The eastern plains stretched for hundreds of kilometers—green fields, rivers, and thick forests. Across the five regions of the continent, half the food was grown and harvested here, and two thirds of the livestock were raised on these fertile lands. But in recent years, winter had grown longer and harsher, sheathing everything in ice and snow and choking the continent's food supply. This year's winter had lasted thirteen months—almost a full year—leaving the remaining seasons to fight over what little time was left. As soon as the cold and the chimera waves eased, people rushed back to farming and grazing, trying to claw back what they had lost.
Erbil City lay on the horizon, its walls rising behind fields alive with motion. Outside the stone ring, people worked the land, shepherds drove their herds, and travelers from every direction funneled toward the gates. The party finally reached the eastern gate—tall, iron‑bound, guarded by knights checking everyone who entered.
Shin rode ahead. Before he could even introduce himself, whispered voices slipped between the guards.
"It's the Southern Wind."
"It's the Silent Sword."
"Look how big Bjorn is…"
One of the knights stepped aside and waved them through without question. Within the walls, they headed toward the castle and the Duke's hall. Faces turned as they passed. Even common folk recognized them.
Curiosity got the better of Ren. "Why does everyone here know you?" he asked.
Shin said nothing.
Peter answered for him. "We've done too many favors for this city. The biggest was a couple of years ago, when we took out Sakar the Bruiser and his crew. They terrorized the streets—killing knights in the dark, stealing gold, cutting supply roads. The Duke searched the city again and again, even locked it down a few times, but found nothing. Then Shin here figured they'd dug tunnels in and out of the city."
"Enough," Shin said. "I didn't do it to be known. Helping powerless people is our duty as Akrion users, not something to twist for selfish gain. When we arrive, take Ren and get him proper gear. Bjorn needs a forge as well. I'll report to the Duke."
He slid off his horse before it fully stopped, dropped the reins into Ren's hands, and took off at a run. Peter sighed.
"Come on, Ren. Let's find you some decent gear. Maybe you'll impress a knight or two with that strength of yours."
In the castle, the Duke stood at his window, the letter from Shin still pinched between his fingers, edges softened by how many times he had read it. At the desk beside him sat a thin man in glasses, quill scratching steadily across parchment.
The Duke's gaze drifted over the city as he murmured, "Al… Al…"—the old nickname short for Alexander. "So long, old friend. May we meet again," he whispered.
A knock came. A knight stepped in. "My lord, Sir Shin is outside."
"Let him in," the Duke said.
Shin entered and bowed his head slightly. "Hello, sir. Have you received my message?"
"Straight to business, hm?" The Duke gestured to the man at the second desk. "You remember Strategist Boros, I hope?"
"Hello, sir," Shin said, giving Boros a brief nod. "I'm sorry, but we can't afford to waste time anymore." He began his report.
"I understand why you didn't spell this out in the letter," the Duke said when he finished the first part. "If it leaked, it would spread panic. But to think—an act of Desecration…" He clenched his jaw. "Damn it. And the savages' corpses?"
"Some burned in the fighting," Shin replied. "Their leader was left to rot, according to the law."
"Good." The Duke exhaled. "Boros, send a message to Maarath. Don't interrogate that knight who's still alive. I want him burned alive. And tell whoever is in charge there to keep the crime hidden. It's bad enough that Desecration happened at all—and by knights."
"I'll see to it, my lord," Boros said. "What about Blue River Fortress, now that we know what really happened?"
"Don't send the villagers back yet," the Duke answered. "Only knights and craftsmen for now. Once the fortress is secure and repaired, then we let the farmers return."
"But, my lord," Boros protested, "winter could return sooner this time. We're waiting on confirmation from the Golden Scholars."
"It's all right. We have enough food to be safe for now," the Duke said.
"Sir," Shin interjected, "may I speak with you alone? My report isn't finished."
The Duke studied him. "Very well. Boros, leave us."
Boros bowed and left the room.
Shin's voice dropped. "There has been a sighting." He hesitated.
"Of what?" the Duke asked.
"A… a Zenith, sir," Shin said.
The Duke's face drained of color. He stumbled back into his chair. "So. It's time," he whispered. "Are you sure?"
"I'm not," Shin admitted. "But I believe his dying words."
"For fifty years, no one has dared even speak that name," the Duke said. "Does anyone else know? Other than you—not even your companions?"
"I already took care of it," Shin replied.
"How long do we have until the Surge?" the Duke asked.
"I don't know. Maybe three years. Four at most. If the Surge wipes out the eastern region, the whole continent could fall."
The Duke stood again and turned to the window. "The odds are already stacked against us. I need to send word to His Majesty. The leaders of the four regions must meet with the Sage and decide on a course of action. For now, forget about it—and keep it secret. We can't let this spread and cause chaos."
"Understood," Shin said. "Then I'll take my leave."
As Shin headed down to the courtyard, he saw a crowd of knights clustered around the training grounds, watching something intently. For a moment his chest tightened, fearing another disaster, and he pushed through to see. In the middle of the ring, Peter was sparring with Ren.
Ren swung and missed, his fist slamming into the packed earth hard enough to scar the training ground, a small crater left where the blow landed. Peter skipped lightly around him, feet barely touching the ground.
"You should never put full strength into every swing," Peter called. "It slows your momentum."
Ren frowned. "Then I can't do enough damage. And if I swing before I move, they'll see it coming."
"Then let them come to you," Peter said. "Block only. Save the full hit for when they drop their guard. Also, your movement is sloppy."
Ren bristled. "Because you keep jumping around. You only move when my punch is about to land."
Peter laughed, still bouncing and weaving. "What did you expect? It's called dodging."
Ren stilled, watching him rather than chasing. Then he burst forward at full speed and threw a right straight. Peter waited for the moment he always used—right before impact—to kick off the ground and retreat.
Ren adjusted mid‑punch, angling his fist down. The blow cratered the ground at Peter's feet, crushing his solid footing. Peter's boots hung in the air over broken stone; there was nothing left to push off from.
Ren didn't waste the opening. His left fist was already flying toward Peter's chest.
Peter flicked a dagger straight at Ren's eye.
Ren flinched and squeezed his eyes shut on instinct, the punch halting an inch from its target. The knife vanished midair before it struck, dissolving like smoke. That heartbeat of hesitation was all Peter needed to twist away and land clear.
"That was really close," Peter said, grinning and a little breathless.
Ren stood there, angry at the feint and at himself—until the sound around him registered. Knights along the rail were clapping and cheering, some laughing in surprise at how close he had come and the crater he'd left in their training yard.