Dawn's first breath drifted between jagged pines as I guided the caravan of healers
and scholars along the rocky ledge above the Bonecoil River.
My curved sword rested at my hip,
its spiral glyphs faintly warm against the autumn chill.
Each wagon creaked like an ancient spine,
laden with texts and tinctures—cargo as precious as any blade.
We carry knowledge as armor, I reminded myself, scanning the mist that clung low to the riverbanks. A stray breeze whispered through the pines, carrying hints of smoke and distant shouts.
"Eyes sharp," I called softly to our rear guard.
"The Thorn's hunters patrol these heights."
My heart thrummed in time with the river's endless song, steady and resolute.
At my side, Lyra's bloomsteel blade pulsed with living light—threads of rose-gold unfurling like wings with every breath she took.
She rode a pack mule, its hooves gentle on the narrow path.
This path, she thought, is no mere road but a vein of memory.
She tightened her gauntlet, recalling Kaien's lesson: steel is tempered not by ease,
but by the strain of bearing weight.
A sudden crack of bowstring shattered the calm.
Across the slope, three figures in ashen cloaks raised crossbows—bolts tipped with sleep-inducing toxin, aimed at the nearest healer.
Lyra dropped from her mule in one fluid motion, bloomsteel arcing in a wide whoosh that deflected the first bolt into the rock face with a ringing clang.
"Move!" she shouted, voice bright as a clarion. T
he mule reared and darted away; healers dove behind wagons.
I vaulted from my mount, boots thudding against weathered wood.
The second bolt hissed past my ear. I lunged forward, curved blade slicing a clean sching through the hunter's bow arm.Leather split; the bolt fell harmless.
The third hunter skulked forward, dagger drawn. I spun on the balls of my feet, blade flashing in a tight circle that clipped the intruder's wrist with a sharp snap.
He howled, dropping his dagger and clutching his bleeding hand.
Behind me, Lyra met the third hunter's blade with a graceful clang, bloomsteel singing as it deflected the thrust.
Sparks showered at her boots. She countered, sweeping her foot under his ribs; his breath whooshed out in a ragged gasp as he crumpled to the ground.
Aira darted between wagons, dagger ready.
She caught the final hunter in a precise stab to the thigh, twisting to disarm him.
His knees buckled, and she knelt beside him, placing a gentle hand over his wound.
Mercy binds stronger than fear, she thought, uncoiling ward‑light from her palm to weave a healing glow.
The man's eyes widened with disbelief as the flesh knitted beneath her touch.
She held his gaze: "Tell your masters—this road belongs to memory's keepers."
He nodded, voice small: "I… I will."
At the wagon's flank, Rin lifted her wand and traced a spiral glyph in the air.
It blossomed into a cocoon of emerald light around the healers, warding away any stray bolt.
I watched as their faces relaxed—trust blossoming like dawn in their eyes.
We guard more than flesh tonight, Rin mused, pressing her fingertips together. We guard hope.
The hunters lay silent, their weapons set aside. I sheathed my sword and offered my hand to the one I had felled. He took it shakily, gratitude flickering across his ash‑smeared face.
"Carry word," I told him, voice gentle.
"That memory's guardians travel this path—and stand ready with both steel and mercy."
He bowed his head. "I will."
The caravan resumed its journey beneath the dappled pine shadows. Lyra remounted, her smile soft in the morning light. Rin and Aira rejoined the wagons, their eyes bright with shared purpose.
I lingered at the rear, watching the river's mist swirl like waking dreams.
In that silent moment, I felt the Spiral Tree's distant pulse, a promise that every life saved—and every debt of mercy paid—would echo through the Hollow's roots.
"We press on," I whispered to the wind.
"For memory, for hope, for all who walk this winding road."
And with that vow carried in our hearts, we moved forward—steel sheathed,
spirits alight, and the song of remembrance ever guiding our steps.