”

  Garn’s brow furrowed. “What is it.”

  Denis’ grin widened.

  “That’s the fun part,” he said. “You don’t know until it decides you’re worth having.”

  Garn stared at him.

  Denis’ tone shifted—rare seriousness bleeding in.

  “But until you get it,” Denis said, “don’t learn Vyse.”

  Garn went still. “What.”

  Denis’ eyes sharpened.

  “It might reject you,” Denis said. “Just like it rejected me.”

  Yona’s jaw flexed. “You’re not making sense.”

  Denis didn’t even look at her.

  He looked at Garn like this was the only conversation in the carriage.

  “Hone your skills,” Denis said. “Get stronger. Learn how not to die.”

  Then his smile returned—too quick.

  “But avoid Vyse at all cost,” Denis said. “At least the way you’re trying now.”

  Garn’s mouth tightened.

  Akash laughed in his ribs—soft, delighted, mocking.

  “So,” she purred, “you can’t learn Vyse… and you can’t learn mana either.”

  Her amusement sharpened into a grin Garn could feel.

  “My little barbarian.”

  Garn’s jaw flexed. Shut up.

  Akash ignored him the way gods ignored prayers.

  “Back in that day,” she continued, voice drifting into memory like smoke, “there were those who used unique weapons. Unique items. Not like tower trinkets. Not like noble heirlooms. Real things.”

  She sounded almost nostalgic—almost.

  “They always had a weird catch.”

  Garn kept his face still, eyes on the passing fields, but his thoughts answered her.

  Like what.

  Akash’s tone turned lightly dismissive.

  “None of them were dangerous,” she said. “Just… inconvenient in the strangest ways.”

  A beat.

  “A blade that refused to cut unless its wielder kept a vow. A shield that wouldn’t rise for cowards. A spear that only struck true under moonlight.”

  She snorted.

  “Annoying. Complicated. Petty.”

  Garn’s brow tightened.

  Those exist?

  Akash huffed, amused.

  “I call them Excels.”

  The word landed heavy—old and sharp.

  “Some people say the gods made them,” she said. “I don’t believe that.”

  Her voice lowered, more certain.

  “But I do believe the land can make strange things when a god has heavy influence on it.”

  She paused, as if deciding how much to give away.

  “When a place is soaked in an idea long enough, it starts producing… echoes.”

  Garn’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  So the dungeon— an echo? An Excel?

  Akash didn’t answer the thought directly.

  Instead she drifted, almost too casual:

  “I fought one here once,” she murmured. “In these lands.”

  A flicker of image pressed against Garn’s mind—something bright and wrong, a weapon that moved like it was thinking, a man whose stance didn’t match the laws around him.

  Akash’s voice tightened—barely.

  “Unless…”

  Garn’s pulse ticked up.

  Unless what.

  Akash scoffed.

  “Impossible,” she said, too fast—too final. “So it doesn’t matter.”

  And she went quiet in the way she only went quiet when she didn’t want Garn asking the next question.

  Garn didn’t ask.

  He just stared out the window and watched the land subtly change.

  The grass thinned.

  The trees grew darker, denser.

  A small patch of frost clung to shadowed ground even though the sun still sat high.

  Winter wasn’t here yet.

  But it was close enough that the world had begun to prepare.

  Across from him, Denis watched him with his head tilted slightly, as if he’d noticed the exact heartbeat where Garn’s attention had shifted.

  Garn kept his expression blank.

  But his fingers tightened on the wood beneath the window.

  Diane kept glancing at Garn like she was trying to decide whether she’d picked a toy or a tool.

  Yona stared out the opposite window with her jaw clenched, pride still sore.

  And Telero sat across Denis’ knees like a patient predator, seams catching light whenever the carriage rocked.

  Outside, the escort moved in disciplined rhythm.

  Hooves and boots. Leather creak. Metal clink.

  The road bent north and the air cooled with it.

  Zamora walked near the left flank with her staff across her shoulders, eyes scanning the road. Every so often she looked at the tree line like she expected wolves to step out and ask for permission.

  Karen walked near the right, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. Her pace never changed, even when the terrain did.

  Zamora leaned closer, voice low.

  “Denis is dangerous,” Zamora murmured.

  Karen didn’t look at her. “Yeah.”

  Zamora’s brows tightened. “Then why are we letting him near the princess.”

  Karen exhaled slowly.

  “We don’t have a choice,” she said. “He’s the strongest one here.”

  Zamora’s eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t mean he’s safe.”

  Karen’s mouth twitched—humorless.

  “It’s not like he’s an enemy,” she said.

  Zamora didn’t answer right away.

  Because she wasn’t sure.

  And Karen noticed the silence.

  Karen’s voice dropped, quieter.

  “I haven’t been sure of a lot of things,” she said.

  Zamora glanced at her.

  Karen’s eyes stayed forward.

  “But I’m sure of one,” Karen continued. “Whatever Garn showed back then… he became stronger.”

  Zamora’s grip tightened on her staff. “He just… stood there.”

  Karen nodded faintly.

  “And thought,” Karen said. “He used to act first and regret later. Now he measures. Now he waits.”

  Zamora frowned. “That makes him better.”

  Karen’s mouth tightened like she didn’t enjoy admitting it.

  “It makes him worse,” she said. “Better people are predictable. Dangerous people learn.”

  Zamora’s gaze flicked toward the carriage. “Denis is unpredictable.”

  Karen’s voice stayed flat.

  “Denis is noisy,” she said. “Garn is quiet.”

  Zamora didn’t like how that sounded.

  Karen kept walking.

  “If Denis becomes a problem,” Karen said, “Garn will solve it.”

  Zamora stared at the carriage a moment longer.

  Then she looked forward again.

  Because the road didn’t care what they were afraid of.

  Winter was ahead.

  And it was always waiting.