Outside, the morning air clung to the stone like breath on glass — cool, tense, unspeaking. At the base of the palace steps, the carriage waited. But to call it that was to diminish its presence.
The vehicle awaiting Felix was no mere noble's ornament. Sleek and low-slung, it shimmered in muted silver tones that shifted under the light like passing clouds. Its frame was forged from Starwood — a rare timber lighter than steel, harder than obsidian — inlaid with elegant gold runes that hummed faintly when touched by wind.
Delicate in form yet built for velocity, its wheels bore obsidian rims, each etched with Windglyphs pulsing softly with latent energy. No royal crest adorned it. No boastful insignia. Only a single sigil was carved into the door: a rose unfurling from the center of a spiral — subtle, unignorable.
But it was the horses that silenced the air.
Four stood at the helm — tall, broad-shouldered, still as statues. Their coats shimmered onyx, with veins of silver running beneath their skin like trapped lightning. Their eyes burned with a soft violet glow — not angry, but hauntingly calm. Velmoran Eclipse Steeds: bred once per generation, trained without reins or whip. They obeyed not voice, but thought — their bridles etched with runes fused to their nervous systems.
They didn't gallop. They flowed — bending through the air as if time yielded to their passing.
This wasn't transportation.
It was precision wrapped in elegance. A weapon made of silence and speed.
Felix, ever the curious child, stared wide-eyed, light flickering behind his gaze."I really get to ride that?" he thought, awe swelling in his chest.
The guards noticed and chuckled softly — a rare break in their composure. They took their positions without words.
The road ahead would be long.
Though still within the Solvaris Empire, its lands were vast — an empire of many kingdoms, with stretches of wilderness between. Reaching the Nemorath border would take days, even at full speed.
And time, Felix already knew, was running thin.
Inside, the carriage thrummed with enchantment the moment Felix stepped in.
The space was wider than it seemed. The walls breathed subtly with motion, like a vessel aware of its passenger. The seats were deep indigo velvet — firm, supportive — designed for high-speed travel without discomfort. Silver thread stitched sigils of protection into the seams, their meanings older than the empire itself.
The floor was polished darkwood, its grain forming natural spirals that shifted slightly in the light — not carved, but grown. The air was warm, perfumed faintly with crushed mint and resin — steadying, thoughtful.
Crystal panels were set into the walls. One glowed softly with a map, charting their path. Another projected a magical window — not a reflection, but a live feed of the terrain, clear even through fog or shadow. No hinges, no joins — just seamless curves and flowing craftsmanship.
It wasn't luxury.
It was sanctuary.A fast-moving fortress, built for one.
Felix sank into the seat, brushing his fingers over a smooth panel — it opened with a quiet click, revealing vials and herbs suspended in place by magnetic enchantments. Every detail had been considered.
He exhaled slowly."They really did prepare everything," he thought, eyes softening.
And for just a moment — he allowed himself to feel safe.
Then the carriage moved.
To the east of Velmora, beyond soft-rolling hills wrapped in morning mist, stretched a land untouched by ambition: Elarith Vale, a place cradled by time and memory.
The valley unfolded like a page from a forgotten fairytale. Lush meadows breathed in slow rhythm, swaying beneath the wind's tender hand. Wildflowers painted the fields in lavender, cornflower blue, and soft gold, while pale-winged birds traced lazy spirals across a sky too clear to question. Their song echoed like laughter across the hills.
A narrow river — glass-bright and unhurried — threaded through the land like silver thread through velvet. Its banks were lined with willows, their branches kissing the water's skin. The air was perfumed with fruit blossoms and distant hearthsmoke, blown down from orchards nestled along the ridges.
At the heart of the vale stood Eirenwall, a town seemingly folded away from the rest of the world.
Stone cottages with moss-laced roofs lined winding streets, each with shuttered windows veiled in ivy and lace. Lanterns hung unlit from iron hooks, waiting patiently for nightfall. From courtyards and bakeries came the sounds of laughter, sweeping brooms, and sun-drowsy cats. There were no guards, no gates. The land itself seemed to keep watch, as though it remembered why people once built homes instead of walls.
And from afar, Velmora's spires remained just barely visible — distant sentinels on the horizon, watching over a peace they once promised.
Just off the town square, nestled beneath the shade of a flowering pear tree, sat a cottage washed in morning light. Its windows were open to the breeze, and in the courtyard, two women sat at a weathered round table, sipping tea from porcelain cups, their laughter as warm as the sun-dappled stone beneath their feet.
One was middle-aged, her silvered braid wrapped with care, eyes creased by time and affection. The other was younger, all wild curls and sharp wit, leaning forward as though sharing a secret with the wind.
"I told her," the younger said with a grin, "if she butters both sides of the bread again, I'll crown her Queen of Wastefulness."
The older woman laughed, taking a sip. "She gets it from her father. You should've seen what he did to the garden shed trying to cook soup."
They chuckled, their voices folding into the sound of birdsong and a distant dog barking by the fountain. Behind them, the cottage stood like memory itself — full of warmth, full of stories.
Above the hearth inside, tucked among herbs and candle stubs, sat a simple framed sketch: a white-haired boy, eyes bright, smile modest.
"Felix," the older woman murmured, gaze lifting toward the hills. "He's only been gone a day, and I already miss the sound of his voice."
The younger woman reached across the table and gently clasped her hand."He'll be alright. That boy carries more light than he knows. Velmora didn't send a doctor… they sent their heart."
Oblivious to the shadow now drawing near, they continued their gentle gossip — recalling childhood mischiefs with fond amusement.
"How old was he when he turned the bath blue?""Seven. He thought the dye would make his skin 'immune to cold.'""And what about the time he gave the cat that singing tonic—""Two days of nonstop meowing."
They laughed again, unaware of how quickly the world could turn.
Because just beyond the stone arch that marked the town's edge, where the hills dipped into silence, the earth had stilled.
Beneath the crooked limbs of a forgotten pine grove, twenty cloaked figures stood.
Motionless. Quiet.
Their robes were matte black — not worn cloth, but something drier, more lifeless, like peeled shadow. Their faces were half-covered but not hidden. Upon the visible flesh of their jaws or foreheads, numbers were tattooed — not symbols or names. Numbers. Scarred into their skin. From Ten to Thirty.
Number Fifteen shifted — the only one who moved. His fingers twitched. Then twitched again. It wasn't a nervous tic — it was bloodlust aching for release.
He grinned, eyes flickering beneath his hood."Uwe… Ten. When do we get to massacre these pathetic creatures? I am starving."
Number Ten said nothing for a long moment. His stillness wasn't patience — it was calculation. He didn't waste breath. He didn't indulge lesser minds.
Finally, his voice came, low and flat."At night."
The silence returned, heavier than before.
Fifteen clicked his tongue, irritated but unwilling to push further. The others said nothing — no breath, no shifting, only waiting.
Above them, the clouds thickened.
And below, in Eirenwall, the two women poured more tea.
They laughed softly, as if the day still belonged to them.
As if night weren't already watching.