Droskar moved with five.

  No more.

  No less.

  That was the rule now.

  The rest of his former Storm Riders were spread thin—guarding two safe houses along the forest spine, rotating border watch, ferrying small groups of civilians away from Eryndor’s reach. A larger force drew attention. Attention killed children.

  This team was different.

  Each of the five had been chosen not for raw power, but for judgment.

  A scout who knew when not to report.

  A medic who could carry a child and a blade at the same time.

  A former quartermaster who could turn scraps into shelter.

  A rider who had learned to walk quietly.

  And Droskar.

  At dawn, they reached the third extraction site.

  The signal fire had burned low.

  Too low.

  Droskar halted before the treeline, fist raised.

  No one spoke.

  The hut stood intact—roof sagging, door ajar. No smoke. No movement.

  Inside, they found what remained.

  A broken chair.

  A pot left half-cleaned.

  Three bedrolls.

  And blood.

  Not much.

  Which made it worse.

  The medic knelt, fingers brushing the floor once.

  “…They ran,” she said softly. “Not together.”

  Droskar closed his eyes.

  Sometimes too late.

  Not always slaughter.

  Sometimes panic.

  Sometimes betrayal.

  Sometimes people deciding that staying was worse than trying alone.

  He rose without comment and stepped outside.

  They buried what little needed burying. Marked the rest. Said nothing ceremonial. The dead didn’t need speeches. The living needed time.

  They moved again before noon.

  By afternoon, they had a convoy.

  Two elderly men.

  One woman with a shattered ankle.

  Three children who had learned not to cry.

  The safe house lay half a day away.

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  That was when Droskar felt it.

  Not danger.

  Interest.

  He raised his hand.

  The group halted instantly.

  Behind them, the forest shifted—not with noise, but with presence.

  Five figures stepped into view.

  Armor bore no Storm Rider crest, but none of it was cheap. Their formation was clean. Their spacing disciplined. Weapons held ready, but not raised.

  Veterans.

  Different path.

  Same hunger.

  One stepped forward, helm under his arm.

  “Captain Droskar,” he called. “Former.”

  Droskar turned fully.

  “Hmm, where have I seen your face? Ah yes, you were the one who failed last year’s storm rider application.”

  The man inhaled once, steady.

  “Glad you remember me at least,” he said.

  “… Did I do something wrong?” Droskar thinking very hard in his head.

  The air held.

  No wind summoned.

  No thunder rolled.

  Just a quiet standoff beneath the trees.

  Droskar studied them.

  Not their stance.

  Their eyes.

  Then he stepped forward once.

  The ground answered.

  Pressure spread outward in a perfect ring—dense, controlled, absolute. Not violent. Not cruel. Just enough to remind them what they were standing against.

  The five resisted a little.

  Boots dug in. Muscles locked. Swollen damage in many areas. One drove his spear into the earth for leverage.

  Droskar stopped the attack.

  “You chose different roads,” he said evenly. “That does not make you superior.”

  The leader swallowed.

  “We trained,” he said. “Bled. Survived.”

  “I know, you are a little bit stronger than last year.”

  The pressure returned—fractionally stronger.

  Their line broke.

  Not spectacularly.

  Professionally.

  They disengaged in practiced order, retreating until distance returned and weight lifted.

  The leader straightened, breathing hard.

  “…Then this is as far as we go.”

  He bowed once.

  Droskar inclined his head.

  “Go,” he said. “Live long enough to regret the question.”

  They withdrew.

  Cleanly. Quietly. No pursuit.

  When the forest swallowed them, one of Droskar’s team finally spoke.

  “They weren’t weak.”

  “No,” Droskar replied.

  “They just weren’t enough. We have survived a lot more disasters than them.”

  He turned back toward the road.

  The children were watching him now.

  One tugged his cloak.

  “Are we safe?”

  Droskar knelt.

  “Yes,” he said. “You are.”

  They moved again.

  The safe house came into view at sunset.

  Lanterns were lit.

  Food was waiting.

  Beds were prepared.

  Another group lived.

  Another group didn’t.

  That was unfortunate, but they couldn’t have rescued all of them.

  As night fell, Droskar stood watch at the perimeter.

  Far away, storms still moved without him.

  Eryndor still stood.

  But something had changed.

  Storm Riders were no longer the Kingdom’s shadow.

  And the ones who stayed behind—

  They were no longer alone.

  Terms and Condition

  As the safe house settled into quiet, Droskar straightened, stretching his shoulders.

  “Hm,” he said at last. “I’ve finished this job. Time to take care of my farm.”

  Silence.

  “…Who said that?”

  Lyssandra’s voice carried from behind him, calm and unamused.

  Droskar turned slowly.

  She stood with her arms crossed, dirt on her sleeves, hair tied back like any other worker in the city.

  “You still need to fix and reinforce the main gate,” she continued. “You destroyed it. Remember?”

  Droskar frowned.

  “That was tactical destruction.”

  “That was my gate.”

  “…This is a breach of contract,” Droskar said flatly.

  Lyssandra stepped closer and placed a small magnifier into his hand.

  “Read the fine print.”

  Droskar squinted.

  His brow twitched.

  “…What.”

  Lyssandra smiled—pleasant, precise, terrifying.

  “All Storm Riders currently operating under Albion’s asylum charter,” she read aloud, “are subject to reconstruction, defense, and civic labor duties until further notice.”

  She tapped the page once.

  “Including their captain.”

  Droskar looked up slowly.

  “…You planned this.”

  “I drafted it,” Lyssandra corrected. “You signed it.”

  “…I did not read it.”

  “Clearly.”

  Behind them, one of the rescued children stifled a laugh.

  Droskar exhaled, long and resigned.

  “…Fine,” he muttered. “But I’m not touching the decorative arches.”

  “You’re rebuilding the main gate,” Lyssandra said. “And reinforcing the foundations.”

  She turned away.

  “Oh—and Droskar?”

  He paused.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t give up.”

  For a moment, the Storm Captain said nothing.

  Then he nodded once.

  “…I won’t.”