Golden fields spread across the plain, broken here and there by fallow patches or trampled fences. The wind carried the scent of tilled earth and ash. What should have been peaceful farmland had been marred by the weight of too many footsteps. Wagons left deep ruts in the roads. Footpaths had widened into muddy channels. Grain stores stood empty. A scarecrow leaned askew, one arm missing.

And still the people came.

Refugees from surrounding villages and towns crowded the lanes — farmers with worn hands and hunched shoulders, mothers carrying children swaddled in cloaks too thin for the season, old men pushing carts that groaned with their every step. They walked in silence, for the most part, the kind born not of peace but exhaustion. A few had set up lean-tos and rough tents just off the road, though most pressed on toward the gates of Cirol with the single-minded desperation of those who had nowhere else to go.

Boaz walked near the front, Thorne pacing beside him. He looked over the crowd and felt a heaviness settle in his chest. These weren’t warriors or soldiers. These were people who had run — who had survived — and who had brought with them only what they could carry: a sack, a bundle, a story of what had been lost.

He thought of Pinehaven. Of Forlon. Of the burned-out homes and the dead who had not made it this far.

“These roads were made for trade,” Kiera said softly, her gaze on a man leading two children and a limping goat. “Not for flight.”

“They’ve carried both before,” murmured Aldryn, eyes distant.

Ahead, Cirol’s walls rose from the earth like carved cliffs, tall and jagged and sure. The towers behind them caught the sun, gleaming like polished stone teeth. Banners snapped in the breeze — deep crimson, gold-threaded — though their edges were frayed and weather-beaten. Watchmen patrolled the parapets in pairs, and from this distance, the gate looked like the mouth of some ancient sentinel.

Theo snorted softly. “So that’s the mighty stronghold of the west.”

“It is,” Cayden said, his voice unreadable. “And it’s not as ready as it looks.”

Boaz didn’t answer. He was watching a woman ahead trying to lift her child higher on her hip, the little one too tired to cling. A boy trailed behind with a wooden sword and no shoes. A donkey brayed nearby, its cart half-collapsed, its driver arguing with a soldier who wouldn’t let him any farther forward.

Cirol might have been the last stronghold of the western marches — but even strongholds could crack under weight like this.

Thorne let out a low growl, barely audible.

Boaz followed his gaze. The gates of Cirol loomed ahead now, not distant but imminent. Guards with polearms flanked the opening, admitting people in slow, careful intervals. Above them, the towers cast long shadows over the road, and for a moment, it felt as though they stood at the edge of something more than a city.

The road narrowed as they neared the gates, flanked now by fields turned to mud and makeshift camps. The crowd grew denser — carts, bundles, tired bodies pressed together in slow movement, all converging on the same destination.

Cirol loomed ahead, closer now than it had ever been. The walls towered above the fields like carved cliffs, watchmen pacing along their high ledges, spears glinting in the fading light. These northern gates stood open, but only just, allowing entry in controlled bursts as guards managed the flow of people with barked commands and hand signals.

Even before they reached the threshold, their company was drawing attention.

Thorne moved with silent purpose beside Boaz, his great paws making no sound even on the packed earth. Kestel perched on Jaxson’s shoulder, head swiveling as if scanning the rooftops. Mika walked close behind Lyra, Eira concealed within Kiera’s cloak. Tink peeked out from Theo’s pack and hissed low at a nearby goat.

The effect on the crowd was subtle at first — a few stares, then longer ones. Children stared openly, pulling at sleeves. Adults exchanged glances, whispered.

“Look at those animals…”

“Did you see the size of it?”

“They’re not from anywhere I know…”

Suspicion began to simmer. One man pulled his family a step back. Another made a sign Boaz didn’t recognize but looked vaguely like a warding gesture.

A guard by the gate caught sight of Thorne and went still. His hand moved toward the hilt of his blade, fingers twitching. “That thing’s not natural,” he muttered, eyes wide.

Cayden stepped forward and raised a hand. “Captain Darrin! I hope you’re not still letting green boys man the wall.”

A broad-shouldered officer turned toward the sound of the voice, and his grim expression broke into a weary smile.

“Cayden Marris. I’ll be.” Cayden stepped forward and clasped forearms with the man.

The captain gave a short laugh. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. Heard you went west after your service.”

“I did. Considered it my retirement. But bad things are happening again and I wanted to help. I brought company.”

Captain Darrin looked the group over — his eyes lingered on the familiars, but he said nothing. “You’re not here to make trouble, are you?”

“Not unless it finds us first,” Cayden said. “We’re just passing through. A place to rest, that’s all.”

The captain nodded. “Then move quick and quiet, as I know you can. It’s crowded enough without folk getting nervous.”

They passed under the gate and into the city of Cirol.

The noise hit like a wave — hammering iron, shouting vendors, clattering carts. Smoke rose from chimneys and cookfires alike. Stone buildings pressed tight together, their upper levels stitched with laundry lines and precarious balconies. The streets twisted and overflowed with people, many of them carrying the same haunted weariness Boaz had seen on the road.

He felt the weight of the city settle on him. Not just the bodies or the heat or the noise — but the tension that seemed to run beneath everything, like a drumbeat just out of rhythm.

A woman selling onions shrank back from Mika. A boy reached toward Tink, only for his father to pull him away with a sharp whisper. Everywhere they went, eyes followed — some in curiosity, others in fear.

Cayden turned to the group and said “Stay here for a few minutes. I need to speak with a friend of mine to get news, before we proceed.” He strode off through the crowd.

The company stood in place for several minutes, taking in the city. Aldryn seemed comfortable with the bustle, considering his long isolation. The rest of them were very uneasy with all the commotion and people.

Then a voice rose from the side of the street — cracked and loud. “He bears the mark! The fire sleeps in his shadow!”

An old man stood on a wooden crate, arms lifted to the sky. His cloak was frayed, his hair a tangled mess of gray. Then he pointed directly at Boaz, his hand trembling.

“The one who walks with beasts! The Prince of the Fallen!”

Boaz froze. Lyra stepped protectively closer, hand near her belt.

The man’s gaze burned into him, but his voice softened. “You’ll find it where the silver drinks the sky. But only if you bleed.” Then he sank to his knees, hands still raised, and began to hum some half-forgotten tune.

Cayden reappeared suddenly from another side street and murmured, “Ignore him. He’s been shouting madness since before the last war.” Boaz didn’t answer.

They pushed on, deeper into the city, the buzz of the crowd beginning to close in again. At the end of the next lane, a warm glow spilled from a swinging wooden sign — a lantern, carved and painted with fading gold.

Cayden pointed. “There she is. The Dusty Lantern.”

The sign creaked overhead as they stepped through the narrow doorway. The sounds of the street dulled behind thick walls, replaced by the gentle clatter of cutlery and the low hum of voices.

Inside, The Dusty Lantern was warm and worn — its floorboards scuffed from generations of boots, its hearth flickering beneath a soot-streaked mantle. The scent of baked onions and peppered broth filled the room, and the low ceiling gave it the feeling of a place meant for cozy shelter.

A few patrons looked up as they entered — a courier at the bar, a hunched traveler cradling a cup. None lingered long on the sight of the company, strange as they were. They must’ve had many strange sorts in Cirol.

From behind the counter, a broad man with a streaked beard and rolled sleeves looked up. His tired eyes brightened at the sight of Cayden, and his mouth split into a weathered grin.

“Well I’ll be scraped and stewed. Cayden Marris.”

Cayden grinned back and crossed the floor to clasp arms with him. “You’re still vertical, Jorven. That’s more than I can say for half the West.”

“I learned to duck,” the man said. “Come to cause trouble?”

“Not if I can help it. Just passing through.”

Jorven’s eyes swept over the group, lingering on the animals, then Aldryn’s staff, then Boaz. His smile didn’t vanish, but it didn’t widen either.

“I’ll show you the back room.”

He led them down a narrow hallway and opened a wooden door to a small, round room with a central table, several chairs, a window shuttered against the alley, and a quiet fire in a low hearth.

“Food’ll be up in a bit,” Jorven said. “Best to keep to yourselves. The city’s too crowded for comfort.”

Cayden dropped several silver coins into his palm. “For the rooms, and hot meals. Anything extra is for looking the other way.” Jorven tucked the coins into his apron without comment and left them alone.

They settled in as best they could. Kiera slid into a chair and leaned back, eyes closed. Jaxson dropped his pack and rolled his shoulders. Mika curled at Lyra’s feet. Boaz sat in a chair near the fire, Thorne beside him, unmoving and alert.

Cayden remained near the door, his arms crossed. “I spoke with an old contact,” he said after a moment. “One of Captain Darrin’s quartermasters. Caught him just after we got in.”

He looked more serious now.

“City food rations are already running low. It was a bad harvest, and they’ve had that black fungus on both the crops and livestock, same as Forlon. And the city’s holding more people than it can feed. City council members are splintered — some want to ally with outside powers, if it means keeping their personal estates intact. Others argue to close the gates completely and let the outer districts fend for themselves.”

Aldryn’s brow furrowed. “That kind of thinking always leads to civil unrest.”

“We’ll be gone before that,” Cayden said.

Boaz stared into the flames, his hand brushing against the place beneath his tunic where the Sigil pulsed softly, a faint warmth against his skin. It stirred as it had near Forlon. Not a warning… but an awareness. A tug. He spoke his thoughts out loud, not realizing he did so: “We can’t stay here. It’s not safe.”

Boaz wasn’t thinking of soldiers or nobles or spies. He was thinking of what the Sigil seemed to sense — the watching, waiting presence he couldn’t name.

Cayden nodded. “Yes, I think so too. We’ll leave at first light. There’s an old road south, runs along the river to Coralhaven from the southern gate of Cirol. Quiet enough, if we stay off the main paths.”

They all agreed.

A short while later, Jorven and his assistant returned with platters filled with bowls of stew, thick bread, a pitcher of dark tea with honey, and mugs. They said nothing, only set the trays down with practiced care and left them to it.

The company ate in silence, the sounds of the fire and the muffled city beyond filling the spaces between them.

Tomorrow, they would leave the stronghold behind.

The streets of Cirol were quieter before sunrise, but not silent. Somewhere, a forge bell rang. A vendor muttered to himself while arranging bread under a stained canvas. A patrol clanked through the shadows of the outer ward, too tired to care who walked where.

The company slipped from The Dusty Lantern just after first light, packs slung, cloaks drawn. The early chill clung to their shoulders and carried the faint scent of coal smoke.

Boaz kept his hood low. Thorne moved beside him like a ghost, eyes scanning alleys and windows. The city still felt heavy. Not just overcrowded — watched.

Halfway down a narrow lane, Eira stirred beneath Kiera’s cloak. Her head emerged, amber eyes locked on a high rooftop across the square. She gave a low, warning hoot.

Kiera stopped, hand drifting to her belt. “There,” she murmured.

Boaz followed her gaze. A dark figure stood at the roof’s edge — or had. As soon as their eyes fixed on the spot, the shape slipped away, vanishing behind a chimney in a blink.

Jaxson turned just in time to see the flutter of a cloak disappear.

“Someone’s watching us,” Kiera said.

“They were last night too,” Aldryn said under his breath. “We were just too tired to notice.”

“Do we go back?” Theo asked.

“No,” Cayden said. “We keep moving. Quickly. Quietly.”

They took a narrow side route, one Cayden knew from long ago — through a crooked alley, past a crumbling tower, out through a tradesman’s gate barely large enough for two to pass at once. The guards there didn’t stop them. Few did in the early hours, and less so because they were leaving the city, not entering.

The city fell behind them like a weight shrugged off, though its presence still loomed in the sky behind.

The old road south bent with the land, tracing the edge of farmland too wild for planting. Autumn grasses brushed their boots as the sun climbed. The North Fork of the Evenwell River glittered ahead to their left, winding southward in lazy arcs. The river passed underneath the city of Cirol, in deep, natural-carved tunnels, giving the city an ever-flowing source of fresh water. It emerged here. They followed it, the sound of water mingling with birdsong and the occasional splash of a distant fish.

They did not speak much.

By midday, the river slowed and became the inlet for Lake Evenwell. Their road had become more like a path, and it bent closer to the lake, whose wide surface was dappled with wind and light. In the distance, the faint shapes of old stone piers jutted into the shallows, half-claimed by reeds and moss.

Here, the air changed — cooler, heavier, touched by the memory of storms.

“Not far now,” Cayden said.

The sun dipped as they neared the southern curve of the lake, and the road narrowed into wooden planks bound by rope and stone. Trees thickened. Strange birds called from the canopy. And then, at the edge of the fading light, the first homes came into view.

Coralhaven.

It rose not in height, but in layers — woven reed walls, moss-covered walkways, stilts rooted in shallow water. Fires burned low in braziers hung above the lake’s edge. A few figures watched from porches, silent and still.

No one came to greet them.

“We made it,” Jaxson whispered.

“Now comes the hard part,” Boaz said. Thorne growled low, not in warning — but in recognition. Boaz felt through his connection to Thorne that something awaited them here.

The suspended walkways of Coralhaven shifted beneath their feet with the rhythm of the lake. Dusk had fallen, casting the village in shades of violet and silver. Lanterns swung from high arches of reed and bone, reflecting on the dark water in fractured, flickering patterns.

The company’s footsteps fell softly, but the hush was not theirs alone — the village watched, quiet and still.

Dozens of Aguan stood half-hidden behind hanging nets and carved posts. Some crouched at the water’s edge, half-submerged. Others moved noiselessly between platforms, barefoot and fluid in their motion. All were armed — not with menace, but with readiness.

Boaz had only seen one Aguan before, and that had been a corpse — a Fallen attacker outside Forlon. To see members of this previously unknown-to-him race in their home was entirely different. They seemed to be smaller in size than the other he had seen, but no less dangerous for it. There was a sharpness to their eyes, a stillness in the way they held their spears and knives. They had gills and partially webbed feet and hands. They were perfectly at home in the water.

None of them spoke to the company.

At last, the company came to a wide platform near the heart of the village, rising just above the lake on thick pillars of dark wood. Shell lanterns cast a cold light on a semi-circle of seven elders, seated on low mats beneath a canopy of woven rushes. Their garments were patterned in blue and green hues, adorned with beads that shimmered like wet stone.

In the center sat a woman with silver-threaded braids and a long shawl draped over her shoulders like a ripple of riverlight. Her gaze was calm and unreadable.

“You come from the west,” she said. “You are Huma. And you are not invited.”

Cayden stepped forward, hands open. “We have traveled all day from Cirol to speak with you. We come with caution, and with respect. We seek only shelter for the night. One among us —” he turned slightly, nodding toward Boaz “— carries something ancient. Something that stirred your waters long ago.”

The elders murmured in their own tongue, a language shaped by water and echo. Another elder, narrow-faced and sharp-eyed, leaned forward. “He is young.”

“They all are,” said a third, scowling. “Children with weapons.”

“But they travel with familiars,” the second said. “Old bonds. Forgotten bonds.”

“Still Huma,” another elder snapped. “Still breakers of ground. Still blind to what they burn.”

Boaz said nothing. He felt Thorne’s presence behind him, steady and silent. The Sigil beneath his tunic was warm again — not hot, but present, like a breath on the nape of his neck.

Then one of the elders, an older male with lake-green tattoos down both arms, leaned closer to the center. “I know that one,” he said, pointing past Boaz.

Aldryn stepped forward without prompting. “Aldryn Quell,” the elder said. “The silent mouth of the last peace.”

A ripple passed through the council.

The silver-haired matron inclined her head slightly. “You are known to us. You once walked our paths and left them unbroken.”

Aldryn bowed. “I have returned not to ask, but to listen — and to keep these ones from danger they do not yet understand.”

Another hush. Then the lead elder spoke again, her voice quieter now.

“Because of him, you will stay the night. Not in welcome. But in judgment. The council will reconvene at dawn. Then we will decide if you are meant to remain… or if the lake must return you to the land you came from.”

Cayden gave a respectful bow. “We’ll take whatever place you offer.”

“You will sleep above the shallows,” the silver-haired elder said. “The stilt house with the red cord. Do not wander.”

As they turned to follow their escort, Boaz glanced back. The matron was still watching him — not with warmth, but with something colder. Something like recognition.

The house their escorts brought them to was small, sitting high above the shallow water on stilts. Inside it was sparse. There were cots, a table, and several chairs, wooden floor, and open windows. The lake lapped softly below. They were neither brought nor offered food, so they ate the rations they had packed.

Next morning, their escorts from the night before came and brought them back to the circle of elders, with only a few words of greeting. It was clear they were very wary.

The company was standing once more on the council platform, morning mist rising from the lake and clinging to their boots and cloaks like breath held too long. It was chilly, even this far to the south.

The Aguan elders had assembled in the same place as before, seated on their crescent of mats beneath the canopy. This time, the lake was quieter. The village, too. It was as if Coralhaven itself held its breath.

Boaz stood at the center, flanked by Cayden and Aldryn, while the others stood respectfully behind. Aldryn had briefed them on how to behave the night before. Even the familiars were still.

The silver-haired matron elder, whom the others deferred to, raised a hand. “Speak now, and let the water judge your truth.”

Boaz glanced at Aldryn, who gave a slow nod.

He stepped forward, feeling the weight of the Sigil beneath his tunic.

“We seek your aid,” Boaz said, voice clear despite the tightness in his chest. “The world is changing again. The Fallen are rising, and —” He paused. He couldn’t say the name. Not here. “Darkness has returned.”

He reached into his tunic and drew out the Sigil.

A soft gasp rippled through the council.

The pendant, made of some dark-colored metal, hung from its cord, no longer cold, but its emerald in the center faintly pulsing with inner warmth — not with fire, but with light like shifting embers under water.

“It found me, through the long years,” Boaz said. “I didn’t ask for it. I don’t understand it. But it seemed to lead me here.”

The eldest of the group, a bent male Aguan with cataracted eyes and hands like driftwood, leaned forward. “The Triune Sigil,” he whispered. “Unmoored and bound anew.”

Boaz held it out slightly, not offering it, but showing it. “We’ve heard the legends. That each race once took their leaf of the Sigil when the union fractured. We believe the Aguan leaf was hidden here — beneath your waters.”

A long silence followed.

Then the silver-haired matron spoke, her voice softer now. “We had hoped it was lost. That the lake would never call it back.”

Cayden stepped forward. “We don’t come to demand. Only to ask. If the Sigil is meant to restore what was broken—”

“What was broken brought ruin,” one elder snapped.

“The union cost us thousands,” another added. “And it ended in fire.”

“But this is not the same,” Aldryn said gently. “The Sigil comes again not to rule — but to heal.”

More silence. Then the matron said, “Leave us.” It was not a request.

Boaz hesitated, but Cayden put a hand on his shoulder. “Come.” They left the council platform and returned to the edge of the village, where the same stilt house waited for them.

None of them spoke much. They sat. Waited. Watched the clouds begin to gather along the horizon.

It was nearly midday when the elders returned.

The oldest elder, the one with fogged eyes, approached alone, leaning on a staff carved with fish and reeds. His name had not been given before, but now he introduced himself.

“I am Merran of the Evenwell Clan,” he said. They stood to receive him.

“I bring you the decision of the council,” Merran said.

“We will not help you.” The words fell like stones.

Theo opened his mouth, but Cayden touched his arm. Merran looked at Boaz, and for a moment, something like regret flickered in his milky eyes. “We have no quarrel with you. But neither do we have the strength to lend. The lake remembers what it cost us to rise up with the landfolk — such as we call your kind. We will not pay that price again.”

He looked away. “You may stay until this coming storm passes. We get many storms like this.” He pointed out the open window. “Then you must leave Coralhaven.”

Boaz felt the Sigil grow cold against his chest.

Merran turned without another word and stepped down the walkway, the gentle tap of his staff fading with each stride.

The company was alone again. And somewhere beyond the lake, thunder rolled.

The second rumble of thunder sounded like a distant drum, soft and steady, a familiar sound in Coralhaven.

Boaz stood with Kiera and Lyra on the outer walkway, watching the clouds build across the lake. Thick gray, almost black, masses coiled above the peaks beyond Evenwell’s eastern edge, curling like smoke with lightning dancing deep in their bellies.

“What are we going to do now? It seems like we came all this way for nothing.” Lyra was squinting at the sky. “Glad we have shelter at least, that storm’s going to hit hard.”

“I don’t know where we go from here. Back to Cirol, I guess?” Kiera replied. She looked at Boaz, but he remained silent, watching the storm approach. She continued, “And no one seems worried about this storm. I think they like it.”

Boaz thought she was right.

The Aguan villagers moved calmly, reeling in nets, securing boats, pulling drying racks under shelter. Children laughed and darted between poles, diving in and out of the water, playing. A few older Aguans perched at the edges of docks, seemingly enjoying the cool wind that came before the rain.

“Apparently this isn’t strange or threatening to them,” Boaz said.

But even as he said it, something twisted in his chest — a hum beneath the skin. The Sigil against his sternum pulsed, warm and slow.

Another roll of thunder came, overhead now. The breeze kicked up, scattering droplets from the lake’s surface like a misty shiver. Lanterns swayed on their cords.

Then a sharp crack echoed across the water and lightning forked overhead, illuminating the central platform where a child had been playing — too close to the old storage rack where fish poles and sail arms were lashed together, rising like the skeleton of a long-forgotten rig.

“Wait—” Kiera started, but the words were drowned by a second thunderclap, so loud it nearly burst their eardrums — directly overhead now.

The wind screamed down in a sudden blast, and the upper frame of the rack splintered, ropes snapping like whipcords.

The child looked up, frozen.

A heavy timber cracked loose, swaying high above, then broke fully free. The whole structure was going to collapse.

Boaz was running before his thoughts formed fully.

“Boaz!” Jaxson shouted behind him, already moving.

Mika dashed forward, barking once to clear a path.

Villagers turned — some shouted, some reached out — but Boaz was already vaulting the walkway rail, boots slamming into the slick planks. The wind howled.

The child crouched beneath the collapsing frame, tangled in ropes, unable to move.

The timbers of the structure above dropped.

Boaz raised his hand protectively and shouted — not a word he knew, but a cry drawn from instinct and the pressure building in his chest.

The Sigil flared, no longer warm but bright, casting golden-white light in a sudden wave.

A pulse of energy erupted outward — not flame, not force, but something deeper, like the very lake recoiling in reverence. The falling beams struck the air above Boaz and shattered mid-drop, splintering harmlessly outward, the pieces clattering into the water.

The wind dropped. The storm, for a breath, paused.

Boaz dropped to one knee and pulled the child free — a wide-eyed girl no older than six, her small gills along her neck gasping in fright but her body unhurt.

Behind him, Cayden and Aldryn had reached the edge, flanking the path. Lyra was helping guide other children to shelter, and Theo was pulling down a tarp to secure the nearby supply crates.

Villagers stared. No one spoke.

Even the elders who had watched from their porch did not move — save one: Merran, the oldest, who had delivered the council’s denial. He stepped forward slowly, his eyes locked on Boaz and the faintly glowing Sigil that had surfaced on his tunic and pressed to his chest.

The light dimmed. The storm resumed, but fading. The storm had changed in intensity.

Boaz looked down at the girl, who clung with both arms around his chest, shaking in terror. “You’re safe now,” he said, though his voice trembled.

The lake lapped softly underneath the platform.

Rain continued to fall in a fine veil, whispering against the rooftops and lake. The air still held the sharp tang of lightning, but the fury had passed. Thunder rumbled far to the west, a retreating voice.

“She should return to her family,” Merran said gently.

Boaz nodded and helped the girl to her feet. She looked up at him once more, her large eyes glassy with awe, before being taken by a quiet relative who stepped forward without a word. She went willingly, but not without glancing back.

Merran stood there, watching Boaz in silence for a long moment. Then he spoke.

“You were told to leave after the storm.”

Boaz stood. “Yes.”

Merran shook his head. “You will not.”

He looked past Boaz for a moment, out across the rain-speckled water.

“The lake has seen you. The Sigil has spoken. Not with fire or wrath, but with protection. Sacrifice. We cannot ignore that.”

He turned back to face Boaz.

Merran continued. “The Silver Reef lies eastward, beneath waters that have not welcomed outsiders in a hundred years. But if the leaf is there still, it will be waiting for one who comes not with claim, but with cost.”

Boaz held his gaze. “I have to go alone?”

Merran nodded. “No companions. No weapons. No bonded beast. Just the Sigil, and the choice of the waters.”

Boaz glanced over his shoulder. The others stood just behind him — Cayden, Aldryn, the rest of the fellowship.

Before anyone else could speak or voice any objections, Boaz said, “I’ll go.”

Merran gave a small nod, the barest hint of respect in it.

“Then meet me at the eastern pier, at first light.”

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