Lumaire faded behind Eis like a dream dissolving into morning light. Ahead stretched the Frostline plains—wide, pale, and threaded with the silent hum of ley currents beneath the earth.

  Team Argent rode with her behind the Archmage caravan, the enchanted compass pulsing every few minutes with a soft blue glow to keep the group aligned with the mana road. The rhythm of travel settled quickly: creaking leather, frost crunching under hooves, breath fogging in the cold.

  For a long time, no one spoke.

  Just the quiet music of motion.

  Two weeks passed in near silence. Roads grew narrower, waystones rarer, until even the marks of regular travel began to disappear.

  By midmorning of the third week, the sun finally burned away the mist. The landscape opened into golden grasslands, peaceful but strangely watchful. Silver-backed deer moved in scattered herds, bounding lightly across the fields. Soft clusters of drifting mana wisps glimmered like tiny blue lanterns, swirling harmlessly as the caravan passed.

  Kael rode ahead a few paces, bow across his lap.

  “Almost peaceful,” he murmured. “Feels wrong after the Shallows.”

  Ronan didn’t look up from the reins.

  “Peace makes you forget to watch your corners.”

  Lira studied the compass, the faint hum visible in its crystalline housing.

  “We’ll reach the Frostline foothills by tomorrow night if we keep this pace.”

  Eis gave a small nod, silent but alert. The world seemed too quiet—watchful rather than empty.

  By dusk they reached the edges of a frozen stream winding through low wooded hills. The caravan halted; runestones flared around the perimeter, generating soft warmth and masking the camp’s presence from distant seekers.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Eis moved through preparations with calm efficiency, her breath forming small puffs of fog.

  Lira huddled near the firepit, groaning dramatically as Kael coaxed flame from a flint spark.

  “Finally,” she sighed, palms outstretched. “I was beginning to forget what heat feels like.”

  Ronan sat on a log and pulled off his gloves.

  “Get used to the cold. Frostline is worse.”

  Lira peered at Eis from across the flames.

  “What about you, Eis? Do you even feel it?”

  Eis watched the flickering light curve across her gloves.

  “I remember it.”

  Lira blinked. Then grinned.

  “That’s a very Eis way of saying no.”

  “It’s an honest way,” she replied.

  Kael chuckled.

  “She’s being mysterious on purpose now. Means she likes us.”

  A faint lift touched the corner of Eis’s mouth.

  “Possibly.”

  Later, after most of the camp had gone still, Eis remained seated by the fire. Stars blazed above—cold, sharp, unmarred by city haze. The leyline hum beneath the earth felt like a slow pulse, ancient and distant.

  Ronan stayed too, sharpening his blade with the slow precision of someone who found routine in steel.

  “You don’t sleep much,” he said, not looking up.

  “Not easily.”

  “You’ll need rest before the pass.”

  “I’ll manage.”

  He paused, studying her expression.

  “You always do.”

  It wasn’t judgment—only truth. The fire crackled between them, warm but quiet. They shared a mutual silence: two people too accustomed to being awake when others slept.

  Eventually he sheathed his blade.

  “Wake me in two hours. I’ll take second watch.”

  Eis nodded once.

  “Understood.”

  When he turned in, the forest seemed larger somehow, the silence deeper. Nothing stirred beyond the tree line—not yet. The stars wheeled slowly overhead, marking the passage of time.

  Tomorrow the mountains would rise before them.

  Tomorrow the air would change—sharper, colder, older.

  Tomorrow, the Sun Vault would be one day closer.