The warmth of flickering firelight brushed his face, but it wasn't what stirred him.
It was movement—rhythmic, uneven. The rocking sway of a mount beneath him.
The protagonist jolted awake, startled. With a sharp breath, he slipped off the back of the creature and landed hard on the earth, pain shooting through his ribs.
"Easy there," came a voice, laced with laughter.
Groaning, he gripped his side. Something wasn't right. He winced, fingers pressing against cloth and bone. Bandages. His ribs were wrapped.
He looked up.
A fire crackled gently in the middle of a loose circle. Princess Elyra sat poised beside it, her royal attendant Maevis doting over her hair. Nearby, two guards—Sir Garrin and Sir Alin—lounged with half-suppressed smirks, caught in a victorious exchange.
Sir Garrin flicked a pebble toward Alin. "Told you he'd fall off before sunrise."
Alin rolled his eyes. "I still say you rigged it."
The protagonist blinked against the light and stepped cautiously forward. The fire invited him, even if the company didn't. He lowered himself to the grass, settling into silence, noticing his torn clothes had been swapped for a simpler, cleaner set.
Eyes closed, head tilted back.
Then her voice:
"Well," Princess Elyra began, "Not even a thank you? Not a 'grateful for the rescue'? Or perhaps a warning next time to fair better with creatures of the dark?"
He remained quiet. Still.
She clicked her tongue, frustration edging her words. "I left my kingdom, my mother, my duties—for you. Do you even comprehend what I've risked?"
His silence stretched between them like a blade. Finally, Sir Garrin straightened.
"I say we kick his ribs in. My methods have a way of… encouraging honesty."
Elyra waved him off with a sigh.
"Pointless," she said. "Even the Whispers of Eiravell couldn't break his kind."
And then, finally, the protagonist spoke, his voice low, bitter:
"You're the reason I'm here. All of you."
Silence.
Sir Alin broke it with a dry chuckle. "Fine. Then at least do us the decency of a name. Tired of calling you 'hey,' 'you,' and 'stranger.'"
The man just curled into a sleeping posture, back to them.
Elyra scoffed. "Unbelievable. Never met a more disrespectful wretch."
"I could break both his legs," Maevis offered cheerfully. "Might beat some manners into him."
The Princess shook her head. "Let him be. He'll learn soon enough how much he needs us."
Night deepened. Fire shadows stretched and danced as Garrin insisted on first watch, sword in hand. But over time, even his posture slumped. Sleep claimed him like a thief in the dark.
The fire died to embers.
Fog rolled in. Thick as wool, soft as smoke.
From the treeline, seven shadows crept forward. Steel caught moonlight. Daggers. Sickles. Chained blades.
Silent hand signals passed among them. Move. Surround. Take.
They slinked like ghosts into the camp, lifting satchels, blades, cloaks. One figure passed near the protagonist and froze. He was muttering. Dreaming.
Curious, she leaned closer, blade at his throat, listening.
But it was nonsense. A name, maybe. A place. She couldn't tell. Before she could decipher it, her leader hissed and gestured sharply. Retreat.
But one among them hesitated—his eyes fixed on the Cresthound, still leashed, breathing slow. Greed twisted his mouth.
He raised his hand, summoning magic.
His leader caught his wrist.
A silent scuffle.
Tension.
Then the signal again. Withdraw.
And they vanished into fog. Almost.
Because just before the mist dissolved, the greedy one turned back.
Dawn. Petals kissed open by dew, golden light painting the horizon.
Sir Garrin yawned, stretching. He reached beside him and grabbed his sword—except it wasn't. It cracked in his hands. A branch. He stared at it dumbly.
"AAAAAAAAH!"
Maevis jolted awake, groggy. "Who took my pillow—wait, where's our stuff?!"
Panic surged.
"The bags," Maevis snapped, "WHERE. ARE. THE. BAGS?"
Garrin flailed. "I—I was up! I swear! One second I'm watching and then it's morning!"
Elyra's voice cracked as she looked toward the tree. "My Cresthound. It's gone."
Sir Alin cupped his hands. "Hey! Guys—hello?!"
They kept arguing.
"HEY!" he shouted louder.
Finally, they turned.
"He's gone too."
Four heads snapped to the patch of flattened grass where the protagonist once lay.
The Cresthound whined, licking his face with aggressive affection. The protagonist groaned, swatting at it.
"Finally awake," came a dry voice.
His eyes flicked to the speaker. A young woman, arms crossed, leaned against the stone wall. Shadows veiled her features.
He was shirtless, freshly bandaged.
"What—where am I?"
"You've got more urgent things to worry about," she replied, stepping away.
He scrambled after her, but slammed face-first into an invisible barrier. Lightning coursed through his body, throwing him back.
She laughed. "Yup. Still works."
He groaned, eyes fluttering shut.
"Not this again," he muttered, as darkness claimed him.
In a distance, the hammering of metal, the voices of many and the bustle of society.