The cart wheels creaked softly over the rocky ground, jolting now and then across uneven paths. The horse moved steadily, its breath spilling into the chill of morning air. Riven sat at the front, reins in hand, his eyes drifting back from time to time.
Behind him, Ashtoria sat calmly beside Melly, who was still half-asleep. Her crimson hair spilled down, swaying gently with the breeze. The pale light of dawn fell across her face, giving her the look of someone from another world, and perhaps she truly was.
Riven blinked, making sure his eyes weren't deceiving him. The memory of last night was still sharp—how he had woken drenched in cold sweat, only to find Ashtoria gone without a trace. Yet here she was now, sitting as though she had never left at all.
For a moment, he almost convinced himself that it had been nothing but a dream. But the lingering weariness in his body told him otherwise. Ashtoria had left, quietly. And now, just as quietly, she had returned.
He watched her a little longer, the question pressing in his chest: Where did you go? But he held his tongue. If she hadn't wanted to explain from the start, then it was her own affair. They were only strangers traveling together, nothing more.
He drew a slow breath, setting a line in his mind.
That was when Ashtoria's voice cut through the silence. "Where did you get those weapons? Are you truly from the Sunken Forge?"
Her tone was flat, but Riven caught the flicker of curiosity behind her red eyes.
He glanced back at her and let a thin smile show.
"No. Yesterday I only lied to those thugs so they'd let us go."
His fingers tapped lightly on the driver's bench as if weighing whether to speak more. Finally, he added,
"As for the weapons… I took them from someone who owed me."
The words were plain, yet Ashtoria was sharp enough to sense the weight beneath them. She pressed no further, only studied him with unreadable eyes.
After a while, she spoke again.
"If you try to bring those weapons into Glimfell, you'll be stopped at the gates."
Riven half-turned, then grinned at her remark.
"Are you naive or what, Aria? All I need is enough coin to bribe them."
His tone was light. A fleeting memory stirred—slipping out of Westford after looting Jacky's shop, with nothing but money and a silver tongue.
Ashtoria raised a brow.
"And if you can't bribe them, if they report you instead? You'll be facing bigger trouble."
Riven chuckled, his laughter mingling with the creak of the wheels.
"Then that just means I didn't give them enough. Almost every problem in this world can be solved with money, Aria. Ever heard this saying? If money can't buy happiness, it only means you don't have enough of it."
He said it in jest, yet the blunt honesty behind it was unmistakable.
Ashtoria only looked at him, her lips parting as if to respond, but in the end, she stayed silent.
There was something almost puzzling in her gaze. How could a man speak so openly, so shamelessly? If he knew the woman beside him was the queen of this land herself, would Riven still speak with the same candor?
The wind brushed through their hair as the cart carried them slowly along the dirt road. Silence returned, broken only by the steady rhythm of hooves.
.
.
.
The journey to Glimfell, which should have taken five days, stretched longer because Riven deliberately slowed the pace. Every six or seven hours they stopped—not just to rest, but to train.
Each time they halted, Riven would draw Riftmaker, while Melly sat nearby, practicing her mana absorption technique. His muscles still ached from the last session, yet Riven's spirit burned bright whenever he stood in the grass, ready to repeat the lessons drilled into him.
Ashtoria, on the other hand, now took the role of overseer. She no longer needed to demonstrate each move as before. The siblings had memorized them well enough. Her task was simply to observe, adjust their posture when needed, and offer comments.
Sitting cross-legged on a boulder not far away, Ashtoria watched them. After a time, she spoke.
"Once you've mastered the basics, the next step is to shape your own fighting style."
Riven paused mid-motion, turning to her. Sweat glistened on his brow, but his eyes burned with focus.
"Your own style?"
Ashtoria nodded. "Yes. Every person is different. Some excel in speed, others in defense, others in cunning. No single style suits everyone."
She rose and walked slowly toward him, her voice steady.
"Imitating others is fine. It's even a good start. But if you want to grow stronger, in the end you must find the way of fighting that matches your body, your instincts, and your purpose."
Riven listened intently to every word.
Ashtoria stopped a few steps from him. "And do you know the fastest way to improve?" she asked, her tone almost challenging.
Riven shook his head slightly, holding his breath.
Her eyes locked on his. "Fight someone stronger than you. Or fight with your life on the line."
Her words dropped into the air like a weight.
"Under pressure, your body will be forced to adapt. You'll learn to read an enemy's movements, find your own openings, and react naturally. But it isn't easy… and not everyone survives."
Riven said nothing, only tightened his grip on Riftmaker's hilt.
He looked back at his blade. He knew he was nowhere near Ashtoria's level, not even a fraction of it. Yet something inside him had begun to spark. Not just the desire for strength, but the will to live, to prove he could surpass his own limits.
With a deep breath, he raised his stance again.
"In that case," he said with burning resolve, "fight me."
His voice rang with seriousness, full of raw determination.
Ashtoria regarded him for a moment without speaking, then gave a slow nod. This had been her intent when she spoke those words.
She walked over to the cart where the swords were stored and picked one up. Meanwhile, Riven steadied his breath and prepared Riftmaker.
They faced each other in an open field where the grass brushed their ankles. The air was cool with the coming of evening, the golden light of the sun casting long shadows across their bodies.