The warm rays of sunset fell on the plains of Callis as two brown horses pulled a small carriage across the open landscape.
It was a peaceful voyage—for the most part—until a sharp, gut-wrenching scream from within the carriage forced the coachman to pull the horses to a sudden halt. The animals neighed in protest, hooves stamping against the dusty path.
The coachman slid open the small window behind him, his weathered face peering into the cabin.
He was greeted by a smile. Warm, practiced, and just suspicious enough to invite doubt.
"We're all good here, sir," Castor assured smoothly.
The coachman studied him for a long moment. His gaze flicked past Castor toward the shaking figure in the corner. He said nothing. Just gave a slow, uncertain nod and slid the window shut again. With a quiet flick of the reins, the horses resumed their pace.
Inside the carriage, Castor exhaled deeply and turned toward Ren, who had only just regained consciousness.
Ren's breath came in trembling waves. His posture was crooked, like he was carrying a weight no one else could see. His eyes were red and swollen, his knuckles white with tension. He had cried—for the better part of thirteen hours.
He'd been made to endure Voice of the Dead, a punishment of psychological savagery. Trapped within a conjured reality, forced to listen to the cries of the departed—hearing their anguish, regrets, final screams. He had relived their horrors.
Ren sat up, attempting to straighten his back, embarrassed by his state.
Castor regarded him with a measured look. "I'm glad you took the liberty of joining me," he said. "Forgive my manners, but I caught us a ride."
"Where are we headed?" Ren asked, throat dry and voice low.
"As south as south goes," Castor replied.
Ren narrowed his gaze.
"I'm here because you promised me answers, not for tourism."
Castor chuckled. "And here I was thinking you'd grown fond of me."
Ren didn't blink.
The smile on Castor's face faded into something quieter. "You want answers, I have answers. But I can only offer answers to what you ask. There is someone, however, who holds answers even to the questions you haven't yet found the words for."
"Oh?" Ren scoffed. "Who's that?"
"The woman who taught me everything I know."
Ren leaned back, surprised. He had never heard Castor speak of anyone with more respect than he held for himself. That alone made him curious.
Silence followed. The wheels turned. The path unfolded. The sun dipped further west, melting into the edge of the world.
Under a different sky, Kaelis stood among the scorched rubble of the former Ashen Tower. Varren's foot soldiers made sure torch whatever they could find.
Smoke no longer rose, but the charred air still carried the scent of what was lost. Stone and steel lay in broken heaps. What was once the proud seat of a brotherhood that stood against darkness was now a silent, crumbling ruin.
She stood solemnly, her hand resting on the hilt of her absent sword. Her dress bore dried blood. Her cloak fluttered faintly in the wind.
Then she saw it—Jobe's Embersteed, wandering gently near the broken stairwell, its hooves silent against the ash-covered ground. Its coat was obsidian black with streaks of crimson that shimmered under the waning sun. Its eyes, a smoldering orange, blinked slowly as it recognized her presence.
Kaelis approached, placing a bloodstained hand on its neck.
"Well met, old friend," she whispered, voice dry.
She stroked its mane with quiet reverence. Then, gathering what strength she had, she attempted to mount.
The moment she settled onto its back, her vision blurred. The pain she had been ignoring surged—sharp, burning, unforgiving. A wound from the previous battle had reopened, and blood ran anew down her side.
The world tilted. Her fingers slipped from the reins.
And then—darkness.
She awoke to the scent of herbs and sterile linen.
Kaelis opened her eyes slowly, her surroundings unfamiliar. She lay on a clean bed, stripped of her cloak, a bandage wrapped tightly around her torso. Sunlight filtered through pale curtains, casting gentle shadows on the floor.
A quiet creak signaled the door opening.
A young man entered, adjusting his white coat. He was lanky, with slightly curled hair and a stethoscope looped lazily around his neck.
"Ah. You're awake," he said, smiling. "You've got one hell of a horse, you know that? Dragged you right into the village square. Collapsed the whole flower cart doing it, but hey—can't blame the beast. Saved your life."
Kaelis pushed herself upright, wincing. "Where is the steed?"
"Outside, tethered and scaring half the townsfolk. Don't worry, I made sure it's fed."
"And my sword?"
"In the corner," he nodded. "Leaned it against the window."
Kaelis stood, ignoring the dizzy spell that followed. "Thank you, Doctor...?"
"Chad. Just Chad."
"Very well, Just Chad. I apologize for not being able to pay for your treatment."
Chad blinked. "Oh, no, really—"
"I will make payment. Upon my honor, as soon as I am able." Her tone left no room for refusal. "I would also like you to deliver a message."
Chad stood straighter. "Alright... sure."
"Tell the Calliot soldiers—whom I presume are nearing this village as we speak—that the Ashen Order will deal with Varren. Order will be restored."
She walked to the window and picked up her blade.
"If His Majesty the King of Callis wishes to see the morrow with both lungs and his palace unburned, he would do well to surround himself with allies and not sycophants."
Chad blinked again, baffled. "Okay... wait, what's that about the—?"
"And tell him to keep good company," she said, drawing her blade and sheathing it with practiced ease.
She paused.
"My apologies. For your window."
"What window?"
She stepped back, sprinted forward, and dived through the glass with a crash that sent shards flying into the clinic room.
"That window," Chad muttered in disbelief, just as the Embersteed—Valrion—whinnied triumphantly outside.
Kaelis landed beside the steed, fluid and composed despite her injury. She mounted in a swift motion, gripping the reins with one hand and the saddle with the other.
Villagers stared. The Calliot banner appeared on the far horizon.
Without hesitation, she clicked her tongue.
"Ride, Valrion."
The Embersteed neighed and reared, then galloped westward—into the dying sun, leaving behind the village, the clinic, and one very confused young doctor.