Vistara gathered her breath, her hands trembling as she spoke.
“The bandits are attacking Thunderwood with an army of no fewer than five hundred soldiers. They are backed by the Nightshade group… so they move without fear. If you don’t help us, we have no chance of winning.”
Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to continue.
“The Nightshade group is ruthless. They do not care who is caught in the line of fire. Villagers, children… it does not matter to them.”
Riven stood in silence.
Something stirred deep within him — a strange pressure rising from his chest and sinking into his stomach like a growing flame.
His breath slowed.
His fingers curled slightly.
Is it Aelwyn again? he wondered.
But Raku’s calm voice answered within his mind.
“No, sire… this is your emotion.”
Riven froze.
Emotion?
He had not felt something like this in years.
Confused, he placed a hand against his stomach as if trying to grasp the unfamiliar sensation.
It churned within him — heavy, hot, restless.
His heartbeat quickened, yet his face remained unchanged.
Vistara noticed his movement and blinked.
“Are… are you pretending to have a stomach ache right now?”
Riven lowered his hand.
“No… it’s nothing.”
But the feeling did not fade.
Vistara swallowed and continued, her voice quieter now.
“Varnis leads them. He has reached the Neshama stage… one of the strongest people in all of Kavara. He has killed countless people.”
Riven’s eyes sharpened instantly.
“When?”
The word left his mouth faster than he intended.
Vistara flinched slightly at the sudden intensity.
“He will reach Thunderwood in one week,” she said, sadness clouding her expression.
“By then… our town may already be—”
She could not finish the sentence.
Silence fell between them.
The forest wind whispered through the cave entrance, carrying the weight of her words.
Riven’s grip slowly tightened.
A week.
His sword would be ready.
His training would not be wasted.
The unfamiliar heat inside him settled into something cold and steady.
“My sword will be finished by then,” Riven said quietly.
“I will be there.”
He turned toward the cave’s interior.
“But until then… I must train.”
Without another word, he walked past her, his presence heavy, his steps deliberate.
The air itself seemed to tense around him.
Vistara watched him go, unsure whether she felt relief… or fear.
Inside Riven’s mind, Raku spoke softly.
“Sire… what you feel is anger.”
Riven did not respond.
Something inside him had begun to awaken.
Vistara stood frozen, staring at Riven’s back as he walked away without another word.
The wind the man had left behind still stirred her hair and clothes, as if mocking her confusion.
Raku’s translucent blue form drifted beside her, his presence calm and steady.
She pointed toward Riven, her voice tight with frustration.
“What is wrong with him?” she asked.
“Why does he just send people away like that?”
Raku was silent for a moment, his glowing gaze resting on Riven’s distant figure sitting cross-legged in the clearing.
“Forgive my sire,” he finally said, his voice heavy with something like sorrow.
“The world he knew was taken from him when he was eight years old.”
Vistara’s expression softened.
“A group of bandits raided his village,” Raku continued.
“They slaughtered his family before his eyes. He fled… but he was captured. A man nearly crushed the life from him with his bare hands.”
Raku looked down at his own spectral hands.
“That was when I appeared. I saved him… but I could not save what was lost inside him.”
The forest fell quiet around them, the only sound the distant rustle of leaves.
“When he reached Sabercrest,” Raku went on, “he sought shelter. Food. Guidance. The town saw only a dirty child and cast him out like a beggar. With nowhere else to go, he made the forest his home.”
Vistara slowly turned her gaze toward Riven.
In the distance, he sat motionless beside the cave, eyes closed, Vyr faintly pulsing around him like a quiet storm.
His posture was perfectly still — too still for someone so young.
“He trained without rest,” Raku said softly.
“He hunted. He fought. He bled. And as the years passed… the joyful child I once saved disappeared.”
There was a faint tremor in Raku’s voice.
“In his place remained only a boy who lives for strength.”
Vistara watched Riven in silence.
The scars across his body caught the light as he breathed — marks of battles, survival, and loneliness.
The wind shifted, and for a brief moment she saw something in his face — not peace, not calm.
Her voice softened.
“…I can see why he is the way he is.”
Raku followed her gaze.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“But even now… I believe the boy he once was still exists somewhere within him.”
Far ahead, Riven’s Vyr pulsed again — cold, controlled, and lonely.
Vistara simply stared out the window into the dark forest beyond the city walls, wondering why the thought of one silent boy sitting alone in the wilderness weighed so heavily on her heart.
A shadow fell across her table.
“Hey, tiny — what’s got you looking so sad?”
A tall figure dropped into the chair beside her without invitation.
The sudden voice snapped her from her thoughts.
She turned quickly, eyes wide.
“…Javon?” she said in disbelief.
Standing nearly six foot five, Javon looked more like a seasoned warrior than someone barely into adulthood.
Broad shoulders stretched the dark leather of his tunic, and years of hauling supplies, climbing cliffs, and relentless training had carved thick muscle across his chest and arms.
His deep mahogany skin caught the sunlight with a warm bronze sheen, making every scar earned through training stand out like a story waiting to be told.
His face carried an easy confidence.
A crooked grin seemed permanently etched across it, as though he could find humor even in the middle of disaster.
Short, tightly curled black hair framed a strong jaw, while sharp brown eyes constantly searched for someone’s expense.
Even standing still, Javon radiated energy.
He was the kind of man who laughed loudly, talked with his hands, and somehow managed to make everyone around him feel a little less afraid.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he laughed.
“Did you miss me or something?”
A second figure stood behind him — quieter, watching the room with sharp eyes before finally taking a seat across from her.
Vistara blinked several times, still processing the surprise.
“W–what are you doing here?” she asked.
Javon tilted his head, studying her face.
“That’s my question,” he replied.
“Why are you in Sabercrest? Last time we talked, you swore you’d never leave Thunderwood. Said the world beyond the forest was too loud, too dangerous.” He leaned forward slightly.
“So what happened?”
Vistara hesitated.
Her fingers tightened around her spoon.
The images rushed back — the bandits, the screams, the desperation in Thunderwood… and Riven.
Her voice came out quieter than she intended.
“Things changed.”
Javon’s playful expression faded slightly.
“That serious, huh?”
She nodded.
“The bandits are moving. A large force. They’re backed by the Nightshade group.”
Javon stiffened.
The second figure finally spoke, voice low.
“Nightshade?”
The air around the table grew heavier.
Javon leaned back slowly, his expression no longer playful.
“…That’s not good.”
Vistara looked down at her hands.
“They’re heading for Thunderwood. The mayor of Sabercrest is sending help, but…” Her voice trembled slightly.
“It won’t be enough.”
Her mind flashed again to the silent boy in the forest.
The scars.
The empty eyes.
The unbearable loneliness.
Javon noticed her distant look.
“…There’s more,” he said quietly.
“You’re not just worried about your town.”
Vistara froze.
She quickly shook her head.
“It’s nothing.”
But her gaze drifted again toward the dark forest beyond the window.
Javon followed her line of sight.
“…Who’s out there?” he asked.
Vistara didn’t answer.
And for reasons she could not explain, her heart tightened.
Vistara quickly looked away from the window, forcing herself to change the subject.
“U–um… anyway… where is Syanna?” she asked, glancing between them.
“You two are inseparable. If you’re here, she has to be here too.”
Javon raised an eyebrow, clearly noticing her attempt to shift the conversation, but he let it go.
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
“She’s here,” he said, nodding toward the bar.
“Didn’t want to bother you. Said you looked… depressed.”
Vistara’s face warmed slightly.
At the counter sat a small figure wrapped in a dark green robe, her hood pulled low as she quietly stirred a drink.
She seemed almost invisible among the louder patrons.
Javon suddenly cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Syanna! Get over here!”
Several people in the inn turned to look.
The small figure stiffened in embarrassment before slowly standing.
Even after rising to her full height, she barely seemed taller than when seated.
She adjusted her robe nervously and walked toward the table with small, careful steps.
When she reached them, she fidgeted with her sleeves before speaking.
“H–hey, Vistara…” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“H–how are you?”
She gave a small, awkward wave, her eyes avoiding direct contact.
Syanna stood beside Javon, barely reaching his hip.
Where Javon resembled a fortress, Syanna looked compact and athletic, every movement carrying quiet strength.
Years of traveling and healing had given her a lean, powerful build rather than delicate features.
Her rich ebony skin contrasted beautifully against the emerald robes she often wore, while countless tightly coiled braids were gathered into a practical bun behind her head, keeping them away from her face whenever she worked.
A few loose braids always escaped, framing warm brown eyes that sparkled with equal parts kindness and mischief.
Though small, there was nothing fragile about her.
She carried herself with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what she was capable of, and anyone foolish enough to mistake her kindness for weakness usually regretted it moments later.
Vistara blinked — then smiled gently, her heavy thoughts easing for the first time that evening.
“It’s good to see you, Syanna.”
Javon leaned back in his chair, grinning at the interaction.
“Well,” he said, crossing his arms, “now that the reunion is over… someone better explain why Thunderwood’s favorite noble daughter is sitting in Sabercrest looking like the world just ended.”
The warmth of the moment faded slightly.
Vistara’s smile weakened.
And once again, her thoughts drifted toward the forest.
“I–..”
Vistara hesitates.
Her fingers curl against the wooden table, nails lightly scraping the surface as if she’s trying to ground herself.
The lively noise of the inn fades in her ears — the clatter of mugs, laughter from nearby tables, the crackle of the hearth — all of it distant compared to the storm inside her chest.
“I was attacked by bandits right outside of Sabercrest…” she says quietly.
“I thought I was a goner.”
Her voice trembles slightly, and Syanna leans forward, concern softening her features.
“But… a man saved me.”
Javon raises an eyebrow immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Don’t tell me you fell in love with him.”
Vistara’s face turns a brilliant shade of red almost instantly.
“Shut up!!” she blurts, slamming her palms lightly on the table.
“If you are going to make jokes I am not going to tell my story!”
Javon bursts into laughter at her reaction, shoulders shaking.
Syanna promptly smacks his arm.
“Stop teasing her, Jav. You’re going to hurt her feelings.”
Javon winces dramatically and raises both hands in surrender, though the grin plastered across his face never leaves.
“Alright, alright,” he says.
“I’m quiet. Continue.”
Vistara folds her arms, cheeks still burning.
She avoids their eyes for a moment, staring into the swirling surface of her drink.
Slowly, her breathing steadies, and her tense shoulders lower.
When she speaks again, her voice is softer.
“He… he didn’t even hesitate.”
Her eyes grow distant, unfocused.
“The bandits surrounded me. There were too many… I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. I thought that was the end.”
Her fingers tighten slightly.
“And then he and his spirit appeared. Just… there. Like they had stepped out of the shadows themselves.”
She pauses, clearly replaying the scene.
“They rushed his spirit, but the spirit moved like he was a real person. Every strike was precise. Calm. No wasted motion.” Her voice lowers further.
“A spirit? Are you ok? I think today has played tricks on you.” says Javon.
“You!” she punches him in the shoulder and he winces in pain again.
“Wait, he had a Spirit fight for him?” says Syanna
Vistara nods faintly.
“Hmm..continue.”
“He didn’t smile,” she continues.
“Not once. Even after it was over, he barely spoke.”
“Oh great she fell in love with a mute.” The girls look at him and he jolts back.
“He rarely spoke but he had the soul aura of someone strong.
Javon leans forward, curiosity replacing his teasing.
“And this mysterious hero has a name?”
Vistara hesitates.
Her lips part slightly before she answers.
“…Riven.”
The name falls from her mouth like something fragile.
It lingers between them.
Her expression softens unconsciously — then tightens again, as if she regrets letting the name escape.
“Well,” Javon says with a small shrug, “if he saved you, he can’t be all bad.”
“I didn’t say he was bad,” Vistara snaps quickly, then looks away, embarrassed by her own intensity.
Her voice drops.
“I don’t even know him. Yet when I looked into his eyes, it felt like I could see something breaking inside him… and something inside me answered.”
She swallows.
Her cheeks warm again, and she quickly lowers her gaze.
Javon opens his mouth, clearly ready with another joke — then notices Syanna’s warning stare and wisely stays silent.
A gentle quiet settles over them.
The tension lingers like an unspoken weight until Syanna softly changes the subject.
“You should eat,” she says kindly.
“You said you were attacked. You must be exhausted.”
As if summoned by her words, Vistara’s stomach lets out a small, unmistakable growl.
She immediately covers her face.
Javon bursts into laughter.
“The princess of Thunderwood, defeated by hunger!”
Syanna sighs but waves to the innkeeper.
A short while later, steaming plates are placed before them.
The scent of freshly baked bread fills the air.
Thick stew releases curls of fragrant steam, rich with herbs and tender meat.
Roasted vegetables glisten under a warm lamplight.
Vistara hesitates at first, then takes a bite.
Warmth spreads through her body instantly.
The trembling in her hands fades.
The tight knot in her chest loosens, if only slightly.
The noise of the inn — laughter, music, clinking dishes — wraps around her like a protective barrier against her restless thoughts.
She exhales slowly.