Lorcan stands near the fire, watching the flicker of light from the small crystal Elira holds. The glow wavers, unstable, just like the message she’s trying to pull through. It’s always like this with her magic: useful, but inexact.

  “Iven’s team’s in the Wendwoods,” she says, voice tight. “They found something… some old magic, but it’s unclear what. They say it’s promising.”

  Lorcan narrows his eyes. Legends and old magic; they tend to be trouble wrapped in pretty stories.

  “You said Iven is in the Wendwoods? What the hell is that boy doing?”

  Elira doesn’t reply, only keeps steadying the magic, teeth clenched. Her crystal dims with a final flicker, the connection gone as quickly as it came.

  “The connection has been lost.” She exhales and tucks the stone away, wiping her palms on her coat like it burned her.

  “Let me know if anything changes,” Lorcan says, already turning away. He doesn’t wait for a reply.

  The message from Iven haunts his thoughts as he moves through the camp, the echo of some old magic clinging like fog. Promising, Elira said. That’s the kind of word people use right before things go wrong.

  He adjusts the strap on his shoulder and looks downslope where the caravan sprawls along the side of the road like a ponderous beast.

  They had arrived at the capital, a small party, just enough bodies to look official, with one commanding presence at the center of it all. And yet, they’d departed a caravan. Wagons creaked under the weight of supplies. Half-trained soldiers and wide-eyed noble magicians trailed like ornamental fringe. A king’s blessing was stamped on parchment. Promises of reinforcements. Promises of more to come.

  All of it earned by the commander’s convincing words.

  He fought for every name, every ration and every cart. He played a losing game of politics, turning favors into leverage and swallowing pride. More than once, Lorcan saw him return from the palace halls with his jaw locked and hands shaking, not from fear, but from restraint.

  It was nearly begging, what he did.

  But it worked.

  Somehow, he got just enough lords frightened. Just enough advisors convinced. Just enough coin shaken loose to outfit more than they started with. One promise stacked on another, each one more fragile than the last.

  What began as a desperate scouting mission became something larger, an armed, unwieldy procession marching for Graywatch under the weight of court expectations. Behind them, in the other direction, Iven’s team pokes around in the Wendwoods, sending back half-formed messages about lost magics and hopeful signs.

  “The Wendwoods don’t like to be mapped.” That’s what one old scout told him years ago, half-drunk and shaking. “The trees move when you aren’t looking. The paths unmake themselves.”

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  Others say it’s cursed ground. A place the gods buried something they couldn’t kill. A forest born from shame. Lorcan doesn’t put stock in fairy tales but too many teams have gone quiet in those woods to ignore it entirely.

  That’s why Iven’s orders are clear: no marching into the woods. No relic-hunting. Just magical probes, slow and subtle. Read the edges.

  Old magic never means good news. At best, it’s unstable. At worst, it’s waiting for someone foolish enough to wake it.

  He scans the camp. The commander should have returned by now. The man needs to hear this latest development before the nobles get wind of it and start dreaming up glory quests. Because if Iven’s “discovery” turns into another cursed relic or a broken gate to gods-know-where, Lorcan wants the truth before anyone else vanishes into myth.

  He thinks of Ysen, last seen smiling over a map and never found. Just a smear of blood near an unmarked ruin and a broken charm burned black.

  He steps away from a line of wagons.

  Dusk hasn’t settled, but the light is already going gray, softening edges, making the camp blur at the seams. Fires crackle low. A soldier adjusts his pack by the mess tent. Someone mutters a half-remembered prayer in the shadows near the supply wagons.

  Lorcan moves uphill toward the command tent, a wide canvas structure stitched with extra seams and weather-oiled for the march. A dull lantern flickers near the entrance, throwing long shadows. He ducks inside without announcement.

  The air is warmer inside, thick with the scent of tallow, old leather, and the damp weight of maps too long unrolled. Papers clutter the table, ink still drying on the newest revisions. Someone has drawn the Wendwoods again; darker this time, as if ink can make a forest more ominous.

  The commander sits at a makeshift desk, seeming absorbed in a collection of reports. He looks up as Lorcan enters.

  “Well?”

  Lorcan doesn’t waste time. “Elira pulled a message from Iven’s team. They’re in the Wendwoods. Found something. Sounds like old magic.”

  The commander’s brow furrows. “Any other details?”

  “Foggy transmission. Elira did what she could, but it was unstable. Iven said it was ‘promising.’ That’s all he gave us.”

  The commander exhales through his nose, slowly. He taps a knuckle on a nearby map; once, just left of the last confirmed scout mark. “Promising…”

  “It complicates things,” Lorcan says flatly. “I would prefer to get all of our mages and men back in one piece. That boy knows damn well he wasn’t supposed to go into those woods.”

  The commander gives a small nod, “I may need to send someone.”

  Lorcan volunteers immediately.

  Because if Iven has truly stirred up something older than the war, Lorcan needs to be there; not to assist, but to take command.

  The boy is brilliant. No one doubts that. But he is also young, headstrong, and too quick to chase wonder before weighing the cost. He’s gone in with a full team, soldiers and mages, and if whatever he’s found has even a hint of the old magic, then they’re all in danger.

  And Iven? He isn’t trained to lead. He isn’t built for restraint.

  “We don’t need someone to help him,” Lorcan says. “We need someone who’ll keep the rest of the team alive. Who understands the history of those woods, and how fast bad choices turn into funerals. He’s already stepped beyond his orders. If he pushes any farther without oversight, we may not have anyone left to pull out.”

  No one says it aloud, but they’re thinking the same thing: they can’t afford to lose a third party in the Wendwoods. Not now. Not with so few trained mages left, and fewer still who understand what they’re truly up against.

  The commander’s eyes narrow as he considers Lorcan’s words. “You’ll need to take two with you.”

  He taps the map, eyes lingering on the shadowed Wendwoods. “One must be a mage who can communicate with Elira. If we’re relying on magical messages, we need daily reports, clearer transmissions than what Iven has managed.”

  Lorcan nods. “Understood.”

  “Prepare quickly. Every hour counts. If Iven’s stumbled onto more than just old bones, we’ll want to meet it with steady heads and open eyes.”

  With those words of dismissal Lorcan left to prepare for his journey.