The days that followed fell into a quiet, almost rhythmic cadence—simple but purposeful. Aren rose each morning just after sunrise, the sky still blushing with dawnlight as he stepped barefoot onto the cool wooden floor of Mrs. Clara's home. Cael would be curled up nearby, a warm bundle of soft white fur tucked into a nest of blankets. The little pup had grown stronger each day—his eyes more alert, his tiny paws quicker to scamper around the furniture—but he still spent most of his time snuggled in Mrs. Clara's arms, basking in her doting care.
"You've got a real handful on your hands now," Aren had joked one morning, watching as Cael gnawed harmlessly on the edge of Clara's apron.
"Oh please, he's better behaved than some boys I've raised," she replied with a wink.
After feeding Cael and himself, Aren would head outside to begin his training. His body moved through precise katas beneath the orange sky, breath steady, each motion fluid and sharp—rehearsed patterns of strikes, dodges, and pivots that honed his speed and balance. Afterward, he switched to more rigorous strength work: lifting sand-filled barrels, sprinting between the old fences of the training field, and doing pull-ups on the thick iron beams near the village edge.
His Valorian bloodline made recovery quick and stamina high—his skin already showed barely a trace of the battle's wounds, smooth and pale with only the faintest impressions left behind. But it wasn't just his body he trained. In the quiet stillness after each session, Aren would sit cross-legged beneath the shade of an old juniper tree and attempt to summon the armor—the one that had saved his life, the one shaped by the Dark Dragon's power.
At best, he could manage to call forth a flicker of that mysterious black metal—a gauntlet around one arm, maybe a thin piece that slid over his chest like obsidian glass—but it vanished quickly, leaving him breathless and drenched in sweat.
So this is my limit without him...
He gritted his teeth, feeling the drain like ice water through his veins. It's not just magic. That armor—it's alive.
Val offered some consolation. [Your efforts are noteworthy, Your Majesty. Without the dragon's intervention, the armor draws entirely from your own reserves. That strain would kill a lesser vessel.]
Doesn't make it easier, Aren thought, wiping the sweat from his brow. But I'll get there.
Between his training, he assisted Bufo and Kana with smaller missions—clearing roadways, scaring off minor raider groups, and escorting supply wagons through the quieter trade routes. The work was honest, and the villagers began to greet him with smiles and nods instead of whispers. Some even brought food to Mrs. Clara's house, claiming it was "for the pup."
Then, five days later, the morning air buzzed with excitement. The mechanic's assistant arrived at the door with his usual grease-stained hands and a wide grin.
"It's ready," he announced, holding out a polished wrench like a badge of honor. "She's done. Bike's outside."
Aren stepped onto the porch and saw it—his new ride. The monstrous machine that once belonged to Gin now stood reborn. The old crimson paint had been stripped and replaced with matte black, its aggressive shape toned down to something elegant, almost ghostlike. The sidecar—reinforced and padded—was bolted in securely, just as he had requested. It gleamed in the sunlight, ready to carry Cael and any gear he might need.
Bufo gave a low whistle. "Now that's a Stravan's ride."
Kana smirked. "Looks like trouble."
"Good trouble," Aren replied.
With their preparations complete, it was finally time to leave. The villagers gathered at the gate, waving handkerchiefs and shouting farewells. Mrs. Clara held Cael one last time before gently placing him in the sidecar's nest of blankets. The pup yawned, blinked up at Aren, then curled into a ball as if nothing in the world could bother him.
"You take care of each other now," Clara said, brushing Aren's arm. "He's not just a pet. He's a companion. Maybe someone that will come to your aid one day."
"I will," Aren said quietly. "Thank you… for everything."
Bufo leaned against the side of the car and glanced at the road ahead. "Stravan headquarters won't wait forever. Time to make history."
Kana adjusted her gloves and slipped her sword over her shoulder. "Think they'll even believe it when we tell them what happened?"
Aren gave the bike one final look before swinging into the seat. He felt the engine pulse beneath him, a steady rhythm like a heartbeat. He glanced back at the people he'd grown to care for, then at the open road beyond.
"Doesn't matter," he said. "We lived it."
With the morning sun rising behind them and dust curling beneath their wheels, the group rolled out of the village—one step closer to the future Aren never asked for… but was finally ready to face.
⁂
The open road unfurled ahead of them like an ancient artery, cutting through hills of golden dust and pale green plains that shimmered under the late summer sun. The caravan was modest—Bufo's rumbling, scarred vehicle at the helm and Aren's newly restored motorbike trailing closely behind. Its black frame gleamed faintly, still smelling of fresh paint and oil, while Cael, now bright-eyed and healthy, nestled into the sidecar. Still a small pup, he fit snugly into the padded nest Aren had prepared, his tiny head poking out over the edge, ears twitching at every gust of wind and passing sound. Though small, Cael was growing fast, his white coat thickening and limbs gaining definition day by day.
They had departed with little ceremony but clear intent: a journey northward toward the capital city of the Verdantia region—Thalyrian. A name once synonymous with art, trade, and education, now spoken with hesitation.
"That's where the regional Stravan headquarters is," Bufo explained as the skyline of their village faded into the rearview mirrors. "Thalyrian's our goal. Big city. Complicated city."
"Isn't that where the king rules from?" Aren asked, adjusting his scarf against the breeze, his eyes scanning the distant horizon.
Kana nodded. "Yeah. King Obran. But good luck seeing him. He hasn't come out of the royal keep in years. He's paranoid—thinks the other nations are plotting against him. Won't even attend public councils anymore. Just hides in the Spire."
"The Spire?" Aren echoed.
"The inner citadel. Locked down tight. Most of the military's stationed around it just to make sure no one gets near. Meanwhile, the rest of the region's stretched thin."
[Cowardice dressed up as caution,] Val murmured in Aren's ears. [A tale as old as crowns.]
The journey spanned several days, weaving through sleepy hamlets, half-abandoned waystations, and stretches of dry forest that buzzed with summer heat. Aren took it all in—not just the sights, but the state of things. Fewer carriages than there should be, broken infrastructure left unrepaired, and people with the hollow-eyed weariness of those simply trying to survive. Verdantia was rich in potential, yet it felt weighed down—economically strained, guarded in spirit.
They made stops when necessary—refueling, assisting with minor missions, helping locals with repairs or dispatching stray beasts. Aren used every spare moment to train. His daily routine included strength drills, endurance runs, and swordwork, all beneath the open sky. But to improve his adaptability with the armor again he meditated, trying to focus on his inner Alma, and detecting the flow in his body . He needed to learn how to manifest it without the dragon's direct aid, which is exhausting, both physically and mentally.
[Your body is getting in better shape,] Val said during one of these failed attempts. [I must say that the improvement is quite impressive if compared to your data while asleep. Good work, Your Majesty.]
At camp one evening, as the fire crackled and Bufo tinkered with their supply crates, Kana sat across from Aren, casually whittling a piece of wood. She studied him for a while before speaking.
"You know, you've got this weird mix going on," she said, carving another notch with a flick of her knife.
Aren looked up. "Weird?"
"Yeah. You've got the face of someone barely out of school—clean, sharp, kind of pretty in a brooding way." She grinned before he could respond. "But then you carry yourself like someone twice your age. Quiet. Serious. Like the kind of guy who's already buried a few demons."
He blinked. "Is that a compliment?"
Kana shrugged. "Take it however you want. You're interesting. That's all."
Aren gave a half-smile, hiding the truth behind her words. More than you know.
By the sixth day, they pulled into a larger town nestled near a river bend. By that time Aren already got used to his new bike, and even managed to paint a few decorations on it.
"Looks nothing like how we found it," Kana remarked, watching Cael eagerly climb into the freshly installed sidecar, tail wagging like a drumbeat.
Bufo nodded in approval. "What other talents are you hiding from us?"
"What other talents are you hiding from us?"
"I simply like to paint in my spare time" he said while finishing the last touches on the sidecar.
Aren ran a hand over the smooth handlebar, then kicked the engine to life. The bike roared awake. He didn't hesitate to test it, taking another of the spare bikes for a spin first. His form was fluid, focused—the control effortless. When he returned, dirt-dusted and smiling, Bufo raised a brow.
"Former racer as well?" he asked, only half-joking.
"Something like that," Aren replied cryptically, eyes still fixed on the terrain ahead.
That evening, the trio gathered in a quiet corner of the local inn to finalize their next steps. With Thalyrian growing closer, the weight of the mission settled over them again.
"We'll take it easy for the next few days," Bufo said, rolling out a marked map. "Some small contracts in the area, stock up on supplies, let you all get a full rest before we hit the capital."
"And the Stravan headquarters," Kana added. "You ready for that?"
Aren looked at her, then down at Cael—now fast asleep in the corner, curled up like a ball of warmth and trust.
"I am," he said simply. "Let's get moving."