The moon had not yet reached its peak when the enemy dispersed into the mist like shadows folding into themselves. The ruined temple fell into silence once more except for the faint rustle of robes brushing stone.
The cloaked traveler remained motionless beneath the shattered arch, unseen by those who had gathered. His breath was calm, steady. His eyes sharp too sharp for someone merely passing by.
When the last ember of the enemy's lanterns faded, he stepped out.
Slow, deliberate.
He traced the spot where the man bearing the Mark of the Ember Hand had stood. His gloved fingers hovered over the faint heat left behind in the stone a residual echo of forbidden magic.
"So," he murmured, voice low and thoughtful, "they finally speak of Caelan."
He looked to the west, toward the Winterbell border.
Toward Flynn.
"Five years, and now they want him back."
He pulled a folded parchment from inside his coat inked with the sigil of a now-fallen kingdom. Elaris.
And on the other side a sketch. Of a young man with white hair and violet eyes.
The traveler's jaw tightened.
He knew the face well.
"I warned you not to sleep so deeply, Caelan," he whispered. "And now they hunt your soul like a prize."
From beneath his cloak, he drew a blade slim, elegantly forged, the hilt engraved in old Elarian script. The blade shimmered with something unnatural.
He did not fear the Ember Hand.
But he feared what would happen if Flynn no, Caelan truly awakened without knowing who he once was. Or worse, if he became their weapon.
The traveler turned and walked deeper into the ruins, as if tracing something hidden.
He paused only once, whispering to the shadows:
"Let's see what you do next, Crown Prince."
Then, like smoke, he vanished into the night.
---