A long, squat building of wood and stone sat behind a defensive stone wall, positioned about three hundred yards outside the village. The wall followed the north side of the road for nearly fifty yards, its top lined with hardened defensive positions. Archers moved along its length, eyes scanning the surrounding hills and grasslands with quiet vigilance.

At the far end of the wall, a contingent of soldiers stood across the road, forming a firm blockade.

The caravan halted several yards short of the checkpoint. Three mounted soldiers peeled away from the garrison line, riding forward to meet Tybour, Haningway, Rishmond, Bantore, and Norft as they advanced from the head of the halted column.

Torg trailed along behind Rishmond, his short, stocky frame nearly invisible behind the bulk of Bantore and Norft. His small feet made no sound on the road, and he kept his head low, his glowing eyes flicking between the soldiers ahead and the archers stationed along the wall.

Few noticed him.

Fewer still understood what he was.

But Rishmond could feel him back there—steady as a shadow. Watching everything.

The leader of the riders reined in her horse with practiced ease, turning the big grey gelding sideways with a firm tug of the reins. She was a striking figure—her exposed skin tanned a warm golden brown, every muscle in her arms and shoulders honed and hard beneath fitted armor.

Her hair, raven black, was gathered into a tight braid that began at the crown of her head and jutted upward, held rigid by coils of gold and silver before cascading down to the middle of her back in a long, braided fall.

Her armor was polished but worn—clearly used, minimalist in design, tailored for agility as much as protection. At the top of her breastbone shimmered a tattoo, etched in bright metallic green. It caught the morning light with an otherworldly gleam—the unmistakable signature of Glittergreen ink. Powdered from the rare magical crystal and mixed into enchanted dyes, such tattoos weren’t decorative. They enhanced.

This one—formed in the ancient sigil of strength—meant the woman wasn’t just a warrior.

She was augmented.

She was someone who fought often—and won.

“Well met, Major Asherton,” said Tybour.

His voice was smooth as silk, thick as honey to Rishmond’s ears. Perhaps the strain of casting two large portals in as many days had taken its toll after all. Rishmond glanced sideways at the First Mage’s face and caught what might’ve been a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Welcome, First Mage, to the Malminar Garrison in The Reaches,” Major Asherton replied. “We’re glad you’ve arrived safely—and saddened to hear of the misfortunes along your road. We are prepared to receive you.”

She dismounted in a fluid motion and stepped forward as Tybour moved ahead of his party. The two of them faced each other in the space between their entourages like duellists—poised, wary, powerful.

Asherton extended her left hand, palm up. Her right remained resting lightly on the hilt of her sword.

A flicker of light sparked to life above her open palm, quickly forming into a softly spinning orb. Faint runes traced themselves along its surface, pulsing with power. Now and then, narrow beams of light blinked into existence, darting outward before vanishing in the morning air. A steady, resonant hum accompanied the orb’s rotation.

A second hum answered a heartbeat later, deep and vibrant, as Tybour raised his own hand and mirrored the gesture. His sphere of light bloomed into being—more refined, perhaps, but just as steady.

Rishmond tasted cinnamon. Sweet and spicy, like hard candy melting on the tongue. He smelled it too, curling through the air like incense.

The two orbs floated forward, slow and deliberate, until they touched.

For a moment, both glowed silver-blue.

Then they fused into a single, crystalline sphere the size of a man’s head—clear as ice, perfect as glass—and in the next breath, it vanished.

A palpable wave of released tension rippled through the onlookers.

An audible exhale moved through the gathered guards and soldiers, the civilians, even some of the caravan leaders. Shoulders relaxed. Hands dropped from hilts.

The ritual was complete.

They had been accepted.

“Rosa!” Tybour exclaimed, striding the last few steps toward the garrison commander.

They clasped forearms in the manner of old comrades, the grip firm, their eyes locked.

“Tybour,” she replied—her tone more reserved, but not cold. There was friendship in it, cautious but genuine.

Tybour’s left hand rose to cup her right shoulder, the gesture familiar and unhurried. His hand trailed down her bare arm to her elbow, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

Then they stepped apart.

Tybour’s half-smile bloomed—charming, easy, with that familiar sparkle in his eyes.

Ambrosia Asherton looked at him for a long second, expression unreadable. Then her eyes softened, just a touch, and her mouth stayed firm.

But she smiled back—with her eyes alone.

Several paces back, at the front of the main caravan group, Illiar and Cantor exchanged knowing glances. Even from this distance, they could see the spark between Tybour and Ambrosia Asherton.

Rishmond remained blissfully unaware of the tension—or history—between the two.

“Major Asherton,” Tybour said with a small bow and a sweeping gesture of his right arm, stepping aside. “Allow me to introduce Rishmond Bar—one of the most promising young Wizards since... well, since me.”

He beamed at Rishmond, eyes twinkling with mischief. Then he turned that same warm smile back on Ambrosia, adding, “Rishmond, this is the esteemed Major Ambrosia Asherton, commander of the Malminar Garrison here in The Reaches. Quite likely the most skilled swordsman in Malminar—possibly in the world. I’ve never seen her equal.”

Rishmond stepped forward, inclining his head in a respectful bow, careful to maintain eye contact. Major Asherton’s eyes were bright green and piercing, and Rishmond had the sudden, sharp feeling that she was peering straight into his thoughts—measuring him.

He smiled slightly. Despite her aloofness, he liked her immediately.

He extended his arm and grasped her forearm in the soldier’s grip. Her hand met his with quiet strength, and for a brief moment, her features softened. Her head tilted slightly, and a smile formed easily across her lips.

“Rishmond. Bar? As in Halmond?” she asked, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I hadn’t heard they had a second son. You appear to be about the same age as Pilip.”

She didn’t release his arm, but turned her head toward Tybour with the question in her eyes.

“Not by birth, no,” Rishmond said. “I came to Malminar as an orphan. Halmond and Berti took me in—me and my best friend, Toby. They’re our parents now.”

Tybour raised both eyebrows, his mouth curving into a wry smile. He inclined his head slightly toward Rishmond, saying nothing.

An unspoken understanding seemed to pass between Tybour and Ambrosia.

“Ah. I see.” Ambrosia’s tone shifted, quiet and reflective. “I would expect nothing less of Hal and Berti.”

Her hand still gripped Rishmond’s forearm as she studied him. “You’re about the age Pilip would be… if he were still alive.”

Her voice softened just a hair—then she squinted at his face again, the scrutiny returning with interest.

“A promising Wizard, eh? I’ll expect great things, then, if Tybour is impressed by you.” She tugged him a step closer, her eyes narrowing in amusement. “How’s your sword-arm? Is Tybour teaching you? Haningway as well?”

As Rishmond nodded, she leaned in slightly, examining him more closely. He caught her scent—jasmine, mint, and dragon-flower—blended with the clean bite of well-oiled leather and a hint of horse sweat. The overall effect was… pleasant. Striking.

She pushed him back a step, then spun him gently, still holding his arm, inspecting him from different angles with the eye of a soldier sizing up a recruit.

“Well, you seem healthy. Fit. I look forward to sparring with you soon.” Her grin was sharp, playful. “I’m always curious to see just how well Tybour trains his students with a blade.”

Rishmond glanced over as she released his arm and stepped back. Tybour, unsurprisingly, was smiling.

“Yes, a sparring session would be a good thing,” Tybour said. “But it’ll have to wait. Our business with the mine takes priority.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rishmond added quickly, turning back to her. “Haningway, Tybour, and Ueet are all teaching me. Swordplay and other fighting styles. I’m better than most my age, but I know I’ve still got a long way to go.”

He offered his most disarming smile—the one that worked best on authority figures he admired. He liked her already.

“Few are as good as me…” Ambrosia replied, not boastful—just stating fact. Her voice trailed slightly, and then—

“Ueet?”

Her head snapped toward Tybour, lips pressed into a thin line. The warmth vanished from her expression, replaced by something unreadable.

She did not seem pleased to hear that name.

Tybour held up both hands, palms open in mock surrender. “Long story,” he said. “But we need him for this expedition—and I suspect we’ll need him even more before it’s over.”

He stepped to the side, tilting his head with that same charming, sideways grin. “I’m sure you’ve heard something of why we’re here. And what we’re after.”

He paused—just long enough for the small crystal golem to emerge from behind the cluster of soldiers, weaving around boots and armor until he stood clearly before the group.

“This is Torg.”

The golem gave a stiff, mechanical bow. “Hello, Wizard Asherton. I am Torg.”

He paused, his gemstone eyes flicking across her and the soldiers behind her. “I am at your service, Wizard.”

Rishmond caught a faint scent—like rain on warm stone, threaded with lilac. He glanced down and saw the lines of magic within Torg pulsing brighter, flowing faster. The fireworks in Torg's head blossomed and turned gold and green, blooming like flowers of light.

This was new.

Torg wasn’t just radiating magic.

He was using it.

Rishmond’s pulse quickened. He knew, without knowing how, that Torg was measuring Ambrosia’s magical potential—quietly, elegantly, with divine precision.

He turned his gaze back to her face, studying her reaction. But if she noticed the spell, she gave no sign.

Ambrosia stared for a long moment. So did the soldiers behind her.

“I truly thought the reports had been exaggerated,” she said at last.

She stepped forward, armor whispering softly, and crouched beside the golem to get a closer look. Her tone shifted—less formal now, more curious. Almost reverent.

“Amazing,” she murmured. “I’ve heard of golems. Stone, bronze, even flesh. But never one made of crystal.”

Her voice dropped. “Is he truly an emissary from the Gods?”

“I would not call myself an emissary, Wizard,” Torg replied.

His voice was calm, crystalline, almost melodic in its precision. “I am but an assistant to the Goddess Denisisie. I have specific tasks to achieve at her behest and am granted a measure of discretion in how I carry them out—within defined parameters, of course.”

He tilted his head slightly, the facets of his body catching the morning light.

“I do not speak for the Goddess, nor for any other God, though I may relay messages. And have, in the past.”

There was no pride in the statement. No reverence either. Only truth.

“My current task is to bring Wizard Rishmond to an audience with my mistress, Denisisie, and to protect him at all costs until that goal is fulfilled.”

He paused, as if recalibrating his next statement.

“I have also been asked by Wizard Rishmond and Wizard Tybour to assist in restoring the Gods’ access to mortals. To do so, we must first ascertain where the Gods have gone—if they have gone anywhere at all. That is why we have come here: to retrace the last known steps of the Goddess Denisisie, and to discover where she is… and why she has ceased contact with the mortal world for such an extended time.”

Gasps and whispered murmurs erupted from the soldiers and attendants gathered behind the major. Disbelief, awe, nervous energy—all blooming at once.

But Ambrosia Asherton did not flinch.

She raised a single hand, palm out.

The murmurs died instantly.

She held Torg’s gaze—or what passed for a gaze in that polished crystal face—and spoke in a low voice, more to herself than to anyone else:

“Well,” she said. “That explains the portals. And the Warlocks.”

“You’ve come to discover where the Gods have gone?” Rosa asked, her voice cool with suspicion. “As Denisisie’s assistant, should you not already know why she came here, what she was doing, and where she went afterward?”

She didn’t raise her voice, but something in her tone—measured, precise—made Rishmond’s skin prickle. There was a shift in her posture too. Subtle. Barely perceptible. But the air around her sharpened.

She was already alert. Now, she was ready.

“Do you think all the Gods disappeared the moment she—they—came here?” she continued, not waiting for Torg’s reply. “You believe your being here will bring them back from their hiatus? That they’re in the mines, sipping cave-water, or hiding somewhere in the wilds of the Glittergreen Mountains? Ignoring mortals? Watching us from the shadows for hundreds of years?”

She frowned down at Torg, skepticism clear in her voice—but something else lingered beneath it. Not just doubt. Not just disbelief.

Resentment.

"Why would they come here," she asked, "just to abandon us?”

Before Torg could respond, Tybour stepped in smoothly.

“Rosa,” he said, his tone light but steady. “We’ve already discussed much of this with Torg, and we’ll gladly go over it again with you—and anyone else who’s interested.” He gestured to the soldiers and staff gathered nearby. “But perhaps we should do it somewhere inside, with hot food and good wine?”

Rosa turned her head slowly, fixing Tybour with a long look. Her frown deepened for just a moment—then vanished.

She smiled. Brilliant. Dazzling.

Dangerous.

“Yes. Let’s.”

She held the moment, letting the silence stretch before speaking again. “I have a strong feeling that a good wine—and perhaps a stronger spirit—may be needed to hear this story.” Her eyes lingered on Tybour. “And besides... you and I have unfinished business.”

Her tone was casual.

But it brooked no argument.

Tybour offered none.

“Come,” Rosa said, turning sharply from Tybour. The invitation—or perhaps command—was directed at Rishmond, Cantor, and Illiar.

She extended one dark-gloved hand to Rishmond, took his without hesitation, and began pulling him behind her toward the open gates of the garrison. He followed without resistance, surprised but not displeased.

Cantor and Illiar had stepped forward earlier, during the tense exchange between Rosa and Torg—drawn by the gravity of the conversation, unwilling to hang back when something this big was unfolding. Now, they moved with Rosa, a step behind but clearly included in her sweep.

“Illiar,” Rosa called over her shoulder, “it is good to see you again. How is your father? Still burly and surly?”

“He is as well as can be expected for someone afflicted with his particular condition,” Illiar replied, her voice light and smooth, though Rishmond recognized the tempered iron beneath. “And despite being burly, he is far from surly. In fact, his constant jesting tends to drive me to distraction.”

That was Illiar’s diplomatic tone. Polite. Measured. A subtle wall wrapped in velvet.

Rosa let out a soft huff of amusement—approval, perhaps—and then turned her gaze on Cantor without slowing her stride.

“And you, young lady—what is your name, and how did you come to be surrounded by these well-meaning but bumbling men?”

Her eyes flicked up and down, measuring, weighing.

“You look capable,” Rosa said. “Are you?”

Cantor met Rosa’s gaze evenly, walking just behind Rishmond and Illiar as they passed through the courtyard. She hadn't flinched when Rosa's eyes raked her from head to toe—measuring, challenging.

“I’m Cantor,” she said, her voice calm and level. “And yes. I am capable.”

There was no bravado in her tone. No flattery. Just truth, stated plainly.

“I’ve survived a shipwreck, a demon-spawn attack, and traveling with the First Mage and Rishmond. I don’t know everything yet, but I know how to listen, how to fight, and how to stand my ground when it counts.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to.

“I’m here because I earned my place.”

Rosa let out a low, thoughtful hum, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.

“Well then,” the Major said, “perhaps you’ll be the first one I spar with.”

Rosa kept a brisk pace, dragging Rishmond along by the hand as she fired off question after question at Illiar and Cantor. Her tone shifted with ease—casual, commanding, curious. She seemed to know Illiar to some degree, which surprised Rishmond. For all his familiarity with Illiar and Bantore, he’d never once heard the name Ambrosia Asherton.

The conversation swirled around him, a rapid current he couldn’t quite follow as they passed through the garrison gates and into the stone-paved courtyard. Rosa never slowed.

The main building loomed ahead, a squat fortress of thick walls and reinforced doors—clearly meant to withstand more than bandits or beasts. This was a proper stronghold.

Rosa led them through the entrance and down a short hallway, opening a set of broad, double doors that revealed a grand hall beyond. Long wooden tables formed a wide square around the center of the room, which had been left open. In the middle of the space, a wide square hole in the floor led to a descending stairwell.

A man in clean, pressed livery emerged from below, carrying a tray stacked with silver place settings and polished cutlery.

Rosa strode confidently to the head of the central table and directed Rishmond to sit at her right, Cantor at her left, and Illiar to Rishmond’s right. Still the questions flowed—directed only to Cantor and Illiar—as if Rishmond were merely cargo she’d hauled in behind her.

He was content to stay silent.

Until she turned.

Her grip on his hand finally loosened, and she looked at him—really looked at him—green eyes sharp and invasive. He felt the weight of her attention like a vise on his skull.

“Where did you say you were born, Rish?” she asked.

Her voice had softened slightly, but the intensity behind it hadn’t dulled.

“May I call you Rish? I like the sound of it.”

“Y-yes, of course. If you wish,” he stammered, caught off guard. The nickname hit him like a surprise embrace and a veiled command at once.

“I don’t actually know where I was born,” he added, voice quieter now. “Mott, I suppose. The nuns at the orphanage told me they found me on their doorstep when I was about two months old.”

He paused.

Did not break her gaze.

He tried not to think about the truth—not the fragmented memories, not the mystery of his earliest months. He told himself he wasn’t lying. Just… protecting something he didn’t fully understand.

“Nasty city,” Rosa said. Her voice dropped into something almost warm. “I’m glad you’re here now instead of there.”

Rishmond believed her.

And he realized—he liked her. Fierce, strange, unyielding as she was, there was something honest in her scrutiny. Something he trusted.

Dinner was brought and served. The mood lightened quickly as Rosa steered the conversation toward their travels, eager for stories and impressions from each of them. She was sharp, witty, and unexpectedly funny. Rishmond found himself smiling more than once.

Quick glances with Cantor and Illiar confirmed what he felt—they were charmed by her, too. The tension that had wrapped them all so tightly began to ease. For the first time in days, Rishmond let himself relax.

Torg stood quietly behind Rishmond’s chair, a short but solid obstacle for the servants weaving behind the line of seated guests. Most of the food had been served from the open center of the square-shaped arrangement of tables, but the occasional tray or pitcher passed narrowly around the edges.

Rishmond’s gaze drifted around the hall. Finally, he spotted Tybour and Haningway seated more than halfway down the left side of the square. They appeared deep in discussion with an important-looking Alteman clad in layers of vibrant cloth and fine jewelry.

Food was eaten, wine poured, laughter shared.

And then the plates were cleared, and the rhythm of the room shifted.

Rosa rose smoothly to her feet and gave a sharp nod toward someone across the chamber. A bell rang—a bright, crystalline tone—and conversation fell away like mist burned off by sunlight. All eyes turned to the head table.

“It is time,” Rosa announced, her voice crisp and commanding, “to hear the tale. What truly brings this expedition to the Glittergreen Mines—and how it came to be.”

Her gaze dropped to Rishmond, direct and unyielding.

“I understand that you are something of the cause?”

Her expression was unreadable. Stern. Expectant.

Rishmond opened his mouth, unsure of what he would say.

But Tybour’s voice rose smoothly from the center of the room.

“Major,” he said, “it will require more than just Rishmond’s telling…”

He now stood in the open square at the heart of the chamber, framed by torchlight and solemn attention.

He had changed.

Gone were the weatherworn greys of travel. He now wore the official robe of his station—white and gold, adorned with the sigils of the Wizard’s Guild and the Malminar Crown. The cloth shimmered faintly with threads of enchanted light, its fine stitching catching the torchlight like morning sun off fresh snow.

“…but tell it we shall.”

As Tybour stepped forward to speak, Rishmond caught the faint scent of lilac and cinnamon.

He turned his head slightly and glanced up at Rosa, still standing beside him. The scent was coming from her—from the subtle shimmer of magic woven into the air around her. An enhancement spell. One designed to sharpen her senses and imprint every word, every gesture, into perfect memory.

Not a spell that required strength, no—but one that demanded control. Finesse.

Rishmond’s opinion of the Major rose again. She might not radiate magical power the way Tybour or he himself  did, but her precision was something else entirely.

For the next several hours, the tale was told.

Tybour led much of it, but Rishmond, Cantor, and even Torg all contributed. They shared the truth of how the golem had been discovered—not the fabricated tale they’d told back in Retinor. They spoke of the island, the descent into the ancient vault, the awakening of the crystal golem, and the revelation that he served the Goddess Denisisie herself.

They explained how the expedition had been formed, the storm, the sabotage, the sinking of the Porpoise, the monstrous battle in the savannah.

Only one detail was deliberately omitted.

Teilmein.

Tybour had warned Rishmond earlier: “Not yet. Not until we know more.”

So they didn’t speak of murder. Not tonight.

Throughout it all, most of the garrison held their questions until the end. They listened—captivated—as Torg finally delivered his message: that the Gods had gone silent, that Denisisie had vanished, and that he believed they could be found... and convinced to return to the mortal realm.

There were gasps. Murmurs. And no shortage of emotion when the tragedies and losses were revealed—so many dead, so many buried on the journey.

Yet when the demonspawn was mentioned, the reaction was... muted. A few grim expressions. One or two quiet oaths. But no shock.

Rishmond realized, with a creeping unease, that the garrison had likely seen such creatures before. Perhaps many times.

This was the Reaches, after all.

Tybour watched Rosa’s face as they spoke, always gauging her reactions. She was careful—too careful. He could tell she believed there was more to the tale than had been told tonight. And she was right.

But the omissions were necessary.

Later, he’d explain. Later, he’d take her wrath—and her wisdom. He needed both.

Without realizing it, a soft smile played at the corners of his lips as he watched her. It was an old smile. A familiar one.

The telling gave way to questions, and the questions to discussion. Wine flowed, but the mood never became jovial again. Not really. The weight of the tale was too great.

The hour crept toward morning.

And Rishmond... was tired.

Tired of answering the same questions, each one worded slightly differently. Tired of speaking. Tired of being looked at like a symbol. Like something sacred, or dangerous, or important.

He just wanted to breathe.

But still, he sat upright at Rosa’s right hand, and tried to be what they needed him to be.

Groups had begun to form throughout the great hall—clusters of voices rising and falling as people broke off to share their thoughts, to argue over what should be done, or to speculate about what lay ahead.

Tybour spotted Rishmond and Cantor still seated at their places, finally left in peace. No more questions. No more attention.

Just quiet.

Illiar had slipped away earlier to join her father. She had excused herself with a gentle touch to Cantor’s shoulder and a quiet promise: “We’ll talk more in the morning.” Rishmond had watched her go, noting the tired heaviness in her usually graceful stride.

Now, only he and Cantor remained.

Tybour approached, his robe whispering softly over the stone.

“Rishmond. Cantor,” he said, his voice gentler now. “You should head off to bed. Get some sleep. We’ve been granted access to the Holy Temple, but it’s a long walk to get there—deep within the mines. It’ll be a long day tomorrow, and you’ll need to be sharp.”

He looked between them with quiet seriousness.

“The stories you’ve heard about the voices and the visions... they don’t prepare you for the reality.”

As if summoned by his words, a strange sound slipped into Rishmond’s mind—a soft whisper, like wind brushing through a broken shutter. Faint, but not imagined.

It moved, curling around the edges of the room, distinct even over the murmur of conversation. Rishmond looked up, scanning for the source, but there was none.

Across the table, Tybour's gaze flicked upward as well.

They met Rishmond’s gaze, and Tybour dipped his head slightly—a silent message: You’re not alone.

Rishmond turned toward Cantor.

She was smiling faintly, exhaustion lining her face, completely unaware of the sound. Whatever it was, she hadn’t heard it.

“What?” she asked, catching the look between the two of them. Her eyes darted between Rishmond and Tybour. “Did I miss something? Are you two making fun of me?”

She nudged Rishmond’s shoulder with a tired grin.

“No,” Rishmond said, recovering, “just wondering if you’re as tired as I am.”

Tybour smiled at the exchange, then nodded toward the far wall.

“Go,” he said. “There’s no need for you here now.”

He gestured, and a young tiger beastman stepped forward. He wore a crisp blue vest over utilitarian leathers, his striped tail swishing lazily behind him.

“This is Roqep. He’ll show you to your rooms. If you need anything—anything at all—ask him. Or anyone else in a blue vest.”

Roqep bowed silently, then gestured with a wide, open palm toward a side hallway lit with lanterns.

“Come,” he said, his voice low and resonant, soft-pawed steps already moving down the corridor.

Rishmond stood, catching the slight pressure in the back of his mind again—like a breath through stone.

The mines were already calling.

Roqep spoke as they made their way through the stone halls, his deep voice calm and smooth.

“Happy to help. Your rooms aren’t far—and quite near each other.” His stride was steady and confident, his striped tail flicking lazily behind him. “Would you like water, or anything else delivered to your rooms before sleep? Your belongings have already been placed inside.”

Torg joined them silently, padding along just behind Rishmond and Cantor like a loyal shadow. The four of them left the hall behind and entered a wide corridor lit by warm torchlight.

“Your beds are ready,” Roqep continued, his tone friendly but aloof. “Should you need more blankets—or fewer—or different pillows, just ask. We’re not Castle Retinor, mind you, but we have our comforts. Most guests don’t find much to complain about.”

He kept talking as they walked, a quiet rhythm of information delivered with the ease of long practice. He spoke of the garrison layout, the building they were currently in, and what things might be found nearby—stables, the bathhouse, the forge, the kitchens. There were mentions of shops and a small tavern outside the main gate, and a few trails worth walking if they were so inclined.

To Rishmond, it almost sounded like they’d come on holiday.

Cantor, walking just behind Roqep, cast Rishmond a bemused look and mouthed, “Vacation?”

He nearly laughed. Nearly.

After several more turns—more than Rishmond could reasonably remember in his growing exhaustion—they came to a corridor lined with sturdy wooden doors. The stone underfoot gave way to thick, patterned carpeting in warm earthen hues. The air here was quieter, dimmer, more intimate. The torches were spaced farther apart now, their flickering light casting long shadows on the walls.

There were no more windows.

At some point, they’d left the outer halls and entered a more interior section of the building—something tucked within the square structure of the garrison. Rishmond realized, distantly, that he had no idea how to get back to the great hall from here. But he was too tired to care.

Roqep stopped in front of a door and gave it a gentle knock with one clawed knuckle—habit more than necessity.

“These are your rooms,” he said. “Rishmond, you’ll be here.” He turned slightly. “Torg is the next door down. Young lady, yours is across the hall. Should you need anything, ring the bell beside your door. Someone will come.”

Rishmond nodded, barely suppressing a yawn. The air here felt heavier, stiller, as if it encouraged silence.

“Thank you, Roqep,” he said.

The beastman bowed slightly, his golden eyes glinting in the torchlight. “Sleep well,” he said, and turned to leave but paused eyeing the crystal gloem.

The door opened easily.

The room beyond was dark, warm, and quiet.

Rishmond paused at the door, noting its color—blue, he thought, though it was hard to be sure in the flickering torchlight. Some kind of geometric pattern crossed its surface in a contrasting hue, precise and intricate. Not something slapped on casually. It meant something, though he couldn’t guess what.

That one was paler—white perhaps, or a very light blue. Its pattern was simpler, almost minimal by comparison.

“The morning light will help,” Roqep added, as if reading Rishmond’s thoughts. “The glass above will let the sun in—you’ll be able to appreciate the decor then. Each door is painted with care. And the murals, of course.”

He nodded toward the corridor walls. Rishmond looked more closely and realized that both sides of the hall were indeed painted—murals ran the full length, rich with color and detail, hidden now in the dim light.

He glanced back the way they’d come. The halls they’d passed were painted too, he saw now. Somehow, he hadn’t noticed. The exhaustion clouding his mind was only part of it.

The lingering warmth of Cantor’s hand still in his palm… probably didn’t help.

“Roqep,” Rishmond said, pulling his mind back to the present, “do you ever hear the voices? From the Glittergreen Mountains, I mean. Like the one we heard earlier, in the great hall?”

Roqep gave him a peculiar look. “No. The effects of the mountains don’t reach the garrison. Or the town. Once you cross the barrier on the far side, yes—but here?” He shook his head, firm and certain. “We’re protected. I’ve never heard of anyone experiencing the voices or visions inside the garrison. If you thought you heard something, it was likely your imagination. You’re tired. And you’ve heard too many stories.”

“I didn’t hear anything in the hall,” Cantor added softly. She laid a hand on Rishmond’s shoulder. Her brow was drawn, eyes searching his. “Is that what you and Tybour were exchanging looks about?”

Rishmond hesitated for a moment—just long enough to wonder.

Then he smiled. “No. It must’ve been the stories. Or maybe Tybour decided to spook me. Wouldn’t be the first time. Honestly, it’s probably just wind through the rafters—or Tybour being a massive prankster. He lives for that kind of thing.”

He almost believed it.

Cantor’s face softened. Her worry melted into a tired but lovely smile.

And just like that, Rishmond realized it—really saw her. She’d smiled a thousand times in his presence before, but now something clicked. Something tightened in his chest. She was beautiful when she smiled.

He smiled back, their eyes catching and holding.

For a long moment, the corridor felt like a different place entirely.

Then Roqep cleared his throat—loudly, and right next to Rishmond’s ear.

He flinched. “Right. Yes. Thank you, Roqep. Sleep well.”

The tiger-man gave a low, amused bow. “And to you both.”

“Yes, thank you,” Cantor added. Then she turned to Rishmond, stepping in close.

She wrapped her arms around him, and the gesture was warm and natural, like it had always been there, waiting to happen. Rishmond returned the embrace, holding her gently.

He breathed her in—clean, fresh. Her hair smelled of sun-warmed linens and something floral, familiar now. A perfume she’d started wearing sometime early in the expedition. He didn’t know its name, only that it suited her.

They pulled back slowly, neither rushing.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Cantor said softly, her hand trailing lightly down his arm before she turned toward her door.

Rishmond watched her go, his heart a quiet echo in his chest.

Then he turned to his own door, the blue paint catching the torchlight just so.

He stepped inside.

And for a little while, at least, there were no whispers.

It took Rishmond a long time to fall asleep.

The bed was soft, the blankets warm, the room quiet. He curled beneath the covers, pulling them up to his chin, eyes heavy but his mind refusing to settle.

Tomorrow would be a new day.

A big day. Deeper into the Glittergreen Mines. Deeper into mystery. Deeper into the strange bond forming between himself and Torg, and into whatever it was Tybour suspected he was becoming.

But more than that—it might be a day to explore something else.

Something warmer. Closer. He couldn’t stop thinking of Cantor. The weight of her arms around him, the scent of her hair, the smile she’d given him in the torchlight. Something had shifted between them. He didn’t know what, exactly, but it had. He could feel it.

He smiled into the dark, and rolled onto his side.

But then—unbidden—came the flicker of Illiar’s face in his mind’s eye. Her bright, defiant eyes. Her quick wit. Her strength. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the image away. She has no interest in me, he told himself. She never did.

It didn’t matter what he told himself.

Dreams have no sense of boundaries, no regard for reason.

And when they finally came, they did not let him choose.

Cantor and Illiar both filled his dreaming mind—sometimes together, sometimes not, always confusing. Voices called to him, half-familiar and half-divine, their meanings lost in mist. The Glittergreen whispered from somewhere far below, and the scent of mint and dragon-flower drifted through visions of glowing caverns and hands reaching out to him—one soft, one calloused.

Rishmond tossed in his sleep, brow furrowed.

By morning, he would try hard to forget the dreams.

But some things don't let go so easily.

Tybour followed Rosa up the narrow spiral staircase that wound toward the top floor of the garrison. The stone steps were steep, tightly packed, and dimly lit by torches spaced far apart along the wall. Shadows swirled as they climbed.

The view directly in front of him didn’t help his focus.

Rosa’s figure moved with casual grace, each step a subtle shift of leather over muscle, and the tight cut of her breeches left very little to imagination—though Tybour’s imagination hardly needed the encouragement. He let his thoughts drift, just a little, appreciating the confident rise and fall of each stride ahead of him.

Then she stopped abruptly.

Tybour’s face bumped full-on into the curve of her backside. He stumbled back half a step, blinking.

“What the—?”

He realized too late that she’d been speaking—breaking the quiet of the climb—and he hadn’t heard a word.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, looking up.

She’d turned to face him, half-twisted on the stairwell, one eyebrow raised, her head tilted in a way that somehow made her look both bemused and dangerous.

“Something distracting you, Tybour?” Her voice dripped with amusement. “You looked a bit mesmerized. Like a man under the sway of... well, something gently swaying.”

He grinned, playing along without apology. He climbed the last step between them so his face was now level with her chest, close enough to catch the scent of steel oil and mint on her collar.

“Oh, I was just wondering where a garrison commander out in the wilds of The Reaches finds such... exquisite tailoring.” He let the words linger just a little too long. “I mean, I thought you’d given up the high-fashion life when you took up sword and stone—but clearly, you still have your secrets.”

He gave a slow, theatrical glance at her breeches, then met her eyes again with a mock-solemn expression.

“Are they custom-made?” he asked. “Or is there some hidden atelier out here in the barrens that specializes in... dangerous curves and battlefield practicality?”

Rosa’s smile vanished.

Her gaze dropped slightly, her voice lower and flatter than before. “Quality clothing is important, even out here in the ‘sticks.’” Her fingers touched his shoulder—not affectionately, but deliberately. A clear, firm signal.

“And I see you haven’t spared a single coin on yours, First Mage.”

Her hand gave a slight push. Not rough. Not playful. But unmistakably dismissive.

Tybour straightened as she turned and resumed her ascent, her boots clicking against the worn stone. The playful edge in her voice returned, muted but unmistakable.

“Come along. If you truly mean to go into the mines tomorrow, you’ll want your rest.”

She climbed the last steps quickly and turned down a dim hallway, her stride confident and composed. The corridor was quiet, the torches fewer and dimmer. Just ahead, a large wooden door sat along the left wall, bound in thick iron bands. Blue and white paint marked it, soft in the low light. There were no other doors visible along the hall—only stone and shadow.

Rosa reached beneath the collar of her tunic and withdrew a heavy iron key from the chain around her neck. The key scraped faintly as she turned it in the lock. She pushed the door inward and stepped to one side, her silhouette framed in candlelight.

Tybour entered.

A single, wide candle burned in the center of a low wooden table. The flame flickered lazily, casting a warm circle of light across the stone floor. Beyond it, the room stretched into darkness.

Shadows pooled around the furnishings—chairs, trunks, and some tall armoire against the wall. To the right, shutters let in a slice of moonlight, pale and thin. The silver light didn’t so much brighten the space as deepen the contrast, painting long shadows across drawn curtains and carved wood.

The room smelled of old wood and lavender oil. A bed sat somewhere in the gloom, barely outlined. It was large. Comfortable, surely. But in the flickering half-light, it looked cavernous. A place for dreams, or memories.

Rosa did not enter.

The door closed with a heavy, muted thud—followed by the sharp click of the lock sliding into place.

Tybour turned toward the sound.

Rosa stood with her back to the door, the candlelight painting her features in flickering gold and shadow. Her breastplate caught the glow, drawing Tybour’s eyes to the curve of her chest before he could stop himself.

Without a word, she unfastened the buckles. The armor slid from her body and crashed to the stone floor with a resonant clang that shattered the silence. The echo hung in the air, sharp and final.

She stepped forward—slowly, deliberately. At some point, she’d removed her boots. Tybour hadn’t noticed when. Now, her bare feet moved silently over the scattered rugs, her gait unhurried but purposeful. Piece by piece, the rest of her armor and clothing fell away, until nothing stood between her and him but the soft weight of the moment.

There was strength in her nakedness, not fragility. A command in her stillness, not submission.

Tybour felt heat stir low in his chest and belly, anchoring him to the spot. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He simply watched, unwilling to break the spell between them.

Rosa reached the bed and sank onto its edge, extending a hand.

He crossed the space and let her pull him down beside her. For a moment, he hovered above her, breath caught in his throat. Her eyes met his—bright, unflinching, and filled with something deeper than desire.

It was trust. It was need. It was history.

He bent toward her slowly, reverently, and she rose to meet him with the same aching hunger. Their bodies met like a memory returning, familiar and urgent all at once. Time narrowed to breath and heartbeat, the space between their bodies vanishing.

For one long, exquisite moment, they stilled—wrapped in heat, in quiet, in the knowledge of each other.

And then the silence gave way to motion, soft and deliberate, the world outside forgotten.

Tybour couldn’t recall when his clothes had come off. Had he removed them, or had she? The question flickered and vanished as soon as skin met skin. A slow ember ignited within him, swelling into something deeper, hotter, as her body arched to meet his.

The moment their bodies joined, something else ignited.

A shimmer of lotret, unseen but unmistakable, surged around them—drawn in by instinct, by desire, by the primal rhythm of two powerful beings surrendering to each other. Tiny pinpricks of light shimmered briefly in the air, like stardust drifting in the candlelight.

Then came the lotrar—deep magic, older than words, older than gods. It pulsed once, a low thrum in Tybour's core, echoed in Rosa’s breath. The floor beneath them hummed faintly as something vast and old stirred in response. For a brief moment, their joined passion became a beacon, a flare of resonance in the weave of Rit itself.

Rosa’s fingers dug into his hips, grounding him even as the magic threatened to lift them both beyond the room. Her eyes blazed gold for a heartbeat, and Tybour felt his own aura crack open, as if the air inside his lungs had turned to fire. He gave in to her hunger, matching it with his own.

Their rhythm grew desperate—scratching, biting, breathless. The lotret danced around them now, visible with every motion, pulsing and shifting like the auroras of the far north. They moved across the room, through the flickering haze of it, never breaking contact. Rugs were swept aside. Shadows danced on the walls.

On the second crescendo, Tybour cried out—a burst of light flashing from his fingers into her back. She arched and answered, her own power surging to meet his, wrapping around him like silk and flame. The room itself responded: the candle flickered wildly, the floor creaked beneath them, and the very air tasted of ozone and mint and jasmine.

They reached the edge again and tumbled over it together—this time slower, deeper, more complete. The lotrar throbbed once more, low and lingering, then faded, leaving behind only echoes and the scent of charged earth and spice.

Finally, they collapsed into the bed, the candle burned low, its pool of light now no larger than a handspan.

Rosa lay on his chest, her breath steadying. Her dark curls fanned across his pale skin like calligraphy, one hand resting on his ribs where the last of his magic still flickered faintly beneath the surface.

Tybour studied the contrast between them. Her warmth, her strength, the softness of the moment.

The magic had stilled.

So had the world.

"Well… Husband." She spoke the word with deliberate emphasis, a hint of mischief curling in her tone. "I was beginning to wonder if perhaps I was no longer desirable to you. No kiss hello, no flirtatious banter, not even a hidden grope of my ass at dinner. Have I become unattractive to you after all this time? Or perhaps your desires have been captured by another?"

She was teasing—probably. Tybour thought so. Mostly.

"My dearest Wife," he replied, the word spoken like a title, a truth, a name he’d never grown tired of saying. "You know there is no other for me than you. Since the day you beat me senseless in a fair fight, I have been wholly and forever yours. No one could ever take your place in my heart."

A flicker of memory flashed through his mind—Semmolee Turnsol, smiling at him across the flickering light of a long-dead campfire. He banished the image before it could settle.

Rosa’s fingers tensed slightly on his ribs. She tugged him closer until their bodies were flush again, warm skin against skin.

"As you say, Husband," she murmured, her voice soft but weighty. "Ours is a love for the ages—even to rival Ceitus and Romalea. And that seems to be our problem."

"Rosa..." Tybour's voice dropped low, almost pleading. "Not tonight. Not now. Let us live tonight for tonight, and leave what must be for tomorrow… to tomorrow. There will be time to speak of it. But not now. Not here. I want only to be with you tonight."

She lifted her head, twisting against his chest, her eyes catching what little light the dying candle still cast. In the dark, he could still see the spark in her gaze—wild, clever, unflinching. Rosa Asherton was not one to postpone a reckoning.

But after a long pause, she gave a single nod.

"As you wish, Husband. Tomorrow, then."

She dropped her head onto his chest again, curled in close—and bit him. Not gently.

Tybour winced with a low laugh as she snuggled in tight.

Rosa always got the last word.

Tybour listened as Rosa’s breathing deepened and grew steady. The warmth of her against his side, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the faint scent of jasmine and steel—these things anchored him in the moment, and soon, he followed her into sleep.