The crackling of the campfire was the only sound in the thick silence. Lyra had fallen asleep, her daggers still within arm's reach, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of the nearest. Rico sat a few paces away, his eyes reflecting the flames as his mind drifted into old memories—the kind that clawed their way out at night when guilt was hardest to bury.
He stared at his hands. Hands that once created potions to destroy, now trembled when forced to save. Was he really renounced, or just... tired? Was he a man changed or merely hiding from himself?
Rico rose and walked a little deeper into the woods, past gnarled roots and whispering leaves. He needed air, needed distance. The weight of Lyra's words earlier echoed in his ears—Kael Vorr.
The name was a ghost, long thought buried.
He had heard it once before, in hushed whispers behind the black walls of Myrthos' underbelly. Vorr was no ordinary warlord—he was a tactician, a mage, and worst of all, a believer. He believed in dominance through purity, a twisted ideology that sought to "cleanse" the world of flawed magic users. Anyone born of "impure alchemy" was targeted. Rico had never encountered him, but he'd seen the aftermath of Vorr's early experiments—villages wiped clean, children missing, families cursed into trees and ash.
A twig snapped.
Rico spun, hand at his belt.
"I figured you couldn't sleep," Lyra said, stepping into the moonlight.
"You're awake."
"Didn't need much. Sleep is for people who aren't hunted."
Rico gave a tired smirk. "You always talk like a ghost."
"Because I am one," she said, then looked up at the sky. "Or at least... I feel like one. Every day since the massacre."
"The Fallen Dagger," Rico said, nodding.
"I was their youngest blade. Sixteen when they took me in. Twenty-one when Vorr destroyed them. I survived under a pile of bodies." She didn't look at him. "He made me watch him burn my mentor alive."
Rico didn't speak. There was nothing to say.
"You think I'm better than you," she said after a while.
He frowned. "You are."
"No," she shook her head. "I'm just broken differently."
They stood together in silence again.
---
By morning, they had packed camp and were heading west. Lyra had intel from a source in Dunhaven—a former alchemist turned smuggler named Voro. According to her, he had been dealing directly with Kael Vorr's scouts and knew their next target.
As they reached the city gates, the stench of smoke and steel greeted them. Dunhaven was a mercenary hub, its streets narrow and filled with suspicion. Banners from old wars hung tattered over doorways, and children ran barefoot between blacksmiths and pickpockets.
"This place stinks of desperation," Rico muttered.
"Good," Lyra said. "Desperate men talk. Especially when threatened with gold or blades."
They headed to the Rusted Cup, an inn where Voro was said to drink away his paranoia. Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke and old secrets. A bard strummed lazily in the corner, and mercenaries with half-missing limbs played cards with bloodstained coins.
Voro sat at a back table, eyes darting like a rat in daylight. When he saw Lyra and Rico, he froze.
"No," he said. "Not you."
Lyra stepped forward. "Yes. Me."
"I told you I was out! I gave you what you asked!" Voro stood, knocking over his ale.
"And now we're asking again," Rico said, stepping beside her. "Sit down, Voro."
The former alchemist trembled. "Kael... he'll kill me if he knows—"
"He'll never get the chance if you talk," Lyra interrupted.
Reluctantly, Voro sat.
"There's a caravan leaving Dunhaven tomorrow at dawn," he whispered. "Disguised as spice traders. Inside, they're moving artifacts—magical ones. Vorr's collecting them. I don't know why, but... they're old. Dangerous. Some are even alive."
"Alive?" Rico asked.
"Sentient. Like that soulstone stuff. Stuff that hums when you get near it. Stuff that speaks if you listen long enough."
Rico felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"Where's it headed?"
"South. Toward the Bleeding Hills."
Lyra cursed under her breath. "That's close to Irenthos. Vorr's laying a siege path. We have to intercept."
Rico nodded, then turned back to Voro. "What happens if you're lying?"
"You won't live long enough to regret it," Lyra added flatly.
Voro gulped.
---
That night, they prepared.
Rico adjusted his belt of vials. He was low on materials—he'd have to make every throw count. Lyra sharpened her blades in silence, a quiet ritual that brought her peace.
Then, just before dawn, they moved.
---
The caravan wound slowly along the forest path, six wagons in total, guarded by mercenaries in mismatched armor. Rico and Lyra trailed them on foot, cloaked in invisibility powder—a gift from Rico's more volatile experiments.
"Wait for the rear to clear the hill," Rico whispered.
Lyra nodded.
At the right moment, Rico tossed a vial into the path. It burst into a glowing mist. The horses reared, blinded by alchemical flash, and the guards scrambled.
Lyra struck first—silent, surgical. Rico followed, using smoke to disorient and stun. Within minutes, they had taken control of the last wagon. Inside, they found the artifacts—wrapped in chains, humming softly. One stone pulsed as if alive. Rico didn't dare touch it directly.
"Load what we can," Lyra said.
But then came the whistling.
Rico froze. "Arrows!"
They dove behind the wagon as volleys rained from the treetops. Black-cloaked archers surrounded them—Vorr's elite. One of them stepped forward, his face painted like a skull.
"You interfere again, and you will die," the man called out.
Rico narrowed his eyes. "And who are you supposed to be? His messenger?"
"I am his shadow," the man said. "And this was your warning."
Before they could respond, the archers vanished into the trees like phantoms.
Rico exhaled slowly. "Well, that escalated."
Lyra pulled him to his feet. "Let's get moving. Vorr knows we're close now."
---
Back in the hills, they buried the artifacts they couldn't carry and left false trails behind. As the sun dipped, Rico sat on a ledge overlooking the valley.
Lyra joined him.
"You fought like someone who's done this too many times," he said.
"I have."
"Ever regret it?"
She was quiet for a while. "Not the killing. But sometimes I regret the surviving."
Rico looked at her. "You're not alone in that."
She met his gaze, and for a moment, something softened between them. Not quite trust. Not quite affection. But something forming. Something real.
---