Three days later, the third raven arrived at dawn. Its feathers were streaked with blood.
I watched it rest on the stone sill of my chamber window, the creature trembling, like it had flown through a storm. I unfastened the scroll bound to its leg, the wax seal smeared from flight—but not unrecognizable.
It's not a local noble's crest. Not a sigil from Greystone or Oakshade, this looks older.
The wax bore glyphs—arcane etchings I didn't recognize. I opened the scroll and read.
"There is a woman in the eastern woodlands. Cloaked in gray, where she walks grass and tress seems to freeze. The air chills when she passes. Crops damaged near Caerwyn, small village in the eastern farmland of Wyvrland, not by pest but something colder.
Some call her a mage."
My grip on the scroll tightened.
I had heard the word before. In this kingdom—Virewyn—magic was rare. Feared and distrusted, but not outlawed. The temple of Solance tolerated it in whispers, especially from the distant continent of Nareth where entire cities were said to float above clouds and sorcerers governed alongside kings.
But here? In this kingdom? Where magic is unable to thrive and seen as rare phonemenon, even the capital only has few mages or so I have heard, nobody has seen them.
As I was thinking to myself.
Lyra entered minutes later, eyes sharp as ever beneath her dark hood. I handed her the scroll without a word.
She read it silently, then folded it. "Do you believe it?"
"I believe something's happening east of Caerwyn. The rumors started weeks ago. Now we have names, descriptions and a pattern."
"Magic isn't impossible," she admitted. "Just... suppressed. Hidden."
"You're half-elf," I said. "Have you seen real magic?"
"I've seen wards light up beneath ancient stones. Felt air shift in a ruined tower once. But a living mage?" She shook her head. "No. Never."
I turned to the window. The morning fog curled over the hills like breath.
"Send Kaelen. And two scouts you trust."
"You want him found?"
"I want her watched. From a distance. If she's a threat, we prepare. If she's not…" I paused. "She might still be useful."
Lyra raised a brow. "You think she'll join us?"
"I think magic changes the board," I said. "And we can't afford to play blind."
She gave a nod. "Understood."
Later that day, I convened the council—but withheld the mage's report. There was no need to rattle the room with shadows, not yet. Not until I had more than riddles and frost-bitten stories.
Instead, we focused on Oakshade—on routes, supply chains, resistance cells. Ravien had pulled his garrisons back into fortified camps, hoping to lure us into a pro longed siege but I knew his game. He was stalling. Gathering strength, hoping to choke my advance without drawing the king's attention.
What he didn't know—what I barely dared to admit even to myself—was that my next advantage might not come from steel or coin.
It might come from a man walking beneath dead trees, trailing frost in her wake.
---
Four days later, Lyra returned. Her cloak was damp with river mist, her expression unreadable.
"Kaelen made contact," she said. "Indirectly."
"Go on."
"She found the remains of a camp. Fire was still warm. No bodies around, just bones. Animal, maybe. Hard to tell. But no signs of violence."
"And the mage?"
"Seen, briefly. Gray cloak. Hood up. Moving through the woods like smoke. One scout swears he saw her eyes—like glass, reflecting moonlight even at noon."
I nodded slowly. "Any aggression?"
"None, She didn't approach us neither did she ran. Just… watched, then left."
I exhaled.
"So she's real," I said. "Not a ghost story."
Lyra crossed her arms. "But what she is… that's still unclear."
I looked at the table—at maps, figures, plans written on scrolls weighed down by stone—and realized how fragile it all was. One rogue spellcaster could unravel months of work or tip the scale.
"We keep watching," I said. "Carefully. No contact unless she initiates. If she's come from Nareth, we may not understand her intentions."
"And if she's from here?" Lyra asked.
"Then she's either been hiding her whole life…" I said, "or someone has been hiding her."
---
Meanwhile, in Hollowfort...
Ravien Malkorr stood before a tapestry of his duchy, arms behind his back, the scent of wet stone and old blood clinging to his hall.
Mairelle entered. Quiet as ever, but her mood was colder than usual.
"He moves faster than expected," she said. "Wyvrland is tightening its grip on Oakshade. His men train with foreign discipline. They've burned our stores in Pinefield and cut off two of our best outriders."
Ravien didn't answer.
"But," Mairelle continued, "we may have a new complication."
He turned.
"East of Caerwyn in Wyvrland. Unconfirmed reports. Fog that never lifts. A woman in gray hood. Some say she walks alone. Others say she brought winter in Caerwyn during summer, some even say she speaks to birds, to the dead. The word 'mage' keeps surfacing."
Ravien's brow twitched. "Vihan?"
"He knows. Kaelen was spotted nearby."
The duke grunted. "Then he'll reach the woman before we do."
Mairelle tilted her head. "You believe it?"
"I've heard of Nareth," Ravien said. "Seen their emissaries, their golden-robed tricksters. Magic is real, just rare here in the kingdom, I know King Alric hides few of them in the capital though not even Duke's are allowed to meet them. It's also expensive and mostly...dangerous."
"And if this woman's from Nareth?"
"Then she'll be powerful and likely arrogant. But if she's local…" Ravien's expression darkened. "Then we should be asking why she's only emerging now."
"Orders?" Mairelle asked.
"Send Halven," Ravien said. "Twenty knights, no crest of my house in their armor. I want this woman watched. If Vihan speaks to her, I want to know every word. If the mage is neutral—leave her. But her she leans toward Wyvrland…"
"Do you want her dead?"
Ravien stared at the fire. "No. Not yet. If she's as powerful as the stories claim, we'll never kill her by force."
"Then what?"
Ravien's eyes flicked to a dark corner of the hall, where a statue of his grandfather stood, sword drawn.
"We show her," he said slowly, "that Vihan is not the only one who understands power."
---
Back in Wyvrland
The woods were colder now. Kaelen returned from her second sweep with more sketches than scars. She unrolled a rough drawing on my table—stone ruins in the shape of a spiral. Trees bent inward toward them. Animal bones arranged in deliberate circles.
"She's not hiding," she said. "She's… performing."
"Rituals?" I asked.
"Something like it. No blood, not death. More like preservation. Old energy."
I traced the edge of the spiral with my finger. "Not dark magic, then."
"Hard to say," Kaelen muttered. "But it doesn't feel evil. Just… old."
I nodded. "That might be worse."
That night, I stood on the parapets again, wind howling over the stones. I looked south, where Ravien stirred, and east, where the mage waited.
Kaelen joined me again. I broke the silence,
"They say in Nareth," I said, "mages are taught in towers. Guided and shaped."
Sometimes game knowledge cones in handy, I thought to myself.
"We have no towers," she said.
"Maybe she came here to build one."
She didn't reply.
I looked up at the sky, cloudy just few stars caould be seen.
Magic is returning to Virewyn.
And no matter who the mage truly is—hermit, exile, or weapon—I knew one thing with certainty:
She had chosen to appear now.
Just before a war.
And no such timing is ever a coincidence.