The scent of woodsmoke and frying sausage drifted over the camp as the sun crested the treetops, casting long fingers of gold between the pine trunks. The recruits were being awakened by the camp staff, in preparation for the day of training. Boaz already sat cross-legged near the fire, tearing off a hunk of bread and watching the others trickle into the clearing, one by one.

Thorne sat beside him, still as stone, amber eyes scanning the camp without a sound. The lynx hadn’t left his side all night. At first, Boaz hadn’t been sure what to do with the silent creature, but somewhere between sharpening his blades and stoking the fire, Thorne had rested his head against Boaz’s leg — and stayed that way until dawn.

“You sure he’s not a statue?” Jaxson asked, settling across from Boaz with a grin. He tossed a strip of dried venison into the air — Kestel dove from a high branch and snatched it mid-flight, wings flaring wide before rising again.

Boaz smirked. “He eats when he wants to.”

“Respect,” Lyra muttered, stirring the pot of oats with a flat stick. “Mika would’ve already licked the pan clean.”

As if summoned, the spotted hyena padded over, muzzle twitching. Mika glanced at Thorne, then flopped dramatically onto the ground beside Lyra with a heavy “huff,” chin on her paws.

“She stole my blanket last night,” Lyra added. “Dragged it right off me and made a nest by the fire. Growled when I tried to take it back.”

“Alpha behavior,” Theo said with a grin. “She’s claiming territory.”

“She’s lucky I didn’t throw her into the lake.”

Theo was crouched nearby, gently prying Tink’s tiny paws from the trigger mechanism of his crossbow. “No. Not the trigger. Again.” The raccoon chirped in protest, then darted toward Lyra’s gear with a thief’s confidence.

“I built a lockbox last night,” Theo explained, jerking his chin toward a small metal box he had set down beside him. “Tink cracked it in under five minutes.”

“Did you show her how?”

“Nope. She watched me build it, then waited until I fell asleep.”

“You’ve created a monster,” Kiera said softly, arriving with a bundle of herbs and dried fruit. Her owl, Eira, glided silently down to land on a branch above the fire, barely rustling a leaf.

“She won’t eat in front of others,” Kiera added, offering her owl a morsel anyway. Eira blinked slowly, unmoved. “She spent the whole night just … watching. I think she memorized everyone’s footsteps.”

“Doesn’t your owl ever blink normally?” Jaxson asked.

“She blinks with judgment,” Lyra said dryly. “It’s different.”

They all laughed then — quiet but genuine. For the first time since the bonding ceremony at the lake, it felt like the five of them could breathe together, and just renew friendships.

Boaz glanced around the circle, then at Thorne. The lynx finally blinked, slow and deliberate. He remembered waking in the dark, hearing nothing but wind — and Thorne’s low, warning growl. Something had passed the edge of the camp. Something unseen. The lynx had stood guard all night.

“Do you think,” Boaz began, tearing another chunk of bread, “they chose us because we’re like them … or because we need them?” A silence followed. Not uncomfortable. More like consideration.

“Bit of both,” Theo said eventually. “Tink’s clever. But she also breaks or steals everything I make. Keeps me humble.”

“Mine doesn’t care if I lead or follow,” Lyra added. “She just wants to see what happens next.”

“Kestel wouldn’t stop flying loops until midnight,” Jaxson said. “I think she wanted to see every tree in the forest. Then she landed on my chest and fell asleep like I was a branch.”

Kiera smiled faintly. “Eira perched above my head all night. I think … she was listening to my dreams.”

Boaz nodded slowly. Thorne didn’t speak — of course he didn’t — but he didn’t need to. The lynx shifted just enough to rest a heavy paw near Boaz’s own.

They weren’t just bonded. They were changing.

When they were finished eating, Wardencamp’s blacksmith Tal came out of his small shop with a number of fine but strong chains with clasps on them. He held them out to each of the recruits and said, “For each of you, to hold your tokens around your necks. Made ’em last night.” The recruits were amazed and thanked him profusely. “I figured you needed a way to keep them safe and on you. I snuck a peek at some of your tokens after the ceremony, and saw that they now had clasps on them. So you should be able to run these light but strong chains through the clasps and keep ’em secure around your neck.”

Each of the recruits took out his or her token from the night before, and it was true that each had been imbued with a clasp that would fit nicely on the chain. The clasps hadn’t been on the blanks when they threw them in the lake. For that matter, they hadn’t been magically embossed either. The recruits each placed their tokens on their chain, and tucked it under their shirts. They had been told not to show them to anyone outside the cohort.

After this they marched down to the ranged weapons station. The meadow clearing had been marked with wooden targets of various shapes and sizes. Some were suspended from branches, others swinging on ropes, and a few could be pushed and moved on crude rails. It was a test of timing and precision.

Master Hawar, the rangemaster, stood with arms crossed and an expression like he was chewing gravel.

“Let’s get something straight,” he barked. “This exercise is designed for you, not for your — your beasts. They may observe, but they do not assist. Clear?”

Kestel screeched overhead. Master Hawar winced. Boaz stifled a grin.

“Each of you should grab your favorite ranged weapon or two, and come back over here. Yesterday was a fairly poor showing, but that’s to be expected. Some of you haven’t touched these weapons. Today, though, we will learn to concentrate, which is the single most important skill you can apply with any ranged weapon. Don’t be discouraged, but keep improving with every session.”

There were a few minutes when the recruits were busy selecting their favorite weapons, cocking crossbows, and filling quivers. When they had all gathered again, Master Hawar motioned Jaxson to come forward.

Jaxson stepped forward, longbow in hand, quiver slung over one shoulder. Kestel landed neatly on a nearby branch, head cocked toward the targets. Jaxson glanced at her once, then nocked an arrow as they had been taught the day before.

“Begin!” Master Hawar called.

The first target swung wide to the left. Jaxson pivoted and loosed — thunk. The arrow caught the edge of the target and ricocheted, sending the target spinning.

He exhaled, shaking out his fingers. “Ok.”

The second target jolted from the brush ahead, riding a rail toward the treeline. He tracked it, adjusted — fired. A good hit, but near the edge.

Then the third target launched — smaller, faster, zig-zagging along a cleverly hidden track. Jaxson hesitated. His eyes flicked too fast — trying to track, to predict, but the motion blurred.

Kreeee!

Kestel let out a sharp cry and launched into the air, wings flaring. She circled once above the clearing, then dipped low — just ahead of the target.

Jaxson didn’t think about it, but it was like at that moment he knew her thoughts — he just followed her lead, and loosed.

The arrow struck — not dead center, but enough to shatter the edge of the wooden disk. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

From behind, someone murmured, “That hawk’s not just showing off.”

Master Hawar’s brow twitched. “That … was not part of the design.”

“I guess she just — reads the land. Shows me angles I wouldn’t see,” Jaxson replied, eyes still on the sky.

“Don’t get cocky, recruit. Next!”

Lyra stepped forward next, crossbow cradled in her arms, eyes narrowed toward the targets. Mika padded at her side, ears perked. She sat just outside the training ring and watched like she’d done this before.

The first target emerged, gliding on a rope between two trees. Lyra fired — thunk. The bolt struck off-center, but firmly.

She reloaded quickly.

The second target spun out from behind a wooden barricade.

Lyra tracked it, but her aim faltered. She adjusted too late — the bolt clipped the bottom edge. The target swayed but didn’t fall. She gritted her teeth. “Come on, Lyra …”

A third target shot up from the ground — fast, nearly vertical. Mika gave a sudden, short bark. Lyra didn’t know why she reacted to it, but she shifted her aim, trusting the hyena’s timing.

Thunk.

The bolt struck near the center. A better hit. Not perfect — but instinctual. She lowered her crossbow, breathing hard. Mika trotted over and bumped her leg with her head, tail wagging.

“They’re not just helping us hit,” Lyra muttered, more to herself than anyone. “They’re helping us feel the shot.”

Boaz stepped into the ring, two finely balanced throwing knives in hand. Thorne moved like a shadow beside him, eyes fixed on the tree line.

The first target swung wide and low. He threw instinctively — thunk. A solid hit, though it landed left of center. The second darted from the opposite side. Boaz turned, aimed fast, and let the second knife fly.

Thwack.

Better. Closer to center. He nodded slightly. Then the third target sprang up from behind a log — half-hidden, fast, rising straight. Boaz froze for a heartbeat, empty-handed.

Thorne twitched — ears flicked, eyes cutting toward the training rack just behind them. Boaz moved without thinking. He grabbed a dull training dagger from the rack, shifted his grip, and turned —

Thorne growled low, the sound vibrating in his bones. Boaz adjusted again. Higher. He threw.

The dagger spun end-over-end and struck the top of the target with a wooden crack. The target didn’t fall, but it rocked back hard on its frame. Boaz blew out a breath and stepped back. “Didn’t even plan that,” he muttered.

Thorne circled once, then sat beside him — silent, but watching.

Theo adjusted the strap on his hand crossbow and stepped into the ring. His tools clinked softly on his belt. The crossbow was a custom job — lightweight, fast-loading, a little experimental.

Tink trotted beside him, holding something shiny in her paws. Theo frowned. “Tink, now is not the time to disassemble my scope —”

Creeeak-thunk!

The first target shot out on a short rail track. Theo raised the crossbow and fired. The bolt flew slightly wide, grazing the edge. He grunted, reloaded.

The second target popped up from behind a log. He fired again — thunk — a better shot, closer to center. He was about to relax when Tink scurried across his boots and jumped onto a nearby post, chittering loudly.

“What are you —”

He looked past her. A third target had launched silently, hidden in shadow. He hadn’t even seen it yet. He dropped to one knee, aimed quickly — and let the bolt fly. Thunk.

The bolt hit near the base. Not clean, but enough to strike. Tink chirped smugly and leapt down, tail flicking. Theo shook his head. “She spotted that target before I did.”

One of the instructors raised a brow. “You trained that creature?”

Theo glanced at Tink, who was now halfway into a tool pouch she’d definitely stolen from someone else.

He sighed. “I’ve been trying. She mostly trains me.”

Kiera stepped into the ring quietly, her sling already in hand. Her stance was calm, grounded. Eira flew overhead in a slow, silent arc, barely disturbing the air. The first target rose smoothly, gliding across a line.

Kiera let the sling fly — snap — the stone hit just shy of the center, but solid. She didn’t smile.

The second was quicker, emerging at an angle. She stepped sideways, adjusted — snap — a glancing hit, enough to rock the target. Still not perfect. She tightened her grip on the next stone to sling.

Eira gave a low hoot from above. Kiera paused. Waited.

Then — rustle — the third target sprang up behind a tree stump, a short rise and drop, quick and easy to miss.

Kiera knew that Eira was warning her, and “felt” the direction of the target. She didn’t even turn her head toward it. She pivoted cleanly and released the sling in one fluid motion.

Crack.

The stone clipped the top edge of the target, knocking it sideways. Kiera exhaled slowly. Eira landed on a nearby branch, eyes closing once.

“I wouldn’t have caught that last one,” Kiera said softly, “not without her warning.”

Master Hawar nodded faintly, arms crossed. “Not the strongest arm … but the clearest mind. That matters more.”

Master Hawar looked to the instructors who had gathered at the edge of the field, his eyes wide in disbelief. It seemed the instructors couldn’t help themselves. They had come to watch. “They weren’t supposed to pass this. Not without training,” Hawar said.

Master Syrna replied softly, “They didn’t pass because of training.”

Off to the side, Tink had already stolen a target wheel and was dismantling its axle with what looked like Theo’s screwdriver. Kiera raised a brow. “Are we … supposed to stop him?”

Theo just sighed. “Eventually.”

When the recruits walked back to camp and found Master Julian, he led them in a different direction than yesterday. Here, the forest deepened beyond the training field, the underbrush thinning into a stand of ancient pines. Moss softened the ground underfoot, and the wind spoke in hushed rustles through the boughs above. Boaz found himself walking slower here, as if the trees expected silence.

The recruits gathered in a loose semicircle near a ring of worn stones. No targets. No weapons.

Master Julian stood at the center, tall and wiry, his weathered skin the color of old bark. His beaked nose and deep-lined face made him look like some avian spirit that had simply taken on human form. His eyes — narrow, ever-squinting — missed nothing.

He spoke quietly, but they all leaned in to hear. “You cannot command the earth,” he said. “You may only listen to it. If it wills, it will answer.”

He gestured toward the stones. “The old ones called this Earthreading. A whisper in roots. A tremor in stone. The breath of the wind through hollow bark. The land remembers everything … if you are still enough to ask.”

The recruits glanced at one another. Jaxson, shifting restlessly, opened his mouth to speak — but Kestel landed on his shoulder and nipped his ear. “Ow — okay. Quiet. Got it,” he grumbled.

Julian raised a brow at the bird, but said nothing.

He motioned to the ring. “One at a time. Step into the circle. Kneel. Place your hands on the ground. No speaking. No moving. Let the land speak through you — if it will.”

Boaz stepped forward first, Thorne padding silently behind him. He knelt, fingers pressing into cool earth. For a moment, there was nothing but the rhythm of his breath. Then Thorne pressed his forehead against the back of Boaz’s shoulder.

The world shifted.

Boaz didn’t move — couldn’t move — but his awareness stretched outward. He “felt” the roots beneath him, tangled and patient. “Heard” the echoes of footsteps from days ago. A breeze passed through the trees, and in its wake came images — wolves hunting, a deer dying, a child once lost here, found again.

He gasped, blinking as Thorne withdrew. Master Julian’s eyes were sharp. “What did you see?”

“Not see,” Boaz said slowly. “Felt. Like the land remembers… everything.”

Julian gave the faintest nod. “And your companion?”

“He made me still enough to hear.”

Next came Kiera. She stepped lightly, Eira gliding after her. When Kiera touched the earth, the owl landed nearby — then slowly spread her wings, not in flight, but as a covering, a dome of silence. Kiera’s expression changed: sorrow, then wonder. She whispered a prayer, not for the land, but for what had died upon it.

Julian murmured, “She carries the grief of this place. She has shared it with you. Amazing.”

One by one, they entered the circle.

Lyra struggled to stay still — until Mika pressed against her back, grounding her. When she finally stopped resisting, she laughed, startling the others. “It’s not all sad,” she said. “There was a fox den here once. A big one. They played right there.” Mika barked in agreement.

Theo couldn’t focus at first. Tink kept scurrying, digging, sniffing — but when he finally let go of needing answers, and just watched his familiar … something clicked. “It’s like the land speaks in puzzles,” he said afterward. “And Tink already knows the riddle.”

Jaxson was last, looking unsure. Kestel circled above, then dove low, her wings just skimming the circle. The wind stirred dust from the stones. Jaxson’s fingers trembled against the soil. Later, he said only: “There’s a river under us. Far down. I heard it moving. Singing.”

When they were done, Julian studied each of them with that hawk-like gaze.

“You were not expected to have familiars,” he said. “Yet you do. I was not prepared to teach them,” he added, looking toward Thorne, who stared back unblinking. “Yet here we are.”

He turned to leave, his voice trailing like leaves in the wind. “The land does not choose lightly. Neither do they.”

After a brief lunch, during which the recruits talked excitedly to one another of the remarkable ways the familiars helped them, they headed for the melee range.

They arrived at the melee field as the morning mist burned away under the rising sun. The clearing was ringed by splintered training dummies, scuffed earth, and wooden weapon racks. A low fence marked the edge of the sparring pit, trampled from years of drills and bruised pride.

Four instructors waited in a silent line near the center, each standing like an extension of the weapon they mastered.

Master Kera stood with arms crossed, built like a fortress in human form. Her scarred arms were bare despite the morning chill, and the heavy mace slung across her back looked as if it had broken more bones than she cared to count.

Master Lawral, wiry and sharp-eyed, twirled a pair of daggers through his fingers with effortless speed, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Master Noor, tall and grave, leaned against a greatsword embedded in the ground. He looked like he hadn’t moved in an hour — and might not for another.

Master Girald, the oldest, leaned lightly on the hilt of his longsword, expression unreadable, but his gaze missed nothing.

Boaz could feel it the moment they stepped into the circle. Not hostility. Not even skepticism. Wonder. It radiated from them like heat from iron — muted, disciplined, but unmistakable. Thorne moved beside him in silence, but Boaz “felt” it through their bond. The instructors didn’t understand what they’d witnessed at the ranged station — but they hadn’t dismissed it either.

Kera stepped forward first.

“You’ll spar in pairs,” she said, voice like a war drum. “We’re not testing your strength — we’re testing your “discipline”. No killing blows. Keep your hits clean. If your familiar interferes with the fight in a way where you might’ve been “killed” in real combat, you’ll fail.”

“But,” added Girald, stepping beside her, “if your familiar makes you stronger, faster, or smarter … we’d be fools not to see that for what it is.”

Noor finally moved, his voice deep and slow. “I was at the range earlier. I saw what the hawk did. I saw what the lynx did.”

Lawral gave a wry chuckle. “I also saw the raccoon steal a crossbow bolt and nearly fire it himself. So — temper your expectations.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the recruits.

But Boaz could feel it again — that restrained curiosity. The instructors were trying not to show it, but beneath their experience and control was the quiet stirring of something else.

Hope. Or maybe fear.

Kera gestured to the ring. “First up: Boaz and Lyra. Longsword versus longsword. Let’s see if your beasts are as sharp as your steel.”

Boaz gave Thorne a glance. Thorne blinked once. And the fight began.

Boaz flexed his hands around the grip of the sword his father had crafted. His blood itched for motion. Thorne prowled the edge of the circle, tail flicking.

Lyra rolled her shoulders and stepped forward, longsword in hand. Mika yawned, then trotted behind her, tail high.

Boaz grinned. “Try not to hit me too hard.”

“No promises.”

The instructors gave no countdown — just a nod. Lyra lunged first, quick and brutal. Boaz parried high, twisted, came down hard. She dodged, Mika barking once, circling wide.

Thorne didn’t move to attack — he moved to “mirror” Lyra. Every time she tried to flank, he was already there. It forced her back toward Boaz, who pressed in harder, faster, angling wide — But then Mika surged.

Not toward Boaz — but toward Thorne, drawing him off. It gave Lyra the angle. Boaz barely caught her sword with his crossguard. Dust flew. Sparks spat.

Kera shouted, “Stop!”

All four instructors stepped forward.

Girald spoke first, low and impressed. “They flanked each other’s familiars to control the center.”

“These familiars are not even trying to kill each other,” Lawral added. “They’re reading each other.”

Boaz caught his breath, laughing. “Lyra and I have been sparring since we were ten. It’s not like we don’t know each other’s fighting styles. We can often foresee each other’s moves.”

Kera pointed. “You can’t tell me you planned all that though.”

Lyra grinned. “No. But your familiars did.”

Next came Theo and Kiera. Theo carried his twin hand-axes. Kiera held a mace in one hand, sling coiled at her belt. Tink scurried near Theo’s boots. Eira perched on a branch above the ring.

Master Noor raised a brow. “Odd pairing.” Master Kera gave the signal.

Theo came in fast, spinning. Kiera blocked high, grounded her stance. Tink darted across the field — then suddenly darted back, tugging Theo’s belt pouch. “Hey!”

A small canister fell out. Smoke. Boom. The ring filled with white mist.

Kiera was already in motion. Eira dropped into the fog, silent as moonlight. A sharp cry rang out — a warning. Kiera struck low, found Theo’s leg with the flat of her mace.

“I Yield!” he cried.

When the fog cleared, Theo was on the ground, laughing. “I didn’t make that trap! Tink must’ve rigged it from my gear.”

Master Lawral looked amazed. “The raccoon laid a smoke trap during the match?”

Theo shrugged. “Guess she wanted us to get creative.”

Girald just nodded. “She’s not wrong.”

Last up, Jaxson. He faced off against Master Girald, who was known to be fast and unpredictable. Kestel screeched from above, circling tightly.

Jaxson rolled into a low stance, twin short swords out. Master Girald charged with deft speed, feinting high, then low. Jaxson just managed to block, then spun wide.

“Kreee!” Kestel screamed and dove. Master Girald turned, slightly taken aback. Jaxson used the distraction, slid under Girald’s arm, and tapped the back of his knee joint with the flat of a sword.

“Tag out,” Girald said, sounding shocked, and a bit put out.

Noor whistled. “It’s like that bird could see what was happening, and took action.”

Kera crossed her arms. “No. She’s a tactician. She caused a distraction, which won him the battle.”

The instructors and the recruits went on like this for some time, pairing differently to see how the melee training would play out. Each melee held surprises, for both recruits and instructors. The only ones who didn’t seem phased were the familiars. After a while, the instructors called a halt. The recruits were spent, hot, dusty, and sweaty. The instructors asked the recruits to put away and care for their weapons.

As the recruits regrouped, the instructors pulled to one side. “These aren’t just simple, though magical, creatures,” Kera said quietly. “They’re partners.”

“They shouldn’t even be here,” Girald muttered. “We didn’t plan for this.”

“We’d better start,” Master Syrna’s voice came from behind them. “Because I don’t think they’re done surprising us yet.”

The last rays of sun dipped below the treetops as supper was served — hearty stew, dense bread, and fire-warmed cider. The recruits sat together, tired but alert, muscles aching and limbs bruised from the day’s training. The familiars were scattered around them — Mika sprawled on her back near the fire, Tink poking around the stewpot, Thorne a silent shadow behind Boaz.

When the bowls were emptied and the stars began to prick the sky, Master Syrna rose. She did not need to raise her voice to command attention.

“Tonight, we begin with the Sundering of the Races,” she said, her voice soft but weighty. “So you understand what you are meant to ward against.” The recruits shifted, glancing at one another. Boaz leaned forward, arms over his knees. Thorne stirred but stayed silent.

Master Richard, small and sharp-eyed, moved to the other side of the fire. “The Battle of Beltin Fords,” he began, “was not just a victory over evil. It was the last time the Four Peoples stood as one.”

He knelt and drew in the dirt with a stick — four symbols: a mountain, a wave, a stone, a flame. “Altan. Aguan. Terran. Humans.”

Master Elira stepped forward next. Her pale blue eyes reflected the flames. “And they did not win this victory alone,” she said. “They won because of this.” From beneath her cloak, she revealed a small, crude, wooden carving — a replica of a beautifully twisted shape with three curled arms.

“The Triune Sigil,” she said. “Forged by the Ancients. Carried into battle by King Finduir himself. Its magic bound the hearts of the races — silencing envy, hatred, and fear.”

“But,” Syrna added, “when Vortannis fell at last, his death shattered more than just his body. The Sigil’s binding magic died with him.”

“All four races turned on one another then,” said Richard. “Blaming, accusing, remembering old wrongs.”

“They broke the Sigil,” Elira continued. “Three leaves were torn away — one for each of the other races. The humans kept only the frame and the central emerald jewel, a hollow thing, a memory of unity, its inner light dead.”

Syrna said, “The curse that no one had foreseen had fallen on them. It was the Sundering of the Races.”

She gestured to the dirt drawing. “After the Sundering, each race was bound to its homeland. A Terran cannot live more than seven days above the earth. An Aguan will wither if taken far from water after seven days, and an Altan who descends from the high peaks will sicken and die after seven days.”

“They eat their own foods,” Elira added. “To others, those foods are a poison. Again, part of the curse, to separate them.”

“And each hates the other races,” said Richard softly. “Without knowing why.”

Silence settled around the fire. Even the familiars were still. Jaxson broke it. “But humans aren’t cursed?”

Syrna shook her head. “No. But they are divided. And worse… they forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Kiera asked.

Syrna turned her gaze to the stars. “That they once stood at the center of a bond between all peoples. That they carried the memory of peace. And that their king died holding a broken symbol that was once whole, and was fashioned to make them all whole, as one.”

Boaz swallowed. He felt Thorne’s steady breath behind him. The carving of the Sigil flickered in the firelight. No one spoke again for a long time. Only the wind, and the crackling of the flame.

After the instructors had ended their lesson in history and lore, they had dismissed the recruits to their cabins for the night. The fire had burned low. The recruits lay in their cabins with their familiars curling beside them, or perched nearby, watching. Even Thorne had settled into stillness near Boaz at the edge of the clearing, his amber eyes half-lidded, ears twitching faintly at the wind. Boaz didn’t move though.

He sat cross-legged on a stone, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the last ember-glow of the fire. But it wasn’t the flickering flame he saw — it was the twisted metal sigil hidden in a false panel beneath the hearth at home. The one his father had shown him only once. The one Cayden had named in hushed tones: the Triune Sigil.

Except it wasn’t whole. It was exactly as Master Elira described — a hollow frame, three arms broken off long ago.

Boaz drew a line in the dirt with his finger. Three pieces. Three sundered and cursed races. A curse that broke them apart, and a war that had scattered them like ash on the wind. They had all looked at that little wooden carving tonight like it was history.

He had touched the real one. His father had kept it safe not because he understood it — but because he feared what it might mean. Its history, legacy.

Back then, Boaz hadn’t understood either. It was just another relic from a past no one spoke of. But now, hearing the lore, the curse, the breaking of the world — it pressed on him like weight in his chest. Why was it in his house? Why had his father — quiet, private, simple — risked hiding something like that? And why had Cayden looked at it like a soldier who looks at a long-lost banner?

Boaz glanced toward Thorne. The lynx was watching him. Not just in the way a beast watches movement, but something deeper — almost as if Thorne had seen the thoughts unfolding in his mind. Boaz didn’t speak. Not even to the lynx. But the question circled him like the wind through the trees: What am I supposed to do with this?

He had no answer. Just the memory of a broken thing that had once held the world together.

It was late when Boaz threw himself down, fully clothed, on his bunk in his tiny cabin. Thorne was there. Boaz was asleep within minutes.

Darkness rolled like fog across the forest floor. Boaz stood alone in a village he didn’t recognize — small homes of wood and stone, shuttered windows, doors flapping in the wind. The air smelled of ash and rot. It could’ve been Forlon, so similar it was. But it wasn’t.

Then came the screaming.

Figures stumbled from the mist. Twisted bodies, eyes vacant and glowing faint blue, skin stretched tight over broken armor and blackened bone. They moved not like men, but like puppets, pulled by threads he couldn’t see.

One of them turned its head. Boaz recognized the face — a woman from the village market back home, her mouth frozen in a soundless wail.

He stepped back. The ground cracked beneath him.

Suddenly, he was standing on a high hill, overlooking a vast city — its walls white and gleaming, its banners flying against a storm-colored sky. The city sat beside a great lake, whose water churned unnaturally, as if something beneath the surface struggled to rise.

At the city gates, soldiers shouted and drew their weapons. Horns blared. From the plains beyond, a tide of shapes charged — hideous, horned, armored creatures with malformed bodies, wielding crude axes and hooked, dirty, wicked-looking blades. Their howls broke the sky. He had never seen these creatures before, but knew them to be Tulogan.

A man in red armor — regal, resolute — shouted orders from the battlements. Arrows flew. Boaz tried to shout a warning. “They’re coming from beneath!” And then also from the plains thundered monstrous, gruesome figures — eyes glowing with fire. Grimboldtan.

They clashed with the soldiers who had been the vanguard before the gates. The defenders scattered, screams lost in the roar of collapsing stone. Whenever a defender hewed a Grimboldt and drew blood, any blood from the creature burned those it touched. The screaming intensified as the defenders realized their folly. The battlefield turned chaotic.

Boaz turned to run — and stumbled into a hall of mirrors. Each reflection showed him something different: In one, he wore a crown. In another, he was kneeling in chains. In a third, his hands were covered in blood.

He looked down. The mirrors were water, and they rippled away into blackness. He was falling —

Boaz jerked upright, heart hammering, breath shallow. Cold sweat clung to his skin. The cabins around him were quiet, the campfire down to coals.

Thorne sat beside him, unmoving. Watching.

Boaz wiped a trembling hand across his face. The dream was already fraying at the edges, as dreams do. But the feeling lingered — a weight in his chest like something vast had cracked open just beneath the surface of the world.

He didn’t know what it meant, only that it had felt real. And that whatever was coming … had already begun.

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