The carriage left behind the walls of Askov and followed the road flanked by snow-covered forests. The rhythmic sound of wheels against stone accompanied the silence of the passengers. Elise observed the landscape without hurry, Iolanda kept the rigid posture of a soldier, and Elian, seated between them, seemed lost in his own thoughts.
Babel's words echoed in his mind: balance, harmony, stability. To others, they might sound like distant philosophy; to him, they were a sentence of judgment. Rodrigo had never known balance. His life had been forged in blood and vengeance, and now, within Elian's body, he sought a redemption the world seemed determined to deny him.
On the second night of travel, the carriage stopped in a clearing. The cold was dense, and the moon carved the sky like a pale blade. Then shadows emerged from the forest: misshapen creatures, their eyes gleaming with sickly hues, exhaling corrupted mana.
Elian rose before Iolanda even reacted. His eyes did not reflect fear, but calculation. He studied the number of enemies, their movements, their attack patterns. To him, they were not monsters—they were targets.
Iolanda drew her enchanted sword and advanced, cutting the creatures with clean, precise strikes. Elise, meanwhile, remained calm, simply watching. Elian did not move a muscle—not out of incapacity, but because he knew he lacked the strength to interfere decisively. He watched in silence, analyzing every gesture, memorizing how the mana condensed upon Iolanda's blade, how the energy dissipated in the air after each cut.
When the last beast fell, the metallic scent of evaporated mana filled the air. Iolanda cleaned her sword and muttered, almost disdainfully:
"Vermin. Nothing more."
Elian remained serious, but within him there was no fear. Only the bitter memory of his weakness. He had killed before, had witnessed the worst humanity could offer. These creatures did not frighten him—they only reminded him of how far he still was from the power he needed.
Back in the carriage, he gazed at the darkness beyond the window. Snowflakes fell slowly, covering the bloodstained ground they left behind. To him, it was symbolic: the world always tried to bury its scars, but he knew nothing ever truly vanished. Blood, pain, death… they always left a mark, no matter how deep the snow.
The carriage glided along the frozen road, the creaking of wheels against snow the only sound breaking the silence. The midnight cold seeped through the cracks, though the interior was warmed by the magical emblem of the Dark Throne etched into the ceiling.
Elian kept his eyes fixed on the forest beyond the glass. To others, the path might have seemed monotonous; to him, every detail carried weight. The way the trees bent, the way the snow muffled sound, the fleeting silhouettes darting through the underbrush. Nothing escaped him.
Iolanda noticed his sharp gaze scanning the terrain, as if every shadow could conceal a threat.
"Are you studying the terrain?" she asked, curious.
Elian turned his eyes back to the road ahead. His voice was steady, without hesitation:
"No. We never know when we'll be attacked."
The silence that followed was heavy. His words did not sound like a child's comment, but like instinct forged in pain. Elise, seated beside him, did not smile. Her green eyes fixed on him, burdened by an unspoken thought: a child should not speak this way. And yet she knew—Elian had seen more tragedy than most grown men could endure.
Iolanda murmured an approving sound and returned her gaze to the road. Elise remained quiet, choosing not to feed the hardness already consuming the boy's heart.
It was not admiration that Iolanda felt, but recognition. His rigidity was the reflection of something far deeper. He had lost his father, faced the first trial of the Qliphoth—Guilt itself. She could not know how much he had been consumed in his past life, nor how much he still tormented himself now, but she saw in his eyes a burden no child should ever bear.
That same night, they stopped at a roadside inn. The place was simple, wooden walls groaning against the wind, lit by oil lamps that filled the air with a sharp burnt odor. The oak tables were worn by countless travelers, and the chatter ceased the moment the three entered.
Three magi traveling together was already unusual; two from the Dark Throne and one from the Tower of Wisdom, side by side, was nearly unthinkable. Silence fell heavy, broken only by the crackling fire in the hearth. But what drew the most stares was the presence of a five-year-old boy wearing the colors of the Dark Throne. The gazes diverted, only to return again, laden with murmurs and mistrust.
They chose a table in the back. Two rooms were rented for the night: one for Elise, the other shared between Elian and Iolanda. Dinner was served—hot stew, hard bread, and a cup of lukewarm water.
Iolanda, disciplined as a soldier, ate quickly and in silence, every spoonful measured by necessity, not pleasure. Elise, calmer, took her time, savoring each bite as though it were a rare pause from the harshness of the world. Elian, however, lingered over his plate, more intent on observing the room than eating.
His eyes studied the scene: exhausted merchants, mud-stained travelers, a woman nursing her child in a corner, old men dozing over mugs of cheap ale. Everything here contrasted with Askov's polished façade. Here there were no masks, no illusions—only the raw simplicity of survival. And somehow, it felt truer.
Iolanda entered their shared room first, while Elian lingered outside with Elise. Nothing more than a brief "good night" and a reminder that he could call on her if needed. Then he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
Unlike the severe uniform she wore by day, Iolanda now dressed in a simple nightgown. Not indecent, but the absence of armor revealed another side of her—more human, almost fragile. The scars etched across her shoulders and back told their own stories, silent witnesses of battles long past. Her loose hair fell down to her waist, making her almost unrecognizable compared to the austere figure of the order.
Elian stood still, watching her. His gaze carried no desire, only curiosity and respect. For the first time, he saw that even warriors bore their scars.
Iolanda caught his stare and raised an eyebrow.
"How long do you plan on staring, boy?" she asked, firm but without anger.
He blinked, startled.
"Sorry… I just…" He faltered, words failing him.
She sighed, brushing her hair aside.
"It's fine. Sleep. Tomorrow will be long."
Elian nodded, lying down on the bed beside her. The scent of burnt oil mingled with her faint perfume, an oddly intimate, unsettling atmosphere.
Sleep did not come easily. Sharing a room with someone he barely knew kept his mind restless. The darkness pressed heavy, broken only by the distant crackle of wood and the sputtering lamp.
His thoughts returned to the battle of the night before. The image of the beasts still vivid.
"Could I have wounded one of them?" he whispered to himself.
Turning, his eyes fell on Iolanda. For a moment, he considered asking her. He longed to know if he would be allowed to fight, to feel the true weight of magic against a living enemy. But he restrained himself. Silence seemed safer.
Iolanda, however, needed no words. Without opening her eyes, her voice cut through the dark:
"Spit it out, boy. I can feel your stare."
Elian froze, then remembered: she was a warrior. Reading intent, footsteps, gazes—this was her life.
Taking a breath, he sat upright and met her eyes.
"If a beast shows up tomorrow… would you let me strike? I want to test myself, to know what it's really like."
He had taken lives before. Months ago, he had killed two boys who tried to violate his sister. Their blood still haunted him. But they were no magi, no fighters. They had been defenseless, slaughtered swiftly, one-sidedly.
This was different. He wanted to face something that could resist, something that could strike back, something that could wound him. He wanted to measure his strength against a true threat.
The silence stretched. Iolanda did not rush to answer. He felt the weight of her judgment in that pause, until finally, she spoke:
"Fine." Her voice was calm, firm. "But only if it's a level five. Beyond that, you'd do nothing."
Her tone carried no disdain, only truth. And oddly, it gave him confidence.
"Thank you," he said sincerely.
"Good. Now sleep, boy. Don't chew on your thoughts all night." She turned onto her side.
Elian lay back again, his eyes finding a mold stain on the ceiling, warped by shadow. He fixed on it until exhaustion dragged him into sleep.
★★★
The night passed like a blink, and soon they were back on the road. Breakfast was quick—fresh bread steaming, a cup of warm milk, a handful of dry biscuits.
Since midday the day before, the road had shed its ice. The firm ground, flanked by trees swaying in the wind, felt less hostile. They passed two small villages, much like Brumaria, marked by the same simplicity: wooden houses, wells in the square, suspicious eyes cast toward strangers.
By noon, they were already on Baron Hoffmann's lands. One more night and half a day would take them back to Brumaria. His domain stretched over three villages, with his manor at the center of it all.
Lunch was brief. No luxury, no time to savor. Just enough to satisfy hunger, for the urgency was to reach home. Elian's anxiety was hard to contain. He longed to see Maria, Emanuelle, Anthony. He knew the joy of reunion would be poisoned by the pain of farewell. One year… only one year before Cainã. The thought cut through him like a cold blade: the sacrifice needed to build the future.
As he sank into thought, Elise's voice pulled him back.
"Iolanda, we'll be attacked—right side and left." Her eyes shifted to the trees.
"Yes." Iolanda answered immediately, already unsheathing her sword and moving right. "Elian, with me. There's a level five beast. Let's see what you're made of."
"Understood!" His voice rang with firm, almost military resolve.
Elise's expression darkened. A part of her wanted to protest, but she knew she had no authority before Iolanda. All she could do was watch.