*Flashback 8 years ago*
The morning sun in Honeywood poured like honey over cobblestones worn smooth by a hundred years of footsteps. The air smelled of fresh bread from the corner bakery, wild roses climbing every fence post, and the clean, damp earth of the town square. Hythesion tucked his chin against his chest, hugging a stack of leather-bound books to his ribs as he dodged between merchants setting up their stalls.
"Watch it, boy!" A fruit seller snapped as he nearly tripped over a crate of peaches. "These are from the eastern orchards—worth more than your scruff green scarf!"
Hythesion mumbled an apology and ducked away, his worn boots making no sound on the warm stones. He'd walked three days just to visit Honeywood's Grand Archive—the only place within a hundred miles that carried texts on ancient battle formations and arcane theory.
He spotted it then: a weathered wooden bench tucked between a tailor's shop and an apothecary, shaded by a sprawling oak tree that had grown through the cobblestones themselves. It was his favorite spot in all of Honeywood—a quiet place to read without being jostled by crowds.
But someone was already sitting there.
She wore worn leather boots and a simple linen tunic, but there was nothing simple about the way she held herself—back straight, shoulders squared, as if she were ready to face down an army. Dark hair was braided tight against her scalp, and in her hand, she traced patterns in the dust with a small, smooth stone. When she looked up as he approached, her eyes were the color of summer grass after rain.
"Is this seat taken?" Hythesion asked, shifting his books to one arm.
She glanced at the empty half of the bench, then back at him. "Depends. Are you going to read out loud? I can't stand people who read out loud in quiet places."
A small smile tugged at his lips—he'd heard worse greetings. "I read to myself. Mostly strategy texts and old histories."
"Strategy?" She perked up, sitting straighter. "Like… war plans?"
"More like battle formations, supply lines, how to move troops without being detected." He settled onto the bench carefully, making sure none of his books touched the damp wood. "Though I suppose that could be used for war."
She leaned forward, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Do you fight?"
"Not if I can help it." He pulled a small, worn journal from his stack—Tactics of the First Age. "I prefer to think my way out of problems. Though I am a sorcerer, I can use magic, but I'm learning to defend myself. Can't exactly walk three days to buy books without knowing how to handle bandits."
She laughed—a clear, sharp sound like wind chimes. "Bandits? Please. The worst thing out here is merchants trying to overcharge you for peaches." She held out her hand. "I'm Glynlie, Glynlie Mortimer."
"Hythesion." He shook her hand—her grip was firm, calloused from practice. "What brings you to Honeywood?"
"Adventure." She said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I've been training with swords since I could hold one, and I want to see real fights, real danger—something that matters, you know what I'm saying?"
Hythesion raised an eyebrow. "Real danger usually doesn't 'matter' the way you think it will." He opened his book, then paused. "You know, I know a group where they take on jobs that the guards won't touch—protecting caravans, clearing out bandit camps. They're called themselves Silverlake."
"Silverlake…" She tested the name on her tongue. "Sounds like a place, not a group."
"It was. They started in a village by a silver lake up north. The founder—Kaylla—she built it from nothing." He turned a page, then looked up at her again. "She's looking for new members sometimes. People who can fight, but more than that—people who can think."
Glynlie leaned back, tapping her stone against the bench. "Think and fight? That sounds like my kind of group."
Two weeks later, Hythesion found Glynlie exactly where he'd left her—on that same bench, but this time with a leather pack at her feet and a sword strapped to her hip. The morning mist still clung to the cobblestones, and the bakery hadn't opened yet, so the air was clean and cool.
He sat beside her, pulling out a small wrapped package. "Thought I could find you here. I brought you something."
She unwrapped it carefully—inside lay a polished leather sword belt, stitched with silver thread in patterns that caught the light. "You made this?"
"Yes. My mother taught me leatherwork before she… before she passed." He looked away, tracing the edge of his book. "It's reinforced with steel plates under the leather. Won't stop a direct strike, but it'll save your ribs if someone gets too close."
Glynlie fastened it around her waist, adjusting the buckle until it fit perfectly. "Thank you." Her voice was quiet, serious. "No one's ever made something for me before."
They set out at dawn, following dirt roads that wound through fields of wheat and sunflowers. Glynlie walked with easy grace, her sword swinging at her hip, while Hythesion kept pace beside her, pointing out edible plants and telling stories about the lands they passed through.
"See those hills?" He gestured toward the distant blue ridges. "They say a dragon sleeps under them—old enough to remember when the world was just oceans and rock."
"Dragons aren't real." Glynlie scoffed, but she looked at the hills with wonder in her eyes.
"Maybe not." He smiled. "But believing they are makes the world more interesting."
A small camp rose from the trees—canvas tents ringed by wooden palisades, training dummies made of straw and leather standing in neat rows, and the smell of roasted meat and wood smoke hanging in the air. As they drew closer, Glynlie stopped short, looking around with wide eyes. "This is… this is more than I expected. It feels like… like a real home."
A tall woman with crimson hair stood at the gate, her arms crossed over her chest. Even from a distance, Hythesion recognized Kaylla—the leader of Silverlake, whose name was whispered in both fear and respect across three kingdoms.
"Hythesion!" She called out, a broad smile spreading across her face. "I was wondering when you'd drag yourself away from those books of yours. And who's your friend?"
"This is Glynlie." Hythesion stepped aside, letting her move forward. "She's been training with swords her whole life, and she's looking to join us."
"Wait? You knew each other?" Glynlie surprisingly asked.
"Yes, he is our strategist!" Kaylla circled Glynlie slowly, her eyes taking in every detail—from the way she held herself to the worn grip of her sword. "Show me what you can do."
They moved to the training ring, Glynlie drew her sword—a simple steel blade, but well-cared for—and faced off against Osmedious, a huge orc with carrying a huge shield.
"If you can make Osmedious here move an inch, you pass." Kaylla stated proudly. "He calls it Castle of Stone, it's serious than it sounds—once he plants his feet, not even a charging horse can shift him."
Glynlie thought it was a simple task, until Osmedious settled into his stance—feet spread wide, shield grounded, muscles coiled like springs beneath his skin. He was as still as a mountain.
She struck again and again—quick jabs, powerful swings, even tried to sweep his legs out from under him—but Osmedious remained unmoved. Sweat beaded on her forehead, but she didn't quit. She stepped back, closed her eyes for a moment, and thought about everything Hythesion had said about strategy. Then she charged forward, not at his shield, but at the ground beside him—swinging her sword in a wide cleave that sent dirt and pebbles flying. The force of the strike, combined with the sudden distraction, made Osmedious shift his weight just enough to take one small step back. Osmedious smiled not because he won, but Glynlie did.
"Not bad," Osmedious grunted, grinning despite his defeat.
"I've been practicing since I was seven." Glynlie lowered her sword, offering him a hand up. "My father taught me—said if I was going to be a girl who carried a sword, I'd better be able to use it."
Kaylla clapped her on the shoulder, her strength nearly making Glynlie stumble. "Welcome to Silverlake. We've been waiting for someone like you."
That night, they sat around the campfire, passing a skin of mead between them. Kaylla told stories of their first contract—protecting a caravan from a band of raiders who'd thought they were easy targets. Osmedious talking about what to eat and cook tomorrow.Hythesion read from his new book on ancient texts, translating ancient words that spoke of power and balance.
Glynlie watched them all, her heart full in a way it never had been before. These weren't just strangers—they were family.
Six months passed in a blur of contracts, training, and laughter. Silverlake grew from four members to six—they called themselves the Origin Six, after they recruited Kronnox and Janna, though Glynlie would always think of them as the four who'd welcomed her home.
They fought bandits in the western hills, protected a royal messenger through dangerous passes, and cleared out a nest of creatures that had been terrorizing a coastal village. With every fight, Glynlie grew stronger, her sword work becoming more precise, her instincts sharper. Hythesion stood beside her every time—not with a sword, but with his mind, planning their moves, predicting their enemies' strategies, using arcane magic to turn the tide when things grew desperate.
One night, after a particularly tough fight that had left them all bruised and bloodied, they sat around their campfire in a clearing overlooking a valley. The moon was full, casting silver light over the grass, and somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
"You know what I love most about this?" Glynlie said, leaning back on her hands. "We don't just fight—we think...first. Every time we go into battle, we know exactly what we're doing, why we're doing it."
Hythesion was cleaning his spell components, arranging them in small wooden boxes with practiced care. "That's the whole point. Fighting without purpose is just violence. We fight to protect people who can't protect themselves."
She turned to look at him, her eyes reflecting the firelight. "You know more than you let on, Hythesion. Sometimes I think you see the world differently than the rest of us."
"I just read a lot." He tried to look down at his work, but her gaze held him in place.
"No." She reached out, touching his hand—calloused from holding books and casting spells, not from fighting. "It's more than that. You care about things most people don't even notice. Like how the soil changes color when it's going to rain, or how Osmedious hums when he's thinking, or how Kaylla always checks her sword three times before a fight."
He finally met her eyes, and for a moment, the fire between them was the only thing in the world. "I notice things," he said quietly. "Important things."
"Like what?" She asked.
"Like how you always braid your hair tighter before a fight. Like how you hum when you're nervous, even though you think no one hears it. Like how you've never once complained, even when we've been sleeping on cold ground for weeks." He paused, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "Like how you make this feel like home."
Glynlie's breath caught. She'd been waiting for this moment, hoping for it, but now that it was here, she didn't know what to say. "Hythesion…"
"I know you want adventure," he said, his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart. "I know you want to see the world and prove yourself. But what if… what if you didn't have to do it alone?"
She smiled then—a real smile, warm and bright as the sun. "Are you asking me what I think you're asking me?"
"I'm asking if you'd let me walk beside you," he said. "Not just as a teammate. As… more."
"Yes," she said without hesitation. "A thousand times yes."
They leaned closer, the fire crackling between them, and kissed as the wolf howled again in the distance. For the first time in his life, Hythesion didn't feel like he was just reading about adventure—he was living it.
Two years passed in perfect harmony. They fought together, laughed together, planned together. Hythesion taught Glynlie to read ancient texts, showing her how the ancient words held power that could protect as easily as destroy. Glynlie taught him to use a sword, showing him that sometimes action was more important than strategy.
But as time went on, a restlessness grew in Glynlie's chest. She loved Silverlake—loved Kaylla and Osmedious and the others like family—but she found herself staring at maps, wondering what lay beyond the hills they'd protected, the villages they'd saved.
"I want more," she said one night, sitting on their usual bench in Honeywood—though now it was just a place they visited between contracts, not a home. "I want to be more than a mercenary, Hythesion. I want to matter in a way that lasts."
"You matter to us," Hythesion said, pulling her close. "To me."
"I know." She rested her head on his shoulder. "But there's a whole world out there, and I feel like I'm standing still while it moves around me. Kaylla's happy leading Silverlake—she was born to be a leader. Osmedious is happy doing what he likes, cooking and eating. But me… I feel like I'm waiting for something I can't name."
He held her tighter, as if he could keep her there by force alone. "What if we left? Started over somewhere new?"
"And do what?" She pulled back to look at him. "We are Silverlake, Hythesion. This is who we are."
"I know." He kissed her hand. "But whatever you decide, I'll be with you."
But she didn't tell him what she'd decided. She on the next day, while he was in the archive looking for a book on ancient wards. When he returned to their tent, it was empty—her pack was gone, her sword was gone, even the leather belt he'd made her was gone. There was no note, no message, nothing to explain why she'd left.
Kaylla found him sitting on their bed, holding the empty sheath she'd left behind. "She's gone to Neverwinter," she said quietly. "Said she was going to join the royal guard. Said she wanted to make a difference in a way that Silverlake couldn't."
Hythesion said nothing. He just sat there, holding the sheath, until the sun set and rose again.
For years, he told himself it was his fault. That he hadn't been enough—that if he'd been stronger, or braver, or more like the heroes in his books, she would have stayed. He threw himself into his work, becoming Silverlake's strategist after Osmedious retired, planning every move with a precision that bordered on obsession.
But no matter how many contracts they completed, no matter how many people they saved, the empty space beside him never filled.