The next morning comes with a knock at our door.

  I stir awake, trying to sit up—only for my body to feel impossibly heavy.

  I look around and… ah.

  Her pillow forgotten, Cattleya is clinging to my arm, her face slack with absolute peace.

  There’s a light tug at my other hand. I glance that way.

  Cinna is carefully settling my hand back onto the bed, eyes downcast, movements gentle.

  I can’t help but chuckle.

  “Geez… I expected this,” I murmur, tilting my head toward Cat.

  Cinna’s cheeks flush crimson as she quickly slips out of bed.

  “My apologies,” she says, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “It’s difficult for me to unlearn that habit.”

  I take a slow breath, then push myself upright, Cattleya still stubbornly attached.

  “It’s fine,” I say with an easy smile. “I was just surprised.”

  And then—

  A faint sniff.

  My cheeks heat instantly.

  “Cat?” I ask softly, glancing down at her.

  Her eyes are half-lidded, head tucked against the crook of my neck, nose twitching as if trying to identify a scent.

  I squint—and pinch her nose shut.

  She jerks back immediately, arms flailing weakly.

  “…Imo?” she asks, dazed.

  Satisfied, I let go.

  “Good morning,” I say, tilting my head.

  “Morning.” She recovers instantly, tail perking as her smile returns.

  Cinna watches us with a relaxed smile before moving to the door.

  “Thank you kindly—yes, thank you,” she whispers to someone outside, then closes it.

  “Wake-up service,” she notes. “The Sun is rising soon.”

  I glance at Cattleya.

  Messy hair. Bushy tail.

  …Mine probably isn’t much better.

  “Come on,” I say quietly. “Let’s tidy up.”

  I rise and reach for my pack, fingers immediately hunting down my brush.

  As I work through my hair, I catch Cattleya in the corner of my eye.

  Cinna’s words echo in my mind.

  I shake the thought away.

  I know better than most how easy it is to get hurt when others pry into your past.

  Back in the inn, Ulric and Veil are waiting for us. A basket of bread sits between them, along with a large pot of coffee.

  “Morning,” Ulric says with an easy smile. “Ready to step into the Eastern Chain?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply lightly, pouring myself a mug. Cattleya immediately claims the seat beside me and snatches a roll.

  I glance the other way—Cinna and Veil are quietly slipping off somewhere, leaving the three of us alone.

  “I’ve got good news,” Ulric continues. “Or bad. Depends how you look at it.”

  I nod over my mug.

  “A larger caravan passed through a day ago. Didn’t stop. If we push the pace—shorter nights, longer days—we might catch up. If we do, our job gets five times easier.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, draining my coffee and grabbing a roll. “Shall we get moving?”

  Ulric glances at Cattleya, then back to me, and nods.

  “Oi!” he calls.

  Veil and Cinna reappear—Cinna’s blushing again.

  I give her a teasing smirk. She catches it and frowns.

  After what she pulled? Fair’s fair.

  “Alright,” Ulric says. “Take the bread on the road. Drink what you can.”

  He hoists his massive pack and strides out.

  We each grab the last of the rolls, emptying the basket.

  By the time we reach the gates, they’re already halfway open. The ironback is moving, steady and patient. We fall in behind Ulric.

  The farther we get from the waystation, the less lived-in the road feels. The gravel turns uneven, the ground rougher—but Ulric urges the beast onward, setting a pace faster than yesterday.

  Cattleya takes the rear, alert, head turning as she scans the horizon, her familiar hum filling the quiet.

  I hum along.

  When I glance back, our eyes meet.

  Her focused expression melts into that easy smile.

  I chuckle and face forward again, still humming.

  Cinna walks near the center, relaxed. For all her elegance, she has impressive stamina—and that adorable staff still manages to make my heart soften.

  Veil keeps pace near Ulric, idly twirling a knife between his fingers.

  All in all, the second day passes quietly. A pack of wild beasts trails us at a distance but never approaches. A lone traveler begs for water—Veil hands over his canteen without hesitation.

  The sun begins to dip.

  “Just a little further,” Ulric urges. “While we’ve still got light.”

  By the time darkness settles in, Ulric and Veil light lanterns and guide the carriage off the road into an open field.

  “This’ll do,” Ulric says. “Ci—your turn.”

  Cinna plants her staff, murmurs a few words, and releases it. It remains upright as a pulse ripples outward.

  “A perimeter spell,” I comment as I set my pack down. “Handy. Til could never get that right.”

  Veil’s already setting up a fire.

  I glance over my shoulder—and catch Cattleya watching me. Her smile is gone, replaced by something sharper. Serious.

  I tilt my head.

  She mirrors the motion—and the smile returns.

  I smile back.

  Dinner is simple but filling. Veil throws together a stew—potatoes, cabbage, carrots, dried meat. Enough to warm us through.

  When the fire finally dies, I find myself staring up into the dark. A crescent moon drifts lazily through the sky, stars trailing in its wake.

  How long has it been since I last looked up like this?

  A nudge at my arm pulls my attention down.

  Cattleya points, shy.

  I follow her gaze—

  —and my heart softens.

  Beyond the slow rise and fall of Ulric’s chest, Veil sleeps beneath his arm, head resting against his shoulder. And just behind him, Cinna clutches his hand, already fast asleep.

  …So that’s where the habit comes from.

  With a quiet sigh, I settle onto my bedroll.

  Cattleya is still staring at me.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  No words. Just a hopeful tilt of her head, tail swaying.

  I chuckle.

  “Fine,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  She flops down beside me, arms looping around mine.

  Sleep takes me not long after.

  I wake with a start, jerking upright—Cattleya still clinging to me as before.

  A sharp clang rings out as Veil bangs a ladle against a pot.

  “Up, then,” he calls out cheerfully. “Sun’s already clocked in, and we’ve miles to earn our keep. Eat while it’s warm.”

  Groggily, I take a mug of soup and pass it to Cattleya. She stares at it blankly, still half lost to sleep.

  We eat, pack up, and set off again—departing as easily as we settled in.

  The day stretches thin. For lunch, we each take an apple and a wedge of cheese. As we pass a stream, Veil refills our canteens without breaking stride, the escort never slowing.

  So far, today feels even more peaceful than yesterday. We’re days from the nearest settlement, and the road has been empty.

  “There’s a fight,” Cattleya says suddenly.

  I look back. Her ears are perked, posture sharp, fully alert.

  I still myself, filtering out the groan of the cart, the rhythm of our steps—

  Ringing steel.

  I nod to Ulric. Veil hears it too.

  “Haah!” Ulric gives the ironback a firm slap. The beast picks up speed—first a brisk walk, then a jog, then a steady run.

  And then it comes into view.

  A caravan. One cart toppled, others pulled into a rough circle. Shapes clash in the distance.

  Cattleya breaks into a sprint, darting ahead.

  I’m right behind her.

  “Go,” Ulric barks to Veil. “Ci, stay with me. If anyone gets close, you fortify the cart.”

  The ironback slows as they peel off.

  I see them now—highwaymen. The reason escorts like us get paid.

  They spot us. Point. Shout.

  Then they charge.

  It doesn’t help them.

  Cattleya hits first.

  She doesn’t slip past the opening swing—she crashes through it. Her blade rips up and across, steel tearing through guard and flesh alike. The man drops without a sound, already finished by the time he realizes we’re there.

  I take the second as he lunges for her side. My blade snaps out in a tight arc, battering his weapon aside. One step in, a twist of the wrist—his breath leaves him in a broken gasp as he folds.

  The third turns to run.

  Veil ends that thought.

  A knife flashes once and buries itself behind the man’s knee. He collapses mid-step. Veil is already there—no pause, no flourish—boot pinning him down, a short, precise strike with the hilt ending it.

  The last two hesitate.

  They don’t get time to reconsider.

  Cattleya slams into one shoulder-first, the impact lifting him off his feet and driving him into the dirt. He doesn’t get back up.

  I step in on the other, turn his blade aside, and drive my edge across his thigh. He drops with a sharp cry.

  Five of them are down in seconds.

  The caravaneers shout their thanks, voices frantic—but we’re already moving.

  Farther down the road, the fighting sounds worse.

  We run.

  When we reach the next skirmish, I slow despite myself.

  The sight is… strange.

  A single man stands at the center of the road.

  Tall. Wrapped in a sun-bleached, dirt-stained robe, the cowl pulled low, pierced only by the unmistakable shape of altari ears. His hands are bare and calloused. His feet too—thick-skinned, worn from long miles.

  A simple rope belt circles his waist. A battered mug hangs from it.

  A beggar?

  And he’s facing ten of them.

  One highwayman lunges.

  The man catches the strike with his bare hands, turning the blade aside and shoving the attacker away like an unruly child.

  “Please,” he says, voice calm, worn smooth by age.

  “Return to your homes. There is no need for further violence.”

  They rush him anyway—three at once.

  He moves.

  Not fast. Not frantic. Just… precise.

  Blades pass where he was. His robe doesn’t even brush steel.

  Then his foot stamps the ground.

  The air ripples.

  “No—enough,” he snaps, the word sharp and frustrated. “You’re doing it again. Always pleading, always hoping.”

  His elbow lashes out, cracking into the next man’s jaw. The attacker drops bonelessly to the dirt.

  That’s our cue.

  We hit them from the side.

  Cattleya takes one clean through the guard. I disable another with a low cut, Veil slipping in behind to finish it.

  The robed man flows between us, never colliding, never hesitating—redirecting blows, unbalancing foes, letting us strike where he opens space.

  Within moments, the road falls silent.

  The remaining attackers flee, weapons abandoned.

  The robed man exhales slowly, shoulders sinking as the earlier sharpness drains out of him.

  “Hells… where’s your guards?” Veil mutters, already crouching to inspect the fallen attackers.

  Cattleya simply sheathes her blade. She looks almost leisurely afterward, like she’s just returned from a particularly satisfying walk.

  I catch myself giving her a soft smile before stepping past her, attention turning to the robed man.

  “Ah—are you unharmed, sir?” I ask, peering into the shadow of his hood.

  Light stubble. Dark hair.

  He looks far younger than his voice suggests.

  “I told you to stop doing that,” he snaps suddenly, stamping his foot again. “Why do you insist on repeating the same mistakes? Haven’t they cost you enough already?”

  I take an instinctive step back.

  “Uh… sir?” I raise my hands slightly, palms open.

  “Stop. No—don’t say her name,” he mutters sharply. “No, don’t you dare.”

  His agitation builds, words tumbling out as if he’s arguing with someone only he can hear.

  My gaze flicks to Cattleya—who seems entirely unconcerned—then to Veil, whose interest has clearly deepened.

  He straightens and tilts his head.

  “Say… cove,” Veil says casually, as if commenting on the weather. “You wouldn’t be the Saint, would you?”

  The man freezes.

  Saint?

  His posture stills completely.

  “It is a foolish title,” he says at last, dismissive. “One I dislike. I am no saint.”

  But something has shifted. His voice steadies, a faint, weary smile touching his lips.

  Veil shrugs.

  “Local talk, is all. Old bloke, strong as sin, bit cracked in t’head. Walks roads barefoot, helps caravans for a meal and a warm fire.” He gestures vaguely. “You know how folk spin stories.”

  “It is the nature of men,” the robed man replies mildly, “to embellish what they do not understand.”

  Veil hums, then squints at him.

  “Funny part is,” he adds, thoughtful, “they say you’ve been wanderin’ these roads four hundred year or more. Don’t look it.”

  The man chuckles softly.

  “I cannot regulate rumor,” he says. “I suspect that tale has been told of many travelers before me. I am no one special, young man.”

  “Much obliged for the help,” the caravan leader says, stepping closer, hat twisting in his hands. His smile’s tight, eyes darting as he speaks.

  “Our guards… well. Things didn’t work out.” He clears his throat. “Rates changed once the road got longer than they figured. Soon as numbers came up short, they rode on.”

  He jerks a thumb toward the robed man.

  “Only this fella stayed.”

  “I have been compensated,” the robed man replies gently. “By shared meals, and the warmth of your company.” He inclines his head in thanks.

  “We’ll need to unload the damaged cart,” Ulric says, joining us. “Wheel needs straightening.”

  The leader nods quickly, then hesitates.

  “Truth is, sir, we can’t afford a crew like yours. Not honest-like.” He offers a small, practiced shrug. “Didn’t plan on needing more coin than we brought.”

  Ulric studies him for a moment, then looks back at us and exhales.

  “We’ll sort it out,” he says. “First things first—let’s clear the road. No sense inviting more trouble by sitting in it.”

  He gestures, and the caravaneers move at once. Soon the road is clear save for the toppled cart, already being emptied.

  Ulric negotiates quickly—no payment now, but a share of the profits once they reach Yunhai.

  We form a loose circle with the remaining carts. Cinna raises her staff, reinforcing the perimeter with a practiced spell.

  By the time the wheel is repaired and the cart set upright again, the night has fully settled—pitch-black beyond the firelight.

  Several campfires burn within the circle. Veil spends some time with the caravan’s cook, then returns carrying filled mugs for all of us. The soup is thick, hearty, welcome.

  Cattleya settles beside me as we eat. My gaze drifts upward again.

  I can’t find the moon tonight—but the stars are everywhere, spread thick across the sky like a blanket pulled low.

  When I look down—

  The old man is seated across from me.

  Cattleya clings lightly to my sleeve, studying him with quiet curiosity.

  “You are young,” he says, tone casual.

  By his standards… I’m sure I am.

  “Hah… yes, sir,” I answer awkwardly.

  “No,” he continues, lifting his hands, forming a loose circle in the air toward me. “I mean—you are young.”

  “…Yes?” I reply, uncertain.

  “Three… four years,” he says easily. “That bond is still fresh.”

  I blink.

  He smiles and extends his hand.

  “Kiereth,” he says. “And Aeris.”

  I stare at his hand, confused—and suddenly uneasy.

  “Cattleya,” she says at once as she takes his hand, noticing my hesitation.

  “Imone,” I add, more quietly.

  The moment his hand closes around mine, the world lurches.

  Memories surge—feelings I have never lived through, emotions that do not belong to me. Rage so deep it aches. Grief sharp enough to bruise. A family torn apart. A vow sworn through clenched teeth.

  Years. Endless roads. Bare feet. A life shaped by restraint and regret.

  I wrench my hand free, stumbling back as my vision swims.

  Cattleya steadies me at once, a firm hand on my shoulder.

  The old man only watches, a gentle smile still on his face.

  “It is good to meet you,” he says softly.

  “Imone. Cattleya.”

  A pause.

  “Primera.”

  My blood runs cold.

  No one should know that name.

  He turns and walks away toward another fire, unhurried, leaving the night heavier in his wake.

  I stand there, trying to make sense of the fragments still fluttering through my mind.

  Atonement. Fury held in check. Decades of walking with no destination but restraint.

  Did he just…?

  “Imo?” Cattleya’s voice cuts through the haze, worried.

  I glance once more at the retreating figure, then shake my head, forcing the thoughts down.

  “We’re tired,” I say, managing a small smile. “I’m just… tired. We should sleep.”

  “Mm,” she hums, looping her arm around mine.

  I awkwardly guide us back onto our bedrolls.

  But sleep doesn’t come.

  The memories linger—heavy, borrowed, saturated with feelings I’ve never lived.

  Please… answer me.

  Minnara’s words echo in my mind.

  The strain in her voice. The look in her eyes.

  …What am I?