The trio rode under a quiet sun.
Cain caught up quickly after retrieving his scattered horse, brushing off the dust from his cloak and mounting without a word. Calanthe wore a smug little grin the entire time, while Callum rode silently, his posture loose but aware. None of them spoke about what had happened with Meressa, and Cain was glad for the unspoken truce.
The road stretched long before them, a ribbon of hardened dirt that cut between whispering fields and tall pine groves. Days passed in rhythm—ride, camp, hunt, move.
Along the way, they crossed a handful of traveling merchants, exchanging a few words and warnings about bandit sightings farther east. Most gave Cain a second look—the white hair, golden cat-eyes, and elven heritage made him stand out even without his weapons.
The fourth day, as the sun crested high and the chill of autumn clung to the wind, they passed a patrol of Temerian soldiers.
The lead rider—a man in polished blue and silver armor, square-jawed and calm-eyed—raised a hand in greeting.
"Witchers? Sorceress?" he guessed, reining in his horse beside them. "Not a bad time to have your skills on the road."
Cain nodded. "We haven't seen much trouble yet."
"That'll change," the captain said grimly. "Keep moving east. You'll reach a port town called Darryn's Rest. Cross the old stone bridge and you'll find good beds, honest steel, and enough wine to dull the aches."
Callum nodded. "Much appreciated."
The man saluted. "Stay sharp. There are whispers of movement in the hills. Might be nothing, but might be something." He and his men rode on.
They reached Darryn's Rest just before dusk.
It was a small port town nestled along the northern bend of a river, where merchant barges came to unload spices, furs, and grains. The buildings were a mix of aging timber and brick, clustered tightly near the docks.
Cain noticed the eyes immediately.
He always did.
People noticed Witchers. But they noticed him more. Darker skin marked him foreign. His ears just slightly pointed. And the eyes—those bright gold, slit-pupil eyes—never let him hide.
The three dismounted outside the local tavern, The Gull & Anchor, and Cain could already feel the shift in the crowd. The inn's porch was packed with townsfolk and dockhands drinking early. As Cain stepped through the doorway behind Callum and Calanthe, a hush briefly touched the room before returning to murmurs.
The barkeep, a thick-armed woman with sharp gray eyes, waved them over.
"Got two rooms open. Coin up front. No nonsense."
Cain paid without comment, handing over enough for meals and beds.
They sat near the corner.
Food came quickly—fish stew, thick bread, and boiled roots. The ale was passable. The fire warm. But the tension lingered.
Three men stood from a nearby table, half-drunk and whispering. One of them stared at Cain too long. The other two eyed Calanthe.
Cain felt it coming.
"You with them, girl?" the tallest one asked. He was a dockhand type—broad shoulders, face red from drink.
Calanthe didn't look up from her cup. "Back off."
"Didn't mean nothin' rude. Just sayin'. You lot look strange."
Another chimed in. "That one there got demon eyes. Bet he ain't even human."
Cain's eyes flicked up.
Callum tensed, fingers sliding subtly toward the hilt of his short blade.
Calanthe finally raised her gaze. It was icy.
"I said back off. You think because you're drunk and loud that you scare anyone here?"
The tall one leaned in. "Maybe I think you're the one who should learn a bit of respect."
That was as far as he got.
The door opened and four more men in town colors entered—local guards, armed but relaxed. They saw the confrontation immediately.
"Merek!" one barked. "You thick bastard. What'd we say about drinkin' and starin' at travelers?"
The drunk blinked. "I was just—"
"Out. Now."
Without further argument, the three were shoved toward the door, half-dragged. The guards turned to the trio and nodded.
"Apologies, Witcher. Miss. Lad. The Gull gets some rough ones when the port's busy. No trouble meant."
Cain inclined his head. "None taken."
The tavern resumed its clamor soon after, though the glances didn't stop. But with the trouble handled, the tension faded.
As Cain sipped the last of his ale, he looked out through the fogged window.
The road ahead still stretched far, but at least for tonight, they had warmth, food, and safety.
And in the world they lived in, that counted for a great deal.
The next morning, the trio wandered through the town's market district. Just beyond a vendor's stall they heard loud shouting and the sound of fists slamming against flesh.
A small crowd had gathered in a circle.
Cain motioned to Callum and Calanthe, and they pushed through to see two men locked in brutal combat. A large banner behind them read:
> "Strength Reborn! Enter the Contest! 250 Crowns + Potion of Vitality and Longevity!"
A nearby woman leaned toward them, grinning. "It's some druid and sorceress pairing. They're hosting the contest. Offering prizes, even rituals, they say."
Calanthe frowned. "That sounds... too good to be true."
"Probably using these poor bastards as test subjects," Cain muttered.
The trio approached a side tent where the supposed hosts stood: an older man in forest robes, marked with oak and antler symbols, and a young sorceress in gold-accented violet robes, her hair braided and eyes sharp.
They welcomed the group casually.
"You've got the look of contenders," the druid said.
The sorceress smiled.
"We do offer a prize, but the real test is for our potion—a blend of enhancement and ritual. It doesn't grant eternal youth, but it restores vigor, body and mind."
"So the sign is exaggerated?" Cain asked.
"Yes," the druid admitted, chuckling. "But these men care more about the gold and... the aftereffects. Makes them feel young again."
"Does it kill?" Callum asked bluntly.
"No," the sorceress said with a shake of her head. "We guarantee it's safe. Just... unpredictable."
Cain's eyes narrowed. Something about the pair felt genuine—but also experimental. Like alchemists trying a new brew without telling the rat.
Then the system chimed softly in Cain's head.
> [Quest Alert: Contest of Vital Flame - Rare] Objective: Win the strength ritual contest. Reward: Gold, rare alchemical ingredients, +1 Stat Point. Warning: Event monitored by minor magical authorities.
Cain looked at Callum. "We entering?"
Callum cracked his neck. "I don't see why not. Could be fun."
Cain hesitated. His instincts scratched at the back of his skull. Something was off—but not dangerous. Just... veiled.
He nodded slowly. "Let's see what we're really fighting for."