The smell of smoke clung to them like a curse. Nalya watched as her scouts dismounted from their yellow-feathered brightstriders, their faces gaunt and grim. The last rays of sunlight caught the dust kicked up by their boots, and soot streaked their tunics. She knew before they spoke that the news would be bad.

One scout approached, his steps heavy, his exhaustion visible in every movement. He knelt before her, fist to his chest.

“Lady Nalya,” he began, his voice gravelly and low, “Stone’s Mouth is gone.”

Nalya’s heart clenched, but she kept her expression still. This was no bonfire, then. She nodded for him to rise, sweeping a lock of blond hair behind her ear. “Report,” she said, her tone calm but firm.

“We traveled several leagues south,” the scout said, standing now, his shoulders hunched as if bearing a great weight. “We found Stone’s Mouth in ruins. The Elder, Akris, said it was raided by Vectorans at first light. They burned the crops, seized livestock, and conscripted any able-bodied men.” He hesitated, his voice dropping further. “They took the young women as well, my Lady.”

Nalya drew in a slow breath, her fingers tightening on the edge of the table beside her. “Did he say why?” she asked. “Vector already has more soldiers than it can feed.”

The scout nodded grimly. “He believes they’re starving the Free Folk intentionally, Lady. Driving them into dependence. The only ones left in the village are elders and children. A few young men and women escaped, but those who resisted…” He trailed off, and his haunted expression told her the rest. “They’re still burning the bodies.”

Nalya closed her eyes briefly, willing the surge of anger and helplessness back down. When she opened them, her voice was steady. “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve done well. Go, take your meal and rest.”

The scout saluted again, fist to his chest, and trudged off toward the cookfire. Nalya lingered, staring down at the map spread across her makeshift table. Her quill hovered over the worn parchment before she carefully wrote the name Stone’s Mouth in the Disputed Lands, halfway between the borders of Halen and Vector. The once-thriving Free Folk village was now another mark of ash on the map.

Beside her, Keltz Wicket stepped forward, his shadow cutting across the table in the dimming light. “Ryde moves faster than we thought,” he said, his voice measured but taut.

“He does,” Nalya replied, her gaze not lifting from the map. “If he’s conscripting Free Folk, it’s worse than we feared. He isn’t just raiding—he’s building an army here, in the Disputed Lands. He must already have a foothold.” Her finger traced the valley where Stone’s Mouth lay. “The question is where.”

“You know where,” came Bayne Dalon’s gruff voice from behind her. The bodyguard stepped into the circle of torchlight, his weathered features grim. “The same place every upstart tyrant goes when they think themselves clever: the places no one cares to defend. The Free Folk are convenient tools. They’ve no magi, no banners, no walls.”

Nalya stiffened, turning to face him. “The Free Folk didn’t choose to be born beyond the Pactlands. Most wouldn’t know the Pactkeepers from a plowshare.” She paused, her tone softening. “And they are still people. The Pact was supposed to protect everyone, not just those who hold titles or banners.”

Bayne crossed his arms. “An idealist’s view, Lady, but one you’ve little use for out here. They’re weak. Leaderless. They’ve lived too long in the shadows of greater nations, and now they’ll be consumed by them.”

“That weakness doesn’t give us the right to turn away,” Nalya snapped. “You sound like the Council.”

“The Pactkeepers,” Keltz muttered, a faint bitterness in his voice. “What are they even keeping anymore? They gave Vector leave to claim these lands on a silver platter. What balance is that?”

Nalya nodded tightly, her gaze dropping back to the map. “A balance of status quo,” she murmured. “Until now. The Pactkeepers never acted to expand a nation’s power—not until Vector’s Emperor knelt before them with his petition.” Her fingers brushed the sigil of her House at her breast, as if seeking comfort. “He promised them what? Grain? Favor? Or something darker?”

“Whatever it was,” Keltz said, leaning over the map beside her, “it’s set us against time. He means to claim all of this before the Council reconsiders.”

Nalya’s jaw tightened. “And if the Council doesn’t reconsider? If they let him march past these lands, into Halen? Will they act then, or watch from their lofty tower, arguing over rules while the world burns?”

A long silence fell between them, broken only by the crackle of the distant cookfire.

“Stone’s Mouth,” Keltz said finally, gesturing to the name she had written. “Strategic value?”

“Yes,” Nalya said. “It lies in the valley between the Aegel Coast and the mountain foothills. The coast is too rough—any passage has to go through the village. It would be ideal for a checkpoint, even a trading hub.”

“And leaving it undefended ensures Vector takes it without resistance,” Keltz observed.

“Exactly,” Nalya said. “But they won’t return immediately. Not with their forces so scattered.” She looked to Keltz, determination flaring in her eyes. “Stone’s Mouth may welcome us if we offer protection and supplies. Are you up for a short journey?”

“To the village?” Keltz raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t that risk exposing our position?”

Nalya shook her head. “Not if we move quietly. We’ll leave the bulk of the men here, under Lieutenant Syrel. Take twenty of your best, and bring four magi—one of them a Luxmancer.” She glanced at the rising moon, its faint blue light filtering through the trees. “I want to speak with Akris before the Azure Dream reaches its zenith.”

“By your command,” Keltz said, saluting before heading off.

Nalya turned to Bayne. “See to Lieutenant Syrel. Have the camp ready to move by dawn.”

Bayne’s sharp nod was all the reply she needed. As he left, Nalya lingered at the map. Her gaze drifted toward the empty stretches of parchment where the Disputed Lands faded into the unknown. She touched the ink of Stone’s Mouth, dark and wet, a black stain spreading across the land.

This is what the Council allowed. This is what they turned their backs on.

And here she was, a lone voice in a forest of silence, hoping it would be enough.

The trek to Stone’s Mouth began under a canopy of stars, the faint blue glow of the Azure Dream casting an otherworldly pall over the forested hills. Nalya Ruus rode at the head of the column astride her Brightstrider, its elongated legs moving with a fluid, almost feline grace. The creature's yellow feathers glimmered faintly in the moonlight, muted by the pale shadows of the towering trees. Behind her, Keltz Wicket followed closely, his eyes scanning the darkness with the caution of a man who trusted silence far less than sound. Twenty soldiers marched in a disciplined line, armor dulled to avoid betraying their passage, and four magi brought up the rear.

The path was narrow and treacherous, twisting through thickets of gnarled roots and over streams swollen from recent rains. The air was thick with the damp scent of moss and decay, mingled with an acrid tang Nalya recognized instantly as smoke. It was faint, a memory of fire on the wind, but enough to draw her gaze to the horizon. Her grip on the reins tightened.

Keltz eased his Brightstrider alongside hers, the bird’s talons clicking softly against the rocky trail. “The forest grows quiet,” he said in a low voice. “Too quiet.”

Nalya nodded, her sharp eyes darting to the shadows between the trees. The usual symphony of nocturnal life—chirping insects, distant hoots, and the occasional rustle of small creatures—was gone, leaving an oppressive stillness in its place.

“Stop,” she commanded softly, raising her hand. The column halted behind her. Nalya dismounted, her boots landing lightly on the damp earth. She gestured for the magi to approach.

“Luxmancer,” she called softly, her voice carrying just enough authority to summon one of the magi. A woman with auburn hair braided neatly over one shoulder stepped forward.

“What do you need, my Lady?” the Luxmancer asked, her voice steady.

“Light,” Nalya said, her voice calm but firm. “Subtle and low. Enough to see but not to be seen.”

The magi extended her hand, and a golden flame sparked to life above her palm, casting a soft, warm glow that banished the immediate darkness without reaching too far. Shadows danced on the forest floor, but they no longer seemed impenetrable. Nalya gestured for the column to advance, her voice calm but firm. “Move forward. Quietly.” 

The group pressed on, their movements careful and deliberate. Each crunch of leaves and creak of leather seemed deafening in the unnatural silence. The smell of smoke grew stronger, mingled now with something far worse—the stench of charred flesh.

Nalya’s stomach twisted, but she kept her expression unreadable. Soon, the trees began to thin, and they came upon the remnants of a village that had long since returned to the forest. Stone walls, weathered and crumbling, jutted from the earth like the ribs of a long-dead beast. Vines climbed the broken edges, and moss blanketed the collapsed roofs of what had once been homes.

Movement flickered in the underbrush ahead. Keltz drew his sword silently, his gaze narrowing. “Vectorans?” he murmured.

“Vectorans don’t skulk,” Bayne Dalon growled from his position a few paces behind them. The hardened warrior’s sharp eyes narrowed as he scanned the ruins. “They’d fly their colors and dare us to meet them.”

Before Nalya could issue a command, a faint sound reached her ears—a sniffle, followed by a quick, shallow breath.

Nalya raised a hand, signaling her soldiers to hold. She stepped forward, crouching low as her eyes scanned the shadows. In the dense undergrowth near one of the old stone walls, she spotted a small figure huddled beneath a tangle of branches. A boy, no older than seven, his face streaked with soot and his wide eyes glistening with tears.

Keltz moved to her side, his sword lowered but ready. The boy flinched at the sight of the blade, shrinking back into the shadows.

“Stay back,” Nalya said softly, motioning for Keltz to give her space. She sheathed her dagger and lowered herself to one knee, keeping her voice low and warm. “You’re safe now. No one will hurt you. I’m Nalya.”

The boy didn’t respond, his trembling form pressed tightly against the cold stone.

“I won’t hurt you,” she continued. “You’ve been so brave, hiding here all alone. What’s your name?”

After a long, tense silence, the boy’s lips moved. His voice was barely audible. “D-Darik…”

“That’s a strong name, Darik,” Nalya said with a faint smile. She extended her hand, palm up. “Will you let me help you? You’ve been through so much.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Darik reached out. His small, dirt-smeared hand trembled as it met hers. Nalya helped him to his feet, her movements gentle but steady. His clothes were torn and streaked with ash, and his bare feet were scratched and bleeding.

“Are you from Stone’s Mouth?” she asked.

He nodded, his chin quivering. “They… they came. Fire everywhere. Mama said run.”

“We’ll take you back to her,” Nalya said, her tone firm with quiet reassurance. “Come with us.”

As they emerged from the woods, the ruins of Stone’s Mouth came into view. Smoke still curled from blackened timbers, and the acrid stench of destruction clung to the air like an unwelcome spectre. Villagers moved like shadows among the wreckage, their faces hollow with grief and exhaustion. Darik, the boy, stumbled slightly as they entered the square, his grip on Nalya’s hand tightening—a desperate anchor in the midst of despair.

“Darik!”

A woman’s voice, sharp and trembling, sliced through the heavy silence. She pushed through the gathering crowd, her wide eyes gleaming with relief. Dropping to her knees, she gathered the boy into her arms. Darik clung to her, his small frame trembling as sobs overtook him. Nalya stepped back, giving them space, though her expression softened as she watched the reunion.

The crunch of boots on charred debris pulled her attention sharply. An older man emerged from the shadows of the ruins, his gait steady despite the weight of years and loss etched deep into his weathered face. His clothes were patched but sturdy, and his sharp eyes swept over Nalya and Keltz with wary calculation. He stopped a few paces away, crossing his arms in a posture of defiance.

“So,” he began, his voice rough, like gravel grinding against stone, “the Pactbound have come to pick over the bones of what’s left. What price will you demand for this mercy?”

Nalya straightened, meeting his gaze with calm but unyielding resolve. “I ask nothing of you. We’re here to help.”

“Help?” His lip curled in disdain. “Pactbound have never done a thing for the Free Folk without a catch. We don’t need your kind meddling in what’s left of our lives.” He gestured sharply at the devastation around him. “Look at us! We’ve nothing to give you—not even enough food for our own mouths.”

“That is why I am offering assistance,” Nalya replied, her tone measured but firm. “We have provisions, and my people will share them with you.”

Akris’ eyes narrowed, suspicion thickening his voice. “Why would a Pactbound—no, why would anyone—share food freely? What do you want from us?”

Nalya didn’t flinch under his piercing glare. She held his gaze, her voice steady as she replied, “I’ll tell you the truth, as I expect you to tell me yours.” She swept her arm toward the surrounding hills, her words as deliberate as the gesture. “Stone’s Mouth is the only settlement between the Aegel Coast and the Senta Pass. If we are to stop Vector’s forces and uncover what they’re truly planning in these lands, this village is vital.”

Her words hung in the air, ringing with an iron finality. The crowd stirred uneasily, their whispers threading like smoke through the square. Akris’ expression darkened, his lips thinning to a grim line.

“So that’s it,” he said, his voice low and harsh. “You’ll turn our home into your war camp. Use us as bait to draw Vector’s blades while you play at heroics.”

“I mean to protect you,” Nalya said evenly. “Your people are already a target. With us here, they will have a fighting chance.”

“A fighting chance?” Akris sneered, his voice dripping with bitter incredulity. “Against them? Do you even know what they’re capable of? How many they butchered to make an example?” He jabbed a finger at the smouldering ruins, his voice cracking under the weight of his fury. “I don’t need your pity, and we certainly don’t need your wars.”

Nearby, Darik whimpered softly in his mother’s embrace, a fragile sound that seemed to momentarily silence the square. Akris glanced at the boy, and his expression faltered, a fleeting crack in his hardened façade. The boy’s mother murmured soothing reassurances, her hand stroking his hair as if to smooth away the horrors he had seen. Akris’ jaw clenched, and he turned back to Nalya, his voice quieter but no less sharp.

“What you say might be true,” he admitted grudgingly. “But what reason do I have to trust a Pactbound with anything, let alone our lives?”

Nalya took a step closer, her tone lowering to command the gathered villagers’ strained attention. “I’ll give you a reason. You said you barely have enough food for yourselves. My camp can supply you with rations—enough to last until the next harvest if we work together. I don’t want your ruin. I want to stop it.”

Akris snorted, his distrust unyielding. “And if you lose to Vector? What then? We’ll be hunted for sheltering you, and we’ll starve anyway.”

“That’s a risk I cannot deny,” Nalya said, her voice softening without losing its gravity. “But doing nothing guarantees your destruction. At least with us, you have a chance to rebuild. I swear by my honor: my people will not abandon this village or its people. You have my word.”

Akris’ brows furrowed in a storm of indecision. He glanced again at Darik, now seated at his mother’s feet, exhausted but safe. Slowly, the weight of the villagers’ silent, desperate stares settled on him. His shoulders sagged, burdened with the unspoken trust of those who looked to him for guidance.

“Damn you,” he muttered, the words barely audible. “We’ll take your food and your soldiers. But make no mistake, Pactbound: I’ll hold you to your word. If you betray us…” His gaze turned to steel. “...you’ll answer for it.”

Nalya inclined her head solemnly. “You won’t regret this.”

“Oh, I will,” Akris said grimly. “I already do.”

As he turned away to organize the villagers, Keltz stepped up beside Nalya, his brow furrowed with concern. “That went better than I expected,” he said, his voice low enough for only her to hear.

“Not by much,” Nalya murmured. Her eyes remained on the villagers, who now gathered cautiously, their fear tempered by fragile hope. “But it’s a start.”

Nalya dreamed. She soared high above crystal spires that gleamed like shards of broken Dreamlight, each one piercing the heavens as though clawing for freedom. In the windless expanse, she felt untethered, powerful—until the sky above fractured. A jagged fissure tore through the firmament, spilling a dark light that cascaded downward like ink through water, staining the world below in malevolence. A chilling dread seized her, sinking talons deep into her chest. Her breath froze as she plummeted into the abyss.

Her eyes snapped open.

The room was a blur of shadow and firelight, the walls of the empty home Akris had allowed them to rest in trembled as if still tethered to her dream. She sat upright in the narrow cot, heart hammering in her chest, the air thick and unyielding. Pressing a trembling hand to her forehead, she willed her breathing to slow.

“Nalya?” Keltz’s voice broke through the silence, soft yet probing. From his bed of straw on the floor, he stirred, his face faintly illuminated by the orange glow. “What’s wrong?”

“Just a dream,” she murmured, though the unsteady edge in her voice betrayed her. “It was only a dream.”

Keltz shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. “What kind of dream?”

She shook her head, the details already slipping from her grasp. “I... don’t know. The sky... It cracked,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Keltz frowned. “A crack from the sky? Odd dream to have.”

Nalya swung her legs over the side of the cot, the cold of the floor grounding her. Wrapping her shawl tightly around her shoulders, she moved to the window, drawn by an instinct she couldn’t name. The night stretched before her, the Aegel Coast a jagged silhouette beneath faint starlight. Something about it felt wrong, an uncanny weight pressing down on her chest.

“Nalya?” Keltz’s tone sharpened with concern.

She raised a hand and pointed, her fingers trembling. “Do you see that?”

Keltz scrambled to her side, his brow furrowing as his gaze followed hers. Above the coast, something hung in the sky—a light that wasn’t light. It pulsed with an otherworldly, violet energy, devouring the very darkness it illuminated. It spread like an open wound, raw and alive.

“What is that?” he whispered, his voice a mix of awe and dread.

“I don’t know,” Nalya replied, her voice cracking. “But it’s what I saw in my dream.”

Behind them, Bayne stirred, his gruff muttering cutting through the tension. The warrior sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Ach, but you lot are noisy. What’s this fuss about?”

Before Nalya could answer, the ground shuddered violently, throwing them off balance. The walls groaned, and the air filled with the sound of shattering glass. Bayne leapt to his feet, clutching a bedpost for stability.

“By the Broken Choir!” he roared. “What foulness is this?” His gaze snapped to the window, and his expression darkened. “A Terramancer?”

The light pulsed again, brighter now, faster. Objects within the room began to glow with the same eerie hue—only those white in color, as if marked by some spectral hand. Shards of porcelain, scattered cloth, and even a strip on Bayne’s tunic flickered to life, casting jagged shadows.

Keltz shielded his face. “Nalya, what’s happening?”

She didn’t answer, her eyes locked on the horizon where the light surged outward, devouring the coastal peaks. The mountains shimmered, their shapes warping in and out of focus. And then, as suddenly as it began, the tremors stopped, leaving a deafening silence.

The flash came next.

It wasn’t light—it was an inversion, a hollowing burst that turned the world inside out. Nalya staggered back, shielding her eyes as the violet energy flared one last time before vanishing entirely. When she dared to look again, the landscape was irrevocably altered.

The rugged peak that once crowned the coastline had been smoothed into an unfamiliar ridge. To the south, a towering mountain now loomed where flat plains had stood moments before.

“What madness was that?” Bayne’s voice shook with uncharacteristic fear.

Keltz stepped closer to the window, his face pale. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Nalya turned from the window, her mind racing. Her uncle’s cryptic words echoed in her ears: The Disputed Lands hold more than battles. Chase the empty light. You’ll understand in time. Now, she was beginning to understand what he meant.

“Wake the men,” she commanded, her tone sharp with urgency. She picked up her cloak from where it had been hanging next to the window. “Five of them are coming with us. The rest will assist the village.” She looked to Keltz, her eyes intense and serious. “Send a runner to Lieutenant Syrel. I want the rest of the men here by noon.”

Bayne scowled, his rough features deepening with doubt. “Where do ye think you’re going, lass?”

Nalya pointed toward the coast, her resolve hard as steel. “There.”

Bayne’s expression darkened. “You’ve gone mad. Did ye not see what just happened? That’s not a place for mortals, lass. Whatever that light was, it belongs to the Endless Maw, sure as steel.”

Her gaze met his, unwavering. “Dark magic or not, we can’t let Vector get there first.” She grabbed her satchel, packing it with swift, purposeful motions. “We leave now.”

Bayne hesitated, his jaw clenched. But something in her eyes silenced him—a fire he couldn’t extinguish. With a heavy sigh, he turned to the door.

“Aye, then,” he muttered. “But mark my words, lass. We’re walking right into the Maw.”