The first thing Vigdis saw was the light.
It wasn’t natural—wasn’t sunlight or fire. It pulsed faintly, a soft, yellow glow that flickered in uneven intervals, visible even in the daytime. She’d been following it for hours, keeping her distance as the terrain shifted from jagged cliffs to rolling hills. And now, as she crested the ridge, the lighthouse came into view.
It was taller than she’d expected, its structure weathered and leaning slightly to one side. The base was surrounded by rubble—chunks of stone and rusted metal that hinted at a time when it had served a very different purpose. Its windows were dark, but the light at the top cut through the hazy air, its glow steady even in the face of the world’s ruin.
She crouched low, her green eyes narrowing as she scanned the area below.
There were people.
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A small group had gathered at the base of the lighthouse, their figures faint against the backdrop of the broken horizon. Vigdis counted five, maybe six. They were spread out, some sitting on rocks, others pacing nervously.
One of them, a man wrapped in layers of mismatched clothing, was shouting—his voice carried faintly on the wind, though she couldn’t make out the words. Another figure, shorter and hunched, sat cross-legged with their head bowed, as if in prayer.
Pilgrims.
She’d heard of them before—wanderers who came to the Magician seeking answers, bargains, or miracles. Some said he was a seer, others a healer. There were stories that he could summon fire with a word, or bring the dead back to life. But none of the stories agreed on what he wanted in return.
Vigdis wasn’t here for miracles. She was here for answers.
Her eyes flicked to a wagon parked near the group. The horses—or what passed for them—snorted and pawed at the ground, their scaled bodies shimmering faintly in the light. Merchants, she guessed. Or traders.
She scanned the rest of the group. A wiry man with a blade strapped to his thigh paced near the wagon, his hand resting casually on the hilt. A woman with a child perched on her hip stood farther back, watching the others with sharp, wary eyes. The child clung to her shoulder, his wide eyes fixed on the lighthouse.
Vigdis frowned. Too many people. Too many stories she didn’t want to get tangled in.
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She eased back from the ridge, keeping low as she moved toward a cluster of trees that offered a better vantage point. Sitting cross-legged, she pulled her pack from her shoulder and set it down, her fingers brushing against the edge of the map tucked inside.
The lighthouse was close—close enough to reach by nightfall. But not like this.
She watched as the shouting man threw his arms in the air, pacing back and forth while the others ignored him. The kneeling figure remained still, their head bowed, their hands resting on their knees.
Vigdis tightened her grip on the axe strapped to her back. She’d dealt with crowds before—mercenaries, scavengers, caravans. None of them had given her a reason to trust people in numbers.
She leaned back against the tree, her eyes fixed on the group below. The Magician wasn’t going anywhere.
“Patience,” she muttered under her breath, her tone dry. “One miracle at a time.”
The wind shifted, carrying faint voices up the hill. Vigdis let them wash over her without listening, her thoughts focused on the glowing light above the lighthouse.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Whatever waited for her there, she’d face it on her own terms.
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As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple, Vigdis moved farther into the cover of the trees. She didn’t like being this close to other people, not unless she had to. And she didn’t have to. Not yet.
She found a spot beneath the gnarled trunk of an old tree, its roots twisting over the uneven ground like knotted veins. The grass here was sparse, but the earth was soft enough to settle into. She dropped her pack with a heavy thud, crouching to rummage through its contents.
The muscles in her shoulders tensed as she pulled free a rolled blanket, the worn leather creaking faintly as she shook it out. She paused to rub the back of her neck, her fingers tracing the scar that ran just below her hairline—a souvenir from a fight she didn’t care to remember.
The day’s heat still clung to her skin, sticky and oppressive. With a sigh, she began to strip away the layers of her armor. The leather bracers slid from her forearms, revealing faint scars that crisscrossed her sun-bronzed flesh. She paused, rubbing her wrists, her touch slow and deliberate, the roughness of her calloused palms a quiet reminder of a life hard-lived. She stretched, rolling her shoulders and arching her back, her muscles rippling faintly beneath the snug fabric of her shirt.
Piece by piece, the armor came off. Her movements were unhurried, methodical, as though shedding more than just the weight of her gear. Her shirt clung to her back, damp with sweat, and she tugged it loose from her waistband, the fabric catching briefly before falling away. A stretch followed—her shoulders rolling back, her chest lifting, the curve of her body illuminated briefly by the fading light.
She exhaled, low and steady, sinking to one knee as she began to unpack the rest of her gear. The axe she laid beside her, its edge gleaming faintly, a sliver of light catching on the blade. The crossbow rested within reach, bolts lined up in a neat row like silent sentinels.
For a moment, she allowed herself stillness. Her fingers brushed the hilt of the axe, tracing its familiar grooves. The evening breeze stirred, carrying with it the mingled scents of earth and sweat, leather and steel. This was her life, stripped bare of artifice and pretense.
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The wind shifted again, bringing with it a faint rustle from deeper in the forest. Vigdis froze, her hand halfway to the small tinderbox she’d pulled from her pack. Her green eyes darted to the shadows, sharp and alert.
For a moment, the world held its breath.
Nothing.
She relaxed by inches, though her hand remained close to the axe. “Just the wind,” she muttered, though her tone suggested she didn’t entirely believe it.
Even so, she made quick work of starting the fire. Her hands moved with practiced ease, striking flint to steel until the tiny spark took hold. The flames flickered weakly at first, licking hungrily at the dry kindling, before growing bolder. Warm light danced over her face, tracing the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the faint curve of her lips.
She leaned back against the tree, her body easing into the gnarled bark. The tension in her shoulders eased as she stretched her legs out in front of her. Her boots, still laced tight, bore the scuffs and smudges of the road—a testament to the miles she’d put behind her.
After a moment, she kicked them off, one by one, the soft thud of leather hitting the ground breaking the evening’s stillness. Her bare toes flexed in the cool air, brushing over the sparse grass and dirt. The sensation was grounding, almost indulgent—a brief reprieve from the unrelenting weight of her journey.
She rested her hands on her thighs, fingers drumming lightly against the fabric of her trousers. The firelight played across her skin, its warmth reaching out in gentle waves.
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Her gaze wandered back to the ridge, where the faint glow of the lighthouse still pulsed in the distance. She could picture the pilgrims—waiting, hoping, praying. All for what? A miracle? Answers?
She snorted softly, shaking her head. Her hair slid over her shoulder as she tilted her head back, exposing the curve of her throat to the firelight. Miracles were for people who had nothing else. People who hadn’t learned that survival didn’t leave room for hope.
Her fingers absently brushed against the strap of her thigh holster, tracing the edge of the knife tucked there. The faint ache in her arm reminded her of the bird-creatures, their black, tar-like bodies clinging to her skin, burning like acid. The thought of it made her scowl.
She didn’t believe in magic, not really. But if the Magician had answers, if he could tell her what the hell those bolts were and why they worked...
Her hand curled into a fist, the muscles in her forearm flexing faintly. “One step at a time,” she muttered, her voice low and firm.
The fire crackled beside her as she leaned forward to stoke it, her movements slow and deliberate. The light danced over the planes of her body—the curve of her shoulders, the strength in her thighs as she shifted her weight. She let herself settle back into the blanket, her hand resting loosely on the axe as she kept her eyes fixed on the horizon.
The Magician’s tower pulsed again, its light steady and constant.
Vigdis exhaled through her nose, her lips curving into a faint, wry smile. “Hope they’re worth the wait.”