The South Road unwound beneath their feet in a lazy stretch of dirt and stone, the river glinting silver at their side. The day was bright, the sky impossibly wide, and Kaelen could almost believe the job would be as easy as it sounded: walk, watch, get paid.
Miro strolled ahead, daggers swinging lightly from his belt, occasionally glancing into the hedgerows as if he expected bandits to leap out purely to break the boredom. Serenya moved at the flank, her bow strung now but idle in her hand, eyes scanning the treeline in measured sweeps.
Brevik was a constant hum behind them—counting casks, mumbling about road conditions, adjusting his hat every time the wind thought to challenge it. Kaelen caught snippets of complaint about "bandit country" and "terrible things happen on clear days" and quietly filed them away as background noise.
It was well past midday when Serenya slowed. Her hand came up, palm outward, and the caravan creaked to a halt. "Quiet," she murmured.
Kaelen listened. No birdsong. No rustle of small creatures. The only sound was the faint slap of river water against the bank. And beneath it all, a scent—faint but sharp, like rust and wet leather.
They rounded a bend and the world seemed to hold its breath.
A half-dozen bodies lay scattered in the dirt just off the road. Leather armor was shredded, not cut. Swords and crossbows lay untouched where they'd fallen. Deep gouges scarred the ground, as though a massive claw had dug through stone and soil alike. One man's chest was caved inward with such force the armor had buckled like tin.
"Bandits?" Miro asked, though the word sounded wrong even to him.
"Were," Serenya said. "Not anymore."
Kaelen crouched by a body, touching the edge of a torn breastplate. The metal was split in a clean arc, not jagged like a sword strike. "Whatever did this…" He trailed off, scanning the trees.
The forest answered with a low, rumbling growl.
It stepped into view with the casual grace of something that feared nothing—sleek as a great cat but with plates of dark, chitinous armor running along its shoulders, spine, and forelegs. Its eyes were molten amber, unblinking, and its claws clicked faintly against the stones as it padded forward.
"Ironclaw Stalker," Serenya said under her breath. "It's far from home."
"They're supposed to be in the southern wilds," Kaelen said.
"Tell it that," Miro muttered, already drawing his daggers.
The beast moved in a blur. Kaelen barely had time to bring his sword up before it struck, the impact shuddering through his arm. He swung low, but the blade skated off its armored flank. His forearm crossbow came up, bolt loosed point-blank—but the shot glanced off a shoulder plate, burying itself in the dirt. Too slow to reload mid-melee.
Miro was already in motion, darting to the side and slashing at the gaps between the plates. His movements were quick, almost playful—feinting to draw its attention, then cutting deep where flesh was exposed. The beast snarled, spinning to chase him, but he was gone before it could strike, rolling beneath its reach and coming up behind it.
Serenya's bow thrummed. The first arrow buried itself in the joint of its hind leg; the second, in the soft flesh just behind the jaw. She stood perfectly still between shots, breathing slow, eyes narrowing in focus. Then she did something Kaelen had never seen—her gaze sharpened, as if she was listening to something beyond them, and she loosed her third arrow a heartbeat before the beast moved. The shaft struck home in its eye.
The Ironclaw staggered, hissed, and lunged for her. Kaelen stepped in, sword flashing, driving the point deep into the exposed throat as Miro's blades crossed in a final strike beneath its jaw. The beast shuddered once, then collapsed, armored plates clattering against the stones.
They stood there in the quiet that followed, breathing hard. Brevik peeked out from behind the lead wagon, eyes wide. "That," he said slowly, "was not in the contract."
"Neither was paying us extra," Miro said, grinning.
Brevik's laugh was half nerves, half genuine relief. "We'll… discuss it in Fairmere."
They reached the city gates by dusk. Fairmere was smaller than Harrowick, built in tiers along a hillside, with narrow cobbled streets that wound like roots between stone houses. Lanterns flickered to life as they entered, casting golden halos in the cooling air.
Brevik paid them at the gate, pressing the coins into Kaelen's hand with both of his own. "Stay at the Golden Hart tonight," he insisted. "My treat. You've more than earned it. And I'd rather know you're somewhere with strong walls."
The Golden Hart was everything the name promised—oak-paneled walls hung with hunting trophies, a roaring fire in the hearth, and the scent of roasted meat drifting from the kitchen. They claimed a table near the fire, mugs of dark ale appearing almost before they sat.
Miro leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "If all jobs ended like this, I might actually settle down."
Kaelen snorted. "You'd last three days before getting bored."
Serenya was quiet, sipping her drink, until Miro leaned forward, eyes glinting. "Alright. In the fight—how did you know where it was going to move? You loosed that arrow before it even turned its head."
Kaelen, leaning back with his mug in hand, added, "You can use magic?"
Serenya paused mid-sip, then let out a soft laugh. "Magic? What, do you think it's lying around for anyone to grab? No. Magic's rare for a reason."
Miro tilted his head. "Because it's dangerous?"
"Because it's hard," she corrected. "In theory, anyone—human, elf, dwarf—could learn it. But sensing the mana around you is like hearing a song played on the far side of a storm. If you can't hear it, you can't shape it. The mana inside you is just a guide—too much of it twists your thoughts, too little and you waste away. Balance matters." She tapped her temple. "Magic is shaping the world's mana without letting it shape you."
Miro pointed his mug at her. "So that wasn't magic?"
"No," she said with a faint smile. "That was part of Elf Arts. Not shaping mana, not forcing anything—just listening. The land, the spirits. Feeling the change in the air before it comes. Sometimes they whisper in time to act."
Kaelen's brow furrowed, then lifted. "Elf Arts… I've heard of it, but never seen it. Still sounds a lot like magic."
"It looks like magic," Serenya admitted. "But it isn't. And unlike magic, not everyone can do it."
There was a beat of silence as they drank. Then Miro frowned. "Wait. Elf Arts? How can you use those?"
Serenya blinked at him. "…Because I'm half-elf?"
Kaelen almost choked on his ale. "You're what?"
"You didn't know?" She looked between them, brows rising. "I hide my ears to avoid attention. Elves aren't common in most cities, and the less I'm noticed, the better. I assumed you'd guessed from my hair."
Miro reached across the table, flicking a strand that caught the firelight. "You thought this was enough?"
"For most people, it is," Serenya said, lips quirking.
Kaelen shook his head slowly. "So… half-elf."
She raised her mug. "Half-elf. Now, are we done with the interrogation? Because I believe Brevik owes us another round."
Miro grinned. "Half-elf or not, I'm still faster with a blade."
"Keep telling yourself that," Serenya replied, her smile softening as she glanced between them. The fire crackled, the ale flowed, and—for the moment—the weight of the road felt far away.