The packing was a somber affair. It felt less like preparing for a trip and more like dismantling a life.
Bruce moved through the small house with heavy steps, packing essentials into a battered canvas duffel. He took clothes for Anna, his own rough gear, and a first-aid kit that looked like it had seen a war zone. The last thing he packed was the photograph of Jane. He wrapped it gently in a soft woolen scarf, treating the frame as if it were made of spun glass, and tucked it deep into the center of the bag.
"We're going on an adventure, Papa?" Anna asked, clutching a ragged stuffed bear.
"Yes, little bird," Bruce said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "A big adventure. To find a magic island."
They locked the door to the ivy-covered house one last time, leaving the butterflies and the silence behind.
***
The journey took days. They moved by bus, by train, and finally by hitchhiking on the back of a grain truck. The landscape shifted from the grey, suffocating concrete of the city to rolling green hills and dense forests.
They arrived in Corvalon at sunset. Specifically, the town of Lidiana.
It was breathtaking. Nestled in a valley surrounded by towering, snow-capped mountains, Lidiana looked like something out of a fairy tale. The air was crisp and smelled of pine and woodsmoke. The people walking the cobblestone streets smiled—actually smiled—at strangers. It was a stark contrast to the grime and hostility of the city they had left behind.
"It's pretty!" Anna chirped, pointing at the flower boxes adorning every window.
"Stay close," Bruce rumbled, his hand swallowing hers. The Shield was already active, his eyes scanning the crowd for threats even in this idyllic paradise.
They found a tavern near the market square, a warm, bustling place called *The Golden Hilt*. The smell of roasted meat and spiced wine hit them the moment they opened the heavy oak door.
They found a corner table. Andrew ordered a hearty stew for them and a plate of honey cakes for Anna, who attacked the sweets with delight.
As they ate, the ambient noise of the tavern began to filter through. It wasn't just idle chatter; there was a current of excitement running through the room.
"The tournament starts tomorrow," a man at the next table said, banging his tankard. "My money is on Augustus. The Commander's son has the best training money can buy."
"Bah!" his companion argued. "Training makes you pretty, not deadly. Drake is the one to watch. He's a butcher with a blade. He's been training in the pits for this."
Andrew's ears pricked up. *Sword tournament.* A gathering of the best fighters in the region. If they were going to find a "Sword" for their crew, this was the place.
"What about Evangeline?" a third voice chimed in, quieter than the others.
A hush fell over the nearby tables, followed by a ripple of mocking laughter.
"That girl?" the first man sneered. "She's persistent, I'll give her that. But the arena is no place for a woman. She should be in a kitchen, or finding a husband, not swinging a rapier."
"She has spirit," the quiet voice defended. "I saw her practice. She moves like water."
"Water splashes," the man laughed. "Steel cuts. She'll be out in the first round, just like last year. If she doesn't get herself killed first. It's a disgrace she's even allowed to enter."
Andrew frowned, exchanging a look with Bruce. Bruce just grunted, wiping stew from his beard. He didn't care about politics; he cared that Anna had sugar on her nose.
But Andrew cared. *Evangeline.* The name stuck in his mind. The underdog. The one the crowd underestimated. It sounded familiar.
After the meal, they rented two rooms at the inn above the tavern. Bruce and Anna took one, and Andrew took the other.
Andrew showered, scrubbing the road dust from his skin, but he couldn't wash away the restlessness. He lay on the bed, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling. The bottle with the map sat on the nightstand, glowing faintly in the moonlight.
*A Sword. A Shield. A Compass.*
He had the Shield. Tomorrow, he would see if Lidiana held the Sword.
He closed his eyes, drifting into a fitful sleep.
The dream came quickly. He was standing in a void, surrounded by mist. In the distance, a figure danced. It was a woman, elegant and fierce, holding a sword that shimmered like moonlight. She didn't fight with anger; she fought with grace, a deadly ballet of steel and silence. She spun, and the blade sang a song that Andrew felt in his bones.
She turned to look at him, her face obscured by the mist, and raised the sword in challenge.
Andrew woke with a start, his heart pounding. The sun was just beginning to bleed through the curtains. The tournament was today.