Kellan's body hit the ground with a dull thud, as if the earth itself had mourned the collapse of its warrior. The silence that followed was unnerving—thick, heavy, and absolute.
"Master Kellan!" the group shouted in unison, voices trembling with urgency and fear. They sprinted toward him through the thinning mist, their footsteps crunching the damp soil.
Mira was the first to reach him. Without hesitation, she dropped to her knees and gently turned him onto his back. His chest rose and fell faintly, water dripping from his soaked garments, his hair plastered against his face. Ryn crouched beside her and pressed two fingers against Kellan's neck, searching for a pulse.
"He's alive," Ryn said after a few tense seconds, his brows furrowed. "But his energy... it's nearly gone. The fight with Vorn Sablemist... it drained even someone like him."
Tharic let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He sank onto his knees, exhaustion and adrenaline weighing on his limbs like chains. "I really thought that was the end," he murmured. "If we hadn't moved when we did... we'd all be corpses now."
Ryn looked at him, his usual sharp gaze softened with something new—something rare. Respect. Not a word passed between them, but the silence said enough.
They managed to carry Kellan to the merchant caravan of Gerard. The trader had taken shelter with his modest camp of wagons, tents, and hired guards. He greeted the group until his daughter, Elira, and her young child, a girl of about five, came out of their tent, worry etched into their features.
Gerard welcomed them in. "You can stay," he said. "But keep the trouble away from my family."
In one of the larger tents, Kellan was laid onto a makeshift cot, still unconscious. Mira, ever the quiet backbone of the team, took over his care without hesitation. She boiled herbs, tended to his wounds, and ensured he stayed hydrated. The rest of the group was forced into uneasy rest.
Days passed.
The team remained near the caravan, bound by necessity. No orders came from the academy. No other signs of pursuit followed Vorn's disappearance. But a tension lingered—like the calm that settles just before a thunderstorm rolls in.
And for the first time, each member of the team truly felt the weight of what it meant to be a future Engraving Master.
That night, Ryn stood alone on a narrow wooden bridge that arched across the river. The moon cast a silver glow across the water's surface, and the current murmured softly—a stark contrast to the chaos it had witnessed days prior.
He stared into the flowing depths, his own reflection flickering back at him.
"I used to think being an Engraving Master meant power," he whispered to himself. "Skill, strength... prestige. But now..."
He remembered Kellan, collapsing. Vorn's haunting eyes. The crushing pressure of helplessness in that mist.
"I was wrong."
Footsteps. Light, hesitant. Ryn turned.
A boy, maybe his age, maybe younger, stood at the edge of the bridge. He wore simple linen robes—faded, earth-toned, and modest. His dark hair was tied back loosely, and his face was calm. Too calm.
"You're from the engraving group, aren't you?" the boy asked gently.
Ryn nodded. "Yes. Who are you?"
The boy smiled, and something in his eyes shimmered. A strange mix of kindness... and sorrow.
"I'm just a medical aide," he said. "I came with this caravan. One of the travelers fell ill."
He stepped forward, bowed slightly. "My name is Luan."
Ryn gave a polite nod in return. He felt no hostility, but something about the boy made the hairs on his neck rise.
He didn't know—couldn't have known—that he was staring at a future enemy. One who would one day stand across from him in a battle that would cost more than blood.
* * *
By morning, the mist had cleared completely.
Inside the tent, Kellan stirred. He groaned softly, his body aching with the protest of every movement. Mira was asleep nearby, arms crossed and back against a chair. But when he sat up, she woke instantly.
"Don't," she warned softly. "You need more rest."
"I've rested enough," Kellan replied. His voice was hoarse, but his eye—his single crimson eye—shone with sharp clarity.
The others rushed in, startled to find him awake.
"You're alive!" Tharic grinned in relief.
Kellan shook his head slowly. "Don't be fooled," he said grimly. "Vorn isn't dead."
"What?" Mira asked, startled. "But the poison... the needle—"
"It wasn't poison," Kellan interrupted. "It was a sedative. A deep one. Designed to mimic death. It's a rare technique, used to fake a fatal blow."
He turned his gaze toward Ryn.
"And the boy who took him... he wasn't part of any Imperial Purge Division. He's Vorn's ally."
Silence followed. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
"Then..." Tharic began slowly, "we're not done with them?"
"No," Kellan said, standing with difficulty. "They failed in their objective this time. But next time... the fight won't be a lesson. It'll be war."
***
Far away, beyond the hills and the rivers, in a shack half-swallowed by mist, Vorn opened his eyes.
Pain seared through his limbs. He was still covered in needles, their metallic heads shimmering faintly in the candlelight.
"You saved me again," he muttered.
Luan, no longer smiling, dipped a cloth into a bowl and wrung it out.
"We lost," Luan replied.
"I know." Vorn clenched his jaw, bitter bile rising in his throat.
But his eye gleamed. Not with defeat. With hatred.
"But, you feel it too, don't you?" he said quietly. "This island... something's shifting. Power is stirring. Hidden things are awakening."
He reached out and grabbed Luan's wrist.
"We'll wait," he whispered. "In the shadows. Until the time is right."
And when it is...
"I'll kill Kellan with my own hands."