Warnings and Promises

"Maybe not," Arynn replied, stepping closer, his eyes glinting with equal parts mischief and menace. "But soon enough, you'll find out."

Auralia shifted between us, the tension crackling like static in the air. For the first time since our journey began, I felt it — the weight of rivalry. Not just in battle, but in something far more complicated.

Night closed in around us. The canyon had gone silent, save for the dying crackle of the fire and the sharp edge of words left unspoken.

Then Arynn's gaze dropped to my arm, where the torn sleeve exposed a hint of the truth I'd tried to keep hidden. The rune-like tattoos shimmered faintly in the firelight, still humming with raw, untamed power. I moved to cover them — but not quickly enough.

"Ah," he said, raising an eyebrow with a crooked smirk. "So that's it. A mage. I should've known."

He didn't sound impressed. If anything, there was something almost amused in his tone — dismissive, even.

"I always figured you for the book-reading, spark-flinging type," he continued, arms crossing with practiced arrogance. "Nothing wrong with magic, I suppose. As long as you remember — in Rockan, mages without control don't usually live long enough to finish their first spell."

I bit back the retort rising in my throat. Let him think what he wanted. Let him underestimate me.

He turned back to Auralia then, giving her a short, respectful nod — though his gaze lingered longer than necessary, warmth softening the edge in his eyes.

"Be careful, Auri," he said gently. "This country eats idealists alive. You're safer in the shadows — with those who know how to survive them."

Adjusting the strap on his shoulder, Arynn stepped away, his form already melting into the half-dark. Just before he vanished beyond the firelight's reach, he paused — one last glance over his shoulder.

His voice was quieter now, low and sharp as a drawn blade:

"And Eiran... whatever it is you're chasing — make sure it doesn't end up chasing you."

Then he was gone. Silent footsteps swallowed by stone. Only the canyon wind remained — and the weight of his words.

Auralia didn't speak. Neither did I.

But the tension lingered. It had simply changed shape.

Even days later, as we walked through sun-baked ravines and long stretches of silence, Arynn's warning clung to my thoughts like canyon dust — dry, persistent, impossible to shake. He hadn't returned. No shadow on the ridge. No mocking voice from the dark. But his presence lingered, unsettled and stirring.

We traveled carefully, avoiding the larger monster packs, relying on instinct and each other. The tension between Auralia and me had softened — smoothed by quiet campfires, shared stories from childhood, whispered dreams, and unspoken questions about what came next. Still, the truth of what I was — what I was becoming — pressed heavier with every step.

The word Warden echoed in my bones: wild, unbound, and waiting.

It was on the sixth morning that we crested a weathered ridge and finally saw it.

Kithra.

The city spread across the horizon like a scar carved into the canyon's heart — towering walls of iron-veined stone, smoke rising from a hundred forges, and red-and-gold banners snapping in the wind like war drums. Bridges arched between jagged outcrops, connecting watchtowers and outer markets that clung to the cliffs like stone barnacles. The main gate yawned open at the base of a cliff, massive and half-shadowed, guarded by soldiers in layered iron that gleamed beneath the high sun.

Even from this distance, I could feel the city's pulse — the clang of steel, the distant blare of horns, the low murmur of a thousand voices moving through cobbled streets.

After so long on the road, its sheer scale was overwhelming.

Beautiful. Brutal.

Auralia let out a breath beside me — half laugh, half sigh.

"We made it," she said, brushing a wind-blown strand of hair from her face. "Gods, I didn't think we would."

I glanced at her. Dirt smudged one cheek. A tear in her sleeve marked where a kobold spear had caught her. She looked tired — but alive. Fierce. That small beauty mark below her collarbone was visible now in the shifting light, usually hidden beneath her cloak. It moved slightly with each breath.

I looked away before I stared too long.

"We made it," I echoed.

But the feeling wouldn't leave me — that something waited beyond those gates. Something that would make everything so far feel like the easy part.

The gates of Kithra loomed ahead like the open jaws of some ancient beast, ready to swallow us whole.

As we descended the ridge, the city's noise hit like a wave — hawkers shouting from raised platforms, the ring of steel on steel from open-air forges, the smell of sea-salt air mixing with the acrid bite of smoke.

Kithra was a fortress in every sense: walls thicker than any Elderwood trunk, watchtowers like fingers scraping the sky, and soldiers in polished crimson armor bearing the mark of House Calgrace — a winged serpent coiled around a sunburst.

The name was known across Rockan. Rulers of Kithra for generations, they were spoken of with a mixture of respect and wary silence. Wealth. Power. Iron discipline. And Lord Silas Calgrace — a man of whispers.

Some said he was ill. Others claimed he preferred the shadows.

No one really knew for sure.