The sound of hooves echoed from the distance, growing louder with every beat until it filled the morning air. Sir Caidric rode at the front, Alaric and Edmund mounted with him, while Rowenne followed close behind on her own horse. Their pace slowed as they approached the Umbral Gate, the great passage carved into the towering walls that encircled all of Eryndral. Once beyond, the open road stretched endlessly before them.
Caidric dismounted with a fluid motion and approached Rowenne.
"Are you certain you do not need someone to accompany you? The road to Myrridral is long and desolate. It hides dangers even the earth cannot show."
Rowenne steadied her reins and gave a faint smile.
"I do not think the road will swallow us up."
"It is not the road I fear," Caidric countered, his eyes dark with concern. "It is the travelers upon it. Even knights do not ride unguarded without risk. For a lady with two young boys…" He trailed off, unwilling to voice the thought.
"Caidric." Rowenne's tone softened, though her eyes held firm. "I know you worry for us. But we will be fine. You must not carry this weight." She paused, then added quietly, "Though… there is one favor I would ask of you."
"Anything, my lady."
"If—by chance, or some strange weaving of fate—your path should cross Alaric's or Edmund's again… will you protect them for me?"
Caidric's brow furrowed. "And where would you be then? Why would they be alone?"
"I do not know." Rowenne's gaze flickered with something unspoken, fragile. "Life is too uncertain to be sure of anything. Will you promise me this?"
Caidric looked toward the boys, awkwardly tugging at the reins as they struggled to steady their mount. For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then he turned back to her and gave a slow, solemn nod.
"I promise."
Relief softened Rowenne's expression. "Thank you, for everything. And… when Sir Ronan returns, tell him I said thank you as well."
"I will, my lady. But you must take care of yourself," Caidric said, bowing low before stepping back.
Rowenne lingered only a moment longer, then urged her horse forward. The boys followed, their hooves carrying them steadily through the gate and into the horizon. Still, she turned once more to look back at Eryndral—the Capital of Shadows—knowing in her heart it might be her last glimpse of its walls. And there he stood, unmoved at the gate—Sir Caidric.
He had meant to leave, yet his feet refused. Something deep in his bones told him this was not a parting, but a farewell. Perhaps the final one.
"Seems we should have brought an extra horse," Rowenne called, her voice faint across the distance.
"Perhaps it is time I got to know the city better," Caidric replied, forcing a smile.
Rowenne's lips curved gently. "Goodbye, Sir."
Caidric only inclined his head. And then she was gone, hooves fading into the vast silence of the road ahead.
He stood there for a while, watching as the distance between them stretched into silence.
Sixteen years ago, when the banners of Eryndral still dripped with smoke and steel, Sir Caidric had been struck down in the thick of battle. The clash of swords roared like thunder, and the stench of iron clung thick in the air. Men who had fought beside him lay scattered in silence, and his vision dimmed as the weight of death pressed close.
And then—out of the haze—she came.
A girl, far too young to walk among corpses, with no armor to shield her and no herald to announce her name. She moved as though the carnage could not touch her, kneeling where hardened men dared not tread. While others recoiled from the field, she stepped into it, her hands steady, her eyes unflinching.
With nothing but torn linen and herbs carried in a satchel, she bound his wounds as arrows hissed in the distance. She whispered no prayers, only words firm enough to steady a dying knight's breath. To Caidric, it was as though courage itself had taken form in human flesh.
When at last he rose again, he asked who she was. She only shook her head, gave no name, and vanished into the haze of the wounded. For days, he thought her an apparition born of pain and blood-loss—until he saw her once more, tending the broken in the aftermath of war with the same unshaken resolve.
Three years later, when she came before the palace to seek a place of service, it was Caidric's voice that spoke for her. This one is no ordinary healer, he had said. She walks where others falter. She tends where others turn away. She carries fire in her hands, not fear.
And so Rowenne entered the palace not as a maid of chance, but as a woman whose courage had once pulled a Grand Marshal back from the edge of death. That bond—born in blood and fire—became the foundation of their friendship.
Now, that friend was leaving. Perhaps forever.
He stood watching a while longer, until they were barely visible on the horizon, before turning back toward the gate. A small crowd had gathered there, waiting to be let through, but Caidric was alone in his thoughts as he walked past them—oblivious to their bows and stares. It was a rare sight: the Grand Marshal alone, moving through the dust and noise of Eryndral's poorer streets, his mind lingering on a farewell he feared was final.
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"Mother, look how well we are riding the horses!" Alaric exclaimed as their mounts strode proudly through the forest path.
"Indeed," Rowenne replied warmly, "you're both very fast learners."
"How long will it take before we reach Myrridral?" Edmund asked, his small voice curious as ever.
"Well, let's see…" Rowenne tapped her chin, pretending to weigh the matter before answering. "At this pace, we should arrive by tomorrow morning. But if we ride harder, perhaps by nightfall."
"Want to race, Mother?" Alaric grinned, mischief glinting in his eyes.
"Oh please, don't get overconfident," Rowenne said, smirking. "I was riding horses long before you were even born. Skill is one thing—but experience is another. And in my case, I happen to have both. You, on the other hand, have none."
Edmund laughed, but Alaric grew thoughtful, almost as if some memory gnawed at him.
"How was Sir Caidric able to do that?" he suddenly asked.
"Do what?" Rowenne replied.
"That kick… the one he used on those guards. I don't know what it's called."
"Well, you could have asked him while you had the chance. Unfortunately, he isn't here now," she said lightly, though she noticed Alaric's dissatisfaction with her answer. She softened her tone. "Such skill only comes after years of relentless training and countless battles. It isn't learned overnight."
Alaric's expression hardened with determination. "Once we reach our destination, I'm going to learn how to fight. Maybe one day, I could be like him."
Rowenne blinked, taken aback. There was no jest in her son's voice, only conviction—sharp and clear.
"Me too, Mother," Edmund piped up. "Maybe one day, we can also become knights."
"Speak for yourself," Alaric countered with a proud tilt of his chin. "I'm already one."
The three of them burst into laughter, their voices echoing through the trees.
Rowenne's smile lingered longer than the laughter. She gazed at her sons, her heart both heavy and light. "You won't just be like him," she said softly. "You'll surpass him one day. You, Alaric, are sharp and gifted. And you, Edmund… I believe you are destined for the sword itself. One day, you'll both become masters." She was not totally sure the reason for the sudden change of mind but them deciding to learn themselves after years of countless failed attempts made her happy and gave her a little sense of peace.
A hush fell for a moment, the forest listening as though the trees themselves awaited her next words.
"Have you ever heard of the Phoenix Heir and the Battle for Ashes?" Rowenne asked.
"The… Phoenix heir?" Alaric tilted his head.
"Battle of Ashes?" Edmund echoed.
Rowenne's eyes drifted ahead, her voice lowering into the cadence of a tale. "Then let me tell you of a time when destiny was bent, purpose redefined, and the wheel of Time itself nearly broken…"
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"Is that… Sir Caidric? What a sight to behold—you're barely recognizable," Draven said as he spotted Caidric entering the palace gates.
"Draven! When did you return?" Caidric asked.
"This morning," Draven replied with a grin. "I came in shortly after Sir Ronan. But you—you look exhausted. Been walking all day, or are you finally getting old?"
"Even in the next ten years, I'll still be stronger than you. That much is certain," Caidric retorted, clasping Draven elbow to elbow.
"You're unusually verbose today," Caidric added with a raised brow.
"Where are you coming from, then?" Draven asked.
"Just around the city," Caidric said casually. "Said farewell to some friends who were leaving."
"Leaving? Then they'd best travel in groups. The roads are less than kind these days. Knights?"
Caidric hesitated. "No… a woman, and two young boys."
Draven froze, disbelief written across his face. "You let a woman travel alone with children? With no escort?"
"What could I do? She insisted. Once her mind is set..." Caidric shook his head, "there is no changing it."
Draven exhaled heavily. "I only hope she reaches safety. Did you at least check to see if anyone followed?"
"They had horses," Caidric replied. "If anyone meant to pursue them, they would've had to leave immediately after…" His voice trailed off, and suddenly his eyes sharpened, the weariness vanishing from his frame.
Draven caught the change. "What is it?"
"Just after they left—when I was coming back through the gate—there was a group of men asking passage out of the city."
"Out?" Draven's tone grew grim. "And? Anything suspicious?"
"I didn't think much of it then…" Caidric's brow furrowed. "But—one of them… I glimpsed a scar. Star-shaped. On his arm."
Silence fell. The air between them tightened. Both men knew. Who these people were. What they did. And what it meant.
The laughter and ease from moments ago drained away, replaced with cold dread.
Rowenne, Alaric, and Edmund were no longer as safe as he had hoped.