For a time, Faelan stayed close to Dorvel.
Short runs. Local messages. Streets he could memorize in his sleep. His body healed enough to move without wincing, though the scars stayed, pale reminders that didn't argue or explain themselves.
Day by day he'd ponder the encounter in Maulec but he could never get answers.
***
He woke up in the middle of the night hearing screams of dead.
"Another nightmare, huh," he thought to himself. Niri curled up beside him purring in her sleep.
Dawn was close so he decided to begin the day early with some laps around the dorms, he returned to his room and freshened up.
The sun rose signaling the start of a new day.
It wasn't long before Faelan headed to the guild, it was alarmingly busy, different packages marked with seals he hadn't seen before.
Lior didn't dress it up.
It was a sealed package. Contents undisclosed. Destination: Grarg's Keep—a sprawling, thriving town perched on the outskirts of Solax, one of the three great countries that still held itself together with walls, law, and numbers.
Faelan felt the weight of it the moment it was placed in his hands.
"We're a bit shorthanded, but the route's clean," Lior said. "Straight shot. There's an outpost midway if you need rest. Don't open it, nothing good happens when you do."
Faelan nodded and secured the package across his back. It sat awkwardly, pulling at his shoulders, changing the way he had to move.
"Hold on," Lior called out then handed Faelan a scarf, it was burnt orange with dark streaks on one side, bright orange with the guild's emblem engraved into the scarf along with what seemed like fingerprints but they were barely visible, the ends frayed unevenly, he didn't know what it was made out of, it felt elastic but also like it would tear apart.
"Keep it safe, you're heading into a country's territory, you'll need a more solid proof of identification. Now hurry up, " Lior sent him off.
It didn't take long, Dorvel was behind him again.
The land stretched open as he traveled—rolling ground, stubborn scrub, the sky wide and unforgiving.
Hours passed. Then more.
The outpost rose from the distance like a scar on the land—low walls, watchtower, a single banner fluttering lazily in the heat. It wasn't welcoming, but it was solid, and right now that was enough.
Faelan stepped inside as the sun dipped lower, shoulders aching, legs heavy.
Halfway there.
Faelan knocked once.
Then again.
Nothing answered—no footsteps, no voices, not even the scrape of movement inside. The outpost sat still, like it had been forgotten mid-thought. After a moment, he pulled out the key Lior gave him prior and slid it into the lock. It turned with a dry click that echoed louder than it should have.
Inside, the air was stale.
Dust coated almost everything in a thin, undisturbed layer, softening edges, muting colors. The furniture was sparse to the point of neglect—a narrow cot pushed against the wall, a crooked table, one chair missing a leg and propped up with a stone. A few books lay stacked unevenly, their spines cracked, pages yellowed with age.
Against the far wall stood a manual water pump, iron dark with rust but intact. Faelan tested it. It groaned, then coughed out a thin stream of water—clean enough, at least by smell.
He set the package down carefully and rolled his shoulders, wincing as the weight left them. The silence pressed in, thick and uncomfortable. This place wasn't abandoned in the way ruins were. It felt… paused. Like people were meant to be here, just not now.
Faelan thumbed through the books while the light held.
They were guild copies—plain covers, no titles, meant to survive travel more than admiration. The first detailed the origin of the Messenger's Guild, written in clipped, practical prose. It spoke of a time after the first Azryx landings, when roads were unreliable, skies unsafe, and borders shifted faster than maps could keep up.
Another book answered the question he'd heard whispered more than once: why animals weren't used.
At first they had been. Tesnochs, large aves, engineered beasts bred for speed. It hadn't lasted. Animals panicked too easily, reacted too honestly to things humans couldn't sense yet. Some refused routes outright. Others bolted mid-run, injured themselves, or turned feral after repeated exposure to unstable regions.
One line stuck with him:
"Animals know when the world is wrong. Humans can be taught to ignore it."
Faelan closed the book slowly.
He glanced at the door again, then the window, then back at the quiet room. Dust. Silence. An outpost that should have had at least one keeper—but didn't.
The quiet wrapped around him gently, almost kindly.
Faelan lay on the cot with his boots still on, the package secured beneath the bed, one hand resting near it out of habit. The outpost creaked as it cooled, wood contracting, metal ticking softly. No howls. No distant roars. Just wind brushing the walls.
For once, his body didn't argue.
Sleep took him fast.
The dreams came the way they always did—without warning, without mercy.
He was back in his village. Whole. Alive. People moved around him, talking, laughing, their faces blurred like wet paint. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. The sky darkened unnaturally, folding in on itself, and shadows stretched too long, bending where they shouldn't.
Then the smell hit him—smoke, blood, something sweet and rotten underneath.
He ran.
No matter where he turned, the ground softened, pulling at his feet. Vines brushed his ankles. Loboans watched from between buildings that hadn't existed before. A towering shape loomed at the edge of the dream, not chasing, just observing.
Always observing.
He woke with a sharp inhale, fingers digging into the thin mattress, heart pounding hard enough to hurt. Cold sweat clung to his skin, the room dark save for moonlight spilling through the window.
The outpost was still silent.
Peaceful.
And Faelan lay there staring at the ceiling, knowing sleep wouldn't come so easily again.
At times like this, Niri would've been there.
A warm weight against his ribs. Three tails flicking lazily. Those strange pupils shifting color as if deciding the world wasn't worth panicking over. Faelan would've buried his fingers in that impossibly soft fur and let the moment pass.
But Niri was back at the Dorvel.
The absence felt louder than the nightmare.
Faelan sat up on the cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the dusty floor. The outpost felt bigger now—emptier. He hadn't realized how much he'd come to rely on that small, living presence.
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself the way he'd learned to do alone.
Faelan lay back down, eyes open this time.
Sleep didn't take him again, but morning eventually would.
Dawn crept in pale and thin, washing the outpost in muted light.
Faelan rose before the sun fully cleared the horizon. He pumped water from the old iron handle, splashed his face, and drank sparingly. His reflection in the metal was drawn, eyes shadowed—but steady.
He secured the package across his back again, adjusting the straps until the weight sat right. Familiar now. Unwelcome, but manageable.
Outside, the road stretched onward, cutting through open land that gradually shifted in color and texture. The soil grew firmer. The air drier. Somewhere ahead lay Solax's influence—better roads, heavier patrols, towns that hadn't forgotten how to grow.
Faelan stepped onto the path and didn't look back.
The road ahead was long, and the morning sun climbed fast, baking the open stretches of scrub and grass. Faelan's legs ached from yesterday's effort, but he kept a steady pace, learning to shift his weight with the package, letting it rest against his hips with each step.
The wildlife changed with every mile. Small, reptilian creatures scuttled under rocks, alert to his presence, and aves with iridescent feathers wheeled overhead, their calls unfamiliar and sharp.
By midday, a hill rose before him. From its crest, he could see the distant walls of Grarg's Keep, pale stone glinting in the sun, surrounded by patches of cultivated land and winding roads. Smoke from chimneys suggested life, trade, and watchful eyes.
He paused at the hill's base, crouched low, feeling the sweat trickle down his spine. He allowed himself a moment to breathe, scanning the road for travelers, patrols, or anything that might threaten him. Nothing moved beyond the predictable rhythms of the countryside.
With a deep exhale, Faelan rose.
He started walking again, each footfall deliberate, mind alert, heart steady.
The gates of Grarg's Keep loomed high, dark stone reinforced with iron. Soldiers moved with measured precision, scanning every passerby with sharp eyes. The smell of smoke, livestock, and polished metal filled the air, a sensory wall as imposing as the physical one.
Faelan approached slowly, noticing the difference immediately. Where Dorvel had been lax, almost casual, Grarg's Keep felt controlled. Every cart was inspected, every package weighed and questioned. Guards barked commands, their boots striking the stone with disciplined rhythm. Even the archers on the walls didn't relax their stance.
He adjusted the straps of the heavy package across his back and stepped forward. "This is probably the difference between an outer town and one within a country's territory," he muttered to himself, eyeing the checkpoint.
A soldier stopped him, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Identificat–," he paused, noticing the scarf around his neck.
The guard studied it and allowed his entry.
Faelan let the streets guide him, weaving through Grarg's Keep. The city breathed differently from Dorvel.
People moved with purpose. Their clothing was layered and practical, but here and there, bright fabrics and intricate embroidery suggested wealth or status. Street vendors hawked goods from stalls stacked with fruits, preserved meats, and spices, their voices rising and falling like a chorus.
Buildings climbed higher than anything Faelan had seen before—stone and timber structures stacked into multistorey designs, with balconies and narrow walkways connecting them. Occasionally, a battered vehicle trundled past, its engine sputtering, drawing curious stares from pedestrians who hadn't seen one in weeks.
Faelan noticed the small details too: lanterns swinging gently above doors, intricate carvings along door frames, the faint hum of water channels running beneath the streets. Even the air smelled different—less dust, more cooked meals and polished wood.
He arrived at the messenger's guild in Grarg's Keep. The woman in charge—short, in her forties, with long brown hair—took one look at the package and froze.
"A Grivis seal…" Her eyes widened. "Take this to the mayor. At once."
She waved Faelan away before he could ask anything. He found it rather strange but didn't think much of it.
He reached the mayor's building: a massive stone structure with wide steps, banners fluttering at its entrance, and guards stationed at every corner. The package felt heavier on his back as he took in the scale of it all.
Faelan stepped through the massive doors of the mayor's building, the sound of hinges echoing off the polished stone walls. The interior was nothing like the small rooms and council halls he was used to.
Glass bulbs hung from the ceiling, their warm light blending with the sun streaming through tall windows. Every room seemed impossibly bright, the walls gleaming as though they had been scrubbed daily. Faelan's eyes flicked to small electric fans spinning lazily in the corners, stirring air in a way that felt unnatural compared to the wind and heat of the roads he'd traveled.
He paused for a moment, hands gripping the straps of the heavy package. Electrical power—a concept he'd known of only in books—was here, fully integrated into daily life. He felt a mix of awe and unease. The hum of machinery and the controlled brightness made the building feel alive, but also foreign, as if he'd stepped into a different world entirely.
A clerk at a polished desk glanced up and nodded toward a long corridor lined with doors. "Delivery for the mayor," Faelan said, his voice steady despite the weight pressing on his shoulders. The clerk waved him forward without another word, and Faelan began walking, each step echoing off the floors, the package a constant reminder that his task—and the eyes of the city—were fully upon him now.