Morning broke pale and grey, a mist curling low over the camp like a mourner's veil. The chill in the air carried the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke, clinging to wool cloaks and leather straps. All around, the camp stirred to life. Tents sagged and fell beneath practiced hands, horses snorted and stamped as they were saddled, and carts creaked under the weight of supplies. Orders rang through the cold air, sharp and brisk, punctuated now and then by a bark of laughter too brittle to feel natural.
Reivo moved through it all like a ghost—silent, steady, unseen except when one dared to look directly at him. His pack was slung over one shoulder, his short sword once again sheathed at his hip. Though he'd walked through a slaughter the day before, his body bore little trace of it. No limp, no staggering step. Only a few faint scars remained, still pink against his skin, Lira's healing magic having mended what could be mended. But in his bones, the memory of the battle lingered. Each muscle remembered the timing of strikes, the edge of dodges, the thrill of the kill.
He approached the chariot he'd ridden in for the past few days, its wheels beaded with dew, motionless in the hush before departure. But as his hand brushed the side rail, he felt it—that cold, invisible weight. A gaze. Measuring. Dissecting.
He turned.
Meira approached across the frost-touched grass, her steps nearly soundless. Her eyes, as always, gave nothing away. The wind tugged lightly at her short brown hair, cut to a sharp bob that framed her angular face. Her presence, like her voice, was calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
"The princess wishes to speak with you," she said simply. "Follow me."
Reivo didn't reply. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and fell into step beside her.
They wove through the column of soldiers, toward the heart of the caravan, where the royal chariot rested—larger, finer, edged in golden trim dulled by the morning mist. Guards stepped aside without a word as Meira passed. Her authority didn't require commands. It was written in the way she moved—like a drawn blade.
But it wasn't the chariot that made Reivo pause. It was the man standing beside it.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Heavy steel armor wrapped him like a second skin. A mace hung at his hip, thick and heavy, and a round shield was slung across his back. He looked to be in his late thirties, perhaps early forties—brown hair cut short, a beard neatly kept. A faint yellow rune glowed above his left eye, etched into the skin like a brand of purpose.
Reivo felt his presence more than he saw him.
A weight. Not magical, not divine—but lived. A mountain, silent and immovable. Reivo had fought monsters. He had danced with death. And since Verhen had taken root beneath his skin, most Awakened no longer truly felt dangerous—not in the way they once had. Their strength was something he could anticipate, bend around, counter.
But Meira?
The Murmur recoiled from her, spitting its venom in hushed tones every time she drew near. And this man… this Alarik… the Murmur did not spit. It waited.
He was dangerous.
As they neared, the man stepped forward and dipped his head. "Lady Meira," he greeted.
"Sir Alarik," she returned without warmth or disdain—simply acknowledgment.
Then Alarik turned his eyes to Reivo, studying him with calm intensity. "So, we finally meet," he said, his voice deep and steady. "I'm Alarik Stoneward. Commander of the Princess's personal guard."
Reivo studied him in silence, then nodded once. "Reivo."
Alarik tilted his head slightly, a trace of a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Not much of a talker. Good. That'll save us time."
Meira gestured to the open door of the royal chariot. "She's waiting."
Reivo stepped inside.
The interior was warm and close, layered with rich red and gold fabrics that spoke of wealth and power. A table had been folded down from one side, strewn with maps and papers held in place by an inkwell and an ivory compass. Princess Alisanne stood beside it, draped in a fine traveling cloak over riding leathers. Her expression was soft—but her bearing was not. She carried herself like someone used to command, her kindness held behind a wall of tempered steel.
She turned at the sound of the door, her smile faint but genuine. "Reivo. Sit."
He remained standing, arms crossed. "You wanted to talk."
The smile faded into something more contemplative. "I did. What you did yesterday changed things."
She moved to the window, parting the curtain to glance at the two figures outside. "You're stronger than anyone expected. That horde should've overwhelmed you. It didn't. You survived, and not just by chance. You controlled the field. But you're also... volatile. Untamed. That kind of power, without direction, is dangerous."
Reivo didn't respond, but his body stilled. Listening.
"I won't pretend I'm not wary," she said, turning back. "You frighten me, Reivo. Not because I think you'll hurt me—but because I don't think you know what you'll become. But I made a promise. I'd give you a chance to grow. So we're not waiting for the capital. Your Awakened training begins now."
Finally, a flicker of something moved in Reivo's eyes. "Who's going to train me?"
She gestured toward the window. "Sir Alarik. He's one of the few people I trust completely. He's trained half my personal guard. He knows discipline, control. And he's earned his place—not born into it. He'll teach you what it means to be strong… without becoming a monster."
Reivo's voice was quiet, but clear. "I hope so. We still have a deal."
A shadow of a smile touched her lips. "We do. And I intend to honor it."
She stepped closer, her gaze softening. "I'm sure you two will get along."
Reivo said nothing. He turned, stepped out into the cold once more, and closed the door behind him.
Alarik stood where he had left him, arms folded across his chest, waiting.
The older man met his gaze. "Ready?"
Reivo rolled his shoulders, the sword at his hip a familiar comfort.
"I'm always ready."
Alarik chuckled—a low, amused sound like gravel shifting. "Good. Then let's begin."