Looking back at those days on the road, everything had blurred into a steady rhythm of travel. The dangers that were so often spoken of turned out to be exaggerated—or maybe it was the presence of the tribe that kept us safe. The occasional wild beast would show itself, or the road would turn treacherous with rocky terrain or deep mud, but nothing we couldn’t handle together. Alone, Rowan and I wouldn’t have fared so well. The road wasn’t just about strength; it demanded knowledge of the land, the unspoken signs of danger, and the paths that twisted through it like veins in a leaf.
The waypoints between towns were sparse. Beyond each lay stretches of empty road, punctuated only by the occasional farmstead or lone house where people chose isolation over the burden of paying taxes to a lord. But isolation brought its own dangers—bandits, rogue beasts, or worse.
We didn’t stop at the inns in towns, nor did we linger to enjoy the comforts of the villages. The Chieftain always insisted, “There’s no time for cheap comforts. We’ve got homes to return to.” But that didn’t stop the men from sneaking off to brothels whenever we passed through. Rowan and I were left to wonder at the frequency of these places; in Mistwood, they were unheard of. Bjorn would tease us endlessly, his tales of “conquer” and “pleasures” lighting a spark of curiosity neither Rowan nor I dared to indulge. The Chieftain had forbidden us outright, and we knew better than to challenge him. Not to mention Chieftess and Ragna kept their men firmly in line. The fear Stigr had of Ragna’s sharp tongue was enough to keep even Bjorn in check.
The tribe wasn’t just our shield; they were also our teachers. Each member had something to share if you knew how to listen to them and even help them with their chores. And it was much better than to read from ‘notes’ that Rowan had brought.
Ragna, with her quiet wisdom and sharp mind, introduced me to the foundations of magic. “Magic is like an untamed horse, wild at first but with control, it's a different story,” she’d said one night by the fire, her voice steady and clear. “It’s about understanding essence. Everything in this world holds essence; plants, stones, wind, even this fire. When you draw upon magic, you aren’t creating power from nothing; you’re channelling the essence around you. And the more concentrated that essence is, the more powerful the spell will be.”
She guided me through basic exercises, simple things like sensing the moisture in the leaves or heat in the burning fire. Her teachings weren’t flashy, but they were profound. She taught me that magic was about control, not force.
Leitha, the same person who treated my wounds on the first night, her vast knowledge of alchemy took me by surprise. “Potions in alchemy,” she said, “are only as good as the hands that make them. Every plant has its nature, its purpose, and its poison.” She showed me how to identify common herbs such as: wolfsbane for pain, bloodleaf for bleeding wounds, and even lesser-known plants like frostvine, which could slow a fever if brewed correctly. She taught me substitutes, how to make do when an ingredient was scarce, and how a poorly prepared healing potion could kill instead of heal.
Mornings were often spent with Bjorn and Stigr, who shared their knowledge of the beasts of the northern regions. “Know your enemy,” Bjorn had said, crouching by the fire as he sharpened his blade. “A bear’s fur is thick, but its eyes are weak. Go for the head. Wolves hunt in packs, but there’s always one leader—take it down, and the rest scatter.” They spoke of creatures I’d never encountered, like the shadowcat, a predator said to blend with the dark, and the rockscale lizard, whose armored hide could deflect arrows.
The towns and villages we passed were nothing like Dawnmoore. They lacked the towering castle at the heart of our town, but their streets were packed with folks who seemed to spill out of every building. They were bustling but flawed. Stigr painted a picture of life there that was harsher than it appeared. High taxes, scarce jobs, high population, and rumours of human trafficking brewed unrest. The divide between nobles and commoners was stark, a line that grew sharper the closer we travelled to Thresha.
But the tribe’s trade routes fascinated me. They exchanged leather, hides, and crafted goods for seasonal crops and items that would gain value in the coming months. It was a delicate balance, an art of knowing what to offer and when. Watching them barter and trade gave me insight into how wealth and power shifted even in small places.
The nights were punctuated by Frida’s tales, her voice weaving myths and truths alike. One tale struck a chord: the story of House Bloodrose, a house that once stood as an ally to Leonhart. Their bloodline was blessed by ‘Raknor’ the First Dragon, granting them unparalleled strength in lightning magic and the rare ability to dominate dragons with their mother tongue. Together they used to dominate the whole south once, Leonhart from their unbreakable fortress city ‘Emberfell’ and Bloodrose from their isolated island in the ‘Red Sea’, with water on its all sides and massive land to grow a city that was once known as the Largest City—Dragonspire.
“Dominance,” Frida said, her voice heavy with reverence, “was a power passed to only one in each generation. They never sought war first, yet they stood unmatched when war came to them. Heavy with the riches and resources of their island, they have the only favourable environment for dragons to breed. But they were the first when the invasion of the dark forces happened, with the crack in the mountains they came like a flood, and it changed everything. The dragons fled even before the invasion like answering the calling of someone, it felt like the gods themselves have abandoned them. It left them to stand alone in the face of the forces of the dark. No other houses of Eldoria took the forces as a real threat when they saw their alliance as ‘an obstacle to riches and power’. They fought for mouths with them but it was only possible with the help of Raknor, who was the only dragon that remained when even his brother and sisters had left. When the massacre happened, even they couldn’t be saved except for a few survivors. It happened as if they were finding something in that region but that later turned into full on invasion of demons until the queen herself killed Raknor who was sheltering the survivors of both the houses. Their bloodline has since vanished from history, some say it was done to show their might and to establish their fear. Only one person was left from House Leonhart at that time, who later fought in the Great Battle.”
Her words painted a vivid picture of betrayal and despair. It wasn’t just a tale—it was a warning. The bonds between dragons and mortals, once sacred, but now broken leaving behind questions.
The days on the road had changed me. I was no longer the boy who left Mistwood, unsure of his path. The tribe had shown me a world beyond my own, a world of harsh realities and fleeting beauty. Rowan and I had grown closer, sharing stories and dreams by the firelight. But with every step toward Thresha, I felt the weight of what lay ahead. I was no longer running from my past. I was walking toward a future that demanded strength, cunning, and the resolve to uncover my origin and find my loved ones.
————————————
The wind carried a sharp edge, brushing against my face and tugging at the edges of my cloak. The scent of moss and cold morning reminder of the foreign surroundings we came to know. I pulled the fabric closer, letting the chill bite at the exposed skin of my hands. Before us, the weatherworn waypoint stood, its faded letters carved deep into the wood.
The sign pointed to three paths. Straight ahead, toward Thresha—the city from where our path starts. To the right, the road dipped southward toward Lathor, the bordering town where the tribe will stay for few months. Behind us, Mavenwood lay shrouded in the misty distance. It was strange how something could feel both near and impossibly far away.
The wagons creaked under their weight, the oxen stamping their hooves and shaking their heads as the tribe’s preparations unfolded around us. This crossroads marked the end of our shared path, a quiet reminder that not every journey ends with a celebration.
Chief stood like a statue of iron, his ice-blue eyes surveying the horizon as if daring trouble to approach. His hand rested casually on the pommel of his blade, a gesture so natural it was easy to forget the power behind it. Despite his composed exterior, his gaze softened as he turned to us.
“Our path together ends here,” he said, his voice low and steady. The northern accent rolled through his words like distant thunder. “The road to ahead is safe and secured. Patrols from the city ensure that much for travellers and merchants.”
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Rowan stepped forward, his usual easy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Ser Sigerd,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “We’ll be on our way shortly—it’s just a few hours from here.”
The chief returned a curt nod, his approval subtle but clear, “Well, good luck both of you. If fate decides we may cross paths again.” With that he turned and strode back to his wagon, the creak of leather and clink of metal following in his wake.
It was the Chiefess who approached me, her braided hair catching the morning light like strands of gold. The fur-lined black robes she wore gave her the air of witches out of tales, and the warmth in her eyes softened the strength in her step.
“Einar,” she said, her voice both firm and tender, “don’t lose yourself on this path. There’s more to life than vengeance. Let it guide you if you must, but don’t let it consume you.” Her gaze was sharp, her words measured like a blade poised for the strike. “Focus on learning magic and improving yourself. Alira is stronger than you think—she bears the blood of dragons, and wherever she is, she’ll endure the path laid down by her fate. We’ll send word to your grandfather. Wounded or not, there are still those who fear his name. It’s time for him to act.”
Her words struck a chord, stirring emotions I wasn’t prepared to face. I lowered my gaze, bowing my head slightly. “Thank you, Chieftess. Without you and the chief, I’d still be wandering blind, searching for answers. What you’ve given me... it’s taken some of the weight off my shoulders. I’ll honor my mother’s name and my father’s memory.”
She stepped closer, and before I could react, she pulled me into a tight embrace. Her arms were strong but warm, the kind of warmth that felt like a shield against the cold world. I stiffened, unsure of how to respond, but slowly, I let myself lean into it. The scent of burning wood and herbs clung to her robes, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though my mother were holding me.
Her voice softened to a whisper, words meant only for me. “Don’t burden yourself, Einar. Lyra wouldn’t want that. She’d want you to live, to find happiness beyond this sorrow.”
I closed my eyes, swallowing the lump rising in my throat. When she finally pulled away, her own tears shimmered in the light, and quickly brushed aside as though they didn’t belong to her.
As she turned to rejoin the chief, Ragna stepped forward, her presence as unyielding as the northern winds. Her braided hair glinted with copper rings, and her dark cloak with black fur swayed as she walked. She smiled faintly, her expression a mix of mischief and something deeper.
“Good luck, Einar,” she said, her voice carrying the cadence of the north. “Maybe next time we meet, you’ll be a sorcerer worth talking about.”
I managed a small nod, the weight of her words settling into me. Bjorn and Stigr flanked her, their stances relaxed but watchful. Bjorn’s dark eyes flicked toward me, and he gave a subtle nod—a gesture of quiet respect.
With a final glance, I turned back to the wagon where Rowan was standing next to the wheels and Laron, who was sitting in the front with the reins in hand. Rowan grinned, his brown eyes gleaming with a mix of humor and warmth.
“They sure love you like their own,” he said, his tone light but sincere.
I smirked, brushing past him to climb onto the wagon. “Jealous?”
“Not even a little.” He chuckled as he settled beside me. “Just glad to see you truly smile for once.”
The wagon creaked into motion, the sound mingling with the faint rustle of wind through the trees. As the tribe’s remaining wagons rolled southward, their silhouettes faded into the distance, swallowed by the mist and the winding road.
————————————
The path ahead was silent save for the crunch of gravel beneath the wheels and the occasional cry of a bird overhead. The air grew colder as the sun climbed higher, the shadows of the trees stretching long across the road. Guards began to appear as we drew closer to the city—men clad in chainmail, their shields bearing the city’s sigil. They watched us but made no move to stop us, their presence a silent reassurance.
The smell of salt and brine thickened with each passing mile, carried by a breeze that whispered of distant waves crashing against stone. It clung to the air, mingling with the faint tang of damp earth and pine from the forest we left behind. The massive city of Thresha loomed ahead, etched against the pale sky like the jewel of the sea.
From a distance, its walls rose like an unbroken fortress, towering and impenetrable. Their smooth surfaces gleamed faintly in the light, as though polished by the same winds that ruffled the ocean. The city seemed carved into the coastline itself, a crescent that embraced the vast, glittering expanse of water. It reminded me of a sliced moon resting on the horizon, its curve stark against the endless blue.
Closer now, the hum of life began to creep into the air—distant voices, the creak of wagon wheels, and the faint cries of gulls circling above. The city carried a weight of quiet authority, the kind of place where influence didn’t need to shout; it moved in whispers and careful steps. Even from this distance, I could feel its pull, as if the walls themselves held secrets waiting to be unraveled.
Rowan broke the silence, his voice tinged with a mix of awe and practicality. “There’s another name for this city, Moon’s Haven. Look how it cradles the sea like that.”
I glanced at him briefly, my eyes scanning the walls again. “Why do they even build those massive walls,” I muttered. “It’s not like human can fly, except with dragons.”
He chuckled, the sound light but knowing. “Whatever the reason me by, but these walls sure can withstand a massive siege for months and then there is sea route. It’s an impenetrable fortress”
The breeze shifted, stronger now, bringing with it the unmistakable roar of waves crashing against the outer piers. The scent of fish and tar mingled with the salt, a pungent reminder of the harbour life we would soon encounter. As we drew closer, the outlines of ships came into view—sleek vessels with high masts, their sails furled and snapping in the wind. The harbour itself stretched wide, bustling with movement even from here.
The massive gates of the city rose before us like a monument to defiance. Their sheer size was staggering, dwarfing the bustling wagons and throngs of travelers queued to enter. Smooth stone walls stretched skyward, their surfaces polished from years of battering winds and storms, each block fitted so seamlessly it seemed as if they had been grown rather than built. Small slits in the stone allowed glimpses of movement above, where guards patrolled, their shadows shifting like phantoms against the sunlit sky.
The line of travelers shuffled forward, a slow, steady tide of people from all walks of life. Merchants with carts laden with barrels of grain or bolts of rich fabric barked at their oxen. Children scampered between them, earning scowls and muttered curses. A minstrel strummed a lute near the rear, his somber tune all but swallowed by the hum of voices and the occasional clatter of hooves.
The air smelled of travel: the metallic tang of iron, the sour stink of sweat, and the faint, tantalizing aroma of spiced meat roasting from a vendor’s stall near the gates. Rowan shifted beside me, his brow furrowed as his gaze darted from one face to another.
Ahead, the towering gates gleamed faintly, reinforced with intricate carvings of warriors locked in eternal battle. My attention caught on the crest etched into the iron: a half-sliced moon with a dagger poised above it. It was the emblem of Thresha, a city as much a bastion of trade as a symbol of resilience.
As we neared the gate, the chatter grew louder, the guards’ commands punctuating the din. The soldiers wore gleaming plate armor, their blue cloaks rippling in the breeze. They moved with practiced efficiency, inspecting wagons and questioning their occupants. Some gestures were sharp, dismissive; others lingered, accompanied by the faint clink of coins exchanging hands.
A guard stepped toward us, his face weathered and stern, a long scar cutting across his jaw. “What’s in the wagon? Do you have a pass?”
Loran, sitting straight-backed at the reins, gave a polite nod. “No goods to declare, sir. These two are students bound for Zenith.”
The guard leaned closer, his eyes narrowing as they flicked over me and Rowan. “Students, eh?” He tapped his gauntleted fingers against the wood of the wagon. “Then you’d best hurry. The teleportation station’s been down for a month now, and the last ship to Zenith won’t wait. You’ll need to pay extra to secure passage.”
Loran reached into his pouch and tossed a coin to the man, who caught it with a practised swipe. “Appreciate the warning.”
The guard’s lips twitched into a crooked smile. “Welcome to the City of Trade.” With a wave of his hand, he stepped aside, allowing our wagon to roll forward.
Rowan muttered under his breath as we passed through the gates. “Greedy bastards. That coin wasn’t for advice—it was for their pride.”
Loran chuckled, flicking the reins lightly. “Better to part with a copper than test their patience, m’lord. Even men like us with swords must eat.”