A week had passed since Joran left the walls of Drakhalis behind, and the road had not been kind. Though he was well-equipped and highly trained, the journey had tested him in ways even the palace tutors couldn’t have prepared him for.

  He moved fast—faster than most would think possible. Conjuring shadow steeds from his own magic, dark and ghostly mounts with glowing violet eyes and hooves that barely touched the ground, he would ride for miles at a time before dismissing them into mist. His vast reserves of mana, inherited from his mixed lineage, allowed him to conjure the steeds multiple times a day without exhausting himself. Each mount lasted longer than the last, molded by his growing confidence in the spell.

  During the day, he stuck to winding forest paths and old game trails, careful to avoid open roads unless absolutely necessary. Patrols from Lothara still moved along key routes, and Joran had learned to recognize the sound of their armor long before he saw their forms. One afternoon, he'd narrowly avoided a group of knights trailing a group of prisoners—likely slavers or fugitives. He’d hidden beneath the dense foliage of a thorn bush, wrapping his Elven-Arachne cloak tight around his body. The enchanted fabric masked his scent and allowed him to melt into the shadows like smoke. He held his breath as the knights passed within feet of him, never knowing the prince they were hunting lay so close.

  When night fell, he made camp beneath the stars. He was no stranger to solitude—his life in the castle had often been a lonely one—but sleeping outside brought a different kind of emptiness. He would roll out his enchanted bedroll near streams or under dense trees, light no fire, and let the sounds of the wild lull him to sleep.

  But sleep did not come easy.

  Every night, without fail, he was plagued by nightmares. They came without warning, violent and fragmented—images of fire, screams, darkness flooding hallways. He would awaken drenched in sweat, heart pounding, the taste of smoke lingering on his tongue. And yet… he could never remember what he’d seen. Only the terror remained, clinging to the edges of his waking thoughts like ash that refused to wash away.

  Still, he pressed on.

  It was on the seventh day of travel, not long after dispelling one of his shadow steeds near a split in the road, that Joran encountered a merchant wagon pulled by a pair of sturdy, antlered drake-beasts. A human man and his centaur wife were repairing a loose wheel, their young daughter—a faun with bright, curious eyes—sitting nearby and nibbling on honey-dried fruit.

  “You heading west?” the merchant asked as Joran approached with cautious steps. His voice was friendly, but measured—like many who lived near the border, he knew the value of being wary.

  “Southwest,” Joran replied. His voice was low, disguised slightly with the hint of a coastal accent. “Looking for a place to rest the night.”

  “Then you’ll want Vandren’s Rest,” the centaur woman said, tightening a bolt with practiced hands. “It’s not far—another couple hours by foot. Less if you’ve got a mount. Last proper town before the wilds.”

  “Good beds,” the man added. “Good food, if you don’t mind sharing a roof with mercs and smugglers. Just keep your coin close.”

  Joran gave a polite nod and helped them realign the wheel before departing again on foot. The mention of Vandren’s Rest stuck with him. He had planned to avoid towns for as long as possible, knowing Vaelin and the others would likely sweep every inn and tavern along the frontier. But the wear of the road—physically and emotionally—was beginning to take its toll. His supplies were running low, and though his cloak protected him from the elements, the idea of a warm meal and a real bed was becoming harder to ignore.

  By dusk, he spotted smoke rising through the trees ahead. The forest opened into a broad stretch of hills, and nestled between them like a carved jewel was the town of Vandren’s Rest.

  It was larger than he’d expected. Strong stone buildings with slanted, rune-inscribed roofs stood tall against the wind. The main gate was guarded but open, flanked by banners of Lothara bearing the dragon-sigil he now avoided. Watchmen eyed travelers as they passed, taking notes, asking a few routine questions. But they looked more tired than suspicious.

  Drawing his hood low, Joran fell into step behind a group of traders carrying bolts of elven silk. Nobody gave him a second glance. As he entered the town, the scent of roasted game, pipe smoke, and freshly churned butter wafted from the direction of the market square.

  He passed vendors closing down their stalls for the night, a pair of beastmen arguing over hunting rights, and a nymph kneeling by a fountain, whispering to the water lilies as their petals glowed in response. At one corner, a burly orc hauled crates of spiced mead into a cellar beneath a tavern, nodding politely when Joran stepped aside.

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  He wandered past the posting board and paused briefly to scan the flyers. Most were jobs for caravan guards, trackers, or border scouts. A few bounty notices fluttered in the breeze, but none bore his face—at least, not yet.

  Across the square, the inn came into view. A massive, timber-framed structure with thick stone walls and warm light spilling from its windows. A hand-carved sign swung above the entrance depicting a drake curling around a keg—The Wandering Drake.

  Joran stood there a moment longer, watching people laugh and drink within. Then, exhaling slowly, he stepped forward.

  He was tired of hiding in the woods. Tired of freezing streams and half-eaten trail bread.

  Tonight, he would rest like a normal traveler. Tonight, he would sleep in a bed—no matter what dreams followed him into it.

  And tomorrow… tomorrow he would decide what came next.

  __________________________________________________________________________________________

  The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the sky in hues of deep orange and burning gold, when three figures stood motionless in the center of a dirt road just a few miles from the outskirts of Vandren’s Rest.

  Lorsan, the beastman tracker of lycan descent, crouched low to the earth, nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply. At an imposing 6'7" and built like a siege weapon, he was a terrifying sight—a living, breathing fusion of man and beast. Unlike the cursed werewolves of myth, his transformation was permanent but incomplete. His golden-yellow eyes scanned the earth with an animalistic gleam as he murmured through clenched teeth.

  "His scent is clouded... but it's here. Strong. Magic clings to it like ash to flame... but with Dain's help, I can still follow it."

  His voice, a low and guttural growl, resonated with restrained violence. The ground beneath his gauntleted hand bore shallow claw marks from where his patience had started to wear thin.

  His armor, forged of black mithril, hugged his massive form like a second skin—adorned with snarling wolf motifs and gilded Lotharan sigils. His crimson cloak, tattered from combat and time, fluttered faintly in the breeze. Retractable talons extended from his gauntlets, glinting faintly in the torchlight. A deep scratch marred the surface of one hand—a memory from a fight that had left scars deeper than skin.

  Behind him stood Sir Vaelin, tall and graceful, the very image of refined cruelty. Clad in radiant silver armor enchanted with elven spells, he moved with effortless grace. His ashen-blond hair hung neatly to his shoulders, his silver eyes filled with derision.

  "Tch. So we’re still sniffing after the boy like hunting dogs, are we?"

  His voice dripped with contempt, every syllable sharp enough to cut.

  "You’d think with all that beast blood of yours, you’d be a little quicker about it. I’m beginning to think you enjoy the chase more than the catch."

  Lorsan snarled, rising to his full, monstrous height, shoulders broad enough to blot out the setting sun.

  "Keep talking, elf, and I’ll show you just how much I enjoy ripping arrogant little nobles apart."

  Vaelin smirked, unfazed. "Careful. I might start enjoying that myself."

  Before they could escalate further, the third figure stepped between them.

  Dain.

  The druid.

  He moved like mist—quiet, slow, and unsettling. Draped in earthen robes laced with golden sigils and bone talismans, he exuded a presence that made even shadows shrink. His gnarled staff pulsed with faint green light, roots writhing along its surface like living veins.

  "Patience..." Dain murmured, his voice slow and soft, like the rustle of dead leaves. "The scent... is growing stronger. We are close. Do not... squander your energy on each other."

  His pale green eyes gleamed beneath the shadows of his hood. Tattoos of shifting runes glowed faintly along his arms, visible through the sleeves of his robe. With a low chant in a forgotten tongue, he tapped his staff against the earth, and a surge of primal energy flowed outward, enhancing Lorsan’s senses once more.

  Lorsan grunted, blinking rapidly. "Better. I can almost taste him now."

  Vaelin rolled his eyes. "Lovely. The mutt gets his nose back and starts drooling."

  "Say that again," Lorsan snarled, stepping forward with murder in his eyes.

  Vines suddenly burst from the ground, coiling around both knights' ankles like sentient chains.

  "Enough..." Dain whispered. "We will have our prize soon. The boy... his essence is unique. His blood... potent. It calls to me."

  Vaelin sneered but fell silent. Lorsan flexed, breaking the vines with a snap of his legs, but didn’t advance.

  Dain continued. "When the prince was still within the palace... they brought me his blood. His tears. Even the... remnants of pain. With each drop... I learned. He is a puzzle. And I... will finish it."

  The three fell into a grim silence, the air thick with unspoken anticipation.

  Dain's gaze drifted toward the darkening horizon. "He will be tired now... drained. That cloak... it hides him well, but not forever."

  Lorsan let out a low chuckle. "Good. I want him to run. I want to hear him beg."

  Vaelin adjusted his gloves with a sneer. "And I want him to realize just how far beneath us he really is. He bears the blood of greatness... and yet he squanders it on mercy. He is a disgrace to everything he was meant to become."

  With the final light of day vanishing behind the trees, the trio began their march once more. Each step brought them closer to Vandren’s Rest.

  Closer to Joran.