The shadows of the trees elongated on the dirt road as Dreven and Lisan approached the gates of Brightwood. The day had been a blur of cautious conversation and silent contemplation. Dreven’s mind churned with the fragmented knowledge he had gathered. Ultima, this world of vast potential and peril, was still a mystery, but pieces were beginning to fall into place.

Lisan had spoken of Mondrid, her homeland—an empire to the northeast, far from the more modest kingdom of Norran where they now traveled. Norran, by Lisan’s description, was considered small, yet it boasted a population of millions, with sprawling cities, endless farmlands, and teeming marketplaces. If this was a "small" kingdom, how vast must the entire continent be? The scale of Ultima dwarfed even his most generous estimations.

This world seemed to hold echoes of his own. Familiar races populated the land—Dwarves, with their subterranean kingdom; Elves with their sub-cultures spanning from forest-dwelling tribes to scholarly highborne; Humans, diverse and ambitious, with countless sub-groups defined by geography and tradition; and the Beastkin, humanoid in form but marked by the traits of beasts, each clan carrying the essence of their animal lineage. Yet, despite these similarities, there was one glaring absence. No creatures akin to the Sanguinari existed here.

This absence was both a relief and a curiosity. Dreven had known the Sanguinari well—beings of formidable strength and cursed immortality. Their absence in Ultima might mean fewer immediate threats, but it also suggested a different balance of power.

“Hold there!” a stern voice called out from the gatehouse.

Two guards stepped forward from the gate, their armor reflecting the practical modesty of a border town. They wore leather cuirasses reinforced with patches of chainmail, designed for flexibility during long shifts and patrols. The leather was worn, scuffed from years of use, yet meticulously maintained, showing a dull sheen where it had been oiled. Their open-faced helmets allowed for better visibility but left their faces exposed to the elements. Each guard held a spear—functional and slightly battered, the wood shafts polished smooth by countless grips, and the iron tips dulled from repeated sharpening.

“State your business in Brightwood,” one of the guards demanded, his gaze flickering to Dreven with suspicion.

Lisan tensed slightly beside him, though her face remained composed. “Returning from an expedition into the forest. My colleague was wounded, and I need to get him some medical aid and rest for the evening.” Without waiting for them to ask, she pulled out her guild token and presented it.

The token gleamed faintly in the fading light, simple yet informative, stating her rank, name, and occupation.

The guard scrutinized it before turning his attention back to Dreven. “And you? You don’t look like you’re from around here.” His tone grew sharper, his eyes narrowing as they swept over Dreven’s shrouded figure.

“I’m from far to the north,” Dreven replied smoothly. “My skin? A spell—gone wrong, obviously. It altered my complexion permanently.”

The guard raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “What kind of spell?”

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“A protective ward,” Dreven answered, his tone flat but firm. “It’s why I can move about despite my injuries.”

Lisan stepped in, her expression softening. “He’s been through enough today. We barely made it back alive from that expedition. You wouldn’t make us stand here all night answering questions, would you?” She tilted her head slightly, her smile mild but warm.

The guard’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Fine. Just don’t cause any trouble.”

The other guard muttered, “Soft spot for adventurers, eh?”

Ignoring him, the first waved them through, but not before giving Dreven one last glance. “Stay out of trouble, northerner.”

Dreven caught Lisan’s fleeting look of disgust as they passed through the gates, her lips tightening ever so slightly. It was the same look she gave him when she thought of her fallen companions, and it lingered in the edge of his awareness as they moved into the town.

The town itself was quiet, with a few people here and there on the streets, but it seemed most had gone inside for the day. The buildings were modest, their wooden frames darkened with age, and roofs slanted, covered in dark shingles. Lanterns flickered in the twilight, casting warm glows on the cobblestones.

The inn Lisan chose was squat and two-story, with a slanted roof and a wooden sign bearing the image of a glowing hearth swinging gently in the evening breeze. Inside, the air was filled with the hum of conversation and the comforting crackle of a central hearth. The polished wooden floors had been worn smooth by the passage of countless travelers.

The tavern part of the inn was busy, but no one paid much attention to the two strangers. Even Dreven, cloaked and masked, drew only fleeting glances. They swiftly climbed a narrow staircase just to the left of the entrance, reaching their room—a simple yet cozy space. A single bed, a sturdy chair, and a small nightstand furnished the room, while a modest window overlooked the town square below, now lit by flickering lanterns. To the side, a compact washroom offered a space for bathing, the faint scent of lavender soap lingering in the air.

“That wasn’t too hard,” Dreven remarked, unimpressed.

Lisan stared out the window. “That’s because we didn’t run into any Inquisitors. If we had, they’d have dug much deeper.”

Dreven removed his shirt and pack, stretching his tired muscles. Lisan, still at the window, turned around, her eyes widening.

“Wh–what are you doing?” she stuttered.

“I’m getting ready to sleep. The sun saps my energy.”

Flustered, Lisan turned away and side-stepped into the washroom. “Stay in the room. Don’t come in.”

Some time passed before the washroom door opened, releasing a wave of steam. Lisan emerged, her red hair damp, now dressed in simpler, casual clothing. She glanced at Dreven, sitting in the chair next to the bed with his eyes closed, and sighed softly.

“Do you regret killing my companions?” she asked suddenly, her voice quiet.

Dreven opened one eye. “No,” he answered truthfully. “It was me or them.”

Lisan sat on the bed, her shoulders slumping. “I ran from home to become an adventurer. I’ve seen others die... but this time, I barely felt anything. Maybe I’m the callous one, not you.”

Dreven closed his eyes again. “Sanguinari feel little. Regret isn’t something we’re built for.”

“Do you miss it?” she asked.

“Miss what?”

“Feeling.”

After a moment’s pause, Dreven answered, “No.”

Lisan nodded slowly, resting her head on the bed. “We’ll leave early. Good night.”

Dreven kept his eyes closed, letting the moonlight wash over him. Yet, the faint disgust in her earlier glance lingered in his thoughts, unsettling in its rarity.