The streets of Greimdall bustled with life, but Edran moved through them like a ghost. Cloaked and silent, he walked past merchants haggling over wares, guards pacing in polished armor, and children laughing with sticky hands full of roasted fruit. None of it touched him.
He stopped first at the market.
Old vendors lined the cobbled square, their stalls stuffed with trinkets, food, and tools. Edran approached a stand of aged cloth and herbs, run by a hunched woman with a faded shawl.
"Twelve years ago," he said quietly. "Do you remember a village that burned? Vaelridge. South of here."
The woman squinted up at him. "So long ago... Fires come and go, boy. Shadows too."
He moved on.
A blacksmith, a leatherworker, even an old stablehand. None could tell him anything he didn't already know. Some shook their heads. Others stared at him like he was chasing ghosts.
But then, deeper in the southern quarter, Edran passed beneath a narrow stone arch etched with runes.
The air changed.
This was the Arcanist's Way.
Sigil-vendors and ether-touched merchants lined the alley, glowing wares displayed behind glass and shimmering thread. Ether shimmered faintly in the air.
He found a stall of simple runes and sigil stones, and behind it, a man with hollow eyes and bronze rings in both ears.
As Edran passed the stall, the vendor leaned forward, his voice sly and smooth. "Looking to vanish something? Illusions are the solution, my friend. Hide a scar, a name… a past? I've sold lies for less."
Edran stopped, interest catching in his eyes. "You deal in illusion?"
The vendor smirked. "Among other things. Faces, voices, even your gait. I've sold lies wrapped in runes since before your first blade."
"Could a man use one of these... to look like something else entirely? A monster? A shadow?"
The merchant tilted his head. "Depends on the sigil. We have ones that change faces, voices, even posture. Stronger ones, if you can afford them, can alter your entire shape. But there's limits."
"Like what?"
"Size, for one. You can't turn a goblin into a dragon. But a man on a horse? That could pass for a beast under the right sigil, right lighting. Why do you ask?"
Edran nodded in silence. "Thanks," he muttered.
As he turned to leave, the vendor called out, "So, will you buy something or not?"
Edran didn't look back.
The barracks stood tall near the heart of Greimdall, its spires flanked by banners and silver-armored guards. He waited until the changing of the watch, then approached the side gate.
A soldier stopped him. "State your business."
"I need to speak with Captain Halric."
"Captain's busy. What's it about?"
"Vaelridge. The night it burned."
That caught the soldier's attention. He narrowed his eyes. "Wait here."
Minutes dragged. Eventually, another guard arrived and motioned him through. "You can wait in his chamber. He'll return soon."
They left him in a wide stone room lit by lanterns. Armor lined one wall. A map of Firya hung on another. Edran paced.
Then he saw it.
A drawer left slightly ajar.
Inside—parchments. Letters. One bore the seal of a noble house. The name: Duke Ardrin of Greimdall. Another line caught his eye—his village's name: Vaelridge.
His heart hammered. Eyes scanned the first line—but before he could fully read the contents, footsteps echoed down the corridor.
He shoved the letter into his cloak just as the door creaked open.
Captain Halric stepped in, removing his gloves, sharp eyes landing instantly on him.
"You," the man said. "What's your name, and what business do you have here?"
Edran turned calmly. "Edran. I came because of something you once said—to find you when I was older. To enlist."
Halric raised an eyebrow. "Did I?"
"Yes, sir..." he said, steady. "I am from Vaelridge. Twelve years ago, you told me to find you when I was older."
Halric blinked, then let out a low chuckle. "Ah, yes... I remember now. Look at you—grown into a fine man."
Edran's expression didn't change. "I want to serve," he said firmly. "But… I believe something's been overlooked. I think my village—Vaelridge—wasn't destroyed by dragons or shadows. It may have been attacked… by men. From another nation."
That caught Halric's attention. "And what makes you think that?"
"I don't have all the proof yet," Edran said. "But if I join—if I serve Greimdall—I'll dedicate every effort to exposing whoever was behind it. And if it was another power… I'll bring the truth to light. For Greimdall's glory."
Halric breathed slowly, then chuckled. "You've got fire in you. Greimdall needs more patriots like that. But if you want to serve, start by cleaning the land of dragonkin."
"I've already joined the Guild," Edran said.
"Good," Halric replied. "Then climb. Rise. Earn your place. And one day you'll be one of us. Dismissed."
Edran left the barracks, his steps careful but his chest hollow.
Through the murmuring streets and crooked alleys, the words played again and again.
He stopped in the middle of the road.
He pulled the letter from his cloak.
He read it.
His breath froze. His fingers curled tightly around the parchment.
The first thought in his mind—above rage, above fear—was to run.
Back to the camp.
Back to his people. His father.
—BREAK—
The streets of Greimdall blurred past as Edran ran, shoving through the evening crowd. Market stalls, cloaked travelers, city guards—all became a wall of bodies he had to push through. His heart pounded louder than the footsteps behind him. The letter burned in his pocket like a curse.
He didn't care about the stares. He didn't slow when someone cursed at him. He had to get out. Had to reach the hills.
The hills finally broke open into the makeshift sprawl of the refugee camp.
But something was wrong.
The camp wasn't the home of crackling fires and quiet laughter he remembered. It was too quiet. Movement stirred, but it was cautious—heads turned, voices hushed. Eyes darted away as he passed.
Then he saw them.
Three soldiers stood at the center of camp near the gathering post, armed and alert. One of them held a scroll and was speaking loudly, reading out accusations.
"Under order of Duke Ardrin, Davan of Vaelridge is charged with treason against the kingdom—"
Edran's breath caught in his throat. His father was on his knees beside them, wrists bound, face bruised but defiant.
Edran stepped forward, rage flooding his chest—but a hand yanked him back.
He turned. An older woman, eyes wide with fear, pulled him behind a stack of crates.
"Don't, Edran," she whispered harshly. "They're still here. If they see you, they'll take you too."
"But he—"
"You can't help him now. You'll only be next."
Edran's hands shook. His body screamed to move, to fight, to do something—but his legs wouldn't respond.
He peeked around the crates again as the soldiers finished reading. Without ceremony, they pulled his father to his feet and began leading him westward, toward the city's outer road.
He stared at the firewood pile beside the main tent. That's where his father had been the night before, humming quietly as he split logs. Now, the space was empty.
Edran's hand reached into his pocket, trembling as he clutched Daina's bracelet. The tiny silver band pressed into his skin like a brand.
He didn't move.
He couldn't. The truth had shattered something.
The road back toward the city felt longer this time. Edran didn't run. He walked—stiff, cold, broken. The bracelet still rested in his hand, his fingers clenched around it like a lifeline. He didn't know where to go. Home wasn't safe. The camp wasn't safe. The truth had poisoned everything.
He wandered south, down the older streets that wrapped around the city's edge. His feet dragged more than stepped. He wasn't sure where he was heading—just away. Anywhere. As long as it wasn't Greimdall.
That's when he saw it in the distance. The crooked outline of the Dragon Fang tavern stood up ahead, tucked in the bend of a quiet lane. He hadn't meant to come this way. Hadn't even thought of it. But there it was—as if the wind had guided him.
The sign swayed in the wind, its familiar creak now oddly eerie in the quiet. The lanterns were out, and the tavern stood shuttered in the late hour—an empty shell of the laughter and chaos it usually held. The stillness felt wrong, like a song cut off mid-verse.
He moved past the front, intending to keep walking—but something pulled his eye to the back.
A slumped figure sat there, tucked near the rear entrance, where the alley met the tavern's kitchen door.
He took a cautious step closer. The figure slumped near the back door became clearer in the moonlight.
It was the old man from before.
"Hey," Edran called softly. "Old man… it's me."
He knelt beside him, eyes adjusting to the dark. The old man's face was turned slightly away, his hat drooped low over his brow.
Edran, crying, spoke in a firm voice. "You were right. Everything you said… you were right.
He let out a shaky breath, his voice trembling. "I should've listened. I thought you were just—just bitter or drunk or…"
Still no answer. Edran reached out, his hand resting gently on the man's shoulder. "Hey… say something."
He gave a light shake. The man tilted. Limp. Cold.
The silence hit him first. Then the smell—the faint iron edge in the air.
Edran leaned closer and saw it, a small stain just below the ribs, dried into the fabric. Clean. Careful.
A dagger wound.
His breath caught. He recoiled slightly, hands trembling.
Edran stood up, heart pounding anew.
From the darkness near the back of the tavern, a voice came—calm, deliberate.
"You should've left shadows where they sleep."
Edran turned.
Halric emerged from the shadows, composed as ever, boots silent on the wooden floor. His cloak shifted slightly with each step, the firelight catching on the edge of his blade's sheath.
"But you couldn't just let it go, could you?" Halric said, eyes fixed on him. "You were always so fixated on justice."
Halric extended a gloved hand. "Return what you took."
Edran hesitated, then pulled the crumpled letter from his coat. He tossed it at Halric's feet. "Why?" he asked, voice cracking. "Why Vaelridge? Why my father?"
Halric shrugged lightly. "Following orders. Duke Ardrin's own. Villages like Vaelridge were considered… inefficient. Resource drains."
Edran's voice cut through, trembling but furious. "So you used illusion sigils to trick others into thinking it was Shadows or Dragons.""
Halric's expression didn't shift. "Of course we did. The duke provided them. It made things easier for everyone. People sleep better when they think monsters are the problem. It keeps Greimdall secure, and the people focused. Keeps the anger where it belongs—on the Dragonkin, the Shadows, the real threat."
"Yeah, but you lied. You let us believe it was monsters. You let everyone believe in some noble lie—while dressing your slaughter in the colors of glory and protection. Just for what?"
Halric's tone didn't change. "It was never about truth, glory, or protection. It was about coin. Resources. Stability. Order. You think kingdoms run on honor? No—they run on gold and what it buys."
Edran's voice cracked, laced with disgust. "It's always the same with you people. Greed behind every mask or shiny armor. You talk about order, protection—but it's just profit. Just blood turned into coin."
Edran's legs buckled beneath him. He fell to his knees, the weight of everything finally pressing him to the ground.
A flash of steel.
Pain.
Halric's blade slashed across his face, leaving a thin, burning line that bled freely down his cheek.
Halric crouched beside him, voice like ice.
"Now you wear your truth. But it won't matter." He rose and turned. "Go. Crawl back to the mud you came from. Or don't. No one will care either way, just like that old man beside you—do yourself a favor and finish it, so our land doesn't waste another coin on filth like you."
Edran didn't respond. He just fell on the ground.
Halric's footsteps faded into the night.
Edran stayed where he was, blood warm on his skin, heart hollow.
His fingers curled around the dirt beneath him. It felt like ash. Like the remnants of something once alive.
He wanted to scream. To curse Halric's name. To cry out for his father. For Daina. For the ones who would never see justice.
Instead, he lay there, half-curled on the cold ground behind a forgotten tavern, like something discarded. He wondered why Halric hadn't just ended it. Why he hadn't driven the blade deeper and let Edran fall beside the old man—beside Daina—into the soil.
Maybe that was the real punishment.
To be left breathing.
To carry the weight.
To rot slowly in the truth.
He stared up at the sky, at stars too distant to care.
The stars blinked, distant and cold.
No comfort came. No answer. Just the same silence that had haunted the camp, that choked the back of his throat.
Edran closed his eyes and breathed the dust.
Above, the wind moved through the empty sky—cold and restless.
Somewhere in the distance, the faintest trace of a melody stirred. Daina's song, or maybe just the wind pretending.
He didn't move.
He didn't speak.
The wind blew across Skyland, stirring the dust around his still form.
And there he remained, with blood on his face and silence in his chest—
while the last of Daina's song faded into the dark.