They had been walking for what felt like hours. The terrain shifted from cracked stone paths to overgrown moss trails, until finally they were swallowed by a corridor of twisted trees that filtered light through silver leaves. The heat was relentless, the silence heavier than the packs on their backs.
Ren was the first to break it.
"You keep saying 'as south as south goes,' but what does that even mean?" he asked, dragging his boots through the dirt.
Castor didn't turn to answer. "Exactly what it implies."
Ren was about to groan when the trees gave way to a sudden clearing, revealing a cottage nestled in a shallow vale—stone-walled, ivy-wrapped, with a tiled roof that looked as old as the stars.
Smoke rose gently from the chimney. A clothesline fluttered lazily nearby. Chickens strutted about like they owned the place.
"This," Castor said, finally stopping, "is where we're going."
They crossed the grass, Ren staring in disbelief. "This is it?"
Castor didn't respond. He just knocked twice on the oak door.
It creaked open.
The woman who answered was tall, broad-shouldered, with lines carved deep around her mouth and eyes that had seen the worst of the world and chosen to stay anyway. Her curly silver hair was tied back with a scrap of leather. A knife rested on her belt. The apron she wore was stained with something tomato-red.
Her eyes landed on Castor first.
"You never bring company," she said, raising a brow. "And if you'd sent word ahead, I could've made something better than stew."
Castor gave a sheepish nod.
Ren placed a matchstick between his lips, chewing it lightly. His eyes were already narrowed.
So this was the great wellspring of knowledge? The woman who supposedly had answers to questions he hadn't even asked? And here she was, playing host like this was a surprise visit from an old friend.
He muttered, "So much for prophecies."
"Easy," Castor warned. Then he turned to the woman. "Ezralda… he's the one we've been looking for. The boy from the dreams."
Ezralda's smile faded. Her gaze snapped to Ren.
"Then he's in danger," she said flatly. She stepped aside and gestured them in. "Come inside. Quickly."
The stew was hot and thick with spices. Despite his agitation, Ren didn't resist when a bowl was placed before him. He didn't eat it, but he didn't throw it either.
Ezralda wiped her hands on her apron. "Word is Varren visited King Noharis. Walked straight into the palace with swords at his back and gave the king an ultimatum."
"He's growing bold," Castor said.
Ezralda nodded. "Bold... and untouchable. And if you've already crossed paths with him—"
"He decimated the Ashen Tower," Castor interrupted. "We were there."
Ezralda's eyes lingered on him, the crease in her brow deepening. "Then this is worse than I thought."
Ren finally spoke. "How does someone like Varren become that powerful? I hadn't even heard his name until a week ago."
Castor was quick to answer. "He's touched the Wyrd."
Ren blinked. "What?"
Ezralda leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "The Pale Beyond. A realm just as real as this one, layered on a different plane. Anyone who taps into it gains access to pure, unfiltered power. The kind that doesn't care about right or wrong."
Ren looked at her, then muttered, "Like ripping a man's ribcage open with your bare hands…"
"Like flattening entire civilizations without even trying," Ezralda corrected.
The silence that followed was thick.
Ren frowned. "But why Varren? What makes him able to access it?"
"The Wyrd isn't picky," Ezralda replied. "It's not a gift. It's just... there. And if you find a way in, it doesn't care if you're a saint or a monster."
"And Stevan Gorr? What's he got to do with all this?"
"He opened the gate," she said. "With sacrifices and who knows what else. He got the door to the Wyrd open—but not the key. Then he died. And now Varren can't access it fully. But you..."
Ren swallowed. "And what does all this have to do with me?"
"You're the key,...or so Varren thinks" Castor said.
Ren turned to Ezralda. "Have you ever touched it?"
Ezralda chuckled. "No. But I've spent enough time dancing around it to know its rhythm."
Ren's eyes shifted toward Castor.
Ezralda saw the look. She answered for him.
"You were chosen to be something. I don't know what exactly. But it wasn't Castor."
Castor didn't flinch.
"He thought he was the one. I trained him like he was. Every day, every second, every scar on his body is from preparation for a war he thought was his to fight."
She paused.
"Then the dreams changed. And you were in them."
Ren sat back, lips tight around the matchstick.
Castor leaned forward. "You need to stop failing missions from the system. You need those rewards. It's the only way you're going to stand a chance."
Ren let the matchstick drop from his mouth.
"You don't get it," he said. "Would you kill her if the system asked you to?"
"Yes," Castor replied without hesitation.
Ezralda didn't blink. "And I'd be proud if he did. That's what I raised him to be. Not soft. Not selfish. Ready."
Ren stood.
Castor raised an eyebrow. "Even though you stand like her, you're not half the fighter."
Ren's stance had shifted—legs spread, one slightly back, hands loose but ready. Kaelis' stance.
Ren's eyes were cold. "And you're not me."
A breath passed. Castor smiled faintly.
"Since it's clear you're going to die, I'll just make sure I'm not the one who does it."
Ren stared back, unmoving.
Ezralda just smirked and poured herself another drink. She knew there was work to be done, and lots of it.