Two days on the road left them ragged—dusty boots, blistered feet, stomachs growling. The main path was littered with other refugees, faces hollow, eyes haunted. Merchants clutched wagons, guards kept hands on hilts, and whispers of "the rift" spread like wildfire.
At a bend in the road, a cart creaked to a halt. Its driver was a man draped in a patchwork coat of many colors, his hat tipped low, shadows hiding his face. He raised his head, revealing sharp features, a smile that felt both inviting and dangerous.
"Well now," the man said smoothly, "two lads from Eldridge, if I'm not mistaken." His voice carried an edge, like silk over steel.
Ryn stiffened. "How do you—"
The merchant wagged a gloved finger. "Word travels quickly, boy. Faster than wolves, faster than grief." His eyes flicked to Ignis at Arlen's side, the runes hidden under cloth but unmistakable to someone who knew what to look for. "And some words are worth more than gold."
Arlen's hand brushed the dagger. "Who are you?"
The merchant's smile widened. "Names are heavier than coin, but you may call me Lysander Veyne." He tipped his hat. "A wandering trader. I sell stories, trinkets, and truths… when the price is right."
Ryn scoffed. "We don't have coin."
"Ah, but you do," Lysander replied, eyes glinting. "You have something rarer. Potential." His gaze lingered on Arlen, a knowing weight. "The Hunter's Guild will eat you alive if you stumble in blind. You'll need… guidance."
Arlen studied him. The man was too smooth, too well-timed. But something in Lysander's tone, in the way he spoke of the Guild, hinted at truths they couldn't afford to ignore.
"Why help us?" Arlen asked.
Lysander chuckled. "Because, boy, I enjoy watching the game. And you…" His smile thinned. "You're about to make the board very interesting."