Dhegian Chronicles

A Captain’s Mission

Chapter 1

            Nalgur scanned left and right, fixed on his enraged king. No amount of exposure to royal tantrums had numbed him to this ordeal, but Nalgur stood firm, clasping his hands behind his back.      

            He understood the man well; whatever flew across the study chamber would crash on the cold stones—never against him.

            “That foolish boy, running about without a care in the world,” Dabanda bellowed, smashing his fist onto the table before resuming his agitated pacing. “Never mind that any Makossan will rip his throat—or the first bandit to lay a hand on his neck will squeeze him for every coin in this kingdom!”

            The king snatched the parchment from his desk, eyebrows knitting as he scanned the young prince’s handwritten note for the hundredth time. He crumpled it, groaned, and tossed it across the room.

            Dabanda’s eyes smoldered like embers. “If word of this reaches the wrong people…”

            “I recommend discretion, Your Grace,” Nalgur said, his tone measured.

            The king shot Nalgur a glare, but his tantrum ebbed as quickly as it began.

            Taking a deep breath, the broad-shouldered king leveled his gaze. “Time is slipping through our fingers.”

            Nalgur nodded. “Makossa’s spy network is remarkably efficient.”

            Dark hollows framed the king’s eyes, his brow furrowing. A tremor crept into his voice. “I should have listened to the boy. Find my son, Captain, and bring him back.”

            “I will, Your Grace.” Nalgur saluted crisply and pivoted toward the door.

            Striding to the armory, he shed his cumbersome steel armor for a lighter boiled-leather cuirass, trading his blue cloak for a plain brown woolen one.

            Now I could pass as any middle-aged sellsword on the road.

            Nalgur ordered a man to saddle Blaze and pack rations, then slipped a pouch of coins under his cloak and drew his hood low.

            I trust these men with my life, but mead and ale have a way of loosening tongues.

            Beneath the mid-afternoon glare, he left the palace and trotted steadily toward the city gate. Sentries rarely questioned those leaving, though they barred unruly foreigners. Nalgur slipped past two guards whose gazes drifted over him. He murmured, silently vowing to address this laxness upon his return.

            The Dhegian capital receded as he trotted southward. Once, his younger self would have relished this chase—a chance for glory and to test his skills against Makossa’s finest.    

            The brashness of young blood—now scars line my flesh and I long only for Devoloka.

            No wonder the prince acted so recklessly. The fifteen-year-old lad grew up on tales of ancestral heroism—and the Garrows enjoyed their share of those.

            I bear some blame; I told him hundreds of those stories.

            Devoloka might anchor his heart, but wherever the Garrows stood mattered more. Nalgur released his grip on the reins. He needed a clear head—anger clouded judgment, and fear even more so.

            I’m coming, my Prince.

            With luck, Nalgur might overtake his prince on the road. Stendun’s letter detailed his route, much to Nalgur’s relief. The young prince would ride the main road—a dangerous gamble, given his youth, sword at his hip, horse laden with provisions, and coins enough for many inns.

            Hopefully, he’ll wear a semblance of disguise. Stendun will do anything for his little brother. If this road truly holds a cure for Fabofed, I am duty-bound to verify its viability once I secure the prince.

            Nalgur’s eyes narrowed on the caravan ahead. It halted abruptly as he strode past. Three hired guards fingered their hilts. It took some time for the driver to whip the team forward, the wagon’s wheels echoing in the distance.

            Setting his mount to a steady pace, Nalgur passed merchants and Dhegian patrols as the day waned. Devoloka’s proximity kept the road safe—any brigand here would hang from a rope at dawn.

            Stendun might be young, but he’d proven his wisdom many times. He wouldn’t have warned his father without a significant head start. Nalgur had no chance to catch him today, and a reckless pursuit in the coming darkness could break his horse’s leg.

            Pulling on the reins, he guided his horse onto the right curve leading to Ravengarde, one of the region’s small villages. The Courageous Crow lay just beyond the village square—Stendun would almost certainly seek shelter there; it was the most practical stop.

            Nalgur settled his horse in the stable and entered the inn. The well-fed matron sized him instantly. Conversations buzzed around, undisturbed by his presence. His palace uniform would have earned curtseys and the finest room, but he did not expect such treatment in this rugged outfit.

            Nalgur inclined his head. “A warm meal and a room for the night, if you please.”

            “What brings you to Ravengarde?” she demanded, hands on hips.

            “Duty,” he replied, voice even.

            She snorted and stepped forward, her nose nearly grazing his chest. “We’re full. Out—now.”

            Nalgur’s pulse thrummed, but he held her gaze without flinching. “I’ve come to aid the Moonrock Post. I hear they desperately need—”

            “Desperate?” Her laughter cracked the air like a whip. “The Moonrock was sacked and razed—no coin remains for you, sellsword.”

            Chairs scraped; a haggard bartender emerged, cudgel raised. Across the tavern, three ragged locals slid from their seats, knives foraged from shadows.

            Nalgur inhaled sharply, lifting both palms—a gesture of peace under a rising storm.           I won’t find rest here tonight. They’ve made it clear.

            The tavern door burst open. A black-haired woman stormed in, her boots thumping with each step. Every head turned. Coins spilled from her fist onto the counter—silver ringing like a summons.

            Nalgur’s brow creased as he studied her face. Where have I seen her before? I need her name and orders—immediately.

Chapter 2

            “Ah, Owine. I told you to wait for me. Now, don’t pout,” the black-haired woman said, smiling—though her blue eyes betrayed recognition.

            Nalgur stiffened.

            She turned to the matron, shrugging. “Men hate being told what to do…”

            “Tell me about it,” the matron snorted, thrusting a thumb over her shoulder. From behind, a grunt answered.

            The bartender slid his cudgel under the counter, and the tavern hummed back to life. A waft of sour ale and woodsmoke curled through the dim room.

            The woman’s gaze flicked to the worn hilt at Nalgur’s hip, then darted back to his face before she wove her tale. “I’m an OakStone Hunter, and he’s my escort—these are dangerous times to seek them.”

            The matron’s eyebrows arched as she gave Nalgur a respectful nod. “I apologize, Sir. May Iboka favor your quest. You fight for Dheg, and that suffices.”

            Nalgur nodded.

            The inn’s lanterns swung on iron hooks as Nalgur and the woman took a corner table. A wiry man with a prominent chin leaned against the far wall, nursing a mug of ale. Nalgur’s gaze flicked to him—something about the man’s stance felt… familiar.

            The woman raised two fingers at the matron.           

            “Coming right up, my Lady,” the matron said, calling the order to her husband.

            Nalgur dropped into the chair with a thud, palms splayed on the rough table. He studied her.

            “I remember you were the sullen type,” she said with a hearty laugh. “Relax, Captain.”

            Nalgur glanced at a nearby table—the four patrons were lost in rowdy talk. He leaned forward. “Who are you?”  

            The floorboards creaked under the matron’s approach as she slid two foaming ales across the table and snagged the coins.

            Nalgur’s eyes flicked upward just in time to catch a pale butterfly drifting down from the rafters. A shard of moonlight on its wings, it hovered over the woman’s mug, brushing the foam with ghostly grace before slipping away into shadow—leaving only a sudden hush that pricked at his spine.

            “Before we get comfortable,” she said to the matron, voice low and casual, “my cousin Arlen was sent ahead to wait on our arrival. A sturdy lad of fifteen winters, brown hair, and a sharp tongue. Seen him pass through?”

            The matron paused mid-step, linen apron swaying. She blinked. “Arlen? Never heard of him. No boy that age has checked in here today.”

            Her smile flickered—then smoothed back into faux concern. “Odd. He promised to meet us. Perhaps he grabbed a bite upstairs?”

            “If he did, he’s gone, or I’d have heard. Best you check the stables—boys that age tend to hide from their elders,” the matron said, leaving them.

            Nalgur’s jaw tensed. Every word she utters is a calculated risk. He leaned back, catching her eye. A polished obsidian talisman at her throat caught the last slant of light, its onyx surface gleaming.

            “We’ve met before—must be the years wiping your memory,” she chuckled. “The First Magus told me you’d be this way.”

            His lips pressed together at the mention. “First Magus Fimsra?”      

            “Is there another?”

            Nalgur grunted and sipped his ale.

            They drank in silence.

            How did Fimsra get wind of the missing prince so swiftly? Nalgur had no intention of revealing his mission.

            She set her mug down with a mocking flourish and sighed. “Oh, you’re a real master of subtlety—no one even spotted you—and you sure don’t look like a man marching off to war. I’m Rhellia—”

            “Guardian of the Wizards’ Guild,” Nalgur interrupted, drumming his fingers on the table. “The First Magus’ right hand.” Perfect—another entitled mage tagging along, adding zero value.

            Rhellia glared. “If you’ll let me finish: I’m on a mission for the First Magus—far more important than OakStone hunting. I’ve come to retrieve something invaluable to our beloved king.”

            He exhaled sharply. “I’m set, thanks.”          

            “Orders are orders,” Rhellia replied. “Besides, any wizard can tie you in knots.”

            “A few might disagree.”

            “Perhaps you’re not as dull-witted as rumored,” Rhellia smiled. “We’re skilled enough to search without raising alarms, and no one will note a few days’ absence.”

            Nalgur considered her words—he’d chastise the First Magus later for this. That bald wizard loved meddling. A small, begrudging smile tugged at Nalgur’s lips. Time for complaints later. For now, finding the prince is the only priority.

            He drained his ale and stood. “We ride at dawn. If I must haul you along, I’ll need rest.”

            Rhellia tapped her empty mug. “Humor at last? The rooms are booked—for you—though you might find space on my floor.”

            She brushed past him with a mischievous grin.

            As he followed, his eyes met the stranger’s for a heartbeat—cold recognition stirring deep in his gut.

            That chin… I’ve seen it before.

Chapter 3

            Nalgur slipped through the inn’s heavy door. Rhellia’s footsteps fell unnaturally soft, as though each step risked betraying their presence. He halted at the threshold when a figure peeled away from the alley wall—a lean silhouette darting between building shadows, every movement too deliberate to be random. A flash of hidden steel at the stranger’s hip sliced through the morning light before it vanished.

            A low rumble thundered in Nalgur’s throat—half growl, half warning. He gave Rhellia a curt nod—an unspoken signal—and she met his gaze, tension pulling tight at the corners of her eyes. Neither spoke as they mounted.

            He snapped the reins, and the horse’s hooves churned damp earth as they broke into a gallop. Rhellia kept pace effortlessly, determined.

            They rode until midday, pausing only to water their mounts. Rhellia dug into a saddlebag and produced a ball of brown cloth. She revealed a wooden raven—the prince’s hand-carved sculpture—and cradled it as a pale mist coiled from the wood.

            “We’re on the right track,” Rhellia declared, sweat beading on her brow. “The prince deviated up ahead.”

            Nalgur arched an eyebrow. “So, tracking is one of your abilities?”

            “Among others,” she replied, tucking the raven away. “Captain, must we ride so hard on Dhegian soil?”

            “Political intrigue moves faster than couriers. Makossa knows the prince left; tracking parties will follow.”           

            “By the time they arrive, surely we’ll be back in Devoloka?”

            “If even we have spies in Makossa, be assured they’re using theirs in Dheg.”

            “Understood. I defer to your expertise, Captain.”

            “We each have our roles.” Nalgur offered a brief nod.         

            Rhellia’s shoulders stiffened in the saddle. “Do you hear that?”

            He leaned forward—only his horse’s labored breaths and the crunch of gravel. He half-turned; her eyes were wide and unblinking in the afternoon gloom.

            “A thousand wings buzzing,” Rhellia whispered, fingertips ghosting over the smooth, black talisman at her throat.

            Nalgur scanned the treeline—no birds, no insects, not even wind. The world held its breath. “Where did he deviate?”

            Rhellia shook her head and took the lead, pausing where a narrow deer path veered from the main trail. Moss‑clad stones crumbled underfoot as she slipped into the shadows. Nalgur followed, every sense alert.

            Hidden behind brambles, a small cottage appeared—its thatch collapsed, windows gaping like dark eyes. They dismounted and tethered the horses to a gnarled oak.

            Rhellia’s hand hovered on the splintered doorframe. “He was here.”

            Nalgur drew his blade and slipped inside first, sunlight dancing across decaying floorboards and overturned chairs. Dust motes drifted slowly like trapped spirits.

            Near the hearth, half-buried in soot and debris, lay a porcelain doll’s head—painted cheeks cracked, one glass eye missing.

            Rhellia knelt beside it. “I… I used to have one just like that.”

            “Impossible,” Nalgur muttered.

            She looked up, brow raised.

            “My wife made one for our daughter, Houdrina.”

            Gently, she lifted it, running a fingertip over the chipped red lips. “Is she—”

            “Gone. Sickness took her in her twelfth year. We buried that doll with her.”

            A distant creak of floorboards made them start. Rhellia tucked the doll head into her satchel with reverence. “Come on, we still need to find the prince.”

            Nalgur rose, knocking soot from his boots. He hesitated by the door—then nodded to Rhellia. “Let’s go.”

            They gathered their horses and resumed a steady pace. Nalgur spotted another traveler trailing behind them—a lone rider. “That rider’s pursuit could mean Stendun’s capture—or worse. Stay close.”

            He urged his horse into a sprint, monitoring Rhellia with a quick glance. They thundered until a rough clearing opened into dense forest. His mount slowed and engaged the short but steep drop, and leapt over a fallen trunk, guided by Nalgur’s steady hand.

            Nalgur dismounted and secured his horse. Rhellia followed without hesitation. They slipped into the leafy thicket.

            “You saw him too.” Rhellia raised a palm; a faint breeze whispered outward, cloaking their imprint on the road.

            Nalgur adjusted his scabbard. “Since Ravengarde.”

            They held in the hush of the undergrowth, breath and heartbeat measured against the shade. Then, distant at first—a steady, rhythmic creak and clatter that spoke of more than a single rider.

            Nalgur’s tension eased. A caravan’s wheels means traders. The rider abandoned the chase. Relief thawed the knot in his gut.

            He turned to Rhellia and offered a slight, confident nod. “He’s not after us—for now.”

Chapter 4

            The wagon rumbled down the hoof-trodden path, its lanterns jolting over every rut. Nalgur waited until the wagon faded into the reddening horizon before returning to the road.

            They remounted their horses and resumed their pace, overtaking the caravan effortlessly. Nalgur cast a calculating glance over the travelers.

            Two grim sentries flanked the wagon. The driver tensed, and Nalgur met his ice-cold glare. A splash of dark blood stained one guard’s tunic. Suddenly, a fourth figure emerged from the far side of the wagon—the lone rider.

            That chin is unmistakable.

            In a heartbeat, Nalgur leaned forward in his saddle and dodged a bolt fired from the driver’s crossbow. The rider lunged, blade aimed at his temple. Nalgur slid free of the saddle, choosing a rough landing over certain death. He rolled up in a dust cloud and sprang to his feet, drawing his blade.

            Clashing steel rang out as he met a footman’s blade. He struck back with deadly precision, severing muscle and shattering his opponent’s femur. The guard’s shriek echoed as blood gushed.

            Nalgur heard another cry and glanced toward Rhellia. A second footman clutched his belly, dark blood marring his fingers. Then the air snapped with the scent of scorching flesh—Rhellia didn’t need help.

            Nalgur refocused on the driver, who cranked the crossbow for a second shot. His injured opponent struggled on the mangled leg, and Nalgur seized the man’s shoulder, driving him back toward the wagon.

            The driver, perched on the wagon bench, leveled his crossbow at Nalgur, eyes glacial with rage. Determined, Nalgur edged behind his makeshift shield. The injured footman groaned and writhed, but Nalgur held him tight.

            The sharp bolt gleamed.

            Only one of us leaves this alive. If I feign a charge and waste his bolt, I gain the edge.

            Nalgur extended his right leg as if to rush forward, then slipped back behind the wounded man.

            Click.

            Twang.

            Thwap.

            Another scream—less fierce this time—rose from his human shield.

            He tossed the limp body aside and raised his blade—a beam of fiery red light seared the wagon driver. Nalgur’s training kicked in—he pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle the acrid tang of ozone snapping at his nostrils. His eyes catalogued every spark dancing in slow motion, each ember leaving a fleeting, coppery tang—like blood on hot metal. 

            The man tumbled off the bench. 

            Dust hung in the air like embers as Nalgur swept the road for the lone rider. Across the haze, Rhellia stood over a smoldering corpse, her sword’s blade still slick with blood. Three fallen figures lay twisted in the dirt—no sign of reinforcements. Best to confirm casualties before pursuing the rider.

            Blaze pawed the road behind him, and Rhellia’s horse lay on its side, a crimson stain pooling across its flank.

            She halted mid‑stride, her thumb brushing the polished obsidian at her throat.

            “Rhellia?” His voice cut through the quiet.

            She blinked back at him—eyes hollow. A tremor shook her hand, and a thin cut traced her right cheek, dust settling into the wound.

            Nalgur pressed a blood-slick palm on her shoulder, but she flinched as though his touch burned her. “Are you hurt?”

            She nodded slowly, then shook her head, startled by her own motion. “No… I’m fine,” she whispered.

            Kneeling beside the dying horse, dagger drawn, Nalgur pressed his palm to its mane, feeling the last warmth ebb away. His blade hovered over its throat.

            A sudden shove sent Nalgur sprawling.

            He grunted and rose.

            Rhellia cradled the horse’s head, tears slipping unchecked. The horse moaned in pain.

            “It’s suffering,” Nalgur said softly.

            “Moonbolt,” she snapped, her eyes still shut. “Moonbolt is suffering. The First Magus can heal him. He will.”

            “We must go. The rider will alert Makossan hunters ahead.”

            Rhellia wept over Moonbolt. A soft yellow mist coalesced around her hands. “I can heal him. I will.”

            Only the First Magus can. We each grieve our own way, but we need to keep moving.

            Nalgur knelt and took a deep breath. These majestic creatures, so loyal and unsuspecting, never knew what trouble they courted—yet bore the worst of it.

            Rhellia’s roar shattered the stillness—a guttural plea that rattled Nalgur’s bones. Her palms sparked with jagged arcs of yellow magic, each flare sending ripples through the air, her eyes burning with frantic intensity.

            Oh no… Nalgur’s breath caught. His fingers tightened around the dagger’s hilt—he knew how one stray spark could end him. Yet at the sight of her trembling form, he loosened his grip. I can’t hurt her.

            Every muscle braced for the inevitable backlash—if her power surged beyond her control, he’d bear the cost. Then, as suddenly as it came, the magic collapsed into stillness.

            “Do it,” she rasped, voice cracking under the weight of her desperation.

            Nalgur exhaled, slow and heavy. The horse, its eyes glazed with an eerie tranquility, locked its gaze upon him. An unspoken understanding passed between man and animal. His fingers traced the jawbone, just below the tout muscles of his cheek, until he felt the cordlike thickness. A faint pulse still flickered.

            “May Iboka guide your spirit, Moonbolt.”

            The horse let out a whimper. With grim determination, Nalgur steadied his hand and slid his dagger in. Blood blossomed over his hand. Moonbolt jerked once and lay still.

            Nalgur rose, heart heavy. The forest whispered with an otherworldly hush, as if mourning a hero. He made his way towards the wagon.

            That lone rider—the man from the inn—I saw him before, in Devoloka. That’s a Cinderoak chin.

            He lifted the wagon’s curtain. Two bodies—a middle-aged woman and a boy—lay amid ruined vegetables.

            Nalgur smashed a fist into the side, splintering the wood. “Makossan scum!”         

            He jerked the curtain shut.

Chapter 5

            Nalgur retrieved Blaze farther down the road and rejoined Rhellia. She brushed past him; he caught her wrist, his grip gentle yet firm. “Don’t look in that wagon. Can you torch it?”

            “I… I can’t. I’m completely drained.”

            Nalgur laid a steady hand on her slumped shoulder. She looked beaten, her hair matted, and leather blood‑stained—evidence of her ordeal. “You really saved us back there.”

            At his praise, her shoulders lifted for a heartbeat—then sank again under exhaustion’s weight.     

            Rhellia remained still, gaze fixed ahead, as Nalgur took Moonbolt’s saddlebags and slung them onto the fresh mount. He unhitched the horse from the wagon. Then he handed her the reins, cupped his hands, and hoisted her into the saddle.

            Mounting his own horse, Nalgur rolled his left shoulder. The rough landing promised a nasty bruise. Nothing will break my resolve. I am the king’s sword—and I stand fast.

            They left the carnage behind and rode on at a light trot, Nalgur wary that Rhellia would slip with every jostle.

            A Dhegian foot patrol of six young soldiers, led by a hard-eyed sergeant, passed them. Nalgur nodded curtly. Poor lads—headed straight into the slaughter. This trial will harden them. By the time they arrive, we’ll be gone.

            They rode on through the full blaze of midday sun and into the slanting afternoon light, their horses’ steady hoof-beats carrying them mile after mile before Nalgur finally guided them to a clearing at dusk. He brought the horses to a halt and scanned the tree line.

            “Can you track the prince?” he asked.

            Rhellia blinked, then nodded.           

            Nalgur dismounted and guided her from the saddle. A wolf’s howl ripped through the trees—Rhellia flinched, eyes widening, as if the sound carried a blade’s hiss. She shook her head, trying to shake the flashback.
            “I’m here,” Nalgur murmured as he retrieved the raven sculpture from her saddlebag—its surface now cracked.
            Rhellia pressed the jagged fragments into her palm anyway. A white mist coalesced around her fingers, casting her shadow long and tremulous. She sank to one knee, each breath a rasp. Her legs trembled so violently she braced a fist on the earth to stay upright.

            “Rhellia…”

            “I must,” she ground out, head bowed. “I’ll give every last breath—even my life—if it means he survives.”

            Nalgur grunted.

            “He passed this way and pressed on for hours—this must be day three of his trek.” Rhellia accepted Nalgur’s hand and rose, wrapping the raven and tucking it into the saddlebag.

            “At least he made it this far.”

            Nalgur led them deeper into the woods. His legs pushed through thick undergrowth until the forest concealed them entirely. They found a wide clearing and Nalgur settled the horses for the night.

            Light rain drummed on leaves above. Given our luck, I expect a downpour.

            Dozens of black butterflies weaved a dark halo around Rhellia’s head—she seemed entirely unaware. In a sudden drift they vanished, leaving behind a colder air. One brushed Nalgur’s cloak, and a chill rippled down his spine.

            Drawing his dagger, Nalgur plucked two tangled bushes for pillows and set them beneath a tree. They sat in near darkness as he bit into a slice of cured sausage, washing it down with lukewarm water from his flask.

            Rhellia nibbled a wedge of aged goat cheese. “Why does it feel so empty? I’ve killed before, but never like this.”

            “It’s the suddenness. On a battlefield, you prepare for death—but none of us were ready for that.”

            She nodded, chewing thoughtfully.

            “Will the Cisigane Roots work?” Nalgur asked. “The prince noted them in those old tomes.”

            Rhellia bit her lower lip. “I believe so. The king dismissed the knowledge, but the prince’s notes were meticulous. Those aren’t the wishful ramblings of a child, but grounded scholarly work. The First Magus even praised them.”

            A breath he hadn’t realized he held escaped him. Great vision seems folly—until it succeeds.

            “Why would roots succeed where magic fails?” Nalgur pressed.

            Rhellia grinned. “You assume the two crafts aren’t complementary. Magic and nature overlap, and each holds secrets the other can’t reach.”

            Rain hammered the leaves overhead, turning drizzle into downpour. Nalgur set his flask to catch rainwater and rested his head on his makeshift pillow. The canopy offered some shelter, but they’d be soaked by dawn.

            Raising an eyebrow, Rhellia gestured at the space between them. “Do… we…?”

            “Unless you wish to shiver until sunrise,” he replied, voice softening.

            She burrowed against him, and with a slow inhalation, pressed the obsidian talisman to her forehead, murmuring softly.

            Nalgur wrapped the heavy cloak around them. He held her close, just as he had cradled his young daughter on those bitter winter nights.

            He saw Houdrina again: her slight frame curled against him, wisps of hearth-smoke dancing above her. A dull ache knotted his chest. She would have been Rhellia’s age now.

            He tightened his arms, willing warmth into her chilled bones.

            An inky-black butterfly drifted down, settling in Rhellia’s tangled hair. Nalgur froze. Houdrina had clasped exactly such a creature—its soft wingbeats the last sparkle of her laughter before sickness stole her away.

            I won’t let anything happen to you. This time, I’ll keep my promise.

            For the first time in years, Nalgur allowed the fierce, fatherly protectiveness to wash over him—more potent than any oath.

Chapter 6

            Nalgur stirred, blinking as the first pale rays of dawn filtered through the canopy, accompanied by the cheerful chirping of birds. The clear air offered promise of a favorable head start for the day.

            He shook Rhellia awake, brushing off the night’s dampness and scraping mud from his leather armor. Most of the rain had washed the blood away. A small mercy to be thankful for.

            Rhellia’s spirits seemed uplifted after their night of rest. She bounced in place, chunks of dried mud falling from her body as she untangled her black hair.

            “Breakfast can wait until we’re on the road,” she said.

            Nalgur offered a low grunt of approval.

            He patted Blaze’s rough mane, then stepped to Rhellia’s mount and let his fingers trace the saddle’s weathered leather. At the cinch strap, something impossibly fragile pressed back—a crushed butterfly wing, its ebony veins webbed like fractured glass.

            Nalgur jerked back.

            “What’s wrong?” Rhellia stepped close.

            He glanced down, but only the faintest smear of inky dust clung to the leather. A hollow tightness gripped his chest. “We ride.”

            They mounted in silence and continued. Rhellia sensed the bond growing stronger each time she checked the raven artifact. Whenever they encountered merchants or travelers, the duo earned a wide berth.

            We look like ragged vagabonds any respectable person would avoid.

            As the day passed, clouds gathered overhead, shielding them from the afternoon sun and hinting at another evening storm. They stopped for a brief lunch, munching on jerky and stretching their legs.

            Nalgur watched her fingers turn the talisman. “What is it?”

            Rhellia’s eyes flickered to the black stone. “I… I don’t remember much before I was twelve. Everything earlier feels like half‑glimpsed dreams. One day I woke to find myself alone, and a wandering wizard saw me curled in an empty barn, clutching my belly in hunger. The first night, he pressed this into my hand.”

            “A talisman to ward evil.” She opened her palm—black as a starless sky. “He said it would give me strength. And you know what? It did. Weeks later, he uncovered my spark.”

            With a trembling smile, she looped the cord back around her neck. “Since then, this talisman’s been my promise—never again to stand helpless while someone I love fades away. I still think… maybe it’s what makes my magic possible.”

            Nalgur stepped close, brushing dust from her shoulders. “Might be, but every ounce of that power comes from you—your courage and your heart.” He laid both hands on her shoulders, steadying her with a gentle squeeze.

            For a long moment, Rhellia simply leaned into him, the weight of her past and his words settling between them like a shared heartbeat. At last, she drew a breath and straightened, offering him a faint smile.

            They mounted and moved on in silence until the soft burble of a stream met their ears and the horses dipped their heads to drink.

            Nalgur stretched his legs and snacked on another jerky, sharing a half with Rhellia. She then delved into her saddlebag—a habitual routine by now—and unveiled the raven sculpture, conjuring a swirl of white mist.

            “I sense another wizard,” she said, wrapping the artifact and swinging into her saddle. “We must hurry, Captain. Someone tracks him, and it’s not the Guild.”

            Nalgur tossed the remaining jerky in his mouth and swiftly mounted his steed. “Lead on!”

            He drew a deep breath, loosening his grip on the reins. Please, Iboka, protect him. The fate of Prince Stendun rested on their timely arrival. 

            Rhellia spurred their mounts into a frenzied sprint, relenting only to update their progress through the raven. The horses’ nostrils flared, and Rhellia’s mount stretched his neck with effort.

            It won’t be long before one of them gives out.

            A gasp escaped Rhellia as she fumbled the raven, almost dropping it. “They slipped into the woods ahead!”

            The two jerked the reins. Dust exploded beneath their hooves as they skidded to a stop. Nalgur’s jaw clenched—they were close.

            Nalgur hurried to where she pointed and slid off his horse. The broken branches spoke of the pursuers’ passage—heavy boots had crushed the lush undergrowth, leaving evidence they’d cut through here without fear of discovery. He led them as far as the horses dared and tied their reins around a sturdy tree.

            Nalgur motioned for Rhellia to stay close, his pulse thrumming as he set his cloak over the saddle.

            The grass lay flattened, a clear sign of recent passage. He unsheathed his blade with silent grace.

            Despite their low crouch, they covered ground quickly, careful to mute every step. Time played against them—they could not afford stealth.

            Maybe they’ve reached him already… The thought slammed into him like a hammer—back at Greyfen Hollow, his hesitation had cost a band their lives. No! He banished such doubts—they led only to ruin.

            His narrowed eyes scanned the foliage for disturbance. Whoever trails the prince is no mere hunter—they’re killers. He growled under his breath.

            They snaked through the forest, twisting between trunks. Rhellia gripped Nalgur’s shoulder, pointing at a small clearing up ahead.

            There he is!

            The boy knelt—his shoulder-length brown hair hiding his face—by a bed of gnarled roots. Those broad shoulders could belong only to the king’s son. The prince reached behind his back, retrieving the dagger from beneath his belt. His hand hovered a second too long—jaw clenched, breath sharp—before he pressed the blade to the Cisigane Roots and began cutting.

            Nalgur’s chest tightened. Faster, my Prince—save yourself! He lurched forward, only to have Rhellia clamp a hand down on his arm.

            Shadows shifted.

            Two figures emerged, blades flashing where the sunlight hit their steel. They stalked closer—no more than a dozen paces now.

Chapter 7

            Nalgur clenched his fist. I need to reach the prince.

            “Wizard,” Rhellia whispered, pointing with her chin. “I sense his aura.”

            A deep inhalation stilled his resolve, and his gaze swept the clearing. He spotted three more men flanking the wizard.

            Two of us against six; I’ve faced worse odds.

            A single, inky-black butterfly drifted between the shafts of dying light and settled on Rhellia’s wrist. Nalgur blinked and watched her turn her palm upward, studying the creature’s delicate form. The butterfly’s dark wings lifted and fell in soft, measured beats, its tiny head tilting as though in silent counsel.

            Rhellia’s lips curved into a half-smile.

            “That’s… strange,” Nalgur murmured.

            She met his eyes calmly. “Whatever happens next is fated.”

            The butterfly lifted off her wrist and vanished into the sky.

            Stendun’s dagger caught on a stubborn knot; the boy ground the blade back and forth.

            If the wizard strikes now, he’ll kill the prince before we reach him.

            “Ready?” Rhellia whispered into his ear.

            Nalgur drew in a steady breath and gave a curt nod.

            Flames erupted from her palms, blazing across the clearing to engulf the wizard. Nalgur seized the moment, a blur of motion propelling him toward the prince.

            The young heir sprang up, eyes wide as they locked on Nalgur.

            “Come!” Nalgur roared. The prince darted toward him.

            Four figures surged, intent on intercepting the prince.

            Nalgur lunged left, his sword slicing into the nearest Makossan’s jaw. Bones cracked. A shriek rent the air as the figure collapsed, hands clutching a shattered face.

            Stendun slipped behind Nalgur, and the remaining three men formed a loose semicircle. The prince tossed his dagger and drew a sword.

            Light flashed deeper in the woods as the fire licked trees and devoured leaves. Rhellia’s duel will set the forest ablaze.

            A Makossan man—the lone rider from the road—squared his shoulders and smirked at Nalgur. “We’ll bring him back to Makossa,” he said, leveling his sword at Stendun. “If we can’t, we’ll put some steel in him.”

            The three men launched a disorganized assault. Nalgur parried in a skillful arc—a dance of defense against their brash aggression.

            Seizing an opening, Stendun burst forth, catching them off guard. The prince’s blade drove into an exposed knee, and the wounded man crumpled, shrieking.

Stendun slid back behind Nalgur’s larger frame.

            Nalgur feinted at the rider, then whipped his blade across the wounded man’s neck, silencing him.

            The rider’s hardened gaze bore into Nalgur. “I’ll take your prince’s eyes for this.”

            The two Makossans struck back. Nalgur parried the first blade and dodged the second, coming behind his foe. He thrust his sword up the man’s spine.

            Stendun—to Nalgur’s horror—charged the rider. “Derdrys, you traitor!” He reeled from the counter, but Nalgur interceded, thwarting the lethal sweep.

            Derdrys Cinderoak. Now I remember you. “Why?” Nalgur demanded, his voice slicing through clashing steel. “Your family has prospered under the Garrow’s rule.”

            “Has,” Derdrys spat, eyes flashing contempt. “Dabanda is running my family—and this kingdom—into the ground.”

            “So you side with Makossa?” Nalgur pressed, blade poised.

            In a flurry of strikes and counters, Nalgur inflicted devastating wounds on Derdrys: he slashed the sword arm, drove a deep gash into the outstretched left thigh, then marred the chin—ruining the Cinderoak family trait.

            Blood oozed from the traitor’s limping form.

            Behind Derdrys, light flashed sporadically as the two wizards clashed within a ring of fire. Somehow, the Makossan wizard had survived the initial burst, his face melted beyond recognition.

            Derdrys lunged in a final, desperate gamble.

            Nalgur sidestepped and severed the head with a clean swing. It rolled to Stendun’s feet, lifeless eyes fixed on the prince.

            Nalgur turned to Rhellia.

            Down on one knee, flames licked at her sleeves, steam hissing. The Makossan’s fire pressed in—relentless, punishing.

            On the sodden earth, something glossy caught the light.

            Rhellia’s talisman.

            Nalgur snatched it, and in one smooth flick, sent it skimming across the clearing. It struck the Makossan’s forehead.

            The distraction sufficed.

            Rhellia surged upward, her blaze roaring to life. She closed the distance in three deadly strides, and a red inferno swallowed the Makossan. His scream died as ash settled at his boots.

            Rhellia met Nalgur’s gaze and nodded.

            Where’s the sixth man?

            A shadow emerged.

            “Rhellia, behind!” Nalgur yelled, springing to her side.

            The Makossan’s blade plunged into her back. A pained groan escaped her lips. He slid the blade free, and she fell to her knees. As the enemy raised his sword for the final strike, Nalgur’s blade swept in, lopping the man’s arm at the elbow.

            Shock widened the Makossan’s eyes as he stared at the bleeding stump.

            Nalgur kicked him into the burning underbrush.

            The ring of fire closed around them. We don’t have much time. He slipped his arms beneath Rhellia’s shoulders as she scrabbled at the ash. He dragged her out.

            “My Prince, gather the Cisigane before they burn!”

            Stendun hurried to collect the burning roots, but thick smoke choked them.

            “We must leave,” Nalgur insisted. “This will have to do.”

            Reluctantly, Stendun withdrew and rejoined Nalgur.

            They hurried toward the road—or so Nalgur prayed. The fire roared like a beast, tongues of flame dancing wildly as embers churned the sky. Rhellia’s weight grew heavier with each dragged step, and Stendun’s labored breaths echoed behind.

            A thundering crack split the air as a burning branch collapsed, showering sparks across the path. Nalgur scooped Rhellia into his arms and, coughing as smoke stung his lungs, seized Stendun’s stumbling hand—his grip firm as he guided them through the haze toward the main road.

            Bursting onto the main road, distressed whinnies and frantic hoof-beats greeted him—relief flooding his veins. He set Rhellia down, and pressed a hand to each muzzle, murmuring a calm reassurance. Once their flanks stilled and ears flicked back in understanding, he rummaged in Blaze’s saddlebag, retrieved a length of cloth, and bound it tightly around Rhellia’s waist.

            “It will hold…for now,” he muttered.

            Rain began to fall, hissing as it met the flames.

            Nalgur hoisted her onto the saddle; her groans pierced his heart. Despite her deathly-pale complexion and sagging shoulders, she remained upright. Stendun mounted behind her, grabbing the reins.

            They set off at a trot, distancing themselves from the inferno.

            After a few paces, Nalgur heard Stendun’s voice. “Captain! She’s bleeding out.”

            Nalgur wheeled his horse, horror twisting his gut at the blood streaking the prince’s legs and saddle. Rhellia’s weary eyes locked onto his.

            No, not again. I can save her. He slid from the saddle and lowered her gently beneath a sparse canopy.

            “We need a fire,” he rasped. “Heat will staunch her wound.”

            The prince nodded, terror propelling him into the storm for dry wood.

            Alone, Nalgur’s hands trembled as he scraped a shallow pit into the wet earth and laid a few leaves. I’m not failing again.

            When Stendun returned with sodden logs, he piled them awkwardly—too heavy, too wet, too late.

            “We’ll manage,” Nalgur assured Rhellia, though his voice wavered.

            Rhellia lifted an unsteady hand and sparks crackled between her fingers—then fizzled. Her arm fell like a broken wing.

            Nalgur set a green twig down and rolled it between his palms, heart hammering.   

            “Forgive me, Rhellia.” Nalgur leaned close, catching a glimpse of something deeper than pain in her fading gaze.

            He saw Houdrina—his little girl—eyes wide, uncomprehending as life slipped away.

            “Captain…”

            “I’m here,” he vowed, pressing her hand to his cheek—a promise he once made to his daughter.

            Rhellia curled her fingers around his, forcing him closer. Her thumb brushed the talisman before letting it fall into his palm.

            “I chose… my path,” she rasped through blood-soaked lips, voice dissolving into the tempest.

            Her shoulders slumped. Her grip loosened. One final breath caught—and she surrendered to the storm.

            A small, dark shape rose from her chest—slender, winged—drifting upward between the streaks of rain. Nalgur lifted his eyes, following the silent ascent until it blurred into the mist.

Chapter 8

            Nalgur pressed Rhellia’s eyelids closed, whispering, “May Iboka guide your spirit.”

            The prince staggered back, his gaze locked on her still form, his arms falling limply to his sides. “She… she chose to die to save my brother. What if it fails?”

            “The Cisigane Roots will heal your brother—Rhellia believed in them,” Nalgur replied, pausing as his hand hovered over the prince’s trembling shoulder. She… also saved you.

            Nalgur gathered vines from the underbrush and secured her to the saddle with makeshift straps. Then he swung onto Blaze’s back, seating the prince before him and guiding the second horse homeward.

            Night fell as they crossed Farfront’s timber gates, and Nalgur led the horses down its silent, barely lit street. At the lone inn, he purchased a length of coarse linen to wrap Rhellia.

            They settled onto straw‑strewn pallets in a dim room, exhaustion pulling them into a fitful sleep.

            At dawn’s first light, they set out again at a measured pace, the promise of home mingling with every weary step.

Two sunsets later, after miles of dust-choked road and aching limbs, Devoloka’s towers loomed on the horizon. 

            “Finally,” the prince exhaled.

            Nalgur had spent the last days unraveling the web of Derdrys’ betrayal, wondering if Jorildyn—his father—had sanctioned the treachery. Accusations must be irrefutable. A stain on a noble house demanded retribution, and the Cinderoaks would not hesitate to shed blood.

            More blood, he thought bitterly, his gaze flicking to Rhellia’s still form.

            But Nalgur refused to play courtier—he understood the folly of diving into their power games. Instead, he vowed to serve as the King’s sword, standing ready while the wiser monarch untangled the Cinderoaks’ plots.

            They reached the city’s outer gate, and the guards recognized Nalgur instantly. “Sir!”

            “I am with Prince Stendun,” Nalgur said, and the men bowed deeply. “This is Rhellia, Guardian of the Wizards’ Guild. See her to the First Magus for proper funeral rites.”

            The guards moved without sound. Two of them lifted Rhellia’s still form, and something slipped—the doll’s head clattered into the cobbles. A shard spun into the air and Nalgur caught it instinctively, fingertip grazing its jagged edge.

            Houdrina… Rhellia…

            They cradled her body and slipped into the gatehouse.

            Nalgur let the porcelain drop, its clink echoing hollowly. Four soldiers fell in behind as he continued to the palace at a trot.

            As they neared the palace, the escort saluted and turned back. The Gate Captain met them outside. “Captain Nalgur,” he greeted, before turning to Stendun. “My Prince.”

            “I’m home, Jushen,” Stendun replied, accepting his hand and sliding off Blaze.

            Nalgur dismounted. “Where’s the king?”

            “In Prince Fabofed’s chamber,” replied Jushen, taking Blaze’s reins. “His fever worsens by the hour.”

            Nalgur and Stendun hurried through torchlit halls. At Fabofed’s door, they found Dabanda—gaunt, hollow-eyed—gazing at his son as if willing the boy back from death with sheer force of will.

            Dabanda turned to Stendun and lifted him in his arms.

            Fabofed lay swaddled in linens, his chest rising and falling in tremulous hiccups. His skin gleamed with sweat. Beneath closed lids, his eyes twitched restlessly, lost within a realm of nightmares.

            “I need a mortar, a pestle, and water,” Stendun ordered a servant, who sprang out and returned swiftly. He pulled a weathered parchment from within his tunic and read the notes. “First, grind the roots and mix them in water.”

            A sharp, spicy scent filled the stone chamber.

            “Then, apply it to the afflicted,” he continued, coaxing his unconscious bother, cradling the potion to his lips and urging life into his frail frame.

            A weak cough rippled through Fabofed’s lips in response.

            “Now we wait for him to come back,” Stendun said.

            They held their breath—the king, the prince and Nalgur—united by hope and yearning for a miracle, their gazes locked upon the ailing eight-year-old.

            Stendun offered more of the concoction to his brother, his voice trembling. “The effect should be instant. It said so… It said so…”

            Dabanda, his face heavy with the weight of impending grief, lowered his gaze, his shoulders slumping beneath the strain of the moment. “We tried, son.”

            Stepping forth, Nalgur stood behind the prince and laid a hand on his shoulder, a silent gesture of solidarity.

            Did Rhellia give her life for a lost cause?

            Nalgur turned his gaze to Fabofed’s small pack—discarded when the fever took hold—hung on a peg by the door. From its strap dangled a pale-green cocoon, swaying gently though no breeze ruffled the room.

            Her words echoed in Nalgur’s mind. I chose my path.

            A stirring broke the silence. Three pairs of eyes, moistened by unshed tears, fell on Fabofed.

            “Give him some more!” Dabanda sprang from his seat, urging Stendun.

            With a steady hand, Stendun poured the last of the mixture into his brother’s mouth—and then it happened.

            The torch flames guttered, tension coiling through the chamber. Stendun swallowed hard; Dabanda’s knuckles gleamed white against the bedpost, and Nalgur felt the smooth, cool obsidian talisman in his clenched palm.

            Fabofed’s chest convulsed once—then his ribs quivered as life surged back in ragged gasps. Slow, uncertain, but unmistakable.

            He opened his eyes.

            Nalgur exhaled slowly, the spicy tang of the roots still on his tongue. He closed his eyes, letting the moment wash over him.

            You did it, Rhellia—you saved him.