Aren woke to the soft weight of a warm body pressed against his side. Cael — the tiny white wolf pup — nestled peacefully beside him, his fur rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Morning light crept through the curtains of Mrs. Clara's home, painting the walls in soft gold. The scent of fresh bread drifted in from the kitchen, mixing with the cool scent of dawn. Aren sat up slowly, brushing a few strands of white hair from his face. His body ached faintly — the good kind of ache — and as he moved, Cael stirred, letting out a tiny whimper.
"Time to eat, little guy," Aren murmured, lifting the warmed milk Mrs. Clara had prepared and holding the bowl steady as Cael drank, his ears twitching with each gulp.
"He's improving fast," Mrs. Clara said softly as she came into the room, a cloth in her hand. "He's got your eyes, you know. Fierce but kind."
Aren gave her a quiet smile before stepping outside into the cool morning air. The village was quiet — peaceful, in that way only remote places can be. He began his daily training at once. Not just the fluid movements of focus and breath, but also the grueling rhythm of physical conditioning. Push-ups, burpees, sprints across the damp field behind the house. Each repetition burned, but in a satisfying way. He felt lighter, faster — and stronger.
His shirt stuck to his skin with sweat, revealing the lean, honed shape of someone born for battle. Even for a Valorian, he thought, this recovery is… something else. Valorian blood had always set him apart: quicker to heal, stronger by birth, naturally resilient. But this? This was beyond that.
His hands briefly rested on his bare chest, over the spot Gin's blade had torn through flesh. There was barely a scar now — just a faint line, paler than the rest. That armor… it did more than shield me. It rewrote my body, if only for a moment.
[Indeed,] Val said, her voice calm and observant. [Your regenerative baseline is already impressive due to your lineage, but that armor… it didn't just protect you. It actively accelerated your cell repair — well beyond even Valorian norms. It's something far older.]
Something alive, Aren thought, remembering the strange sensation — the way the armor had moved, not like cold steel, but like something that breathed beneath his skin. Black flames licking between joints of a metal that shimmered like a night sky. It felt like it had a will of its own… or shared mine.
Before he could lose himself in that thought, a sharp buzzing noise cut through the still air from the kitchen window.
"Aren!" Clara called. "There's a message coming through!"
He stepped inside quickly, approaching the humming box resting on a small wooden shelf — a relic from an older era, now adapted to receive short-form transmissions. Ink printed itself neatly across a strip of parchment as the machine clicked and clattered.
Aren's eyes scanned the message:
FROM: STRAVAN ASSOCIATION - CENTRAL HUB
RECIPIENTS: AREN / BUFO / KANA
Subject: Candidate Consideration.
The Association recognizes recent reports regarding your actions against the Dune Reaper threat. Due to the nature of the engagement and supporting testimony, we request your presence at Stravan Central HQ for expedited review and potential enlistment.
An escort will arrive within three days. Prepare accordingly.
He read it again, and again, then looked up — something between shock and anticipation flickering in his eyes.
"They want me… officially," he said aloud.
⁂
The rest of the morning passed quickly. Aren, unable to sit still, wandered into town and stopped by the village bookstore — a cozy little place lined with wooden shelves, curling maps, and sun-faded volumes. The scent of parchment and dust welcomed him like an old friend.
He found himself drawn to a weathered tome on continental geography. As he flipped through, a portion of the map caught his eye — an unclaimed stretch of land. No kingdom boundaries, no trade roads, no names. Just a wide swathe of wilderness, shaded gray with a single label: The Expanse.
"Strange that I've never noticed this part before…" he muttered.
From behind the counter, the librarian — an older man with sharp eyes and ink-stained fingers — looked up. "Ah. The Expanse. Most folks skip over that page."
"Why?" Aren asked.
The man set down his quill. "Because that place doesn't belong to any crown. No walls, no laws. Wild things live there — demi-humans, beasts, clans that don't answer to the kingdoms. Dangerous, sure, but not evil, if you get what I mean. Just… untouched. And untamed."
Aren stared at the map a little longer. No rumors. No borders. No order. Just a void between the known world and whatever lay beyond.
[That place gives me bad telemetry,] Val said quietly. [The land seems pretty advantageous, I am surprised that it hasn't been occupied.]
Aren didn't reply. He just folded the corner of the page quietly, marking it for later.
⁂
The low growl of engines stirred the village air long before the truck turned the corner. The dust trailing behind it caught the golden light of morning, shimmering like mist in the heat. Bufo's bulky silhouette was at the wheel, Kana beside him, her arm hanging loosely out the window, wind tugging at her braid. When they pulled into the square, villagers peeked from windows and doorways — not out of fear this time, but curiosity.
"We're back," Bufo announced, stretching his back as he stepped down. "And we brought a bit more than sand and bones."
The flatbed of the truck was crammed with gear — salvaged weapons, dusty crates, dented helmets, rusted tools, faded cloaks. But dominating the haul were four motorbikes of different makes and sizes, strapped down tight like sleeping predators. Each one bore the savage aesthetic of the Dune Reapers — brutalist frames, spiked handlebars, hollowed storage compartments for weapons. One, however, dwarfed the rest. Wider. Taller. Blackened metal with thick tires like tank treads, and twin exhausts that curved like tusks behind it. Gin's bike.
Aren stared at it for a long moment.
"You brought all of them?" he asked.
"We weren't about to leave these things to rust," Kana said, hopping down from the truck. "There's value in steel, even dirty steel. Sell what we don't need, repair what we can."
"Plenty of extras for you to test out," Bufo added. "Figure a Stravan needs a proper ride."
They untied the bikes, rolling them carefully onto the dirt. Aren tested two smaller ones first — their engines still functional but clunky, their frames too tight for his frame. Still, his body moved instinctively. Throttle turns, balance shifts, quick spins in the sand — it all came back like muscle memory. One sharp turn kicked a wave of dust behind him, the bike sliding with expert control until it straightened out in a clean line.
I used to race across whole cities with machines like these, Aren thought, slowing to a gentle stop. Feels like nothing's changed…
[Your handling is efficient,] Val said. [Reflexes are calibrated. This vehicle is outdated, but you are compensating well.]
"Still got it," Bufo muttered from the sidelines, arms crossed. "You rode like someone born on wheels."
"I was," Aren said with a faint smile.
Finally, he approached Gin's beast of a bike. The closer he got, the more massive it looked — the handlebars were shoulder-height, the seat nearly level with his hip. It had weight, power, and presence. It wasn't just a vehicle. It was a statement.
He circled the machine once, running a hand along the battered side. The frame still bore the crest of the Dune Reapers, etched near the engine casing — a snake devouring its own tail.
"That goes," Aren said, tapping it with his knuckle. "I want everything stripped. Repainted. Black. Clean and simple."
Bufo raised a brow. "You want this one? She's a big girl," he muttered, patting the frame. "Probably ate other bikes for breakfast."
"I want it black," Aren said. "Simple. No symbols. No chrome. No trophies."
Bufo raised an eyebrow, then nodded. "Clean and mean. I like it."
Aren nodded. "And I want the sidecar from the haul."
Kana gave him a sidelong glance. "That rusted thing?"
"It'll hold," he said. "I want Cael riding next to me — not strapped to my back. I'll also fit it with some storage. Weapons, supplies. I'll make it mine."
They both laughed, and Bufo clapped him on the back. "Hell of a ride for a wolf pup."
"Alright," Bufo said, scratching his beard. "We'll bring it to the mechanic.There is one very reliable in this city."
"Thank you."
With the decision made, they moved toward the weapon cache. Amid the scavenged gear, Aren selected with purpose — he wasn't interested in the gaudy armor Gin had worn, nor the black-tasseled cloak or belt full of old medals. But a few of the spare weapons caught his eye — especially the crossbow Gin had used to poison Bufo. Aren examined it carefully. Compact, efficient, and surprisingly well-maintained.
"This one too," he said, strapping it to his pack.
Kana noticed his gaze. "You going ranged now?"
"Not my style," he replied, "but if I have to deal with poison again, I'm not letting anyone get close."
Smart.
Later that afternoon, Aren, Bufo, and Kana made their way to the village's lone mechanic—a squat stone building patched together with salvaged metal and old machine parts, the scent of oil and burnt wires thick in the air. The place buzzed with quiet activity as a few apprentices tinkered with dusty engines and half-salvaged frames. Aren discussed the adjustments he wanted.
The mechanic nodded, making notes with a grease-smudged stylus, already mentally calculating the work and materials. Aren hesitated for a moment, thinking about costs, and the fact that he didn't consider that he owns practically nothing, but Bufo clapped him on the back before he could speak.
"Don't even start," Bufo said with a grin. "You saved my life, and we've got more than enough. Between the mission reward and what we'll get from selling the rest of the gear and bikes, I can cover the expenses easily. You will also get your share once we get the money."
Aren gave a small nod, quietly grateful. The bike would take a few days to be fully ready.
⁂
As they walked back from the mechanic's shed, Aren reported to Bufo the message that he got from the Stravan association.
A smile tugging at his lips. "It's official," Bufo said. "The Stravan Association wants us at headquarters. They've received the report. Confirmed the Dune Reaper commander is dead. The mayor signed the statement. They want to meet you."
Aren raised a brow. "That was fast."
"They don't like leaving things pending," Kana said. "But they're impressed. Head of a criminal syndicate down, and you're still standing. That's not common."
"Is it really enough to skip the standard trials?" Aren asked.
"You killed Gin," Bufo said plainly. "That alone qualifies as a major field trial. With my endorsement, and the situation being what it is… You'll be a Stravan before the season's over."
Aren didn't reply. He simply looked out toward the village road, the sun sinking low behind the rooftops.
"Let's wait a few days, then," he said. "Enough time to gather supplies, help the village a bit, and let the bike be ready."
"Perfect," Kana nodded. "With the Dune Reapers gone we might be able to leave this place for a few weeks. We'll handle some local contracts. Keep things quiet till then."
That evening, as the heat waned and the wind picked up, Aren sat on the porch with Cael nestled in his lap. The pup was growing stronger by the day, his pale fur clean and eyes clear. Aren scratched gently behind one floppy ear and looked down at the sleepy little beast, who had curled up snugly beside his knee.
"I guess we're not going anywhere without you now," he whispered. "You've got your seat already."
Cael yawned, nuzzling against his chest.