The road out of Eryssan wound along the cliffs before cutting into the hills. Beyond the city walls, the air smelled different, salt, wet earth, the resin of pines stirred by the wind.

  They’d left at the first sign of sunlight, their small party rode in a loose line.

  Captain Deyar led at the front, broad-backed in chainmail dulled by years of salt and rain. His cloak, once Eryssan blue, had faded to the color of old slate. His dark beard was streaked with iron, his jaw square as the shields he trained men to raise. He moved like a man accustomed to weight; armour, duty, and ghosts.

  Behind him came Rhelas, rigid as carved stone. His armour gleamed despite the dust of the road, and his dark blonde hair caught the last light of day. He carried himself as though even the saddle should obey his command.

  Julen followed, smaller, his satchel bumping against his hip with every nervous shift of the reins. Then Lyra, her mare restless beneath her, still tasting the salt of the sea in the folds of her cloak.

  The final rider kept to the rear, but Lyra did not need to look to know who it was. When she did, the certainty struck like cold water.

  Caelith.

  Of course it was.

  He barely seemed to need the horse. But the chains at his wrists forced him to rely on one. The animal beneath him looked small, almost fragile, compared to his frame. The glint of metal caught the sun, sharp and jarring, a reminder that he’d been leashed, bound to protect.

  “Captain Deyar,” Rhelas called, “you’ve ridden to Meridon before, haven’t you? The records barely mention it, just that it stood before the Fracture.”

  Deyar shifted, jaw tight. “Yes. And what you must know is that Meridon is proud. Too proud, some say. When the first treaties were signed, they swore allegiance late, under pressure. And the Umbralyn…” His eyes flicked to Caelith. “Meridon calls them an insult. Claims their own guards can keep the dark out.”

  Caelith’s voice cut low and deliberate. “In Meridon, we do not stand at their walls. We keep to the places light avoids; the vaults beneath, the tunnels, the alleys no one dares to walk at night. The oath binds us. The vow does not change. Meridon prefers not to see.”

  Lyra felt a shiver go down her spine. "So, they still live among the people? And live normal lives?”

  Her voice trembled slightly, not daring to hope the stories might be true.

  “Not among,” Caelith corrected. “Beside. They do not see us, until they must.”

  Deyar cleared his throat, turning back to the scribes. “You ever hear a real story about the Umbralyn? Not the ones in your books?”

  Julen tensed. “True? Or tavern-told?”

  Deyar’s grin flashed beneath his beard. “What’s the difference?”

  Caelith cleared his throat. Lyra could have sworn he rolled his eyes as Deyar began.

  "When I was younger, too old for ale, too young for a blade, I drank in Eryssan’s underways. Dark halls where the sea seeped through stone. They came there sometimes. Not as Guardians. Just… men, with thirsts.”

  He looked at Caelith. “I’ve seen them drink, seen them with women—never tenderness. Always distant, as though nothing mattered.”

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  Julen muttered, “Monsters.”

  “Perhaps,” Deyar said evenly. “But they never broke their vow. Not once. Some drank. Some fought. Some lay with others. But at dawn — always back to their post..”

  Caelith did not move. Even his horse seemed to sense the weight of Deyar’s words, keeping perfect pace.

  Rhelas snorted. “And that makes them noble?”

  “No,” Deyar said evenly. “Not at all. But from what I’ve seen, it makes them bound. True to their word. So far.”

  Lyra glanced at Caelith, waiting for him to bite. His silver eyes remained on the road ahead, untouched by the conversation, and she felt that peculiar mix of awe and unease again.

  --

  Mist rose between the hills as the day thinned, pale as breath. The rhythm of hooves slowed, and even birds fell silent. Somewhere far below, the surf struck stone, steady, deliberate, like a signal no one should ignore.

  Lyra drew her cloak tighter. “It feels colder,” she murmured to Julen.

  Rhelas tilted his head, eyes sharp. “Colwyn, isn’t it? Master’s favourite girl. Tell me, what keeps you scribbling at your age? Twenty?”

  “Twenty-two,” she said tightly.

  “Still unwed?” He smirked. “I’d have thought a village daughter would have someone waiting in the fields.”

  Julen shot him a glare. Lyra met it with quiet defiance. “I had someone at home,” she said softly. “For two years.”

  Rhelas’ lips twisted. “And you left? He wasn’t good enough?”

  She exhaled slowly. “He was kind enough. But I wanted more than waiting for death in a cottage I’d never leave. My father was a scribe. He taught me there’s more to life than that. It’s why I was called here.”

  Rhelas smirked faintly. “And that keeps you alive?”

  “Better than submission,” she snapped.

  The road fell quiet. Caelith let out a small noise, almost a chuckle. Lyra’s heart stumbled. Their eyes met briefly, and for a fraction of a second, something unspoken passed between them.

  --

  Soon after, they made camp, the sky bleeding violet. A fire was lit, sparking against the dark. Deyar doled out bread and dried meat while Rhelas sharpened his knife, Julen muttered over notes, and Lyra stretched stiff fingers.

  The horses twitched, ears flicking toward the trees. Somewhere in the mist, a sound like broken glass rolled and was gone. The night had just begun to settle when a howl split the air. Quiet, but high, shrill, unnatural.

  Rhelas went still. “You hear that?”

  Julen swallowed. “Probably foxes.”

  Caelith had already risen, but he’d not yet drawn a blade. He stepped just beyond the circle of light and looked into the dark.

  For a long moment, there was nothing.

  Then Lyra saw them.

  Eyes. Pale, low to the ground. And far too many. Shapes shifted between the scrub at the edge of the hollow. Lean, canine forms, their hides catching starlight in fractured glints.

  Deyar stood slowly. “No.”

  “Glasshounds,” Caelith confirmed.

  “They don’t range this far inland,” Deyar muttered.

  “They follow tremor lines,” Caelith replied. “Where the stone weakens.”

  Lyra looked on in horror, these hadn’t even been in the stories. She hadn’t quite comprehended the horror that awaited her

  The creatures paced at the edge of the dark, silent except for the faint grinding sound of their movement. One stepped briefly into vision. Its body shimmered like cracked mirrorwork. Light bent wrong across its flanks. Of what she could see, its eyes were hollow, colourless.

  Lyra’s breath caught, her feet about to pick up in response.

  “Do not run,” Caelith said quietly. He stepped just enough to place himself between her and the dark. “They test for fear.”

  No one moved, as the hounds circled once more.

  Then, as though satisfied, they retreated into the mist.

  The hollow felt colder after they vanished.

  Deyar exhaled slowly. “Too far,” he muttered again. “This isn’t natural.”

  Caelith said nothing. He had not once reached for his weapon. That unsettled her more than if he had.

  Julen let out a shaky breath. “They were watching us.”

  “Yes,” Caelith said.

  Lyra turned toward him.

  “For what?”

  His gaze remained on the hills. “For weakness.”

  She gulped.

  Deyar straightened. “Guardian. You take first watch. I’ll relieve you at second bell.”

  Caelith nodded, finally moving from his guarded position in front of Lyra. She breathed out in relief.

  The fire burned lower. One by one, they settled into uneasy rest.

  Lyra returned to her camp bed that had been laid out, but of course there was no way she could sleep after what had just happened. She pretended to stay asleep so she could see what Caelith was doing.

  Beyond the thinning flames, Caelith stood at the edge of the hollow, still as the stones themselves. The chains at his wrists caught the starlight in faint glimmers. But to her surprise, he was not looking at the place where the Glasshounds had been.

  He was looking farther north. Toward Meridon.

  He remained still, eyes on the horizon, listening to something the rest of them could not yet hear. Lyra followed the line of his gaze into the dark.

  He was not guarding them from what lay behind. He was watching what waited ahead.