The fire crackled, sending flickering shadows dancing along the trees. The air carried the lingering chill of nightfall, yet the warmth of the flames offered a small comfort. Garett sat on a fallen log, his polearm resting against his shoulder, while Lyra knelt nearby, carefully casting healing magic unto his wounds.

Nyx perched on a low branch, her golden eyes unblinking as she observed the scene, no longer openly hostile but still wary.

Garett let out a low exhale and reached up to his greathelm. With a quiet hiss of metal, he lifted it free, revealing his face for the first time.

His sharp features were illuminated by the firelight—strong jawline, high cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to catch and reflect the flames. His dark hair, cut in a layered wolfish style, framed his face with a rugged yet composed elegance.

Lyra, caught off guard, found herself staring for a fraction of a second too long. A warmth bloomed in her chest, though she swiftly crushed it, shaking her head as if clearing her thoughts.

“Finally taking that thing off?” she quipped, keeping her tone light.

Garett smirked. “Needed some air.”

Lyra turned her focus back to tending his wounds.

“Healing magic is not my strongest suit.” She admitted.

“This will help.” Garrett procured a small vial from one of his pockets. Inside is a liquid with a shade of crimson. He poured droplets of it into his injuries.

As she worked, a thought surfaced. “That potion you drank back there—the Ramvarg potion. I’ve read about it before. Isn’t it made from Ramvarg meat?”

Garett gave a short laugh. “That’s a common misconception,” he said. “Ramvargs are sacred to Fenrisians; we don’t slaughter them for their meat. The potion is actually made from Ramvarg milk, along with fermented hexcorn paste and a blend of spices to enhance stamina, strength, and agility.”

Lyra blinked. “Fermented hexcorn paste?”

He nodded. “It’s an acquired taste.”

Lyra made a face. “Sounds vile.”

“You get used to it,” he said with a shrug. “After the first ten times.”

A comfortable silence settled between them before Lyra spoke again. “Back in the cave, your barrier flared up before you could react. That was the trinket you were wearing on your side, right?”

Garett nodded. Holding the device in his hand. It’s still in its experimental stages. The drive is attuned to my presence, predicting incoming threats and responding accordingly.”

Lyra frowned, intrigued. “How does it work?”

Garett considered for a moment. “Think of magic as probability manipulation. A spellcaster is like a calculator—projecting a specific will onto a probability space. Magic allows reality to collapse around that will, completing the spell.”

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Lyra’s lips parted slightly. “So the Azeroth Drive functions as an automatic calculator?”

“In a way,” Garett confirmed. “It’s designed to anticipate and counter threats within a given range of outcomes. And well…I’ve yet to test out more conventional spells.”

Lyra hummed in thought. “I never quite thought of magic that way before.”

Garett glanced at her, amused. “What, you thought it was just waving your hands and hoping for the best?”

She huffed. “Of course not. But the idea of probability collapse—it makes sense.”

Nyx flicked her tail, her watchful gaze shifting between them as the conversation drifted into a comfortable lull.

By the time they settled for the night, the forest around them was still, the stars above stretching endlessly into the deep expanse of the sky. As Lyra lay on her bedroll, she found her thoughts lingering on the man across the fire—on the way his blue eyes gleamed under the firelight, on the way his words carried a quiet certainty.

She shook her head. There was no time for distractions.

Tomorrow, they will reach Vallorien.

The morning arrived with a crisp chill, dew clinging to the grass as the first rays of sunlight peeked through the canopy. Garett and Lyra packed up their camp in relative silence, both still waking from the lingering haze of sleep. Nyx stretched her wings lazily before settling on Lyra’s shoulder, watching the morning unfold with a regal air.

By midday, they reached Vallorien, its towering walls rising against the skyline. The city’s gates were bustling with merchants, adventurers, and guards, all moving in a constant flow of activity.

At the Adventurer’s Guild, they turned in the Manticore’s paw as proof of the hunt. The guild clerk barely raised an eyebrow as he handed them their reward—a hefty pouch of coin.

“Efficient work,” he muttered before shuffling off to another task.

Lyra pocketed her share, while Garett did the same without a word. As they turned to leave, a familiar voice cut through the air like a warhorn.

“GARETT FENRALIS!”

Lyra barely had time to react before a golden-haired storm in the shape of a woman descended upon them with the force of a divine reckoning. Leona Leonis, in all her intimidating, armored glory, stood in the entrance of the guildhall, her blue eyes blazing with righteous fury.

“Do you have ANY idea the NIGHTMARE you put me through?” she fumed, stomping towards him with enough presence to make lesser men scatter. “I spent the ENTIRE night covering for you, making excuses, LYING, because someone decided to go gallivanting in the wilderness without so much as a note!”

Garett sighed deeply. “Leona—”

“NO! No ‘Leona’ me! Do you know what I had to do? I had to sit through THREE council meetings, explain to the nobility why you were ‘indisposed,’ and on top of that, I had to listen to Lord Darvish drone on about TRADE TARIFFS for TWO HOURS.” She threw her hands in the air. “TRADE TARIFFS, Garett! Do you hate me? Is this some kind of cruel revenge?”

“I—”

She grabbed his face, squishing his cheeks. “Do you UNDERSTAND the PAIN I have suffered?”

Lyra coughed into her hand, thoroughly entertained.

Leona finally released him with an exaggerated groan, rubbing her temples. Then, as if noticing Lyra for the first time, she turned sharply. “And WHO is this?”

Lyra curtsied. “My lady, my name is Lyra. Lyra of Elderwynd.”

Leona’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “And what, pray tell, were you doing with MY Garett all night?”

Garett coughed loudly. “Leona, please.”

Lyra smirked. “Hunting manticores. Why? What else did you think we were doing?”

Leona gasped, clutching her chest as if she’d been personally betrayed. “Garett Fenralis, you absolute fiend.”

Garett groaned. “It’s not like that.”

Before the conversation could escalate, Nyx let out an indignant hiss, wings flaring as she glared at Leona.

Leona gasped dramatically. “Oh, fantastic. ANOTHER overprotective guardian. As if we don’t have enough of those.”

Garett and Lyra frowned, their thoughts almost in unison. “So she IS self-aware.”

Nyx growled. “Permission to kick her ass, Lyra.”

Lyra grinned. “Permission denied.”

She then turned to Leona. “She holds grudges.”

Leona huffed, crossing her arms. “Wonderful. Just what I needed.”

Garett pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we just—go somewhere else before someone recognizes me?”

Leona scowled but finally relented. “Fine. But you owe me. Big time.”

Garret put his greathelm on as they walked off. Lyra leaned over to Nyx, whispering, “I like her.”

Nyx merely growled in disapproval