The keep’s imposing shadow stretched across the cobblestone courtyard, its jagged edges softened by the pale morning light. I stood silently at a respectful distance, watching Rowan say his goodbyes. Behind me, the small caravan waited, its polished wooden frame glinting faintly in the sun. It was sturdy and practical, built for the dangers of the road ahead—beasts, rogue mages, and the occasional band of outlaws. Lord Thorvald had made sure everything was prepared for the journey, including arranging for us to travel with a group of traders heading toward Thresha.

Rowan’s mother, Lady Thorvald, was fussing over him, her voice a mixture of warmth and worry. “Remember to eat properly,” she said, her hands smoothing down his cloak. “Don’t skip meals just because you’re busy studying. And write to us whenever you can.”

I wondered, as I watched her, what my mother might have said to me if she were alive. Would her voice have carried the same blend of affection and concern? Would she have wiped invisible dust from my cloak or held my hand just a moment longer before letting me go? Those thoughts lingered like ghosts, bittersweet and out of reach.

Lord Thorvald stood nearby, his posture rigid, his expression stoic. Pride and expectation radiated from him, but there was no outward show of emotion. This was a moment for Rowan to step into the world as his own man, to leave behind the safety of the keep’s walls and face the harsh realities of life beyond them. Roderic, Rowan’s twelve-year-old brother, stood at his father’s side. The boy’s serious demeanor belied his age, his dark eyes fixed on his older brother with a mixture of longing and admiration.

“Now, let him go, my lady,” Lord Thorvald said, his tone firm but not unkind. “He mustn’t keep the others waiting.”

Lady Thorvald sniffed and reluctantly released Rowan’s hands. “Yes, yes. Just don’t forget to write, Rowan. And don’t overwork yourself.”

Rowan turned to Roderic, crouching slightly to ruffle the boy’s hair. “Don’t forget to train hard, little brother,” he said with a grin. “Follow Father’s footsteps, and make sure to keep Mother from worrying too much about you.”

Roderic nodded solemnly, but his lips quivered as though he were holding back words. Rowan stepped back, straightened his cloak, and gave a formal bow to his family. It was a small gesture, but significant—a sign that he understood the weight of this moment, that he was no longer just their son or brother, but someone stepping into a larger world.

As Rowan approached the caravan, I caught his family’s gaze and bowed deeply. They had given me a chance—a reason to move forward—and I wouldn’t forget it.

The caravan’s interior was simple but comfortable, with wooden benches lining either side. I climbed in first, settling on the right, while Rowan took the left, his eyes still lingering on his family as the caravan began to move. His smile faded as we passed through the castle gates, replaced by a determined expression that mirrored my own.

The guards stationed at the gate glared at me, their hostility still fresh from our previous encounter. I ignored them, focusing instead on the sights of the town. The festival decorations had been taken down, and the statue of the goddess Serelith was no longer in the square, likely returned to her shrine by the river. The streets bustled with morning activity—vendors setting up their stalls, townsfolk going about their errands. It was lively, yet somehow quieter than during the festival’s height.

Rowan broke the silence after a while. “How did you manage it?” he asked, his voice low but curious. “Leaving everything behind, I mean. I’ve never been away from home like this.”

I looked out the small window, the landscape blurring as the caravan picked up speed. How had I managed? The question felt heavier than it should have. I thought of Ragna, Bjorn, Valeria... and Alira. Their faces, their sacrifices, were etched into my mind. “There’s someone close to me,” I began, my voice quiet, “who gave up everything for me. I need to find her and thank her—for believing in me, for loving me despite everything. And there’s my sister. She’s out there somewhere, waiting for me to bring her home.” I met Rowan’s gaze. “That’s what keeps me moving. Not for myself, but for them.”

Rowan leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “For others,” he murmured. “You know, my mother’s half-elven. She never awakened her magic, and her own siblings treated her like an outsider for it. I want to become a sorcerer for her, to prove that she’s more than what they made her out to be.”

“You’re not alone,” I said firmly. “You’ll have me. We’re walking the same road, even if our reasons are different.”

For the first time since we left, Rowan smiled—a genuine, warm expression that lightened the tension in the air. “You’re right, my friend,” he said, his tone shifting to something more playful. “But what’s this about finding a girl who isn’t your sister? Have you already found yourself a woman?”

I scowled, though a faint smile tugged at my lips. “That’s a story for another time. Let’s focus on the road ahead.”

A sharp thud interrupted us, followed by the caravan driver’s voice. “My lord, we’ve arrived. The traders are waiting for you.”

Rowan grinned as he stood and adjusted his cloak. “Ah, the traders. Come on—you’ll like them.” He gave me a teasing smile before stepping out of the caravan.

The midday sun bore down on the gathering of wagons and figures bustling about. As I stepped out of the caravan, the sight struck me with familiarity—the same heavy-wheeled, hide-covered caravans adorned with bone and leather charms that I had seen before. And the people… their tattoos, braided hair, and rings glinting in the light confirmed it.

I hadn’t expected this.

The realization hit me like a splash of cold water, and just as it did, a voice rang out—a voice that carried authority like a blade. “Surprised to come back, boy?”

There he was, Sigerd Ravnvald, standing tall with the air of a wolf surveying his pack. Beside him was Stigr, his beady eyes sharp but friendly, his lips curling into a quick, knowing smile.

I gave a respectful bow, my hands instinctively moving to my sides. “I didn’t know we’d be traveling together again, Chief,” I said, keeping my tone steady.

Sigerd raised an eyebrow. “You got a problem with that, boy?”

“Not at all. If anything, it makes the trip easier,” I replied, careful not to sound overly eager.

His expression didn’t soften. “We’re not travelling all the way to Thresha. We’ll part ways at Lathor. That’s sixty miles out from your destination. Until then, we’ve been paid to protect your lot, but let me make this clear.” His voice dropped, weighted with a seriousness that made my chest tighten. “We’re not knights bound by oaths. If danger comes, I’ll choose my tribe over you without hesitation. Don’t get too comfortable. We’re traders, not mercenaries.”

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Before I could respond, Rowan stepped forward, his easy charm already slipping into his tone. “Yeah, yeah. If you’re just traders, then I’m the Prince of Arcadia.” His sarcasm hung in the air for a beat before he added, more respectfully, “But it’s an honour to meet you, I’ve heard the stories, Ser Sigerd Ravnvald. Son of Reithal Ravnvald, High Chieftain of the Five Northern Tribes. And once a knight of Edwinn Leonhart, the Flame Dragon himself. They called you ‘The Toothless Wolf’ after your battle fifteen years ago.”

Sigerd’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something—annoyance, perhaps—crossing his features. He turned his gaze on me, his piercing eyes like an elder wolf sizing up a young pup. “That was a long time ago,” he said finally, his voice gruff. “Your father must’ve taught you to keep your tongue sharp when your blade isn’t. That fool always did have a knack for producing surprises.”

Rowan bowed slightly, an apologetic smile playing on his lips. “Forgive me, Chief. My lord father’s faults surely stem from his mentor’s lack of guidance. I’m afraid I’ve inherited the habit.”

For a moment, the tension crackled between them. Then Sigerd let out a booming laugh, his head tilting back as he clapped Rowan on the shoulder with enough force to make him stagger. “You’re exactly as that fool described. Sharp when needed, but with a charm that hides it all. You’re more strategist than sorcerer, boy.” His laughter faded, and his expression hardened once more. “Get back to your caravan. We’ve got a long road ahead. We ride until sundown, then we camp.”

Sigerd turned and walked away, his broad back framed by the bustle of his tribe preparing to move. Before leaving, he threw a glance my way—a sharp, lingering look that carried more weight than his words.

I watched him go, my mind swirling with questions. Rowan’s words about the chief rattled in my head. A knight of my mother’s house? Why hadn’t he said anything before? He had pretended not to recognize my father’s name, yet what Rowan said made me question. Memories of his quiet conversation with his wife the night I first met them resurfaced, their hushed voices and glances now tinged with new meaning.

Rowan’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. “Einar!” he called from the back of the caravan. “Stop brooding and get moving.”

With a final glance at Sigerd disappearing among his people, I turned and climbed into the caravan. My questions would have to wait, buried under the demands of the journey ahead.

As the caravan creaked forward, the wheels groaning under the weight of supplies, I settled into my seat. Rowan leaned back against the wooden frame, his usual cheer returning as he gave me a sidelong glance. “So, what’d you think of the chief? You did travelled with him.”

I didn’t answer immediately, my gaze drifting out the window to the trail ahead. “We haven’t talked much except one time. He’s... not what I expected,” I said finally.

Rowan chuckled. “Few people are.” He tilted his head, studying me. “You seem rattled. Didn’t he say something to you?”

I shook my head, forcing a faint smile. “Just usual, but nothing about him being a knight serving under my grandfather.”

Rowan nodded, his expression softening. “There must be a reason for it,” he said simply. “My father talked about him, he once trained your father and your uncle when he was man-at-arms in House Leonhart. He and my father’s mentor were half-brothers. Just give him time, even northern snow melts in summers.”

I didn’t respond, but his words settled in my chest, grounding me. The road ahead was long, both literally and figuratively, but for now, I let the caravan’s steady rhythm and the murmur of the tribe outside fill the silence. We were moving forward, and that was enough.

————————————

The day had slipped away like sand through an hourglass, the horizon swallowing the sun's last golden rays. Amidst the usual travelers—carts creaking under the weight of hay, farmers with their broad hats shading weathered faces—a lone rider caught my eye.

Her horse was as black as the coal that burns in the heart of smithy, his cloak a shadow against the fading light. There was a serene calm about her, like the first spark in a long night, a paradox of peace in this world of constant motion. But what caught my attention was a strand of long silver white hair on her side, from the slim figure on the well-bred horse, I could tell the rider was female.

“You’re not listening and staring outside again.” Rowan’s voice cut through my focus.

I turned to see him grinning, his brown eyes warm despite the faint flicker of nerves he’d been wearing all day. He had that look about him again—like a dog wagging its tail too hard and too fast, unsure whether it was about to get a pat on the head or a boot to the ribs.

“It’s nothing, continue,” I said, shifting my gaze back to the road.

“Right,” he drawled, “because normal people stare at female riders like they’ve just seen their long lost lover. That was one fine horse she got there, but maybe she’s one of those wandering mages, eh? You know, the brooding, mysterious type who’s really got a tragic backstory and—”

“Rowan,” I interrupted, the single word sharp enough to make him chuckle but not enough to hide the unease curling at the edges of his smile.

He leaned back, propping his feet up on the seat opposite. “Fine, fine. I’ll save my theories for later. You’re no fun.”

I let the silence settle between us for a moment before breaking it. “You’ve been talking about Zenith non-stop. Still excited?”

"Excited? Nervous is more like it. Can you believe it, though? Zenith operates outside the usual bounds, free from the Magic Council's purse strings," Rowan explained, his eyes kindling with zeal. "Yet, it's not entirely unshackled. There are rules, like the ban on black magic."

He spoke of the High Council, a body composed of leaders from the six sacred halls of magic, each hall nestled in a city of its own. Thresha housed the 'House of Shadows,' where illusionists wove their deceptive spells, a place where only the noble-born could tread due to the council's funding and expectations.

The air was thick with the scent of earth and the distant tang of salt from unseen seas. Rowan's words conjured images of halls where illusionists danced with shadows, the 'House of Shadows' in Thresha, where only the noble-born could cast their spells under the Magic Council's gaze. "Magic there wasn't just about strength; it's about learning one particular magic and practicing it over and over and over until one's essence has been carved with runes needed for that spell. And after that, there comes ‘enlightenment’ or it has been described in books," he mused, his breath forming small clouds in the cooling air.

"Backers are key for advancement in college," he continued. "Professors take on students after the first year, but you need to impress. Magic isn't just about power; it's about potential."

The talk of exams was like a drumbeat, constant and foreboding. Written tests on the basics of magic and alchemy and history. Then, the practical, where one's mind was pushed to its limits, not with brute force but through the intricate dance of solving arcane puzzles, casting spells that whispered of both creation and destruction.

My thoughts were a storm, swirling with anticipation for ancient college and a dark cloud of worry for my sister. Lord Thorvald's word at the council might be her light in this encroaching darkness. The High Council, an assembly of the realm's power, led by House Stanfield, the blood of the first high king, could sway fates with their decrees.

As we ventured deeper into this foreign territory, the land spoke to me. The grass here was a tapestry of velvet green, the trees wore their leaves like long, elegant robes, whispering secrets of this new world. The sky, now a canvas of deep blues and purples, was studded with stars, each a promise of the mysteries beyond.

The caravan came to rest with the chief's voice, a bellow that echoed across the plains, signaling our day's end. Here, just twenty-four miles from Duskmoore, the mountains were but a memory, replaced by this vast, flat expanse, like a parchment waiting for the scribe's tale.

Ragna, with her northern beauty, her braids a map of her heritage, was a beacon of warmth. Her voice carried the lilt of the icy north, her laughter like the clinking of her copper rings. "This land feels like a new verse in an old song, doesn’t it," she said, her eyes catching the firelight we were about to kindle.