Lysbelle had stopped counting the back-and-forth trips a while ago. The Caravan was moving at a slower pace to ease the physical strain on Lysbelle, Azmiyah, and the two warriors alternating runs with her. The other Caravan members were either injured and unable to help or occupied with their own tasks. Some were directing the Rhiloos while others were checking the wagons' stability. A few were maintaining the equipment, and the last ones were caring for the nomads, still weary from their captivity. Plus, constant guards were stationed around the prisoners wagon. For today, two repairers, were assigned to the front to assist Lysbelle. Their work was less physically demanding unless something major broke, so they whe.
One of them was Sarah, younger than Lysbelle by a few years but remarkably resilient, and the other was Lemyr, an older warrior accustomed to endurance tasks. They’d been at it for hours, relaying Azmiyah’s instructions to the Caravanne. In the mean time, the woman continued to singlehandedly handle duties that would usually require ten people out in the desert. Lysbelle was exhausted; she still couldn’t use the strength of her mark. And, with all that happened yesterday, she had forgotten to ask the Phoenix about it when she’d had the chance. She had thought about bringing it up during one of her trips, but Azmiyah’s worn state left little room for anything outside her focus.
Thankfully, the day passed without incident. They stopped a few hours early, while the sun was still high over the desert. After all, even in their haste, there was no reason to risk the entire Caravan over a mistake caused by exhaustion.
As expected, Lysbelle spent the evening with her little brother. Whenever she had a chance, she would tell him stories of her experiences since they were separated and relished the way his innocent smile slowly returned as she spoke. She avoided the details of the Swarm, preferring to share Tyrell's techniques and their refuge in a Ruin instead. She recounted her journey across the desert, which now seemed easier than the constant effort she’d been putting in since yesterday. She talked about what she’d learned about her tattoo, which made the boy’s eyes light up with wonder. She spoke of the Phoenix, of their meeting, the Elder's Caravan with Sadris, and all she had experienced since they were parted. Finally, she spoke of Rayssa and the brave warriors who had given their lives to save Azel and the other nomads.
Seeing him smile again, she hesitated, then held back the question burning on her lips. She didn’t want to stir up any painful memories for her brother. She’d ask Seylin what had happened to them and why she’d found them hidden in the hold later. For now, she wanted to savor the reunion with her brother.
Later that evening, after the meal around the great, protective fire, Lysbelle left Azel alone for a moment. She had noticed the Phoenix heading out into the desert and, not wanting to miss her chance, followed her.
“What is it?”
Azmiyah’s hoarse voice might have startled her if she hadn’t been expecting it. Standing with her back to Lysbelle, her garment revealing the mysterious mark in the shape of the legendary bird. She hadn’t shown any sign of noticing Lysbelle’s approach until she spoke.
“Nothing to do with our last conversation. I have a question and a request.”
The woman turned to face her. Despite the fatigue evident on her face, some of the fire had returned to her embered gaze. Lysbelle hesitated, then lifted a portion of her protective cloak and the garment beneath, revealing her own mark. The Caravan leader’s gaze fell upon it, silently contemplating the mark, so similar to her own and yet so different.
“Why has my mark lost its color, and why can’t I use its power anymore?”
A small, understanding nod came in reply before the Phoenix spoke more clearly.
“Do you remember the last time you used your mark?”
Lysbelle frowned. Her last use? If she wasn’t mistaken, it was the explosion that nearly engulfed the entire convoy before she managed to redirect it at the last moment.
“The explosion? Tyrell told me something similar leveled everything nearby during the Swarm, and I was afraid I’d hurt our own.”
After a pause at Tyrell's mention, The Phoenix nodded and, soon regained her composure.
“That’s what we call a ‘mark eruption,’ to put it simply. You used a more focused variant, harder to control but essential for containing the effect. Without that control, you’d for sure have destroyed a lot more.”
A shiver ran through Lysbelle, the fear she’d felt at the thought of harming those she loved still fresh in her mind. Azmiyah continued.
“A mark burst drains all of the mark’s Îme, so don’t expect to use it again for at least a week. It needs time to absorb the ambient Îme and recover.”
“I suppose that explains the color of my mark? But if that’s the case, last time, it recharged using the Îme of the Ruin?”
The first question was directed at the Phoenix, but the second was more a statement for herself. Yet it was the second part that caught Azmiyah’s attention.
“A Ruin that restores a mark’s Îme? What’s that about?”
Lysbelle bit her lip, feeling an inexplicable reluctance to discuss her vision of the Dragon—at least, not with Azmiyah. She trusted her, undoubtedly, yet something within warned against sharing. So she offered only a half truth.
“Well, I did a mark erruption before taking refuge in the Ruin with Tyrell. It’s how we survived the Reapers. I noticed my mark’s strange color, and by the next day, it had returned to white.”
Azmiyah scrutinized her, as though searching for hidden truths or detecting a lie, then shrugged.
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time a Ruin did something strange. Tell me where it’s located when we get the chance—I’d like to see it myself. You also mentioned a request?”
Relieved by the change in subject, Lysbelle explained her desire to continue her training. Even with her mark unusable, she still had many weaknesses in combat, and she knew anyone could easily take her down if they caught her off guard. Plus, she’d noticed that mere reinforcement wasn’t enough for certain foes. Next time she crossed paths with Kraast, she wanted it to be a decisive, crushing victory.
But to her surprise, the Phoenix declined her request. Or rather, postponed it. Their current precarious situation had left her in a state of exhaustion, and she didn’t want additional complications. Lysbelle, of course, could train alone, but without guidance, she felt her progress would be limited.
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Later that evening, she stopped by the infirmary wagon. Azel had mentioned Seylin a few times in their talks. Apparently, the woman who had bandaged Lysbelle’s injuries had also been particularly attentive to Azel after he was rescued. Unfortunately, Seylin was severely injured and had been bedridden since her own recovery began.
Lysbelle knocked gently on the wagon door, waiting for a healer to open it. Unlike the skilled mender of the Elder’s Caravan who could shape Îme, the healers of the Phoenix’s Caravan relied on traditional medicine. It was Mirran who greeted her. One of the oldest members of the Caravan—a straightforward and honest man, known for speaking up about concerns others avoided.
“Lysbelle? Do you need anything?”
She nodded.
“Yes, I’m here to see Seylin, if she’s well enough to receive visitors.”
The man considered this briefly, then nodded in agreement.
“All right, it’ll be good for her to see someone. Try convincing her to rest while you’re at it. She keeps ignoring her own injuries to tend to others, and it’s bound to make things worse. Maybe hearing it from an acquaintance will help more than from me.”
With that, he let her in and closed the door behind her. Lysbelle wasn’t sure she knew Seylin any better than the healer did, but if there was something she could do, she would try.
The dimly lit room had an almost mystical quality, filled with the scent of medicines, balms, and other ointments used to heal wounds. The wagon creaked underfoot, its aged wood straining, and the presence of the wounded from battle only added to the oppressive atmosphere. Mirran pointed her toward a bed near the back, and Lysbelle made her way over.
A man layed there, his torso bandaged and one leg immobilized. Sitting by his side, Lysbelle recognized Seylin. Her hair short, hastily cut, her skin slightly darker than most, her own body covered in bandages. A few years older than Lysbelle, Seylin was attending to the wounded warrior.
“Seylin?”
“Just a second, I’m almost finished.”
Focused on wiping the man’s brow to make his night more comfortable, Seylin completed her task before turning. The movement pulled a grimace of pain from her, and she held her ribs. Alarmed by her obvious pain, Lysbelle tried to help, only for Seylin to halt her with a quick gesture without even looking at her.
“Don’t worry, it just reopened—I’ll need to tighten the bandage.”
With that, Seylin set to work, tightening the painful bandage before even acknowledging Lysbelle. Stunned, the latter could only watch, waiting for her to finish. She had glimpsed her state when she’d pulled her from the bilge. She knew Seylin had suffered injuries, perhaps worse. Bruises and contusions covered her, likely accompanied by a few fractures. Yet the young woman seemed to utterly disregard her own condition—or, at the very least, paid it little heed.
A moment later, with her bandage retied, Seylin finally turned to face Lysbelle. Her expression brightened when she realized who had spoken to her.
“You! Lysbelle, right? I’d heard you were alive, and that we partly have you to thank for getting us out of that mess. I’m so glad you’re still with us. I don’t know how you managed to escape the Reapers, but you’ve got to tell me. Azel must’ve been thrilled to see you again—he was heartbroken. But I swear, I did everything I could to take care of him.”
Her face darkened briefly before she shook it off, resuming her cheerful tone.
“Those brutes really went too far. No child should ever have to endure what he did. Thankfully, I was able to shield him from the worst of it. I can’t imagine what would’ve happened if you hadn’t arrived.”
Lysbelle stared, speechless. Despite her battered condition, Seylin spoke to her as if they were long-lost friends reuniting after an ordinary day, as if nothing severe had happened. Lysbelle tried to interject, but Seylin seemed eager to keep talking.
“We were lucky, you know. After the Swarm, they pushed us even harder; the pace was unbearable, even for the strongest among us. And to top it off, the convoy leader—Kaast, or something like that—started lashing out at everyone. I heard his scar was giving him pain, but I wasn’t about to offer him advice. Whoever gave him that wound did him a favor. Then, a few days ago, his attitude completely shifted. He stopped pushing us like mad, and the pace became manageable.”
She took a breath and grabbed a water flask to quench her thirst before continuing. Being in a new environment seemed to bring out Seylin’s true personality, one that had been stifled by her captivity.
“I hope I’m not talking too fast; let me know if I am, okay? Here, let’s move over there to keep it quieter for the others.”
“Uh, I… Sure…”
Lysbelle simply followed as Seylin led the way before she resumed her story.
“Anyway, the pace eased up, but then the caravan leader started picking on Azel for no reason. I stepped in, and they threw me in the bilge with him at night. The only good thing was we didn’t have to sleep out in the wind. But those scoundrels didn’t hesitate to beat us at the slightest excuse.”
Her expression darkened again.
“I feel terrible for old Taaj. The poor man couldn’t keep up, so they locked him in with us as punishment. I later found out he didn’t survive his injuries. That's really a sad tale. And Azel was terrified in the bilge. I tried everything I could to help him, but it wasn’t enough. Then, one night, they made us drink something foul, and when I woke up, I was here.”
Silence fell in the wagon, broken only by Mirran's grumbling.
"Seylin, if you don’t get some rest, I’ll throw you out myself."
Seylin merely grimaced in response, but the expression quickly turned into a wince as she shifted in a way that aggravated one of her wounds.
The second healer let out a laugh, which he cut off by putting his hand over his mouth upon noticing the dark look being directed at him. Meanwhile, Lysbelle remained stunned. She’d expected to find a patient recovering quietly, and while technically correct, Seylin was anything but quiet. She’d managed to answer all of Lysbelle’s unasked questions in one impressive rush. Searching for words, Lysbelle settled on the obvious.
“I wanted to thank you. Azel spoke so highly of you, and I think I owe you a lot. I hope that…”
She was interrupted by Seylin’s dismissive gesture and a casual reply.
“Oh, I didn’t do anything special—anyone would have done the same.”
But a single look at her visible injuries told Lysbelle that not just anyone would have done what Seylin had.
“No, really, I mean it. Thank you.”
A smile crept across Seylin’s face.
“Fine, but then I thank you too; we’d probably still be captives if it weren’t for you.”
Their conversation continued a while longer, with Seylin asking for more details about what had happened to her. Lysbelle tried to insist that she rest, but Seylin brushed it off, claiming she’d stop if she felt unwell. This might have worked had Mirran not chimed in to remind her of her two fractured ribs, likely internal bleeding, and numerous injuries that wouldn’t heal if she didn’t rest. Hearing this, Lysbelle finally managed to get a reluctant promise from Seylin to rest. She agreed to visit the next day before leaving.
It had been a while since she had been away from Azel and despite the fact that they were safe, she couldn't help but worry. The child, still tired and shaken from days of mistreatment, waited for her in the rest wagon, unable to sleep alone. Lysbelle, equally exhausted after days of worry and rushing around, layed beside him. And soon the siblings drifted off to a peacefull sleep.
The next morning, as she left the wagon, Lysbelle sensed a somber mood among the Caravan. People were tense and irritable and when asked none seemed to know why. But soon, Azmiyah called for a speach and everyone understood the reason behind the apparent tension.
During the night, the prisoners from the convoy had been found dead, their throats slit in the prison wagon before they could defend themselves—a disturbing discovery.
Though it was easy to imagine that one of the victims sought revenge, this grim event reinforced another suspicion in Lysbelle’s mind. There was a good chance that it was related to Azmiyah's fears.