The wind had changed.
Kairo could feel it even from inside the wagon's gently swaying frame—no longer thick with the fetid breath of Bleakroot Fen, nor steeped in that scentless rot that clung to deathlike silence. No, this air was cleaner now, sharper, with a briskness that stung faintly at his nostrils—like flint-sparks tasting the edge of a storm. It carried the promise of change, or perhaps the judgment that follows after survival.
He sat alone beneath the forward awning of the wagon, the faded canvas above fluttering in rhythmic sync with the clinking chains that held its supports. The creak of ancient timber beneath him served as a steady pulse—this old beast of burden had not faltered even once through the mire's curses and night-born terror. Its strength wasn't just in frame, but in memory. In that, perhaps, it mirrored the place he now resolved to reach.
His fingers, still dirt-stained and bruised around the knuckles, curled loosely around the mug of boiled bitterroot he had salvaged from their dwindling stock. The taste was awful—like licking bark steeped in regret—but it was warm, and warm was rare currency these days.
His thoughts drifted again, not aimlessly, but with grim determination—as if returning to an anchor lodged deep beneath the tides of exhaustion.
"Crimson Fort…" The words didn't leave his mouth, but they reverberated inside him like a vow carved into the walls of the soul. Its foundations are carved from the past, he thought. Not just in stone and sweat, but in blood, betrayal, and the tenacious will of those who survived what should've ended them.
A slow, almost imperceptible nod tilted his head.
Yes. That was why he had chosen it—not just as a destination, but as a future.
"The fort that built by time and tempered by calamity. A place not merely standing, but standing still—unmoved by epochs or empires." His inner voice whispered like the echo of some internal scripture. "That's what I need. A foundation strong enough to hold what I intend to become."
His breath misted before him, then dissipated as the wagon crested a low ridge and let in a thin ray of dusklight. The sun—or what could be mistaken for one in this realm—flickered like a dying torch behind shrouded clouds. Even the light here seemed hesitant.
"I must become far stronger than I am now." That was the third reason. The most personal one. He could hide behind no more justifications or conveniences.
The Crimson Fort welcomes all species. Not out of charity, but out of philosophy. And with that philosophy came protection. Order. Certainty.
The numbers surfaced in his mind like sacred scripture. Zero point two percent. That was the crime rate inside the Crimson Fort's stone-clad belly. In a world where laws bent and crumbled like sandcastles to the wind of stronger fists, this statistic was a miracle. No, a monument. It meant one thing. Safety. A rarity more precious than gold in an age where most empires had forgotten what peace even meant.
His right hand rose, thumb grazing his temple as he leaned against the cold iron rail of the wagon's outer carriage, eyes narrowed. His breath hitched once—a tremor he didn't mean to release. But the thoughts pressed inward, unfurling like old roots beneath old soil.
That's why I left the city.
He swallowed, his throat dry. Then the edge of his mouth twitched—not into a smile, but a half-cracked shape of bitterness and acknowledgment.
"…And because of that," he murmured aloud now, his voice low, gravel-throated from days of underslept nights, "I'll train Slowly and steady, I'll strengthen myself. by time, effort, and will."
The words weren't a declaration. They were a reconstruction—a self-forging in the stillness between steps.
He let out a long exhale, his breath curling like smoke over the rim of his battered mug. The moment passed, and with it came the return of the body's dull complaints. His back ached from nights slept half-sitting, his legs heavy with that peculiar weariness born of tension more than labor. Yet when he glanced down at his arms, the subtle swelling of muscle had returned, the bruising now faded to dull purple-green stains. He flexed one hand, watching the tendons pull tight against the skin.
"My body's almost fully recovered…" he murmured under his breath. His eyes fell to his stomach, which answered him with a soft but insistent gurgle. "…Though I still need to fill my stomach…"
A bitter smile curled the corner of his mouth—wry and tired, more an expression of resignation than humor. He tilted his head back against the beam behind him, eyes half-lidded as he stared at the tarp ceiling above.
The Bleakroot Fen… Even now the name conjured a bile-thick memory.
It was supposed to take a week. Seven days through tangled roots and ghost-thick fog. That was the plan—map-sketched, route-counted, rations packed accordingly.
But the Fen had laughed in their faces.
"Twelve… no, maybe thirteen days..." He grimaced as the realization settled on his shoulders. "We spent almost twice the time clawing our way out… just to not even reach Westhaven."
His sigh escaped him like steam from a cracked engine—slow, drawn, almost mournful.
The memories followed like starving wolves.
Sleeping under rotted boughs. Constant shifts. Vivy's wounded leg. Nymei's fading pulse. That monstrous thing's shadow swallowing the horizon. And through it all, the rationing—meals split in half, mouths chewing more on air than food. Hunting had yielded little, and what they did catch had barely the strength to fill a hand, let alone a belly.
Still… they made it.
And now, the horizon bore a new shape. One not twisted by swamp mist, but lined in the silhouette of distant peaks—sharp, unyielding, stoic.
Somewhere beyond those teeth of earth stood the Crimson Fort.
And Kairo would reach it. Whether starving, crawling, or screaming—he would reach it.
He pressed a hand to his chest. Felt the rhythmic thrum beneath ribs still sore from impact, but steady.
Alive.
He closed his eyes, letting the wagon's movement rock him gently as dusk dimmed to true night, and resolve hardened to something darker. Something necessary.
The wagon slowed, its deep-axled groan rising through the floorboards like the yawning of some old leviathan surrendering to shallower waters. The steady rumble beneath their feet diminished into a throbbing rhythm—iron-shod wheels sinking into the last stretch of damp-packed earth before the cobbled threshold of Easthaven.
Outside, the air bore a different texture—thinner than the Fen's smothering breath, yet still touched by the cold edge of approaching night. The scent had shifted too; gone was the stagnant perfume of rot and marsh-gas, replaced by the mingled fragrance of hearth smoke, pine resin, and the faint sweetness of freshly split wood.
Luke's voice broke the quiet inside the wagon, low but firm, like a conductor signaling the last note of a long, arduous piece."Wake up, all of you. We've arrived."
The timbre of his call stirred Kairo from that in-between place where thoughts are half dreams and half stubborn clinging to wakefulness. Vivy's groggy protest was little more than a nasal hum muffled under her cloak, while Liora's lashes fluttered open with the wary precision of someone not fully convinced they were safe yet.
The wagon came to a halt, its immense frame settling with a metallic sigh, like stone pillars grounding themselves into bedrock. Chains clinked against lacquered panels; the suspension swayed once, twice, then stilled.
Luke descended first. His boots struck the earth with the dull, satisfying weight of a man who walked like each step already had a purpose. Kairo followed, squinting against the shift in light—his eyes adjusting from the wagon's dusky interior to the open spill of Easthaven's torch-lit gate.
The two guards posted there had been chatting idly moments before. But the moment the wagon rolled into view, their words faltered and their faces twisted into the stunned geometry of disbelief.
The first guard—a stocky man with the weather-hardened skin of someone who had stood more winters than he cared to count—took half a step forward, his mouth slackening before the words found him."Saint's breath…" he murmured, voice caught somewhere between awe and suspicion. "Is that… a wagon?"
The second, taller and leaner, angled his head like a hound catching an unfamiliar scent. His eyes swept the behemoth in slow, deliberate motions, as though cataloguing its every strangeness."It's not just a wagon," he said finally, tone hushed but tinged with an incredulous laugh. "Look at the size of it… and the lacquer—"
Indeed, under the amber flare of the gate's braziers, the wagon's body was no mere carriage frame. The lacquer had hardened into a spectacle—shimmering streaks of crimson that raced across its massive flanks, each edged with deep obsidian lines twisted into clawlike motifs. The undercarriage glowed faintly with a warm amber radiance, as though it drank the firelight and bled it back in muted pulses.
The taller guard's brows furrowed deeper as his gaze caught on the strange markings etched into the armored plating. Spirals nested within spirals. Jagged arcs intersecting with curved lines in deliberate chaos. Symbols that seemed to writhe in peripheral vision, glowing faintly with an amber-violet hue."What in all the shrines' names…? I've never seen glyphwork like that," he muttered."Nor I," the shorter one replied, stepping closer despite himself. "And those wheels…" His voice softened in disbelief. "Each one's near as tall as me."
Kairo could almost hear their thoughts: What kind of place needs such a thing? What kind of road could bear it? And who in their right mind drives it into Easthaven?
But as Luke stepped into the torchlight, descending the last step from the wagon's side rail, all that confusion melted into instant recognition.
The shorter guard's face lit with something close to boyish relief."Oh—Heaven! It's Mister Luke!" he exclaimed, the title carrying familiarity, respect, and the faint warmth of old camaraderie.
The taller guard blinked once, then allowed the smallest grin to pull at his mouth."Mister Luke indeed. Been a long while. What brings you here, sir?"
Luke's expression remained measured—a faint lift of one brow, the ghost of a knowing smirk. His voice, when it came, was rich with that practiced balance between cordiality and guarded intent."Passing through. Business of my own. Thought I'd rest here before the road takes me further."
The taller guard tilted his head, still stealing glances at the wagon's strange patterns."And you chose Easthaven for that? You must've been riding hard. The Fen's been mean this season."
Luke's eyes narrowed fractionally—not unkindly, but with that subtle shift of weight that made his presence feel heavier."We made it through," he said simply, his tone suggesting the story behind those words was better left untouched. Then, after a pause, "We'll be needing lodging for the night."
The guards exchanged a brief look—an unspoken decision passing between them—before stepping aside with something almost ceremonial in their gesture. The shorter one gestured toward the lantern-lit lane beyond the gate."Of course. You're welcome here, as always. The inn's still under old Marth's care. Room enough for you and yours."
Luke inclined his head in thanks, already moving past them with the kind of fluid authority that left no room for further questions. The wagon creaked forward under his quiet direction, its wheels groaning against the shift from packed earth to cobbled street.
Kairo walked in the wagon's shadow, Liora at his side, both keeping pace as Luke handled every exchange on the way in. Villagers turned to watch the procession—faces caught in that tension between fascination and apprehension.
Luke's voice cut through again once they were deeper within Easthaven's main lane, this time pitched low for their ears alone."The village isn't large. Main street runs straight through from the gate to the far square. General goods to the left after the blacksmith, apothecary down the next bend, stables on the east end. The inn's on the right, halfway to the square."
His eyes flicked briefly toward them as the wagon slowed before a wider cross-street."Go and wait at the inn. I'll see to the wagon and the beast—needs to be moved to the eastern pen, away from the main thoroughfare."
Vivy, still shaking the last remnants of sleep from her posture, raised a brow."You sure you don't want help with that?"
Luke's mouth tightened—not sharply, but with the quiet insistence of a man whose plans were not up for negotiation."You guys go first," he said again, this time with a tone that brooked no argument.
His hands moved in a practiced sweep, reins gathering, boots pivoting as he stepped back toward the driver's perch. Even that motion carried a weight—shoulders squared, eyes already charting the turn toward the eastern road.
As they parted ways, the wagon's glow receded down the lamplit lane, its lacquer catching firelight like some great embered beast retreating to its lair. And in its wake, the village's hum returned—distant laughter spilling from a tavern, the smell of bread cooling on open sills, and the faint chime of a bell marking the hour.
Kairo led the way. The village of Easthaven unfolding like a weathered tapestry—streets winding between timber-framed cottages, their thatched roofs patched with moss and lichen, windows aglow with warm, flickering light. The air was crisp, carrying the mingled scents of damp earth, roasting herbs, and smoke curling lazily from chimneys.
Liora's footsteps were light and deliberate, her eyes flicking to the shadows beneath eaves, while Vivy moved quietly, a faint tension in her shoulders betraying her unease amid the unfamiliar surroundings. Kairo's gaze swept steadily ahead, alert and measured, yet there was a subtle ease in his stride—a tempered confidence born of countless journeys.
The cobblestones beneath their boots were uneven, worn smooth by generations of footsteps, and the murmurs of villagers drifting from open doorways blended with the clatter of a distant blacksmith's hammer. Lanterns hung from wrought-iron brackets, their glass panels catching the occasional breeze and sending shards of amber light dancing along the narrow alleyways.
As they moved deeper into the heart of Easthaven, the chatter softened to curious whispers and stolen glances, the villagers noting the unusual sight of their massive, lacquered wagon bearing intricate glyphs glowing faintly in the dim. Children peeked from behind curtains, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension, while elders nodded politely, their expressions guarded but respectful.
Passing a small market square, the trio caught sight of vendors packing up their stalls—crates of apples, loaves of bread wrapped in coarse cloth, and bundles of fragrant herbs neatly tied with twine. A dog barked somewhere in the distance, its voice sharp against the evening calm.
Kairo's voice broke the quiet murmurs. " Almost there. The inn's just ahead on the right, halfway to the square." His tone was low but assured, guiding without commanding.
Liora glanced sideways at him, a faint smile touching her lips despite the weariness shadowing her eyes. "Feels like we've been walking forever."
"Longer than planned," Kairo admitted with a nod, "but at last we here."
Vivy kept her gaze forward, shoulders relaxing incrementally as the familiarity of shelter and warmth drew nearer.
the heavy oak door of the inn loomed ahead. its carved surface scarred by time but sturdy. Above it, a faded sign swayed gently on rusty hinges, the image of a golden stag barely visible beneath layers of dust and wear. Kairo reached for the handle, the metal cool beneath his fingers, and pushed the door open, stepping inside to the welcoming embrace of hearth fire and whispered conversations. The heavy oak door of the inn creaked on its old hinges as Kairo, Liora, and Vivy stepped inside, their boots thudding softly on the worn wooden floorboards. The warm glow from a crackling hearth painted flickering shadows across the timbered walls, where faded tapestries whispered stories long forgotten. The air was thick with the mingling scents of spiced ale, damp earth, and a faint trace of lavender from a nearby bunch of drying herbs.
Kairo's eyes, sharp and vigilant despite the brief respite, scanned the room with the meticulous attention of a man unaccustomed to rest. Liora's gaze flickered between the low-hung beams and the bustling patrons, her posture taut but composed, while Vivy appeared quieter still, drawing her cloak tighter about her slender frame, eyes reflecting the firelight like twin stars caught in amber.
Approaching the worn counter, Kairo's boots made no more than a dull thud as he stopped before the inn's receptionist—a middle-aged woman with silver-streaked chestnut hair, eyes sharp beneath a furrowed brow, and a demeanor both weary and welcoming.
Clearing his throat, his voice low but measured, he said, "I'd like two rooms for the night." There was a firmness beneath his words, an unspoken weight that silenced the background murmur of the room.
The receptionist's eyes lifted, glinting with a mixture of curiosity and practiced patience. "Two rooms? For whom, exactly?" she asked, fingers already poised over the ledger.
Kairo glanced back to Liora and Vivy, who exchanged a brief, subtle look of understanding. "It will be myself and Luke in one room, and the two ladies in the other. We'll take rooms with a single bed each—no need for excess when the night is short and the purse tight." His tone held a quiet practicality, revealing the edge of necessity beneath the civility.
The woman nodded, a faint smile touching the corners of her lips as if appreciating the economy of their request. "Very well. Please wait a moment." She slipped behind the counter, the rustle of parchment and the soft tap of quill on paper the only sounds in the pause that followed.
Minutes stretched thin as the hearth's glow warmed the silence, broken only by the soft creak of settling timber and the distant laughter of patrons. When the receptionist returned, she extended two keys, their iron teeth worn smooth from countless turns.
"These are the keys to rooms 310 and 312," she said, voice low and steady. "Both are on the third floor. The total is seven vrin."
Kairo reached into his worn leather pouch, fingers brushing past small trinkets and tokens before closing around the cold, familiar weight of coins. He withdrew them slowly, counting aloud under his breath with meticulous care—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—before sliding the exact sum across the counter with a faint clink.
The receptionist accepted the payment without hesitation, nodding curtly. "Rooms are ready. The third floor is quiet this time of night. Should you need anything, just ask."
Kairo inclined his head in thanks, the briefest flash of relief softening his usually stoic features. He turned and gestured for Liora and Vivy to follow as he moved toward the narrow staircase, its steps creaking under their weight.
The climb was steep, the air cooler and tinged with the scent of old wood and faint mildew. Kairo's boots echoed softly, accompanied by the muted footsteps of the two behind him. Reaching the third floor landing, he paused before the two heavy doors marked 310 and 312.
Liora took the key for 312, her fingers wrapping around the iron with an almost reverent touch, before slipping inside the room, her posture relaxing ever so slightly. Vivy followed, shoulders easing from their guarded tension as the door shut quietly behind them.
Kairo turned to room 310, unlocking it with a practiced hand. He stepped inside, the small chamber illuminated by a flickering candle fixed to the wall. The room was modest: a simple bed draped with a coarse woolen blanket, a small wooden table scarred by years of use, and a single shuttered window that framed the starlit night.
Without hesitation, he began a thorough inspection, running his fingers along the bed's edge, tapping the wooden floorboards, and testing the latch on the door. His face was a mask of solemn scrutiny, brows knitted in quiet calculation.
Satisfied,Kairo placed his pack gently on the floor, the leather sighing as it settled. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he lowered himself onto the bed, the mattress creaking beneath his weight. His blue eyes, usually sharp and piercing, softened with exhaustion as he exhaled a breath that seemed to carry the weight of all the miles traveled and battles endured.
Almost fully recovered, he thought, a flicker of bitter irony flashing across his mind. Still, the gnawing emptiness of an unfed stomach reminds me how far we've come—and how much remains ahead.
His gaze drifted to the small window, where the endless sprawl of the star-studded sky stretched beyond reach, a silent witness to the burdens he bore and the hope he clung to.
The faint crackle from the hallway below seeped through the thin walls, mingling with distant murmurs and the muted clink of glasses—life moving on, oblivious to the fragile threads of fate binding them all.
Closing his eyes, Kairo allowed himself a fleeting moment of rest, the tension in his muscles loosening, if only slightly, beneath the weight of the night.