Draven stepped up to Garrik, his tone calm but focused.
"I will scout the market, gather information, and map out places of interest for His Highness."
Garrik nodded, his gaze firm.
"Good. I'll survey the village—mark the terrain, identify defensible positions, and secure exit routes. If demons stir in this land, we will not be caught blind."
His sharp eyes swept over the assembled warriors.
**"The rest of you—spread out, observe the region, take notes, and report back to Solan. And remember—respect the customs of this land. We are foreigners here; ignorance is no excuse. Anyone who dishonors our banner…" Garrik's lips curled into a cold grin, "…will answer to me."
The men straightened, a ripple of unease sharpening their posture. Solan chuckled from the side, arms folded.
"Looks like they'll be working twice as hard now."
Draven turned, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as he headed for the exit.
"As they should. We will not stain our lord's honor."
A determined silence settled among the warriors, jaws tightening, resolve firming like steel before battle.
Garrik's eyes lingered on Draven, watching the man vanish into the streets dressed as any simple townsman—unremarkable, unarmed to the eye, yet Garrik knew the truth. Beneath those plain clothes were concealed blades and shadow-forged weapons, ready to strike unseen.
His thoughts drifted briefly to the Assassins of the Shadows, those silent guardians bred for war in the dark. Draven was one of them—a ghost among men, a dagger behind every enemy's back.
Even among the Selvaris, Draven's appearance carried the mark of the shadows. He was tall, lean, his frame built like coiled steel, every movement controlled, measured. His silver hair was cropped shorter than most of his kin, practical and sharp, with a single braid trailing behind his left ear, woven with a small obsidian charm—a symbol of his silent order. His features were angular, with sharp cheekbones, a straight, knife-edged jawline, and a mouth rarely seen smiling. His eyes, however, were the accurate weapon: cold, colorless silver, like still water under moonlight, calm… yet always watching, always calculating.
The obsidian charm braided into Draven's hair was more than decoration—it was a mark of silence, known among the Selvaris as the "Veil Shard." Forged from the cooled heart of volcanic rock beneath the Silvermoon peaks, it symbolized absolute loyalty to the throne and a vow of wordless service.
"The Veil Shard binds the tongue and frees the blade," as the old saying went.
Only those who had passed the Silent Trials, surviving both shadowcraft and blood oaths, earned the right to wear it. To enemies, it was meaningless; to the people of Selvaris, it was a silent promise—where this shard glinted, treachery died quietly.
Silent as falling snow, deadly as the first winter frost, their bodies were crafted weapons, their breath laced with hidden magic. Runes burned beneath their skin, and the night obeyed their will.
Where armies broke, they slipped unseen.
Where demon kings roared, they whispered… and crowns fell in silence.
No songs carried their names.
Only the wind remembered… and the bones of demon kings buried in forgotten fields.
Solan stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles before speaking with a grin.
"I'll draw out some symbols, something basic to communicate with the villagers—directions, trade, common needs. With any luck, we'll bridge the language gap quickly. Hopefully, my sister doesn't get carried away with drawing nonsense and focuses on what actually matters."
Garrik nodded approvingly, watching Solan stride toward the dining area, parchment already in hand. He turned away, adjusting his clothes as he prepared to begin his own sweep of the village.
The twins always kept things moving. Knowledge wouldn't slip through our fingers with them around—whatever world this was, we wouldn't be blind for long.
His thoughts drifted, recalling the pride stitched into their history.
In the storied annals of Selvaris, few births were celebrated like the Twins of the Silver Oath. Born under the rare alignment of the Silver Moon and the Dawn Star, they were not marked by hollow prophecy of conquest, but by balance—the perfect union of sword and wisdom.
Raised in the noble courts of Lunareth, they were schooled in more than warfare. Their life was forged in bladecraft, advanced war-magic, and the sciences of statecraft, with their minds sharpened alongside their weapons. One commanded storm and flame, the other barrier and shadow, yet both mastered battlefields with strategy as much as with sorcery.
Among the Selvaris, they were whispered as the Twin Sigils—living emblems of their people's enduring strength, destined not only to break enemy lines, but to outthink the darkest of foes.
Their very presence set them apart—tall, sharp-featured, with silver-white hair that caught the light like moonlit silk. Solan's pale blue eyes, streaked with storm-grey, seemed to crackle with restless thought, while his sister's deep violet gaze held quiet, calculating depth.
Solan moved with quick confidence, his lean build made for speed and precision; his sister with measured poise, every step honed through discipline and control. Graceful, intelligent, and commanding, they were born of the Silvermoon's blood, shaped by the wisdom of Lunareth's courts.
Among the clans, the saying endured:
"Where one strides, lightning splits the sky; where the other stands, shadow swallows flame—between them, empires rise or fall."
In moments, the once-quiet square became a ripple of controlled movement.
Garrik's steady commands sent the Selvaris scattering across the village, their steps casual, their clothes simple—yet everything about them radiated quiet discipline. There were no swords at their hips, no armor gleaming on their backs, yet every glance, every stride, spoke of warrior blood and battlefield grace.
The Old Liu, leaning in his doorway, squinted at them, lips pressed into a thin line.
"No weapons… no armor… but not a one slouches like a common people."
His gaze drifted up to the unnatural shimmer of their silver-white hair, flowing freely beneath cloaks and travelers' garb, catching flecks of sunlight like threads of starlight.
"Definitely stocking more rice wine…" he muttered. "And maybe whatever passes for royal dessert around here."
Across the square, children followed the strangers like ducklings, drawn in equal parts by curiosity and the shimmering moon-colored hair. One girl, maybe ten, stood on her tiptoes trying to touch the ends of a tall Selvaris man's braid, gasping when it seemed to ripple in the light.
"Are you sky-people?" she asked in wonder.
The warrior crouched briefly, offering a small smile, then pointed skyward, speaking in a language she didn't understand—but his gentle tone made her grin.
At the market, older villagers traded wary looks, watching Solan draw with calm focus, his back straight, his posture unnervingly flawless—like a scholar from a palace, not an ordinary traveler. Several women whispered to each other, noting how effortlessly these foreigners carried themselves—heads high, steps smooth, not a trace of the awkwardness of simple laborers.
A farmer grumbled to his neighbor,
"Walk like they own the mountains… eat like they've never touched dirt."
Garrik passed by them, towering and solid despite his loose-fitting clothes, his sharp eyes scanning rooftops and road bends. The group fell silent when his cold steel gaze swept across them, not out of threat—just the sheer weight of command in his stare.
From doorways and stalls, villagers whispered:
"Maybe nobles… maybe monks… or something older."
"Who has hair like that? Must be touched by something."
"Not sure if we should sell them dumplings or offer prayers…"
By the hotel door, the Old Liu huffed to himself,
"Best case? I get rich. Worst case? They burn the demons out of the hills, and I get famous. Either way, I'm stocking rice wine like there's no tomorrow."