Fifteen days didn't fix Asmora, but it did make the place smell less like a swamp and more like a construction site.
Alaric stood on the ridge, his breath huffing out in little white clouds that vanished in the crisp morning air. His body still felt like it was recovering from a car wreck—mana exhaustion was no joke, and his core felt like a bruised muscle every time he tried to circulate energy. But seeing the village actually moving was better than any potion. The river was being "disciplined" with gabions—basically big wire baskets filled with rocks that told the water to stay in its lane.
Beside him, Asimi looked as if she'd been born to stand in the cold and look disappointed at things. She was the "CEO" of this operation, while Alaric was more like the lead engineer with a very shaky budget and a ghost in his jewelry.
"It's a lot of money to throw into the mud," Gina muttered behind them. She still looked like she wanted to cry over the loss of Starfall Manor. To her, a house was safety—a physical anchor in a world that liked to sweep people away. To Alaric, it was just a giant "Spy on Me" sign he'd finally managed to tear down.
"It's not mud, Gina," Alaric said, his voice sounding older than his seven-year-old face should of allowed. "It's an investment. Dirt you can grow food in is worth more than marble you can only sit on."
The Arrival of the Night-Black Hair
The peace didn't last. A dust cloud on the horizon eventually turned into a parade of black-and-silver armor. Two carriages, far too fine for a flood-zone, rumbled toward the camp escorted by a squadron of Knights Theurge—war-mages who carried staves as often as they carried steel.
When the lead carriage door opened, Dawn Angelique didn't wait for the steps to be lowered. She hopped down, her black hair whipping in the wind, and ignored the frantic butlers trying to straighten her cloak. She was seven, the same age as Alaric, and while she was easily the smartest girl he'd ever met, she wasn't "James Silver" smart. She was intense, talented, and prone to wearing her heart on her sleeve like a badge of office.
She wore a silver-white skirt and a tiny, fitted black breastplate that made her look like a miniature commander. As she spotted Alaric, the rigid, noble "mask" she'd been taught to wear simply crumbled.
"Alaric!"
She didn't run—that would be "unbecoming"—but she walked so fast her butlers had to trot to keep up. When she reached him, she stopped just inches away, her royal blue eyes glowing with a faint, restless light. She looked him up and down, her gaze snagging on his pale skin and the way he leaned slightly to one side.
"You look like a ghost," she said, her voice dropping the formal lilt. There was a tremor in her words that wasn't just from the cold. "They said you went into the ground. They said the tower tried to eat you."
Alaric tried to give her a reassuring smile, but his face felt stiff. "The tower didn't eat me, Dawn. It just... borrowed some energy."
Dawn didn't look convinced. She reached out, her small, gloved hand hovering near his arm as if she wanted to grab him and make sure he was solid, but she pulled back at the last second, remembering the eyes of the knights and their mothers watching.
"I was scared," she whispered, so low the wind nearly took it. "I thought... if you were gone, I'd have to deal with the palace all by myself. And who else would understand my rules?"
Alaric felt a sudden, sharp pang in his chest that had nothing to do with mana drain. It was a spark of something grounded and real—an "I care about you" that went deeper than just being playmates. In a world of silver-tongued liars, Dawn was a bright, honest fire.
"I'm not going anywhere," Alaric promised, his voice softening.
Dawn's expression hardened then, a flash of that fierce Angelique pride. "I told my father I was coming. He called me a failure. He said that a seven-year old girl had no business in a war zone." She gestured toward the Knights Theurge behind her. "So I took his best men. He couldn't stop me. Not when I told him I was going to help a Prince of the Realm."
She looked at the village, at the mud and the rising walls, and then back at Alaric. Her eyes searched his, looking for the boy she knew, but finding something a bit more shadowed.
"You're different," she noted, her brow furrowing in that way children do when they're trying to solve a puzzle that's missing half its pieces. "You smell like... old stone and magic. But you're still Alaric."
She reached out again, and this time she didn't pull back. She took his hand, her fingers warm and steady against his cold skin. It wasn't a romantic gesture—they were toddlers, after all—but it was a pact. A silent acknowledgment that in this mess of war and ancient ghosts, they were the only two people they could truly trust.
"Don't do it again," she commanded, her blue eyes flashing. "Don't go where I can't follow."
Alaric squeezed her hand back. "I'll try. But if I do... I'll make sure there's a map for you."
Gina made a soft, strangled sound in the background—half-exasperation, half-relief—while Asimi watched them with a look of quiet, terrifying calculation.
Dawn had arrived. She brought knights, she brought resources, and most importantly, she brought a reason for Alaric to keep his head above the rising tide.
War is coming, James Silver thought, feeling the warmth of Dawn's hand. But at least the board isn't as empty as it was yesterday.