The road to the Tower would cut through two states, and with luck they’d clear them before noon tomorrow. If the winds favored them and the horses held steady, they might even find a decent place to rest by nightfall—somewhere with warm lamps, real walls, and food that had some flavors in it.
And once again, luck proved to be her enemy.
They stopped at a ruined mill at dusk. The roof sagged, one wall had collapsed into reeds, and the fireplace still held the ghost of an old flame. Tarth dismounted first and led the horse under what remained of the stable. Elios and Neru followed, scanning the structure. This shelter would keep them warm, but not protected.
She knelt beside the hearth, brushed out the ashes with her palm, and began stacking kindling. The motions steadied her hands, and the fire caught just a bit later.
When the fire rose, she sat back and watched the Seekers preparing the dinner.
Both of them were younger than she’d first assumed—early thirties, maybe—but their shoulders carried years older than that. The bandages on Elios hands had begun to bleed through again, and Tarth was muttering curses under his breath as he changing them, for their carelessness.
The dried rations Azen packed for them were more than enough, so at least hunger wasn’t part of tonight’s misery. Still, Tarth flicked a longing look toward the dark treeline and grumbled.
“If only I had my bow… half an hour, that’s all I’d need, and we’d be eating something fresh.”
Elios was spreading a goatskin map on the ground, weighing the corners with stones. Firelight rippled over the inked rivers and old mountain symbols. He didn’t bother looking up.
“Eat and sleep,” he said. “We still need eyes for the night watch.”
Neru broke the quiet.
“What about me? Am I taking a shift too?”
Elios flicked a glance her way—a brief, dismissive thing.
“No.”
“Why not? Special treatment because I’m a lady?” she said, and almost laughed at her own question. Lady. No one here saw her related to that word anymore.
“You lack the experience for night duty,” Elios said, eyes never leaving the map.
She heard the real meaning easily enough.
They didn’t trust her.
Or maybe—they meant to watch her.
Good, she thought. Watch all you like. It’s no use.
She edged closer, letting her shadow fall across the goatskin map spread on the ground.
“And you? Still awake because?”
“Work,” Elios said crisply. “Nothing you need to know.”
Neru ignored the dismissive tone. Her eyes traced the path of his attention across the inked ridgelines.
“Oh… still looking at Longfang Mount? I thought you’d dropped that assignment.”
Elios’s jaw tightened by a fraction—just enough to prove she’d hit the mark.
Neru let her gaze follow the inked lines across the old goatskin. This map was older than most things she’d ever studied at home—layered with fresh markings, strange symbols, and notes scrawled in a sharp hand. The work of a seasoned Seeker, no doubt.
When she didn’t look away, Elios abruptly rose to his feet and stepped between her and the map, blocking it with his body.
“There are classified markings here,” he said sharply. “Keep staring and someone might think you have ill intentions.”
Neru didn’t flinch, didn’t bristle.
“Relax. I’ve memorized more maps than you’d believe,” she said lightly. “Might even be able to help you a little—wasn’t that what we agreed on earlier?”
Elios didn’t move an inch.
She lifted her shoulders in a lazy shrug and turned away.
“Fine. I won’t look.”
Elios sat back down, his expression carrying a faint, needling smile.
“You do seem very well-traveled,” he said. “Confident because of it.”
“And if I am?” Neru replied coolly.
“Then you must have gone north at some point. Ever been to Frothen?”
Her pulse hitched—a tiny misstep, quickly masked. She chose her words with care.
“Once," she said at last. "Years ago. The borders were softer then.”
“And the people?” Elios asked. His tone was casual; his eyes were not. “What did you make of them?”
“Hard,” she replied. The word carried pride she did not quite hide. “Unyielding in trade. But they keep their word.”
Elios’s smile sharpened. “That so? A Frothena convoy crosses into Veyra, slaughters our men on our soil—and we are to believe in their fairness and honesty?”
Neru couldn’t tell if Elios was testing her or simply losing his patience. Either way, she never minded veiled provocation.
Rock against rock.
“You must’ve vaguely seen the connection by now,” she said with a faint smile, as if entertained by Elios’s idea. “Those ships. Those wagons. And the Treasury in the middle of all. Wolves do not enter a pen without a shepherd lifting the gate. Which one would you rather punish?”
“Both,” Elios said without hesitation.
Neru let out a soft, dismissive breath, more of a scoff than a sigh.
“Ambitious,” she murmured. “Grab at everything, and you’re far more likely to end up with nothing but broken pieces.”
Elios shook his head. “Better shattered than bent.”
There. The steel in his statement. And the man was not a Frothena?
"Good," Neru almost smiled. You'd fare well in the north."
The two of them locked eyes, sharp as drawn blades. The tension held—one short, tight breath—until both of them let out a dry laugh. Elios exhaled, rolled the map back into a tight cylinder, and slid it into his coat. His fingers tapped once against the ground, thoughtful.
“Shouldn’t have bothered you with that crap. It wouldn’t change anything.”
“It wouldn’t,” Neru said. “But it’s good to let some heat out, isn’t it? These days must not have been comfortable for any of us.”
Elios tilted his head toward her, the fire swallowing half his face in gold while the other half stayed sunk in the night.
“Is that so?” he said softly, “You don’t strike me as someone… over the edge. Is that how all merchants are? Treating life and death as small change compared to profit?”
It was a trap of a question—Neru felt the teeth of it the moment it left his mouth. He wasn’t talking about merchants, of course.
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So she let it glide past her and steered the current elsewhere.
“It’s the place I grew up,” Neru answered, voice calm, steady. “Where I come from, women are treated harshly. Respect is something we’re never given—only taken, pried out of the world with our own hands.”
She let her gaze drift to the dark edges of the camp, where her memories hid like wolves.
“I had to fight harder than any man just to stand where I stand. That shadow… has followed me my whole life. I’m so used to its burden. So whatever happened on the road, it might shake me a little, but it wouldn’t break me.”
“But why even choose a path like this?” Elios asked, his fingers playing with the bandages. “A dangerous road with no clear return.”
Neru let out a tired sigh, adding a small log to the campfire.
“It… had to be done,” she admitted, her eyes tracking the moments of the flame. “My family’s future depends entirely on this venture.”
Images of her father flashed through her mind like a knife drawn too quickly. She held her breath and started counting in her mind.
“Hope they’ll remember your sacrifice,” Elios muttered, his voice somehow engraving like a promise.
Twenty…Thirty… Neru kept counting.
Tarth’s head tilted up, sniffing the air. “You overcooked something ?... No, this is more—”
Elios sprung up on his feet and shouted.
“Out! Now!”
Elios and Tarth burst out of the mill like struck flint—two sparks flying into the night—landing almost in unison. The only difference was in the recovery: Elios, with ruined hands, could only break the impact by rolling his shoulder, and the movement left him staggered, a man fighting against his own injuries as much as the fall.
“Noct!” he roared, stabilizing on his final roll. “You filthy Frothena wretch.”
Tarth’s blade was out in an instant, blade catching the moonlight as he stepped in front of Elios.
“Didn’t think she’d make her move this early,” he snarled. “So? Should I cut her down now?”
Neru emerged after them at a leisure pace. She looked Tarth up and down as if assessing a child with a stick.
“You would lose,” she said calmly. “If Elios’s wrists weren’t injured, you might have stood a chance.”
Tarth flicked a quick glance at his captain. But Elios said nothing.
Tarth’s face tightened.
Neru tilted her head, a small, cold smile touching her lips.
“Not that it matters. You’ll be out soon. The more you move, the faster it happens. Elios didn’t run—he must have figured it out. Or is it already hitting your legs?”
She nodded at Elios’s stance, the subtle tremor in his thigh.
“Relax. I don’t want to kill you at all.”
That was true. She had only intended for them to sleep peacefully beside the fire. Who knew the Seekers could detect and respond so quickly to her dream-dust?
Now this all has become a mess, Neru sighed.
She then pictured herself in their position, imagining what she could do.
“Attack!” Elios shouted.
Of course. We’re way past the talking.
Tarth lunged first, sword sweeping in a wide arc. His footing was a bit too eager—too much weight on the front leg, too much anger in the shoulders. Neru saw it all before he even moved.
She stepped inside the swing, her body swift as wind, and slammed her palm into his wrist. Bone jarred; his grip spasmed. The sword skittered off-course, scraping sparks from the millstone behind them.
Tarth cursed out and tried to recover, but the dream-dust seemed already kicking. His breath hitched. His knees wobbled.
“Focus,” Elios barked, though the command cracked at the edges.
He moved in from her flank—fast, even with failing legs. He aimed a shoulder-check instead of a strike, using his weight, not his grip.
Clever move, but not enough.
Neru pivoted, heel scraping snow. His shoulder clipped her ribs—but it lacked bite, dulled by exhaustion and haziness. She rolled with it, caught his arm, and turned the momentum. Elios hit the ground hard, breath leaving him in a tight grunt.
At the same time, Tarth tried to charge her again, this time with his dagger.
But “charge” was generous—he stumbled more than ran.
Neru ducked under the blade, swept his leg with a low kick, and drove her elbow into the side of his skull while he was falling. Tarth collapsed like a sack of grain, weapon falling uselessly from his hand.
Neru suddenly caught a brief movement from the corner of her eyes before she heard the wind being torn apart. Elios was already right behind her, moving too fast for an injured man. When the lunge stopped, his leg had already risen to the perfect position for a high side-kick.
Was he holding back his speed on purpose back then, just to fool my judgment? All for this one hit.
Neru’s instinct told her to step back, but she pushed in with experience. The strike came like lightning, and right that moment, Neru knew she had been right. There was no way to dodge a kick like that. It was so fast that she felt she would’ve lost her head literally, had the strike connected.
By leaning in, she lost the hit its leverage and momentum, thereby lessening its power. Elios's heel collided with Neru's forearm instead of her head. Still, the impact lifted her off the ground and launched her into the air like a tossed cloak. Earth cracked beneath Elios from the recoil, and he dropped again.
Neru landed gracefully after somersaulting one round in the air; her arm still stung. Elios forced himself upright, eyes burning with refusal even as his limbs shook.
“Not done yet,” he rasped.
Neru approached him slowly.
“Then stand,” she said. “Fight me standing.”
Elios tried. For a heartbeat, he did.
He planted his heel, drew a breath, raised his guard—
Then the dust finally claimed him.
His knees buckled first. Then the light in his eyes dimmed. Neru caught his collar before he fell face-first into the ground and eased him down, surprisingly gentle.
“You’re fast,” she murmured. “Let’s have a fair fight another time.”
She straightened, brushing Elios’s hair back from his brow. His breathing slowed, steadier and steadier until it dipped into near silence. Across the yard, Tarth was already sprawled out, motionless.
Neru dragged Elios to one corner of the mill and Tarth to another, propping each of them upright before looping a thick rope around their torsos and wrists, anchoring it to beams that seemed older than the mill itself.
For Elios, she tied cleanly—efficient knots, no cruelty, nothing unnecessary. Tarth, however, earned a different treatment. She took a thin fishing cord from her belt pouch—nearly invisible in the faint firelight—and wrapped it around each of his fingers, binding them stiff, locking every joint in place.
Give this man two free fingers, and he’d unravel everything in his sleep.
She tied it tight enough that even the smallest twitch would send a warning sting up his nerves.
After that, she plucked a small, round stone—dark purple, smooth as river glass— from her sleeves and tossed it into the fire. The flames flared instantly, rising tall and green.
She stepped out of the shelter, scanning the treeline, waiting.
It didn’t take long. A figure peeled itself from the darkness, moving with the weightless tread of a shadow. When it spoke, the voice was thin, sharp, almost metallic.
“Stop using that signal. Too conspicuous.”
Neru tossed a white pebble into the flames. The fire snapped back to its original orange glow.
“I wasn’t even sure you were still following me,” she said. “I nearly died three times these past nights—frozen half to death in a cavern—and heard nothing from you.”
The voice snapped back irritably,
“Quit your whining. I’m not your bodyguard. If you die, I report to the Emperor, and that’s it.”
Neru exhaled, long and tired.
“You still don’t trust me, Blackfeet? If I was a traitor, why did I spare your life back then? If I wanted to run, why did I leave a trace for you to track?”
The shadow snorted.
“And you saunter along at a snail’s pace, refusing to finish the job. I told you to kill the caravan and seize the wagons—you didn’t kill anyone. Where’s the cargo now?”
“Even if we’d taken all three wagons, it wouldn’t solve anything,” Neru said. “We need the drop point. We need the mastermind. That’s the only way to end this.”
“Then why haven’t you done it? Why are you still here with those two vultures? And why aren’t they dead yet?”
“Telling a Frothenan warrior to slit throats while men sleep…” Neru’s lip curled. “Doesn’t that feel filthy in your mouth?”
“You’re not a Frothena warrior, Neru,” Blackfeet hissed. “Not anymore. You’re an exile. An exile for your disgrace.”
Neru’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
“Choose your words carefully,” she growled. “Keep it up, and one day I’ll challenge you and cut that tongue out.”
She flicked a glance back toward Elios and Tarth’s sleeping forms.
“I need them for now. They can get me inside the Tower. And I have reason to believe the Tower is involved—or at least holds some records that can explain what’s happening. If all goes well, I’ll reach it by tomorrow. Once I’m inside, our link will be disrupted.”
Blackfeet bristled.
“So you burned an entire pouch of dream-dust just to babble at me one last time? Idiot. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”
“I need you to send word home,” Neru said, unmoved. “Things may be worse than I predicted. I can’t handle this alone.”
“What else?”
“There’s a creature beneath that mountain,” she said. “Something no ordinary mind could even imagine. Strong enough to crush a sea battalion like an eggshell. I suspect it has ties to drovar dust. That’s why I have to reach the Tower.”
“All that is just your speculation?”
“Yes. Speculation. But not one we can ignore.”
Her voice dropped, almost reverent in its dread.
"We were always told that drovar dust—burned in skyward rites—could rouse the ancient drovars sleeping deep within the mountains. I used to dismiss it as nothing more than the elders’ superstition, a tale to keep us in line. But after the past few days… I’m not so sure anymore. Something did come for that cargo."
She glanced toward the distant horizon, where the Tower would rise like a blade of light.
“If anyone in this world could create such a thing—or record how—it would be the people in the Tower.”
Blackfeet finished scribbling at a blistering pace onto the little scroll strapped to his wrist. When he was done, he turned away, cloak blending back into the dark as he spoke over his shoulder:
“Finish your task quickly and return. Every day you delay is another day your father suffers in that cell. And don’t try anything clever—he will die for it.”
Neru let her fingers drift to the knife strapped along her thigh. The gesture looked idle, almost like nostalgia, but the cold pressure of it radiated like a promise.
“My father is pure steel,” she said softly. “Prison won’t wear him down. As long as he breathes, I will keep fighting.”
Her gaze sharpened, deadly and distant.
“But tell Emperor this: if my father’s life is not protected, he will lose much, much more than just one great general. That’s not a threat.”
The darkness did not return a sound, and the camp fell quiet again. The only thing Neru could hear was the pulse in her ear, which still hadn’t righted itself since the cavern — sometimes it slept, sometimes it crawled in her bones when she was too tense. She told herself it was just pain, but she didn’t quite believe it.
Neru drew the dagger from her thigh, its edge catching the firelight and warping her reflection into something sharp-boned and stranger than she remembered. The eyes staring back were not hers.
She exhaled slowly and stepped back into the room where Elios and Tarth lay bound, their breaths heavy and uneven under the drug’s pull. The blade in her hand radiated a hungry chill, as if eager to drink the last warmth from her grip.
Let’s put this to an end.