At the foot of the keep, around fifty cavalrymen, seven Ascendants, and a company of elite knights stood ready to depart. Serin bid farewell to the Countess and then to Ellis, who sulkily said her goodbyes with a pout.
It was early morning. The stars and the moon were still visible, and the castle was adorned with hundreds of blazing torches lining its walls. The wind, as always, was humid and carried a faint smell of charcoal and soot. It was a quiet morning—so quiet that the only sounds were the crackling of wood and fire, along with the snorts and occasional stomps of horses.
Serin walked toward the convoy and saw the Count atop his majestic dark horse, holding the reins and giving him a silent nod.
Caressing his brown steed, Serin let out a low chuckle. Then, with practiced familiarity, he placed his foot in the stirrup and mounted the horse. Taking a deep, fresh morning breath, he nudged his horse forward and joined the Count.
The two guided their horses to the front of the convoy, where a man was waiting. He wore a bandana across his forehead and a broad smile on his face—along with a scar that stood out starkly in the silver moonlight, giving him a rather frightening appearance.
While the Count took one final look at the assembled convoy, Serin was joined by his two personal Ascendant knights, Hymund and Symund.
At last, the Count exchanged a glance with the Countess from afar and quietly gestured for the convoy to proceed. Instantly, the silence of early morning was shattered by the thunder of hundreds of hooves striking hard ground. Clouds of dust billowed upward, settling into a hazy veil of grey mist that swallowed the shadowy silhouettes behind them, growing more distant with every passing moment.
By the time the sun rose over the horizon and golden light pierced through the mist, bathing the dark soil beneath, the convoy had already left the city far behind. The cavalry picked up the pace while still within Hainar County's borders, leaving long trails of dust as hundreds of horses galloped along the Limner Route.
Traversing the open plains on horseback, Serin felt a sense of freedom he hadn't experienced before.
The convoy thundered across the plains, passing one village after another and cutting through the humid, salty wind. Occasionally, villagers would stop and watch in awe from the outskirts as the cavalry flew past them in mere moments.
Catching fleeting glimpses of the villagers, Serin noticed how different they looked compared to the people of the city. Their clothes were worn and plain, their faces chiseled and angular, their bodies slick with sweat and streaked with dirt.
The smell of fertile black soil near the villages felt intimate and pleasant, and Serin couldn't help but feel a hint of regret, knowing it would only linger for minutes before the scenery shifted once again.
As time passed, the novelty wore off. More importantly, Serin's limbs began to ache. His bones felt as though they might shatter, his body like a churning sea. Embarrassingly, his rear burned fiercely against the saddle.
Serin simply gritted his teeth and stayed silent, refusing to complain. Seeing this, the scarred man smiled with interest.
The convoy slowed slightly as the plains stretched endlessly ahead, the land opening into wide fields of grass broken only by the occasional dirt road and low stone markers denoting distance and borders. Riders naturally fell into tighter formation as the morning wore on.
Serin rode beside the Count in silence, focusing on the rhythmic thunder of hooves and the faint clinking of armor to distract himself. Eventually, the man with the bandana approached, guiding his horse smoothly alongside them.
"My Lord," the man said, his voice firm yet relaxed. "Scouts report clear routes ahead. No movement along the outer roads."
The Count nodded. "Good. Maintain pace."
The man briefly glanced at Serin, his sharp eyes lingering just long enough to assess him. Up close, the scar on his face was even more pronounced—an ugly, jagged line running from cheek to jaw, old and poorly healed.
"This is Lieutenant Kael," the Count said without ceremony. "He is second in command to the Marshal."
Kael inclined his head slightly. "My Prince."
Serin returned the gesture. "Lieutenant."
Serin felt uneasy under the lieutenant's gaze, as though he were being appraised like an animal in a menagerie or a rare item in a market. As a result, their exchange remained measured and restrained.
Lieutenant Kael's eyes flicked briefly to Serin's posture and the way he handled his reins, the corner of his lips curving faintly. The glance lasted only a moment, yet it left Serin strangely unsettled.
"We'll reach the river crossing by midday," Kael said, turning back to the Count. "After that, the land grows rougher. Progress will slow."
"Make camp before dusk," the Count replied. "No night riding."
Kael nodded once and peeled away, issuing quiet orders as he rode ahead.
Symund leaned closer to Serin, lowering his voice. "That one's seen real battle."
Hymund snorted softly. "Anyone still riding after earning a scar like that has."
Serin watched Kael from afar. "Where did he get it?"
Symund shrugged. "Long ago, during the rebellion—or so I've heard, My Prince."
Serin narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and nodded, his gaze lingering on the lieutenant a moment longer.
The cavalrymen, knights, and even the Ascendants all seemed to regard Lieutenant Kael with respect. His authority was undeniable.
The convoy pressed onward, villages appearing and vanishing behind them. Farmers paused in their labor to watch the riders pass, children waving hesitantly before being pulled back by cautious parents. By midday, they reached the river—wide, shallow, and slow-moving. Horses drank deeply as soldiers dismounted, stretching stiff limbs and loosening straps.
Serin dismounted as well, rolling his shoulders and letting out a long breath.
"Not used to long rides?" Lieutenant Kael asked, appearing beside him seemingly out of nowhere, a waterskin in hand.
Serin was startled but didn't show it. He accepted the waterskin with a nod. "I'll adapt," he said, taking a long drink.
Lieutenant Kael studied him briefly, then reclaimed the skin. "You ride better than most nobles."
"A noble… am I?"
That earned a short, surprised laugh. "Royalty?" Kael scoffed. "Whatever. It's all the same to me."
"Indeed. To me as well," Serin replied with a dry laugh.
They resumed travel soon after, the land gradually changing—less salt in the air, drier winds, firmer soil beneath hoof and boot. By evening, camp was established with practiced efficiency. Fires were lit, tents raised, watches assigned.
Serin sat near a fire with Hymund and Symund while knights ate and spoke in small groups. Laughter and low chatter drifted through the camp.
Lieutenant Kael joined them, lowering himself onto a log. "You've never left the County before, have you?"
Serin shook his head. "No."
The lieutenant gave him a solid slap on the back and grinned. "Waham's different. Thrice the size of Brinescar—and a lot richer, too."
Serin's eyes widened. "You've been there, Lieutenant?"
Kael smirked and lowered his voice. "Of course. I've even been to the Rosegar."
Hymund and Symund gasped, staring at him with envy. Serin alone looked utterly confused.
Lieutenant Kael exaggerated his expression. "Goodness! Sir Hymund, Sir Symund—the Prince doesn't know about it! How is that possible?!"
Serin's brows twitched. "I lost much of my memory, Lieutenant."
Kael clapped his hands in realization. "Ah! Right, I forgot. Well, you see—" He leaned forward, hands cupped near his mouth, whispering conspiratorially.
Serin jerked back, startled. His face flushed red beneath the firelight. Averting his gaze, he rubbed the back of his head awkwardly.
Kael laughed heartily, slinging an arm around Serin's shoulders. "Don't worry. I'll take you there when we arrive!"
"Nonsense! There will be no time—" Serin blurted, then froze, hastily correcting himself. "I mean—even if there were time, I wouldn't!"
The twin Ascendants bent forward, trying—and failing—to suppress their laughter.
Lieutenant Kael merely studied Serin silently this time, his expression dubious rather than amused.
The fire crackled between them.
Night passed without incident.
---
By the second day, fatigue began to set in. Conversation dwindled, replaced by discipline and routine. At noon, they rode through a stretch of forest, sunlight filtering through dense leaves as birds scattered at their approach.
That evening's camp was quieter.
Serin found himself sharing a simple meal with the Count.
"You handled yourself well today," the Count said without looking at him.
"I didn't do much," Serin replied.
"You listened," the Count said. "Most young nobles don't."
Serin nodded.
That night, as the convoy slept, Serin lay awake briefly, gazing at the stars through gaps in the canvas above him. He felt the road pulling him forward. Though tired from the journey, the vast, star-filled sky eased some of his exhaustion. With the Ducal City of Waham now close, anticipation stirred deeply in his heart.
---
On the third day, the road widened.
Stone markers appeared more frequently. Patrols bearing unfamiliar sigils passed by, disciplined and alert. The land felt… watched.
Then, near midday, the forest gave way to rolling hills—and beyond them—
Waham.
High walls rose in the distance, pale stone etched with runes that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Towers pierced the sky, angular and deliberate, unlike anything Serin had seen before. At the city's heart loomed a structure above all others—a dark stone spire, unmoving and inevitable.
Serin's breath caught.
"That's the Magi Temple," Symund muttered.
Serin stared ahead, his eyes blazing with curiosity, excitement, and anticipation.