The forest beyond the dunes was quiet.
Too quiet.
Only distant shouts, occasionally broke the stillness—men calling orders to one another, the harsh clash of metal on metal, and the sharp, relentless barking of hounds. Whatever was happening out there, it lacked any attempt at subtlety. It was the sound of a pursuit unconcerned with witnesses.
Two figures burst from the edge of the dunes and staggered into the shadow of the trees, breath torn and ragged.
Eryndor bent forward immediately, hands braced on his knees as he coughed hard, spitting grit from his mouth and brushing sand from his hair. His chest burned as if someone had poured molten lead into his lungs.
"Well," he wheezed between breaths, forcing a weak grin,
"I am absolutely going to die."
Lirien shot him a glare sharp enough to cut armor.
Her hair had come loose from its braid, pale strands tangled and streaked with dust. Sand clung to her cloak and boots, and her eyes were still wide—not with fear, but with the lingering shock of what had just happened.
"Are you even human?" she snapped.
The sensation still lingered in her bones. She remembered the moment Eryndor had slammed his palm into the ground, wrapped an arm around her waist—
And in the next seconds reality had folded.
The world had dissolved into streaks of light and wind, space collapsing into a violent blur. One heartbeat they had been surrounded by the supposedly robbers. The next, they were gone—ripped through distance itself in a way that left no echo, no trail.
Not even an Inquisitor should have been able to follow that.
"Adventurous improvisation," Eryndor muttered weakly as he staggered sideways and slumped against the trunk of a massive tree, one hand clutching his ribs.
"Still counts."
His mana was gone, grown incredibly thin. Fading to a critical point, like a well run dry.
He doubted he could jog a single step even if death itself tapped him on the shoulder and asked politely.
"Just… let me sit," he said, sliding down the bark until he hit the ground with a dull thump.
"Give me a minute," he added between breaths. "Maybe two. Preferably three."
He paused, eyes unfocused.
"…Or until tomorrow."
Lirien ignored his babbling and listened.
The forest held its breath.
No insects. No birds. Even the wind seemed hesitant to move.
Then the sound came again—faint, but unmistakable. Shouts echoing through the trees. Metal clashing. The disciplined chaos of armed men coordinating a search. The hounds' barks cut through it all, sharp and focused.
"They're searching for someone," Lirien whispered.
"Not us," Eryndor replied. His voice was calm, though edged with exhaustion.
"Different direction. Different… intention."
She frowned. "How can you tell?"
He tilted his head slightly, listening.
"Because those bastards are snakes—literally. When they hunt, they don't yell about it."
Despite herself, Lirien let out a short, breathless huff. Half disbelief. Half unwilling amusement.
After a few moments, Eryndor groaned and forced himself upright, bracing one hand against the tree. His legs slightly trembled, but he stayed standing.
"Alright," he said, rolling his shoulders—then immediately regretting it.
"Break time's over. Let's move before whoever-that-is decides to expand their hobbies."
A faint thread of mana stirred back into him. Not much—but enough.
Lirien stepped in beside him without comment, slipping an arm around his back to steady him as he forced his legs to cooperate. Together, they moved deeper into the forest.
The noise behind them faded slowly, swallowed by the thickening trees. The world grew quieter—not peaceful, but empty. As though the land itself was watching, waiting.
They walked for a long while.
Eventually, the forest thinned. The ground sloped upward, loam giving way to rough stone. The air changed—drier, sharper. Wind hissed between jagged rocks, slipping through the crags of the western Sky Bastion like an ancient voice whispering secrets best left buried.
That was when Lirien stopped.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered.
Eryndor stilled instantly, fatigue burning away beneath instinct. Beneath the sigh of drifting sand and wind-worn stone, another sound pulsed faintly.
Breathing.
Uneven, labored and certainly wounded.
They approached cautiously.
Behind a shattered outcrop slumped a short, broad-shouldered figure. A dwarf—no mistaking it. Ember-glow flickered faintly in his eyes, dim but alive. His left arm was crudely bandaged with strips of torn leather, soaked dark with dried blood. His clothes were scorched and torn, marked by hard travel and harder fights.
Beside him lay a heavy hammer, half-buried in gravel. The haft was cracked, the head dented, but the craftsmanship was unmistakable.
A smith's weapon.
The dwarf lifted his head weakly as they approached.
"Well," Eryndor said, forcing enough breath back into his lungs to sound conversational,
"hello there. Rough day?"
The dwarf managed a weak laugh that dissolved quickly into a coughing fit. "You could say that."
Lirien's gaze swept the area immediately, sword still drawn. "We're not alone," she murmured. "There are tracks. Many."
The dwarf grunted and nodded tightly. "Aye. Keep your blades ready, lass. They'll catch up soon enough."
Eryndor tilted his head, studying him. "And who might they be?"
"Guild hunters," the dwarf spat. Bitterness coated the word.
"I thought they were my brothers." His jaw tightened. "Now they call me traitor."
"Traitor?" Eryndor echoed mildly.
The dwarf met his eyes.
"Garruk Ironthane. Smith and warrior of the Emberforge Guild." A pause. "Was, at least."
"Before they said I stole Guild relics and sold 'em to outsiders for coin."
"And you didn't," Lirien said flatly.
Garruk barked a humorless laugh. "No. The relics were gone before I ever laid a finger on them. Someone high up made that deal. I took the blame."
"Convenient," she muttered.
"Wait, slow down." Eryndor stepped closer, wary. "Why tell us?"
Garruk shrugged weakly. "Hells, lad I don't know. Betrayal makes a dwarf lonely. Maybe I just needed someone to hear my story before I die." He gave a hollow, humourless chuckle
Eryndor studied him in silence.
The pain was real. The weariness too. But beneath it all was something unmistakable—dwarven stubbornness, the kind that clings to life even when everything else has fallen apart.
"You're bleeding through that bandage," Eryndor said. "Hold still."
Garruk frowned. "Now wait—"
Too late.
Eryndor tore a strip from his own cloak and pressed it against the wound, but then golden light flickered faintly beneath his fingers. The scripture along his arm shimmered faintly, crawling toward the injury.
The flesh knit itself together.
Garruk hissed—but didn't pull away.
When it was done, he stared at the faint golden pattern left on his skin.
"What in the forge's name was that?"
"Adventurous first aid," Eryndor replied with a grin.
Inside, his thoughts spiraled.
He glanced at Lirien. She was already staring at him, questions written plainly across her face. He could only shrug.
The dwarf chuckled weakly. "You two don't sound like priests."
"We're not," Eryndor said.
"Just travelers who attract unreasonable amounts of trouble."
Boots crunched on stone.
Once. Then many.
Lirien's head snapped up.
Dozens of silhouettes emerged between the trees, weapons glinting as they closed in.