Kyren finished his dinner just as the last traces of sunlight faded, leaving behind a vast sky of stars and a bright moon. The air had cooled, and the distant sounds of the plains settled into an eerie stillness.
Lydel stretched, glancing at Kyren. "Do I get first watch again, or what?"
Kyren poked at the dying embers of the fire. "I always took first watch because I wanted to check the system. If you want it, it's yours."
Lydel grinned. "Oh, then I definitely want first watch tonight."
"Good. I'm already getting sleepy." Kyren stood and made his way to the tent, exhaustion pressing down on him.
The moment he hit the pillow, Liora fluttered inside, landing atop his curls. She curled into a ball, her tiny body rising and falling with each breath. Kyren thought about moving her but decided against it—she looked just as tired as he felt. With a deep breath, sleep took him.
Kyren stood in a dimly lit chamber, facing two jail cells.
In one, a young man sat hunched over, his head bowed. His features were strikingly familiar—Leon's son? Kyren barely recognized him.
In the other, a regal woman with long dark locs adorned with golden bands sat upright, her hazel eyes brimming with power. Her brown skin was radiant even in the cell's poor light, and something about her presence demanded attention. She looked like Grandma Wendy, but… younger.
Her voice, both soft and commanding, broke the silence.
"Viren, we have to go. War is brewing outside. The destruction will be unimaginable. Your father wouldn't want the rightful heir and his wife wasting away in a prison cell."
Kyren's breath hitched. Viren? His focus sharpened on Leon's son—he's Viren?
Viren met her gaze, his voice steady but burdened. "My love, I know. But we have to be measured. Outside this room, at least fifty converted stand guard. If we rush out now, we die. We'll have to use the war to our advantage."
The woman—Kyanna—gripped the iron bars. "How many innocent lives will you let die?"
Viren sighed, his shoulders tense. "Kyanna, I don't want innocents to die. I'll do everything in my power to limit it. But when I get out of here, I will stop the man in the purple robes. I will free our city from the cult."
The air in the room grew heavy.
Then the scene shifted.
The vision rippled, and suddenly, Kyren stood in the midst of chaos.
The inner city of Epsilon lay in ruins—buildings collapsed, flames licking at shattered structures. The ground was littered with bodies, both civilian and soldier.
Viren stood in the center of it all, his broad form streaked with blood. His greatsword rested against his shoulder, his tattered shirt revealing a body covered in wounds—yet none seemed to slow him. His brown eyes burned with determination.
Across from him, a man in purple robes stood battered and bleeding. His golden eyes shone with rage, and grotesque scars peeked from beneath the leather mask covering the lower half of his face. His matted hair was soaked with blood. In his hands, he held a strange metal club, its surface dented and worn from battle.
Viren's voice carried over the destruction.
"Lyel, this fight is pointless. It will only lead to your death. I know the mistakes of my father—I won't repeat them."
The man in purple—Lyel—let out a bitter laugh. His grip on the club tightened. "Your father backstabbed mine. He stole the city they built together, then wiped the Sinclair name from history. And if that wasn't enough, he destroyed the only other father I ever knew. This city stands for everything I hate—and it hates me for everything I deserve."
Kyren felt the weight of those words, the raw pain behind them.
Then Viren moved.
In a blur, he lunged forward, greatsword swinging. Lyel met him head-on, metal club colliding with steel. The clash rang out like thunder—
Kyren jolted awake as Lydel shook his shoulder.
"Bro, it's your turn to watch. I need some sleep," Lydel muttered groggily before crawling into the tent.
Kyren sat up, his mind still reeling from the dream. What the hell was that?
He rubbed his face, trying to steady his thoughts. Lyel should be dead—he'd have to be over 200 years old. Unless… he was converted.
The thought sent a chill down Kyren's spine.
For the next few hours, he sat by the fire, unable to focus. His mind raced, replaying the dream over and over, searching for meaning.
As the first light of dawn peeked over the horizon, Kyren shook off his stupor. He gathered more brush and started the fire back up before summoning Veldthar from the Wayfinder's Realm.
If they moved quickly, they could reach Zafeer by midday.
"Hey, Veldthar, mind sparking the fire?" Kyren asked, patting the beast's lowered head.
Veldthar snorted before stepping forward, a small spark from his horns igniting the dry brush. The fire roared to life.
Kyren pulled out the last of the terror bear meat, slicing it into two thick cuts and placing them over the flames. The smell of sizzling meat filled the air.
Lydel stumbled out of the tent, groggy but alert the second the scent hit him. "You got me a piece, right? I'm starving."
Kyren smirked, holding up an empty hand. "Uhh… I ate it all."
Lydel's face twisted in betrayal. "Bro. Why would you do me like that?" He hopped up, looking like he was ready to throw hands.
Kyren laughed, pulling the actual steak from behind his back. "Relax, I was messing with you."
Lydel snatched the meat and tore into it, grumbling between bites.
Once they finished, Kyren packed up camp, summoning the tent back into his inventory. He climbed onto Veldthar's back before offering Lydel a hand up.
They picked up the pace, eager to reach Zafeer. The plains stretched endlessly before them, but after just two hours of riding, the massive structure of the outpost came into view.
It wasn't a town—just one enormous tower, surrounded by a fence with a single gate.
Something felt… off.
Kyren and Lydel dismounted about half a mile from the entrance. At Liora's urging, he sent both her and Veldthar back into the Wayfinder's Realm.
As they approached the gates, an eerie silence hung in the air.
No guards. No movement.
Then, without warning, the ground beneath them turned to liquid.
Dark tendrils shot up, snaking around their legs. Kyren gasped as they tightened, wrapping around his chest, his arms, his face.
He tried to struggle, but the tendrils squeezed tighter.
His vision darkened. His lungs burned.
And then—
Nothing.
Kyren awoke groggily, his head pounding. He was lying on a cold stone floor.
He pushed himself up and quickly realized—he was in a cell. Across from him, Lydel sat in another cage, rubbing his temples. Two more cells lined the room, each holding figures shrouded in shadow.
Then a voice, soft but firm, cut through the silence.
"Welcome to Zafeer—the town run by a cult."