The midnight hour stretched long over the open grasslands, the sky a vast canvas of shifting blues and shadowed blacks. A crescent moon hung low, its silver light faint but sharp, like a blade glinting in the dark. Wisps of clouds drifted sluggishly, the wind brushing through the tall grass—not in a gentle roll, but a slow, creeping shudder.

  In the distance, a lone tree hunched against the horizon, its twisted branches reaching upward, almost human in silhouette. The air smelled of damp soil, a promise of distant rain, but beneath it lingered something else—an invisible weight pressing at the edges of awareness.

  The camp was still, the fire reduced to glowing embers, its light barely pushing against the darkness. The company lay scattered around it, wrapped in the heavy embrace of sleep, yet none of them truly at peace. Lyrik twitched from time to time, fingers curling and uncurling as if grasping at something in a dream, his breathing uneven. Selene had rolled onto her side, her brows furrowed, muttering soft, broken words under her breath. Mira, who rarely surrendered fully to sleep, lay still, eyes closed but ears flicking at every stray gust of wind, as though her body refused to trust the night. Ewin had drawn his cloak tight around him, face turned away, his bow resting within arm’s reach, a quiet habit of readiness even in rest.

  Rylas, as always, was motionless, his presence like an immovable weight at the edge of the firelight. He had not unrolled his bedroll, had made no attempt to rest, simply sitting with his back against a rock, arms crossed, his sword within reach. He did not need to be awake to be ready.

  Robert, like the others, had also given in to exhaustion, shifting once for comfort before falling into deep, steady breathing.

  The next watch had passed, but I hadn’t woken anyone. They needed the rest. And I didn’t mind the solitude.

  The night was never truly silent. The wind whispered through the tall grass, carrying distant sounds with it—some familiar, others less so.

  Beyond the valley, an eerie cry drifted through the night—too shrill for a wolf, too unnatural for a bird. A guttural howl followed, deep and distorted. The kind that sent a prickle down the spine.

  I let my mana seep outward, unfurling like mist. The night felt it. The distant cry stilled. A hesitation, a flicker of understanding. Then, the soft rustling of retreat—something that had wandered too close but now thought better of it.

  For a moment, silence stretched. The wind picked up again, as if nothing had disturbed it.

  Then—a raven cawed.

  A single, jarring note that should have shattered the quiet.

  Yet no one stirred.

  The fire pulsed softly. Beyond its glow, a shadow moved. A raven, black as the void between stars, circled the camp in slow, deliberate turns. Its wings beat without sound, gliding in unnatural silence.

  I frowned. Something felt off.

  The company remained still—too still. Mira, who noticed everything, didn’t stir. Even Rylas, ever-alert, remained unmoving. As if the raven existed in a world separate from theirs.

  But I saw it. I heard it. And I knew—it was meant for me.

  Slowly, I extended my arm.

  The raven hesitated mid-circle, then folded its wings and dove. It didn’t descend like a bird—it fell, weightless, a whisper in the air. Then, too fluid to be natural, it perched lightly on my hand.

  And I felt—nothing.

  Not the weight of claws, not the warmth of a living thing. It was there, yet it wasn’t. Wisps of black coiled from its form, dissolving into the air like ink in water, reforming with every shift of its feathers.

  A mana construct.

  I smiled. Of course.

  I knew exactly who it belonged to.

  The raven clicked its beak once, then pushed off my hand. It didn’t flap its wings—it simply lifted, gliding as if carried by an unseen force.

  One final, silent loop over the camp. Then, it tilted its wings and vanished beyond the hills, swallowed by the night.

  The fire flickered low, the wind carrying the crisp scent of open grasslands. The company slept on, unaware of the presence that had passed through our camp.

  I exhaled, casting a final glance at them.

  They would be fine.

  Then, without a word, I stepped beyond the firelight and into the waiting night.

  *

  The raven drifted ahead, a shadow against the star-flecked sky, its form flickering like a dying ember as it glided effortlessly through the open night. I followed, unhurried, my steps steady against the shifting grass. The land stretched endlessly before me, a sea of silvered blades swaying in slow, rhythmic waves beneath the crescent moon’s glow. The wind curled around me, cool and whispering, carrying the scent of rain that had yet to fall.

  There was no urgency. No words spoken; no signal given. And yet, the raven led, and I followed.

  The campfire had long since disappeared behind me, swallowed by distance and shadow. With every step, the silence deepened, as if the world itself was retreating, leaving only the night.

  Then I saw her, as the raven disappeared into mist, its dark wisps curling away into the night like whispers lost to the wind.

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  She stood beneath the moon, a shadow draped in black silk. Her gown flowed like dark water, shifting without movement, shimmering with faint, hidden patterns in the pale light. Her hair, sleek as ink, cascaded down her back, untouched by the night’s breeze.

  Her face was a study in contrasts—skin pale against the dark, eyes black as the void. They held mine. For a heartbeat, something flickered in their depths—a hesitation, a breath held too short. Her fingers twitched, then stilled. No one else would have noticed. But I did.

  Then, she moved.

  A curtsy—slow, precise. Not a servant’s bow, but a queen’s gesture. Her gown pooled around her like ink, measured and controlled.

  Her black eyes, sharp and knowing, never wavered. Her lips, full and blood-red, remained unsmiling. The moonlight traced the high, elegant lines of her cheekbones, casting shadows that made her beauty feel distant—untouchable. She was beautiful, undeniably. But it was a beauty edged with something else – something powerful, something dangerous.

  "My Lord." Her voice, smooth as silk, held a faint, almost imperceptible hesitation.

  I let the silence linger, watching her perfectly poised curtsy. "Rise, Cordelia."

  Cordelia rose at my command, movements as fluid as the night around us, the hem of her gown barely disturbing the grass beneath her. She did not rush. She never did. Her gaze lifted, meeting mine—not hesitant, not searching, but with the quiet weight of something known, acknowledged.

  I let the silence stretch between us, letting the moment settle. Then, with the barest flicker of amusement, I said, “A surprise, seeing one of your familiars.”

  A breath of wind passed between us, cool against my skin. Her lips curved—not quite a smile, but the shadow of one.

  “I was surprised as well, my lord.” Her voice was smooth, steady, yet there was something in it—not quite warmth, but something just a shade softer than her usual edge. “I knew you were passing through the area, but I never expected our paths to cross… and certainly not through one of my own.”

  Her gaze flickered, briefly, deliberately, toward the distant forest.

  “Granny,” I murmured.

  Cordelia inclined her head slightly. “Yes.”

  She turned, stepping lightly through the grass, and I followed—not because she led, but because she had more to say.

  “It was centuries ago,” she began, her tone drifting as if pulling the memory from a place long untouched. “After an… incident, I withdrew from the world.”

  She did not elaborate.

  I did not ask.

  “For a time, I lived in seclusion, deep within the forest. No magic. No disturbances. Just silence.” The way she said it, not wistfully, not regretfully, but simply as a fact, made it clear—it was not peace. It was absence.

  “I veiled myself as an old woman,” she continued, “simply because it was easier. People do not ask much of the old. They pass them by without a second glance, dismissing them as fragile, harmless.”

  Her eyes sharpened slightly, lips curving at the irony. “It was convenient.”

  A pause. Then, her voice softened just slightly, just enough to make the words feel distant, yet precise.

  “One day, as I walked through the woods, I heard a sound—faint, broken. A child, crying.”

  The wind stirred through the grass, carrying the scent of damp soil and distant rain.

  “He was five. Maybe six.” Her gaze did not waver, but her voice dropped just slightly, as if recalling the way the child’s cries had once pierced the quiet. “Lost. Huddled beneath the roots of a fallen tree. His cheeks were streaked with dirt, his hands shaking.”

  “Did you approach him?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  She tilted her head slightly, as if seeing the memory in front of her. “I asked him where he had come from, how he had gotten lost, where his parents were.”

  The way her voice carried the next words, I already knew the answer.

  “He couldn’t remember.”

  Her fingers brushed absently against the folds of her gown; her expression unreadable. “He told me about his parents, his home, his village. But how he had come to be there? That part was… missing.”

  I remained silent.

  “I had no intention of interfering.” She exhaled lightly, as if amused by her past self. “But I knew of the village he spoke of—only whispers, overheard from the hunters who passed through the woods. It took time to find it, especially without magic, but…”

  She stopped walking.

  For a moment, there was only the rustle of the grass, the cool wind pressing against the folds of our cloaks.

  Then, in a voice smooth and precise, she said, “By the time we arrived, the village was burning.”

  A flicker of something passed through her gaze—too fleeting to name, too measured to be grief.

  “Bandits.”

  The word hung in the air, heavy and absolute.

  “I shielded the boy before he could see.” Her voice did not soften, but there was an edge there—a quiet, deliberate action. “Not out of empathy, my lord. But sympathy. The difference matters.”

  It did.

  Sympathy was fleeting, passing. Empathy required one to feel.

  I said nothing, waiting.

  “The mind is strange,” she continued. “Memories do not disappear without reason. He did not forget how he got lost. He simply could not bear to remember.”

  I already knew. The boy had escaped. He had run when the bandits came, tearing through his home, his family, leaving behind nothing but screams and fire. His mind had done what his body could not—it had fled.

  Cordelia’s gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the village lay, distant but present.

  “I searched the region, a momentary impulse. Several other villages had been struck.”

  Her hands folded lightly in front of her, the motion absent, almost thoughtful. “There were survivors. Not many. I gathered them. Made a camp.”

  A slow breath, almost amused. “And, as these things tend to, the camp grew.”

  A village. A town. A place that was never meant to be, yet existed all the same.

  She finally turned her gaze back to me, her expression cool, unreadable. “They depended on me. But not as one depends on another human.” The moonlight traced the curve of her jaw, the sharp edges of her poise. “I was not one of them. I was… something else.”

  She was the keeper. The guardian. A presence as distant as the moon, yet inevitable as the tide.

  I understood.

  “And so, you left.”

  A nod. “Yes. But I left something behind.”

  Her lips curved slightly—not in amusement, but in acknowledgment.

  “A Vestige.”

  The weight of understanding settled easily between us.

  For a moment, the world stretched still again, the quiet holding something almost surreal between us.

  Then, Cordelia exhaled lightly, tilting her head just so. “She was watching the brothers. And then… she noticed you.”

  She met my gaze, eyes steady.

  “That is why I am here, my lord.”

  I studied her for a moment longer, the wind shifting once more, cool against my skin. The night pressed close, stretching vast and silent around us.

  Then, with a slow, measured breath, I said, “Of course you are.”

  The silence stretched between us, deep as the night itself. The wind whispered low through the tall grass, carrying with it the distant rustling of unseen creatures, the hush of a world that never truly slept.

  Cordelia stood poised, unhurried, as if waiting for the right moment to let the words slip past her lips. The moonlight traced faint silver along the sharp edges of her features, her midnight gown shifting like liquid shadow as the breeze coiled around her.

  Then, finally, she spoke.

  "Though unexpected, my lord, this meeting is fortunate. Developments are already in motion, and the currents are shifting faster than anticipated."

  She took a step closer, her gaze steady. "The first matter: the courier you expected has arrived ahead of schedule. He is already in Old Milltown, waiting until you and your party reach the town."

  A beat. Her voice softened just slightly, a measured pause before the next piece fell into place.

  "The second matter concerns Ewin." Her eyes flickered, faintly amused. “A delegation from House Syltharion of Ilythrin has come bearing an urgent order—the immediate summoning of Ewin. His wife is soon to give birth."

  I exhaled through my nose.

  Not surprising. Expected. Yet… here it was.

  Ewin had been racing against it since the beginning, counting down the weeks, knowing each step brought him closer to his departure.

  "A childbirth," I murmured, more to myself than to her.

  A birth among elves was not just an event—it was an celebration. A child born to an elven family was a rare and momentous thing, and House Syltharion would expect Ewin’s presence not just as a father, but as a guardian to his legacy. To their legacy.

  Cordelia inclined her head slightly. "For elves, a child born is a rare blessing, one that echoes across generations. The delegation will not wait long."

  The group will soon be seven instead of eight.

  I turned my head slightly.

  "And the third?"

  "Wraith activity in the Hollowed Valley. A small group intends to spook a herd of Rumblehorns into stampeding through your path."

  A faint pulse of irritation stirred beneath my skin. Rumblehorns. Massive, armored, territorial. Herbivores, but that hardly mattered. When enraged, they would charge through anything in their way—trees, stone, flesh.

  Cordelia’s gaze flickered toward the distant hills. “They will time their spooking at first light, ensuring the Rumblehorns cross directly into your path.”

  I glanced toward the valley, where the land lay still beneath the crescent moon. A fragile, waiting silence.

  "They expect us to move at sunrise," I murmured. "So, we won’t."

  Cordelia tilted her head slightly in understanding. “You intend to leave now, before they’re ready.”

  "If I wait until dawn, I walk into their timing. If I move now, they walk into mine."

  I turned back to Cordelia, my voice measured, certain.

  "You have done well to inform me. I will move the company at once."

  She did not object. “The brothers?" she asked.

  "They will return to their village. Have your Vestige—‘Granny’—watch over them until they return to Rose Hills. The mana on the pouch is waning."

  Cordelia nodded once, accepting the command without further comment.

  The wind stirred around us, the grass whispering secrets to the night. I let the silence settle before adding, "I have no intention of stumbling into pitfalls I already know the size and depth of."

  Cordelia’s gaze met mine, her lips curving slightly. "A wise choice, my lord."

  I tilted my head slightly. "It is not wisdom, Cordelia. It is the simple truth. Even if you know the depth of a pit, there is always a chance to break an ankle."

  Her amusement did not show, but I felt it in the way she exhaled, measured and slow. "Then I suppose it is fortunate that you never misstep."

  "Let’s not test that theory tonight."

  And with that, I turned, striding into the embrace of the waiting dark, the path ahead already set. Behind me, Cordelia’s presence faded, vanishing into the night as if she had never been there at all.