Nobody was more happy to leave this instant than Jaxine.

She already had all her things neatly packed in her double saddle bags and was now talking with her horse, seeking to strengthen her bond with it. Standing alongside the majestic, dark-maned beast, Jaxine appeared almost swallowed up by her ragged, oversized sweater, its massive collar hiding more than half of her face. By that time, I knew that the sweater had not been hers, but someone she held dear, but spoke nothing about.

I also understood why she started to care for her horse, Podaros, so much. Jaxine understood that a horse was, by all accounts, a small treasure that most people did not have. The last few days, after our adventures with Pecca, she cared little for the company of others, save for Iskander.

It took us some hours to make everything ready for our journey and to make sure we had packed every conceivable necessity that we could think of. As we double and triple-checked our supplies, Jaxine’s impatience manifested in the rhythmic thumping of her heels against the gravel road as she stood beside her horse.

Then we were ready and were heading out.

But Iskander suddenly grabbed my shoulder and pulled me aside, his eyes alight. “Jonas! Before we go, I have to tell you something. In the cellar, when you told me to hold Pecca in place and told me what to look for, I saw the shadow of the demon! And for the first time in my life, I sensed it, too. I felt cold and I had shivers down my spine. I’ve spent over a decade hunting them down, yet I have never sensed them before. Thank you!”

Iskander’s words carried a genuine tone, making it difficult for doubt to take hold of me. And the strength of his will, that I felt radiate off him, was comforting in a strange way. It made me feel like maybe I could trust this man one day. It was him, Iskander, not Florencia or Jace, who sprinted at my side when I chased down Pecca. He had acted without thinking at that time, and he took my barking commands without questioning.

“I’m… glad to hear that, Iskander,” I said, meeting his fierce gaze. “I trust you’ll wield that knowledge wisely. And at least now, I’m not the only one with that ability.”

That reply was enough for Iskander, for he was never a man of many words. The fewer spoken, the better. He smiled, nodded while patting me on my shoulder, and went to his horse.

We left soon after.

The sun gradually waned, casting its orange rays upon the roofs of Caffria, and the weather had not turned sour yet. But in the distance, near the horizon of the ocean, loomed dark clouds and the wind stirred awake and grew in strength. Few ships dared to brave the waters, seeking shelter in the port, or stayed anchored in the safety of the bay.

We opted to take the route that led us through the outskirts of Caffria, where the flow of traffic was thin. After an hour or so, the great ocean was to our right, and the growing winds and waves hit upon the wooden hulls of those mighty sail ships.

The journey that lay before us would take us twice as long as the road from the capital to Caffria and would take us deep into the easternmost province of Lienor. Venturing further beyond meant going into the dark realm of Stotor, from where none came back.

*

The traveler could take three routes from Caffria to Lottie: the Northern Road, the Straight Road, and the Southern Road.

Have we opted for the Northern road, our journey would have steered us directly into the bustling embrace of Soffraza, built upon the banks of the Vardurran, a good two hundred miles upstream. As the heartland’s largest city, it governed over a landscape blanketed with endless fields of wheat, barley, oats, rye, emmer, and millet, a testament to the fertility of Lienor’s soil. The provinces of the heartlands were also rich with sprawling pastures, where herds of cows, goats, oxen, and horses roamed freely, providing an endless bounty of milk and an infinite selection of cheeses.

And Soffraza itself, standing alongside the capital Estalarch and Bessou as one of the oldest cities of Lienor, would have been interesting to see. Florencia and Jace said that it was built so spread out that it could almost be thought of as many smaller towns, separated by fields or creaks.

The other way would have been the Southern road that follows the coastline, passing through tiny villages, towns, and smaller cities. It would take us through Bassarina, which is the smaller and less important cousin of Caffria. Neither Jace nor Florencia had been there, so it would have been a new experience for all of us. Not much was usually said about Bassarina, save that it is a good port city and a decent place to have a break from travel.

But following the Southern road would have taken us almost an entire month to get to Lottie if we were to use the shortcut to bypass the Pania peninsula. If we stayed on the route as it was laid down, it would take us over two months to reach our destination.

According to Florencia, those taking the Southern road usually take the shortcut north of the peninsula to save time. But in doing so, they would miss out on the picturesque villages that were built along the coast. The Pania culture was known for its carefree and relaxed nature, indulging in the simple pleasures of life. Within the embrace of the warm currents, it was always warm there, but never too hot or cold, even during the winter. And there the ocean was a turquoise blue, instead of the rich and deep azure.

The southern peninsula of Pania was lengthwise cut in half by the sharp and jagged Apierrini mountains, meaning ‘small, rocky mountains’ in the local dialect. Those mountains were low and sharp-looking, and in many places impassable, save for a few narrow passes.

Many living in Pania had wine plantations, olive groves, and citrus fruit farms, as more species of lemons and mandarins and oranges grew there than anywhere else in the southern countries of the world. It was also said that the roads were lined with so many citrus trees that travelers would just pluck a few off the branch, and enhance their tea or water with them, or just eat them raw for their taste.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Florencia said that she had never been in Pania, but would one day wish to visit.

But the most intriguing fact of all, in my opinion, was the fact that Pania was under the lordship of the opulent de-Braccarte family. The very same family that was led by countess Patricia de-Braccarte, from the Cappesand Academy High Council.

I recall with vivid clarity the image of her demure, dark-haired figure, and how she smiled at me at the Hearing of Sanermo, and the strange pull I felt towards her. It was not a romantic one, but rather a connection yet to bloom.

But we opted for neither the Northern road nor the Southern one, as speed was paramount. I could feel an urgency propelling me forward, and it would tempt me to whip my horse if only my self-control was not so steadfast. As we journeyed, it was evident that every one of us shared the need to get to Lottie as quickly as possible.

The Straight road cuts through untamed wilderness, massive forests, and unremarkable rivers that some have not even a name. And along the way, there are villages and small towns, built alongside the endless carob, linden, and fig trees. There, night and day as we passed, we heard the sounds of sawmills and chisels and the banging of woodwork. And where the woodlands retreated, marble quarries were dug, and we could see their brilliant white reflections in the morning sun as we went along the road.

*

The journey dragged on, and the days passed with slow progress.

Florencia could not get what was written in Pecca’s letter out of her head. Or rather, the name of the cult, the Zekt. Jace and I theorized with her about it, but she stayed adamant that there had to be a connection between the Zekt and Keon Zek for the names were too similar.

I struggled to see how a link could exist between a cult worshipping demons and a dead man, but Jace sided with Florencia. He argued that the name Zek was undeniably foreign and said that this could not simply be another coincidence. We ought to, according to Jace, add it to our growing list of mysteries we must investigate.

Goxhandar was troubled as well.

He was agitated and spiteful towards the travelers, though he kept my people out of his tantrums. Whenever I asked him about his mood, Goxhandar would either fall into a deep slumber from which I could not wake him, or he would be exceptionally lively and animated, talking over others while I struggled to listen to Flo, Jace, or Iskander.

Later, Goxhandar admitted that he very much hungered for battle and that this dull existence was wearing him down. He said he felt like a purposeless instrument, akin to an axe without trees to fell.

Even I had my struggles during the long travel.

I had… bad dreams.

On some nights, I would be consumed by the haunting image of the Bone-Armor and its scorched gauntlet, trapped within that grey and red realm from where I took Goxhandar. However, no matter how feverishly I clawed at it, yearning to bridge the distance between worlds, I could not get over the white line of protective runes. My reach fell short every time, and night after night, I kept trying without success.

But on darker nights, when it was cold and lonely, I would find myself laying on a slab of cold rock that was black and rough. From the depths of that darkness came a burst of vile laughter, yet I could not see from whom. That laughter, devoid of mirth, sent shivers down my spine, leaving me helpless and weak, and I wanted to curl into a ball. I woke up, covered in sweat and shaking, and Florencia would be there, also awake, and gently caressing my cheek, telling me it was fine.

And it was fine soon after, but the feeling of helplessness lingered for much of the journey.

Once more on a black night, I returned to the same dream, again with the evil laugh that came from all around me. I looked up and there were rusty chains hanging from the lightless ceiling, and they clanged together menacingly. I cowered. But that time came a golden-red figure. He extended his hand towards me, beckoned me forth, and pulled me up from the depths of my despair. He told me not to dwell on these nightmares, his voice firm but hopeful, yet tired.

I jumped awake with a cold balance in my heart again and had no nightmares after that. The following morning, we reached Pianneturre.

*

The Pianneturre crossroads marked the intersection of roads that led north to Lottie and south to Collard, the capital of the Pania peninsula.

It had taken us eleven arduous days to reach there, longer than we had planned.

Just as the old and wise had predicted in Caffria, the weather did not hold up, and we were held back by strong winds, sudden rainfalls, and muddy sections of road. There were also many stoppages because of carriages in front of us broke down in the mud or against a large rock, or some other miscellaneous happenings not worthy of note.

It became quickly apparent that we were making progress at a frustratingly sluggish pace, but the endless line of travelers and merchants and military convoys before us effectively confined us to a forced pace of travel.

Pianneturre.

It was an important crossing point of roads around which was built a quaint village that bore the same name, cleverly positioned to offer the weary traveler food and shelter.

And standing proudly atop the reddish rocks of the coast, was an old keep, the Cittia Pianne—Fortress of Pianne. And from there, the Lord of the Village, some baron or knight, oversaw all those who came and went from his domain.

We were now only two or three days of slow travel away from Lottie.

Because of our slow progress, we did not linger in that beautiful village made from red bricks. Many who had traveled with us succumbed to the allure of a hot drink and fresh food and stopped for a break in the many cafes or inns that were set up all along the road.

After Pianneturre the road was better, and we could move at a swifter pace and we were glad. We pressed on.

On our left, a dense forest stretched out, its branches a dark shade of brown. They wore the somber cloak of winter, having felled their leaves to the ground. Only here and there was a solitary evergreen pine that broke the monotony, standing tall and narrow.

As we went along, more cypress, pine, and torpos—a wide-growing tree akin to cypress, but more gnarled—trees grew, which gave more color to the dull sight around us.

To our right was the azure expanse of the Casliera Bay, wide and huge, on the other side of which was Stotor. Ships came, though fewer in number than in the bustling Caffria. And behind us was the low silhouette of the Apierrini mountains, that gradually faded into the distance. We had left their highest peaks behind many days now.

Along the way, Jace and Florencia told stories about the vibrancy of nature around Lottie, but as we rode on, we could see none of that here.

The sky was grey and dull, and it had been raining for two days straight. It was a maddening, misty rain that did not soak our clothes quickly, but rather seeped into the cloth slowly, and dampened our spirits with every passing mile.

We could not find warmth along the road.

A little comfort was the fact that we were not alone in our misery, as there were still hundreds of travelers heading to Lottie, though less than before the crossroads. Every one of them shared this damp torture that the rains inflicted upon us.

That night we spent in a pleasant inn, and the following morning the gravel-covered road turned downward, and from over the low hill came the sight of our destination.

We saw Lottie, the City of Flowers, and a malicious weight fell on our shoulders.