The mist in the deep valley did not drift; it hung like a heavy, silver shroud, dampening the sounds of the world.
The roaring explosions of fire and the sharp, howling gales of the ravine battle gradually faded until they were nothing more than low, rhythmic thuds against the distant stone.
John’s boots sank into the damp, mossy earth as his pace slowed from a desperate sprint to a heavy, exhausted trudge.
His chest heaved, every breath tasting of sulfur and wet soil.
In his arms, the weight of seven-year-old Thomas felt heavier with each passing second, not because the boy had grown, but because John’s mortal strength was rapidly burning out.
“John…
look,” Martha whispered, catching his tattered sleeve.
She pointed through a tear in the roiling fog.
Nestled against the jagged black roots of a massive, dead ironwood tree was the hollowed-out hull of an ancient transport wagon.
Its wooden wheels had long since rotted into the soil, and its canvas roof was completely overgrown with thick, glowing blue moss that fed on the ambient mana of the valley.
It was a remnant of some long-dead merchant expedition that had dared to cross the border decades ago.
It wasn’t a fortress, but it was shelter.
John carried Thomas inside the damp wooden ribs of the wagon, gently laying him down onto a bed of dry moss.
Martha knelt beside the child immediately, her shaking fingers gently peeling back the scrap of canvas they had used to cover his face.
Thomas’s eyes were closed.
His breathing had finally slowed from a frantic wheeze to a deep, rhythmic slumber.
Underneath his small shirt, the violent, fractured silver lines that had threatened to tear his chest apart had receded, fading into faint, silver birthmarks that throbbed gently like a sleeping ember.
The silver vortex had gone dormant, sealing itself away to protect the child’s fragile body from the massive strain of his first awakening.
“He’s asleep,” Martha breathed, a single tear cutting a clean line through the soot on her cheek.
“The noble’s mana is gone, John.
He survived it.” John slid down against the warped wooden wall of the wagon, his knees giving out entirely.
He stared out the open back of the vehicle, watching the swirling grey mist.
“He survived the magic, Martha.
But we just collapsed a sector of the Empire’s wall.
Vane won’t stop at the border.
He will send hunters who don’t care about the laws of the Wildlands.” “And what about the man with the sword?” Martha asked, her voice dropping to a tense whisper.
“The one in the feathers?” Before John could answer, the mist outside the wagon violently swirled.
The temperature inside the wooden hull didn’t rise, but the air suddenly grew heavy, pressurized by a subtle, suffocating current of wind.
The soft, rhythmic thump-drag of a heavy object scraping against wet earth echoed through the damp silence of the valley.
Thump-drag.
From the thickest part of the fog, the towering silhouette of the raven-cloaked stranger materialized.
The massive, notch-bladed executioner’s sword in his right hand was clean, the soot and fire-ash from the battle completely blown away by his internal wind-mana.
He stopped right at the entrance of the broken wagon, his tattered feather cloak dripping with valley condensation.
John instantly scrambled to his feet, placing his broad body between the stranger and the sleeping Thomas, his hands tightening into defensive fists despite his exhaustion.
The stranger didn’t raise his sword.
Instead, he reached up with his left hand and pulled back his deep hood, revealing a face lined with severe, jagged scars and eyes as sharp and colorless as a winter gale.
He looked past John, his gaze locking precisely onto the small, silver-marked chest of the sleeping boy.
“Relax, weaver,” the stranger drawled, his gravelly voice echoing softly in the cramped space.
“If I wanted to collect the bounty on your head, I would have let Vane turn that ravine into an oven.
Your boy has a nasty habit of breaking things that shouldn’t be broken.” He stepped closer, leaning the massive iron blade against the wooden frame of the wagon with a heavy thud.
“My name is Captain Vance,” the scarred man said, his colorless eyes narrowing as he looked at John.
“And we need to talk about exactly what kind of monster you just smuggled out of Oakhaven.”