I left before sunrise.
No goodbyes.
No promises.
Just a worn leather pack slung over one shoulder, my sword slapping against my thigh with every step, and the cold wind chasing me off my own land.
If it was even mine anymore.
The gates of House Westenra groaned closed behind me like a dying breath.
I didn't look back.
---
The western plains stretched out before me, pale and dead under the early morning light.
Once, these fields had been gold and green — a living sea fed by the spring rains.
Now they lay cracked and brittle, the earth split like old scars.
Fitting.
---
I tightened my cloak against the wind, adjusted the weight of my pack, and started walking east.
Toward Sothryn.
Toward the blood and fire waiting for me.
---
The first town I passed locked its gates before noon.
Wooden spikes jammed awkwardly into the ground outside the walls.
Guards too young and too old clutching rusted spears like they expected an army to come at any second.
Maybe they were right.
Maybe it wouldn't be an army this time.
Maybe it would just be hunger.
Or fear.
Or neighbors they no longer trusted.
---
I didn't stop.
Didn't speak to anyone.
Just kept moving.
---
By the second day, I started seeing them.
Bands of mercenaries, slouching down the roads with swords at their hips and blood dried in the cracks of their armor.
Some carried banners.
Most didn't.
None wore the colors of any kingdom I recognized.
---
War was coming.
Everyone knew it.
Even if they didn't say it out loud.
Especially if they didn't.
---
The third day, the hills changed.
Higher now.
Rockier.
The road grew narrower, winding between crumbling stone walls and patches of wild thornbrush.
A good place for an ambush.
A better place for a grave.
---
I slowed my steps.
Listened harder.
The wind hissed between the stones.
The crows circled overhead.
Somewhere nearby, something burned — dry and acrid, like old rags soaked in oil.
---
When the attack came, it was almost lazy.
---
A shimmer in the air ahead.
A whisper in a tongue I didn't know.
And then the stones beside the road **exploded**, shards whistling past my face sharp enough to cut skin.
---
I dropped flat to the ground on instinct.
Rolled sideways into the ditch as another blast tore a crater into the road where I'd been standing a heartbeat earlier.
---
Magic.
Not aura.
Magic.
---
I pushed up onto one knee, heart hammering.
My vision flickered at the edges as I scanned the hills.
Movement.
A figure standing on a ridge.
Cloak snapping in the wind.
One hand raised lazily, fingers tracing sigils into the air.
The air around him shimmered with a faint blue haze — like heat rippling off sun-baked stone.
---
I grit my teeth.
No sword.
No bow.
Just words.
And will.
And death from a distance.
---
Mages.
Real ones.
I'd heard the lectures at the Academy.
Swordsmen fought with their bodies.
Mages fought with the world.
They bent it.
Crushed it.
Burned it.
---
I pushed off the ground, sprinting sideways across the road.
Another spell slammed into the dirt behind me, throwing up a geyser of stone and dust.
Too slow.
Too far.
If he had time to cast freely, I'd be dead before I crossed half the distance.
---
I forced my breath deep.
Not for power.
For silence.
For speed.
---
I moved low and fast, zigzagging across the uneven ground, using every scrap of cover I could find.
Another flash.
Another burst of raw force shrieking past my ear close enough that I felt the heat of it sear the edge of my cloak.
---
I grinned through gritted teeth.
He was aiming too high.
Overconfident.
Used to enemies standing still and screaming.
---
I wasn't standing still.
And I wasn't screaming.
---
I closed the distance to the base of the ridge.
The mage started backing up now, muttering faster, weaving sigils with desperate hands.
Panic showed in the stutter of his aura.
Weak.
Young.
Maybe a 2nd Circle mage if I had to guess.
Strong enough to kill a normal man without trying.
Not strong enough to survive a mistake.
---
I didn't give him a second chance.
I drove myself up the slope in a burst of breath and blood and momentum.
Sword drawn low.
---
He raised one hand—
—a crackle of blue fire gathering—
—but my blade moved faster.
---
The edge caught him across the arm, slicing deep.
He shrieked, the half-formed spell sputtering out like a candle in the wind.
I didn't stop.
---
One step.
One breath.
One thrust, clean through the soft spot between his ribs.
---
The mage gagged once.
Blood spilled from his mouth in a bubbling froth.
His eyes wide and terrified.
Like he couldn't understand how the world had betrayed him.
How steel had beaten magic.
---
I yanked the blade free and let him fall.
The body tumbled down the rocky slope, limbs flailing like a broken doll.
---
I stood there for a long moment.
Breathing.
Listening.
Waiting for another attack that didn't come.
---
The world settled around me again.
The birds started to call.
The wind shifted.
The blood on my blade steamed in the cold air.
---
I wiped the sword clean on the mage's cloak.
Checked the body.
No coin purse.
No insignia.
Just a cheap silver ring etched with a broken chain symbol.
I pocketed it without a word.
Might mean something later.
Might mean nothing at all.
---
I adjusted my pack.
Rolled my shoulder to ease the ache setting in from the sprint and the climb.
Started walking again.
---
Magic was real.
Real and hungry and deadly.
It wouldn't be the last mage I faced.
Not by a long shot.
---
And if this was just a taste of what waited at Sothryn?
Good.
Let them come.
Let them burn the skies and boil the seas.
---
I'd carved my fangs on steel and stone.
I'd carve them through magic too if I had to.