Chapter 2: Earth and Steel

Cain Meyer stood outside the heavy oak doors of Lord Lobhdain's office, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His rugged features— a strong jawline and fair skin weathered by years of outdoor training— gave him a hardened look that matched his quiet determination. Dark blonde hair, neatly combed to the side, framed his piercing blue eyes reflecting his steady focus.

He often found himself in this very spot, summoned for various tasks—errands around the estate, message deliveries, training sessions. His most recent mission had kept him away for a year, as he travelled further on south to serve as an envoy.

He straightened as the heavy doors swung open, revealing Lord Lobhdain seated behind his grand mahogany desk. Two guards flanked the entrance, their expressions unreadable. Cain had never cared to learn their names, they remained indifferent to him, and he made sure to return the sentiment.

The lord's dark hair framed his face in a way that mirrored Aileen's, a stark reminder of the connection between father and daughter. But where Aileen's gaze held her mother's warmth, his eyes—a steely brown, sharp with calculation and burden—revealed no such softness.

"Cain…" The lord began, his voice detached of emotion.

Cain stepped forward, but when Lord Lobhdain gestured for him to sit, he remained standing. His posture was firm, ready—just as he had been trained since childhood. His father, once the lord's most trusted guard, had drilled discipline and vigilance into him at an early age. Sitting in the presence of his master was a privilege, not a habit.

The lord's voice broke through his thoughts. "I trust the mission went well?"

"Yes, my lord. We have Cobalt's agreement to keep an eye on her for you."

Isaac nodded. "And your training?" His tone was measured, deliberate—as if calculating his next move.

Cain swallowed, discomfort flickering across his face. "She eventually agreed to train me for a year… but only when I met her demands."

The lord laughed, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh, I bet her demands were… very exhausting." His tone was a lazy drawl, thick with amusement. Cain's gaze dropped to the floor, shame gnawing at him.

"I only kid, boy!" The lord stood to clap a hand on Cain's shoulder, the weight of it both reassuring and inescapable. "If it hadn't been for you warning me last year about her plan, I would have had no time to set up contacts at the Guild and call-in old favours." His tone seemed grateful, grateful for his loyalty.

Cain had spent hours convincing himself he had done the right thing. That warning Isaac had been necessary, that Aileen would have been vulnerable without her father's network of protection. He had told himself over and over again that it was for her own good.

No matter how many times he replayed that night in his head, no matter how many excuses he whispered to himself in the quiet hours of the morning, the weight of his betrayal did not lessen.

It settled deep in his bones like an infection, festering in the dark and filling his nights with fevered nightmares.

It had been the only way.

"It seems I was right to oppose her leaving." The lord's voice was low, weighted down with worry.

"I've received troubling reports from my contacts down south. The roads are swarming with bandits—more than the usual unorganised rabble. I don't know he would of found out about her passing the exam but I fear that a ghost from my wife's past may be behind it."

His steely gaze locked onto Cain. "I need you to make sure she gets there safe."

Cain's jaw tightened, his resolve hardening. He had trained for this moment, honing his control over earth magic with relentless discipline. Now, it would serve its true purpose. "I'll find them," he said, his voice unwavering. "And I'll make sure they never come near her."

The lord gave a slight nod of approval, but the burden in his eyes betrayed unspoken fears. "I know you will. You have never failed me."

Cain dipped his head in silent acknowledgement and turned to leave, but before he could take another step, Lord Lobhdain's voice halted him.

"There is one more thing. She believes I've disowned her—make sure it stays that way."

Cain hesitated, his fingers twitching against the hilt of his sword.

Isaac must have noticed the flicker of impatience in his stance, but his expression remained composed, his voice steady. "I have my reasons, boy. Know this—I do not reserve my care for my daughter alone. I care for you, and I am grateful for your family's loyalty."

He let the words settle before continuing. "Once you enter the guild, you are to become the family's first vassal."

Cain's breath hitched. His head lifted, meeting the lord's unyielding gaze.

To be named a vassal was no small thing. It was more than just duty—it was a lifelong oath, an unbreakable bond of service. The title alone would elevate him beyond mere servitude, granting him status, influence, and responsibility beyond anything he had ever known. The weight of the offer pressed upon him, heavy and undeniable.

For a moment, he stood frozen. Then, finally, he nodded, solemn and sure. "I understand, my lord. I'll see this through and join her."

The lord gave a final nod, his voice firm. "Dismissed."

Cain wasted no time. He gathered his gear swiftly and mounted the horse provided by the lord, setting off without hesitation. Valamore's streets were still cloaked in the hush of early morning, the only sounds the rhythmic clatter of hooves against stone and the distant murmur of waking townsfolk. The crisp air bit at his face, each exhale forming brief, ghostly wisps before vanishing into the cold stillness. Yet his focus never wavered.

As the countryside stretched before him, his thoughts drifted to his training. At six years old, Lady Lobhdain had arranged for his magic to be divined by a Scryer, revealing his powerful connection to earth magic— Though, for reasons unknown, she had chosen to keep the revelation a secret from the other townspeople and even Aileen, only to be revealed to a selected few.

From then on, his father, a formidable earth magician, had pushed him through rigorous training, sculpting his control over the element with unrelenting discipline. His mother, an expert swordswoman, had been no less demanding, refining his technique until his blade was as much an extension of him as his own limbs. Between them, they had carved him into a warrior, but at the cost of warmth, of comfort. His childhood had been filled with steel and stone, not gentle hands.

But then there had been Aileen—his one constant, his tether to something softer. She had been there through every gruelling lesson, cheering him on with unwavering belief. She had seen the boy beneath the discipline, beneath the weight of expectation. And now, it was his turn to repay that kindness. Whatever it took, he would keep her safe.

To catch up and stay ahead of the guild's drake-drawn carriage, He followed strict orders—changing horses at designated checkpoints, riding through day and night with barely a moment's rest. Fatigue gnawed at the edges of his consciousness, but he refused to slow. He had to reach his destination first. If danger lurked along Aileen's path, he would crush it before it ever reached her.

Days blurred into one another, town after town passing in an endless, tireless pursuit. Each settlement marked on Lord Lobhdain's map became another checkpoint, another step closer. Every time he entered a town, he fought the urge to check on Aileen, knowing even the briefest distraction would cost him precious time. But despite his relentless pace, there was nothing. No whispers of bandits, no stray rumours, not even the faintest trace of unrest.

The lack of information only made his unease grow.

By the time he reached Zenith, exhaustion weighed on him like a lead cloak, his body screaming for rest after the sleepless days behind him. The town was small, its streets lined with modest homes and simple shops, the glow of lanterns flickering gently against the evening gloom. At its centre stood a humble inn, light spilling from its windows, warm and inviting.

Cain exhaled sharply, running a tired hand through his hair. A few hours of rest. That was all he would allow himself. He needed information, and the inn was the best place to start.

Guiding his horse toward the stable beside the inn, he felt the weight of his mission pressing heavier than ever. He was close now. And if the bandits were out there, hiding in the shadows of the road ahead—he would find them.

A young stable boy looked up from his work as Cain dismounted, his hands still buried in the coarse mane of another steed. His face, smudged with dirt, twisted in surprise when Cain handed him two silver coins—more than enough to ensure the horse was well-fed and cared for.

"Take good care of him," He instructed, his tone calm but edged with quiet authority.

Inside, the inn's reception was dimly lit and heavy with the scent of aged wood and melting candle wax. An elderly woman sat behind the counter, knitting with a practiced ease, her sharp, knowing eyes flicking toward him as if she had been waiting.

He stepped forward. "I need information."

She paused mid-stitch, her fingers tightening around the yarn. "Bandits?" she guessed, her voice hushed.

He gave a slight nod.

The woman exhaled slowly, setting her knitting aside. "A group of merchants vanished in the forest a week ago," she murmured, her expression unreadable. "They never made it to their next stop, and no one's found a trace of them since." She gestured toward the shadowy expanse of trees visible from the inn's window. "If you're looking for trouble, you'll find it there."

He held her gaze a moment longer before slipping a few extra coins onto the counter. "A room. Just till tomorrow."

She took the money without question.

Upstairs, exhaustion wrapped around him like a thick fog. He barely remembered closing his eyes before sleep claimed him, mercifully dreamless for the first time in weeks. When he woke, the morning light bled through the wooden shutters and though his body ached, his mind was clear.

He wasted no time dressing, strapping his sword back into place before heading down to the stable.

The stable boy, still tending to the horses, barely noticed Cain's approach—until the weight of fifty silver coins dropped into his open palm. The metal jingled, catching the boy's breath in his throat. His wide eyes darted up to Cain in disbelief.

"I represent the Guild of Mages," Cain said, his voice measured but unyielding. "Three of our applicants will be arriving here soon. They are to remain in this inn.

He stepped closer, his piercing gaze pinning the boy in place. "I don't care how you do it. But if you fail..." His voice dropped to something almost too soft, too calm. "I'll know."

The boy swallowed hard and nodded hastily, his fingers tightening around the silver as if it might vanish.

Without another word, He turned, mounted his horse and rode toward the darkened treeline.

By midday, He spotted it—a trail carved into the soft earth. Human and horse tracks, faint but unmistakable. He dismounted, knowing the weight of his steed would betray him, and tethered the animal to a low-hanging branch. From here, he would move as he was trained to—silent, patient, unseen.

For hours, he tracked the prints deeper into the forest, the air thick with damp earth and the distant chirring of insects. Shadows stretched long between the trees as the midday sun filtered through the dense canopy. Then, movement—just ahead.

He stilled, his breath slowing. A small scouting party—three men hidden behind gnarled trunks, their weapons loosely gripped, unaware of the predator in their midst. A cold thrill ran down his spine. He was close.

Crouching low, he pressed a palm to the earth. The world beneath him thrummed with life—the pulse of movement, the shifting weight of bodies against soil. Every vibration mapped the terrain in his mind. Step by step, he crept forward, a ghost in the undergrowth.

Then, he struck.

The ground heaved. Jagged spires of stone erupted beneath the first bandit with brutal force, piercing flesh and shattering bone. The man's leg twisted grotesquely, impaled to the knee. His scream tore through the hush of the forest, raw and desperate.

The other two bandits whirled, terror flashing across their faces. Cain was already moving. His blade cut the air in a lethal arc, finding the soft flesh of the second man's throat. The wet gurgle of his final breath filled the space between them as hot blood sprayed across Cain's face.

The last bandit stumbled backward, his hands raised in surrender. Cain stepped closer, the blade in his grip still dripping.

"Who sent you?"

The bandit's mouth opened, his lips forming around words that never came.

Cain's eyes narrowed. Nothing. Not a single sound.

His grip on the sword tightened. "Answer me!"

The man flinched, his throat bobbing as if trying to force something out. His lips parted again—silence. His breathing hitched, frustration flashing across his face.

Cain let the silence stretch, his patience thinning.

He stepped forward, pressing the edge of his blade against the bandit's throat. A bead of blood welled where steel met skin.

The bandit's entire body trembled, the acrid stench of fear thickening the air. Then, a wet patter against the forest floor. A slow trickle ran down his leg, darkening the dirt beneath him.

Cain exhaled sharply, irritation flickering in his gaze. Fine. That only left one possible action.

He leaned in, his voice a cold whisper. "Run."

The bandit didn't hesitate. The moment Cain released him, he bolted. He ran as if the hounds of the underworld were snapping at his heels, disappearing into the trees.

He watched him go, a smirk ghosting across his lips. Cowards always ran back to their masters. He didn't need words—he just needed to follow.

By nightfall he had reached the bandits' camp, silently thanking an assassin's most faithful ally—nightfall. Cloaked in darkness, he was a phantom, unseen, unheard, a storm on the verge of breaking. His breath was steady, his movements measured as he crept forward, his senses honed to a razor's edge. Every flicker of movement, every shift in the air, every muttered word registered with brutal clarity. His heart drummed a steady rhythm, not from fear, but from the electrifying anticipation of what was to come.

The camp sprawled in chaotic disarray, a haphazard cluster of tents and smouldering fires. Five bandits milled about, one gesturing wildly as he barked orders—their futile attempt to prepare for an enemy they couldn't see. HIs sharp gaze catalogued their weapons—crude, jagged things meant for breaking bones rather than clean kills. Implements of suffering, not survival.

No need for hesitation. No need for mercy.

He moved. The earth answered.

A sharp thrust of his hand sent the ground convulsing beneath one of the bandits. The man let out a strangled cry as the soil caved beneath him, toppling him backward like a felled tree. Before he could scramble to his feet, Cain was already there, his sword a silver blur as it plunged deep into the man's chest. The impact sent a tremor up his arm, his blade carving through bone, sinew, life.

A guttural roar split the night—another bandit lunging, his crude axe swinging toward Cain's ribs. Too slow.

He flicked his fingers, and the ground responded with a violent lurch. A jagged pillar of stone exploded upward, slamming into the man's gut. His breath left him in a sickening wheeze, blood bubbling at his lips as his knees buckled. He collapsed, eyes rolling back as his weapon clattered uselessly to the dirt.

Cain straightened, his cold gaze shifting to the remaining men. Two down. Three left.

He advanced on the remaining bandits, his gaze cold, unyielding. One lunged first, a heavy axe arcing through the air. Too slow. He sidestepped with effortless precision, the axeblade slicing through empty space. With a flick of his finger, the ground beneath the bandit split open, sending him lurching forward. He barely had time to register the shift before Cain's sword met his jaw with brutal force. A sickening crack echoed through the camp as teeth shattered, blood spraying in a violent arc. The man crumpled, choking on the ruin that was his own mouth.

Cain barely spared him a glance. Only one left.

The final bandit—the one he had deliberately let flee—stood frozen, his breath coming fast and shallow. His trembling hands tightened around his sword, his knuckles stark white. Fear and fury warred in his eyes, but Cain's expression remained unreadable.

"For the last time...who sent you?" Cain's voice was low, measured, dangerous.

For a fleeting moment, the bandit's lips twisted into a mocking grin. Then, slowly, he parted them—revealing nothing but an empty space where his tongue should have been.

Cain's jaw tightened. Well, this certainly explained a lot.

The bandit lunged, reckless, desperate—but desperation was no match for skill. Cain pivoted smoothly, his blade already in motion. A swift, clean thrust—angled just below the ribs.

The bandit stumbled, a wet, strangled gasp escaping his ruined throat. His eyes widened, the flicker of defiance snuffed out in an instant. He crumpled at Cain's feet, his final breath leaving him in a shuddering exhale.

Silence fell over the camp. The fires smouldered, the night thick with the coppery scent of blood. He straightened, wiping his blade clean as he surveyed the aftermath. The threat to Aileen's journey had been eliminated.

But his task wasn't finished.

Moving methodically, he searched the bodies, his fingers steady despite the anger simmering beneath his skin. When his hand finally closed around a familiar object, his pulse stilled.

A map. Identical to the one Lord Lobhdain had given him, showing the towns where Aileen would stop by to rest.

He stared at it, his mind a storm of realization and fury. This wasn't a coincidence.

There was only one explanation.

Betrayal.

Before returning to Valamore, He opted to remain for an extra day, choosing to wait for Aileen and the others, who were running a day behind schedule. He spent the evening in quiet contemplation, finally allowing his mind to wander why Aileen's father would want her to think she had been disowned. Could he be trying to protect her? Or is was he trying to torture her?

His brooding was interrupted by a familiar, unmistakable shriek.

He instinctively turned toward the window, just in time to witness Len staggering out of the stable, carrying a flailing, furious Angeline in his arms. Aileen stood nearby, watching the spectacle with wide-eyed bewilderment.

Cain huffed a quiet chuckle, shaking his head at the familiar chaos. At least they had arrived safely.

Satisfied that no immediate threat loomed over them, he slipped out of the inn's back entrance to begin his journey home.

By the time he reached Valamore, the town was still veiled in the quiet hush of dawn. He rode straight to the estate, bypassing the lingering dregs of sleep-heavy workers, his mind set on only one thing.

Inside, Lord Lobhdain awaited him in his study, seated behind his heavy mahogany desk. He listened in silence as Cain relayed his findings, nodding slowly, his expression unreadable. No flicker of surprise crossed his face. Only a grim, knowing acceptance.

The lord leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped together on the desk. "As you know, my wife's past—as as inquisitor has earned us many enemies. We've seen first-hand that the life of an inquisitor is not one of longevity. Retribution is inevitable."

Cain remained silent, absorbing the weight of the words.

Lord Lobhdain's gaze sharpened. "We can afford no delays. You must go to the Guild immediately." His tone carried the weight of command. "I will send letters by griffon to our allies and handle the investigation myself. But from this moment forward, you will report to me weekly—and Cain..." He paused, his voice dropping to something lower, something more dangerous. "Trust no one."

The words settled over Cain like stone. He bowed deeply, the thrill of joining Aileen at the Guild now drowned beneath a suffocating sense of duty.

Whoever dared to touch her, to threaten her, had no idea what hell awaited them. Because he would find them first. And when he did, they would beg for mercy she would never have to ask for.