The rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets of Marrowport were still slick and glistening under the pale light of the moon. Lysara moved through them like a shadow, her steps deliberate and silent, the hood of her oilskin cloak pulled low to hide her face. The city never truly slept. Somewhere in the distance a cart rattled over cobblestones, its wheels squealing in protest. The muffled laughter of drunken sailors drifted from a nearby tavern. Somewhere closer, a dog barked once before falling silent. Every sound was cataloged in her mind as she walked. The docks lay ahead, shrouded in fog. That was where she needed to be.
She had received word two nights ago that a shipment of black iron was due to arrive under cover of darkness. That in itself was unusual. Black iron was no ordinary metal. It was mined only in the deep veins of the northern mountains, and it had properties that made it dangerous in the wrong hands. It could pierce armor that should have turned aside a blade, and it could disrupt certain enchantments entirely. The fact that it was coming here, to this city, told her that someone was planning something beyond the reach of petty crime.
She reached the edge of the dock district and crouched low behind a stack of crates, her sharp eyes scanning the fog. Lantern light glowed faintly in the mist, swaying with the movements of the harbor patrols. But this was not the usual guard shift. She counted only two watchmen, far fewer than there should have been at this hour. That meant someone had either bribed them or sent them away. Either way, it confirmed her suspicions.
A faint sound reached her ears, the creak of wood as a ship's hull pressed against the dock. She adjusted her position, slipping from one shadow to the next until she could see the vessel more clearly. It was a low, sleek craft, painted black from hull to mast. No flags, no markings, nothing to identify it. She watched as three men came down the gangplank, their movements quick and purposeful. Each carried a crate. They set them down near a waiting cart, glancing around as if afraid to linger.
She recognized one of them. Darven Tal, a smuggler who had dealings with nearly every criminal syndicate along the coast. If he was here, the job was important. Lysara's grip tightened on the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath her cloak. She could take him now, but that would end the trail too soon. She needed to know who he was delivering to.
From the shadows she watched as more crates followed. A dozen in total. Darven handed a small, leather-bound ledger to a man standing by the cart. That man was tall, with a soldier's posture, and even in the gloom she could see the faint glint of armor beneath his cloak. Whoever he was, he was no dockside thug.
The two men exchanged a few quiet words, too soft for her to catch. Then the armored man gestured, and the cart began to roll away, pulled by a pair of heavy draft horses. Lysara moved quickly, keeping to the alleys parallel to the route. The cart moved deeper into the city, away from the docks, winding through back streets where the stones were uneven and the lamps fewer. She could feel the tension building in her muscles. They were taking the shipment somewhere secret.
When the cart turned into a wide courtyard behind an old warehouse, Lysara found her vantage point atop the crumbling wall of an adjacent building. From there she watched as the crates were unloaded and carried inside. Lanterns flared briefly as the doors opened, revealing a space filled with workbenches, tools, and a dozen men who moved like soldiers rather than laborers. Weapons lay in neat rows along one wall, swords and spears and crossbows. She saw the armored man speak to another figure at the far end of the room, one whose face remained hidden beneath a deep hood.
Then, for the first time, she felt it. A pressure in the air, subtle yet unmistakable. Magic. Not the bright, clean sensation of healing or protection, but something heavier, darker, coiling through the room like smoke. The hooded figure reached out and rested a gloved hand on one of the crates. Even from here Lysara could see the faint shimmer of runes burning into the wood before fading from sight. She recognized that kind of magic. It was a binding ward, designed to hide and protect dangerous cargo. Whoever this was, they knew exactly what they were dealing with.
Her pulse quickened. This was bigger than she had feared. The black iron was not being sold to some petty warlord or used to arm a few mercenaries. This was preparation for something coordinated, something that would require secrecy and a stockpile of weapons able to pierce magical defenses. She thought of the rumors she had heard over the past months, whispers of unrest in the borderlands, sightings of strange banners on the horizon, reports of vanished patrols. It all began to fit together in a way she did not like.
She stayed until the last crate was moved and the warehouse doors were bolted shut. The fog was thickening again, curling in from the docks and muffling the sounds of the city. Lysara climbed down from her perch, her mind racing. She would need to get word to the rangers in the north. This was no longer just her problem. But there was one thing she knew: if the hooded figure was who she suspected, then they were already moving toward a war the kingdoms were not prepared to fight.
As she turned to leave, a faint scuff of boots on stone made her freeze. She drew her dagger in a fluid motion, pivoting toward the sound. A shape detached itself from the shadows, small and quick. The figure stopped just out of her reach, the edge of a grin visible beneath a scarf.
"You are far from home, ranger," the stranger said softly.
Lysara kept her blade up, studying them. "And you are far too curious for someone who wants to keep breathing."
The stranger's eyes gleamed. "I think we want the same thing. That shipment in there is only the beginning. I know where the rest is headed."
Her instincts told her to cut him down and be done with it. But there was something in his voice, an urgency she could not ignore. She lowered the dagger slightly but kept her stance ready. "Then talk. And make it worth my time."
The stranger stepped closer, glancing toward the warehouse as if afraid of being overheard. "They are building something. Not just weapons. Machines. Siegecraft laced with black iron. The kind that could bring down a fortress in a single night."
Lysara's jaw tightened. "Who is 'they'?"
But the man only shook his head. "Names are dangerous right now. Follow me, and I will show you."
For a long moment she considered the risk. Following him could be a trap. But walking away meant letting the trail go cold. She slid her dagger back into its sheath and pulled her hood lower. "Lead the way."
The two of them slipped into the fog, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the sleeping city. Somewhere behind them, the warehouse stood silent, its deadly cargo hidden in plain sight.
The afternoon sun hung low, casting long shadows over the crumbling stone walls of the old fortress. Lysara moved through its deserted corridors with her usual quiet determination, the sound of her boots faint against the dust-covered floor. She had spent months here, piecing together fragments of maps, scavenged letters, and scattered legends. Every clue she unearthed painted a more dangerous picture of what lay beyond the fortified borders. The kingdom's leaders saw her research as an odd hobby at best and an obsession at worst, but Lysara knew it was more than idle curiosity. The signs were too clear to ignore.
She stopped in one of the partially collapsed rooms and studied a table littered with scrolls and parchment. The writing was faded in many places, but certain words still stood out. Names of forgotten cities. Descriptions of vast, shadowed plains that had swallowed entire armies centuries ago. She traced a finger along the torn edge of one map, following the curve of an old trade route that led beyond the mountains and into territory no one dared enter now. This was where the disappearances were starting again, the place where her own brother had vanished years before.
Footsteps echoed faintly in the hall outside, and Lysara's hand instinctively went to the dagger at her belt. A figure emerged from the dim corridor, ducking under the sagging doorway. It was Deren, the soldier who had been assigned to watch her movements since her arrival in the capital months ago. His armor bore the dents and scratches of long service, but his eyes were sharp, wary, and not unkind.
"You have been in here since sunrise," he remarked, his tone a mix of curiosity and mild reproach. "If the dust does not get you, the mold will."
Lysara allowed herself the faintest smile. "The dust does not bite. But the truth hidden in these pages might." She gestured to the spread of maps and notes. "This fortress was once the last outpost before the wild territories. Look at this," she added, pushing a parchment toward him. "It describes a gate. Not just a wooden barrier, but something… older. Stronger. And it was not built by our people."
Deren leaned over the table, scanning the page. His brow furrowed. "You think this gate still exists?"
"I do not just think it," Lysara said, her voice low. "I am certain. And if I am right, it may be the only thing keeping what lies beyond from spilling into our lands."
The soldier studied her for a long moment. "You speak as if you have seen these things yourself."
"I have not," she admitted, "but I have seen what they leave behind. Towns emptied overnight. Crops rotting in the fields. The smell of ash without a fire in sight. My brother was on a scouting mission when it began again. His company never returned."
There was a pause between them, heavy with unspoken understanding. Deren straightened, glancing toward the window where the light was beginning to fade. "If what you say is true, we cannot face it alone. The Council will not listen without proof. And proof out there…" He shook his head. "It is not easy to come by."
"That is why I am going to find it," Lysara replied simply.
Deren's jaw tightened. "And you expect me to let you walk into whatever waits beyond those mountains?"
"I do not expect you to let me," she said evenly. "But I expect you will not be able to stop me."
He gave a short, almost reluctant laugh, though there was no humor in it. "You sound like someone who has already decided their fate."
"Perhaps I have," she admitted. "But I would rather risk my life than sit and wait for the threat to come to us."
They spoke no more for several minutes, the silence filled only by the faint rustle of parchment as Lysara gathered what she needed. When she finally looked up, she found Deren still there, watching her.
"If you are going," he said finally, "then I am coming with you. Not to keep you from danger, but because if you are right, someone has to make sure the truth returns with us."
Lysara inclined her head, accepting his answer without argument. She had not expected an ally, but she would not refuse one. Together, they began selecting which maps and scrolls to take, rolling them tightly and securing them in oilcloth. Supplies would be needed, as well as weapons, though she doubted steel alone would be enough against whatever they might find.
That night, the fortress seemed to breathe around them, its stones whispering with the weight of history. Lysara lay awake on her cot, the distant sound of wind through broken windows keeping her from sleep. She thought of her brother, of the nights when they were young and would sneak out to look at the stars beyond the city walls. He had always spoken of adventure, of seeing the places others feared to tread. Now she wondered if he had found what he was looking for, or if it had found him first.
In the darkness, a faint light caught her eye. She rose quietly and followed it through the halls until she reached one of the old watchtowers. There, on the stone floor, a strange glow pulsed faintly from beneath the cracks. She crouched, brushing away the dust, revealing faint markings carved into the surface. The symbols were unlike any writing she knew, yet something about them stirred a memory from her research. They were warnings, etched long before the fortress had been built.
The trek through the heart of the Glass Expanse was nothing like the scattered accounts Lysara had pieced together from the old journals in her tower. The books spoke of dunes of glittering crystal and skies that shimmered in faint blues and golds, a place of beauty tarnished by danger. The reality was far more unsettling. The crystal shards were jagged and irregular, jutting from the ground like the ribs of some long-dead beast. They reflected the pale sunlight in blinding bursts, forcing her to squint and shield her eyes, while the air shimmered with a strange, electric stillness that made the hair on her arms prickle. Even with her boots laced high, she felt the sharp edges biting through the leather with each step.
Behind her, the rest of the group moved cautiously. The boy with the dark hair, Auren, kept glancing at the crystal formations with quiet suspicion, as though he feared they might move when no one was looking. The elder, a wiry man named Jarek, kept muttering under his breath about the unnatural shapes. Two others trailed at the rear, a silent pair who had joined them at the last outpost, their loyalty still untested. Lysara had accepted their company because she could not afford to travel alone, but in her mind she kept the distances measured, how far she could sprint, how quickly she could draw her dagger, and how sharply she could turn if their motives shifted.
The farther they walked, the more the land seemed to resist them. Paths that appeared clear from a distance turned into mazes of narrow channels between shards, forcing them to backtrack again and again. The sun's position became harder to track as it dipped behind the refracting spires, and Lysara could feel a gnawing uncertainty in the pit of her stomach. The air was colder here, and the wind carried no scent of the world beyond, no grass, no damp earth, no trace of life.
By late afternoon, they reached what looked like a basin surrounded by towering crystal walls. The floor of the basin was a pale, glassy surface with thin cracks branching outward like veins. Lysara hesitated at the edge, testing the surface with the tip of her boot. It held firm, but a faint hum resonated through her bones, low and constant, as if something beneath the surface was awake and listening.
"We should move quickly," she said without looking back. "Do not linger in the center."
They crossed in single file. The hum grew louder with each step, and faint motes of light flickered in the cracks. Auren paused to look down at them, his brow furrowed, but Lysara urged him forward. Halfway across, the surface trembled. It was subtle at first, like the shift of ice under weight, but then came a sharp vibration that made the crystal underfoot sing with a high, piercing tone.
"Move!" Jarek shouted, his voice echoing in the basin.
They broke into a run. The cracks beneath them pulsed with light, brightening with each second. Something deep below groaned, a sound that was not made by rock or crystal but by something alive and ancient. Lysara's boots skidded on the slick surface, but she kept her eyes on the narrow opening ahead. They dove through just as a deep fissure split the center of the basin, sending shards flying into the air like knives.
On the other side, breathless and wide-eyed, they turned back to see the basin's floor collapse in a sudden, violent motion. Where it had been was now a yawning chasm, and from within rose a faint, greenish mist. It did not dissipate into the air but curled upward like tendrils seeking the sky.
"That is why this place is avoided," Jarek said grimly. "It remembers the steps of those who cross it."
They did not rest. The sound of the basin's collapse carried far, and Lysara had the distinct feeling that in this part of the world, such sounds were not ignored. They pressed on through narrowing corridors of crystal, the mist occasionally visible in the distance behind them. The sky above was beginning to fracture into deep purples and copper streaks, the strange colors of twilight here.
When night fell, they found shelter in a shallow alcove formed by overlapping shards. It was not much, but it broke the wind and kept them hidden from any distant watchers. They lit no fire, relying instead on a small lantern with a muted flame. Lysara sat with her back to the largest shard, her dagger across her lap. Auren sat beside her, staring at the shifting reflections in the crystal.
"You have been here before," he said quietly.
"No," Lysara replied, her voice flat. "But I have read enough to know where the mistakes are usually made."
"And you expect to reach the center?"
Her eyes flicked toward him. "I expect to reach what I came for. Whether it is the center or not is irrelevant."
Jarek stirred from the other side of the alcove. "And what exactly did you come for?"
Lysara did not answer immediately. The truth was that her reasons were more complicated than she could explain to a man like him. She had come seeking fragments of the past, truths buried in this dangerous landscape, and perhaps a way to bind them to the present before they were lost forever. But beneath that, there was also something personal, a debt she could not repay except by walking this path.
When she finally spoke, her words were simple. "Something that was taken from my bloodline long ago."
Jarek did not press her further, though she could feel his skepticism. The night stretched on in tense silence, broken only by the occasional scrape of crystal shifting in the wind. Lysara slept in short intervals, always with one ear tuned to the faint hum that still seemed to linger in the air.
At dawn, they moved again, weaving between the taller spires. It was then that they saw the first sign of pursuit. A thin trail of green mist curled along the ground far behind them, following the faint depressions their boots had left. It moved with purpose, flowing around obstacles as if it could smell them.
Auren cursed under his breath. "It is tracking us."
"Yes," Lysara said. Her voice was steady, but her mind was already working through possible routes. "And it will not stop unless we lead it somewhere it cannot follow."
"That somewhere had better be close," Jarek muttered.
Lysara's gaze swept the jagged horizon. Somewhere out there lay the ruins she sought. And if her guess was correct, those ruins might be the only place that could break the trail of whatever was now hunting them.
They would have to move faster, and the price for that was risk.