Once again, Rowan found himself walking through an unfamiliar region with a raven on his shoulder. It was a stark contrast to the first time he’d used a token. Six months wasn’t a lot of time in the grand scheme of things, but for him, it made a world of difference.

  He’d left the north as a newly minted mage, his Core barely formed and only a single spell to his name. That first trek through the Wilds had been a harrowing experience. The Verdant Plains weren’t considered a dangerous region, yet that was subjective.

  Rowan wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d almost died more than once.

  But as he thought back to those first two weeks, he didn’t feel shame. An Iron I Ironfang Wolf almost gnawing his arm off had taught him an important lesson. One that had only been reinforced the further along his Path Rowan walked.

  Danger could be found anywhere, no matter how strong you thought yourself to be.

  In the months since then, Rowan had grown from a fledgling mage to a competent caster. He’d fought against monsters of all kinds, mastered his first affinity to a degree most others rarely managed, and even found time to advance his body.

  It hadn’t been easy, but he’d done it nonetheless.

  His mind wandered back to the first time he laid eyes on the walls of Litwick, and a smile tugged at his lips.

  Rowan had never been one to thank Fate for his achievements. They were his. Bought for with blood and toil. But still, he sent a small prayer to Eldric for putting a certain group of people in his path.

  Going to the Verdant Plains had been the right choice, in more ways than one.

  Name: Rowan Undomniel-Athlain

  Title: [Duke of Eiseylth]

  Trait: [Immortal Soul]

  Core: Orange [28%] [10 Levels]

  Affinity: Fire, Wind

  Body: Bronze II [2 Level]

  Skills: [Iron Will] (Adept)

  Level: 12

  Strength: 19

  Dexterity: 35

  Vitality: 30

  Intelligence: 50

  Willpower: 27

  Focus: 30

  Even with him having an inherent advantage due to his lineage, his stats had grown by a tremendous amount. Right now, Rowan would feel confident matching himself against any Silver-ranked threat that crossed his path. And if he had time to prepare, defeating a Gold-rank one wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities.

  But while his stats helped, they were only a fraction of what made that possible.

  Spells:

  Whisper - [Flash], [Heat], [Ignite], [Ember Spray], [Burning Hands]

  Murmur - [Firebolt], [Fire Shield], [Burning Whip]

  Chant - [Fireball]

  Hymn - [/]

  Aria - [/]

  Ode - [/]

  Epic - [/]

  Spells:

  Whisper - [Gust]

  Murmur - [Feather Fall], [Whisper Step], [Tailwind]

  Chant - [/]

  Hymn - [/]

  Aria - [/]

  Ode - [/]

  Epic - [/]

  Thirteen spells. Six of them Murmurs, and a single Chant on top.

  While it wasn’t the largest spell repertoire, when you consider just how short of a time Rowan had to expand it, it was nothing short of prodigious.

  But then again, that was only expected.

  He was Rowan Athlain. Youngest son of the Archmages of Dusk and Dawn. A member of the greatest magical lineage the Kingdom of Vandral had ever seen. The rightful ruler of the Jewel of the North, the fourteenth Duke of Eiselyth.

  Nothing short of prodigious would do.

  To find out the truth about what happened that day, about who betrayed his family and summoned an Archdemon into the heart of their domain, Rowan needed power. Not status, or gold, but personal might. And on top of all that, he needed it quickly.

  House Davar was expecting a Title. They currently held dominion over Eiselyth and its surrounding lands, yet there was only one way for them to get it.

  That was if Rowan lost it, and he doubted they would hesitate to make that happen.

  He assumed that the only reason he was left alive in the first place was because of his affliction.

  Most people considered being born dull to be a curse, and Rowan agreed. Being without access to the System made him useless in the truest sense of the word. He’d had no way of becoming stronger besides what his body could naturally achieve, and while he could grow skilled in certain professions, he would never be skilled.

  Yet for him, it was a blessing in disguise.

  The last member of House Athalin was forgotten. A mistake that the other Great Houses would come to regret.

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  Rowan looked around, taking in his surroundings.

  The Stormspire Heights unfolded before him like a landscape from one of the picture books his mother used to read to him. Towering, jagged peaks thrust skyward, their tips cloaked in perpetual storm clouds that sparked with flashes of silver lightning.

  The air was sharp, charged with the energy of storms that never fully subsided. Gusts of wind howled through the craggy cliffs and narrow passes, carrying a faint, metallic tang that hinted at the region’s mineral-rich heart.

  Waterfalls cascaded down the sheer rock faces, fed by glacial ice clinging stubbornly to the higher altitudes, their roaring flows vanishing into mist before reaching the valleys below.

  Amidst the harsh environment, patches of twisted, wind-blasted vegetation clung to life. Gnarled pines bent at unnatural angles stood sentinel over the rocky terrain, their roots clawing desperately into crevices for purchase. Strange, luminous mosses and lichens painted the stones in faint blues and greens, glowing faintly in the gloom like soft embers.

  Every rumble of thunder seemed to vibrate deep in Rowan’s chest, an unspoken reminder that this was a place where nature reigned supreme—and intruders were unwelcome.

  “I can safely say that the Plains were much more welcoming,” Rowan muttered, pulling his coat tighter around himself to ward off the cold. Kai cawed in agreement.

  “So, I guess we just start walking, huh?”

  And that was exactly what they did.

  His tokens were a marvel of magical engineering. They granted whoever had access to one what basically amounted to an Aria-level spell. [Teleport] was the domain of space mages far along their Paths, and Rowan was immensely glad that his family felt the need to keep a massive stash in the Vault.

  But one thing they were not was precise.

  The Kingdom of Vandral consisted of a dozen different regions. Some were smaller than others, but not a single one could truly be called small. Traversing the whole of it could take years, even for high-level adventurers.

  The Stormspire Heights were somewhere in the middle when it came to size, and the teleportation token had put him in a random spot. Rowan hoped he’d gotten lucky and that there was a settlement nearby, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath. The first time he’d used one, it had taken him weeks to find Litwick, even with the compass guiding him.

  He sighed, pulling out the aforementioned compass and glancing at the needle.

  “Well, nothing to it I guess.”

  Rowan ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep, steadying breath, and started walking.

  The untamed wilderness of jagged peaks and swirling skies was treacherous terrain to cross. Off in the distance, mountains rose like obsidian fangs, their dark, glistening surfaces streaked with veins of silvery ore that caught his eyes, even from a distance. Above him, the clouds churned endlessly, thunder booming, not in sharp cracks but in deep, resonant waves.

  “Kai, keep watch.”

  His familiar obliged, flapping his powerful wings and circling overhead.

  He’d grown stronger in the last six months, but Rowan had learned from his time in Litwick. Confidence and arrogance were two different things, and while he was certainly familiar with the former, the latter was something he tried to keep in check.

  Silver-rank monsters were the norm here, with Gold-ranks not being all that uncommon. If he ran across one, Rowan planned on being ready.

  The ground beneath his boots was a mix of cracked stone and slick, wet shale, making every step a precarious gamble. Pools of rainwater collected in uneven basins, reflecting the eerie, crackling glow of far-off lightning.

  Should have picked the Onyx Delta, Rowan grumbled to himself as rain began to fall.

  .

  .

  .

  The sun slowly made its way closer to the horizon, and Rowan decided that ten hours of walking was enough for one day. Finding shelter in a damp cave, he set about making it a bit more hospitable.

  After setting a fire, Rowan pulled out some rations and rested his back against the wall, trying not to wince as he swallowed down strips of dried meat. Kai got comfy in his lap, and he spent a few minutes just relaxing, feeding the little menace the occasional treat.

  “I forgot how boring this is,” he said, running a hand through Kai’s feathers. “We didn’t even get to fight anything.”

  Kai trilled sleepily, nuzzling closer.

  “I wonder what the Grove is doing right now,” he said after a moment.

  As he closed his eyes, Rowan could almost see them.

  Silvia and Omi bickering over something unimportant, Annie adding fuel to the fire, and Nemir trying to calm them down. Zoe was probably sitting in her chair with a book in hand, uninterested in the commotion.

  A smile tugged at his lips, and Rowan felt a warmth in his chest.

  He’d much rather be with them than in this damp cave, but after what he’d done during the battle against the tribe, Litwick wasn’t safe anymore.

  Sure, it might be weeks—or maybe even months—before word got around about the mysterious mage who pulled a dragon's hoard out of nowhere to turn the tide of battle. But once it did, questions would be asked. Questions Rowan had no desire to answer.

  And seeing as he was currently on the other side of the kingdom, he wouldn’t need to.

  As he sat there, he focused on the crackling of his fire and let his mind wander.

  What do I know about the Stormspire Heights? he asked himself.

  Firstly, it was a region suited for Silver-ranked adventurers and higher. The monsters in these parts were tougher, smarter, and more dangerous than the ones in the Wilds surrounding Litwick—and not to mention much more numerous.

  He had no idea how the surge had affected this region, but he had a feeling he’d find that out sooner rather than later.

  The second thing he knew was that House Duron ruled it. They were Barons, only a single step below Counts, and one more below Dukes.

  Rowan had learned about most of the influential noble families in the kingdom during his youth. It had never been his favourite subject, yet he’d done it all the same. And right now, he was glad for the hours spent pouring over seemingly unimportant tomes.

  Rowan chuckled as he imagined the disbelieving expression professor Hella would have had on her face if she’d been privy to his current thoughts, but his smile quickly faded.

  Hella was probably dead.

  His mood considerably soured, Rowan refocused.

  I think Baroness Jalani is the current head of their house, he recalled. She’s a low Mythril-ranked warrior, with… Ice? he shook his head. No, not Ice. She has the Steam affinity. Fire and Water.

  That would put her somewhere at around level one hundred. Not a powerhouse when compared to the people occupying the more prosperous regions, but a dangerous woman nonetheless. And not one Rowan hoped to meet anytime soon.

  Litwick had the distinct advantage of being so unimportant that the true movers and shakers of the realm didn’t care what happened there. They had more pressing matters to attend to than the dealings of a backwater settlement. But things were different here.

  The Stormspire Heights brought in a tremendous amount of gold from all the mines that dotted the region, with more than one noble House having a vested interest in how they performed. Rowan would need to be careful about how he presented himself.

  In Litwick, the only people who could truly threaten him were Quinea and Tremil. No matter which way the wind blew, Rowan had been confident that his personal strength would be enough to see him through the day. But there were Green-Core mages here, on top of the dozens—and maybe even hundreds—of Gold-ranked warriors. If someone of note stuck their nose in his business, the only thing he could do was flee.

  That thought rankled, but Rowan swallowed down his pride. Someone was always going to be stronger than him, and the only thing he could do was try and make that number smaller.

  What are my priorities? He asked himself.

  His list of tasks was ever-growing, but the main thing he needed to focus on was honing his magic. That meant working on advancing his Core, mastering some new spells, and perfecting his old ones.

  It may be time to start learning another Chant.

  Rowan’s fists clenched, an excited glint in his eyes. He currently had access to nine of them, and while he wasn’t yet ready to start learning high-level Wind magic, he didn’t have that problem when it came to Fire.

  Besides that, advancing his body was also something he’d like to get to. [Iron Will] was an amazing skill, and while he wasn’t particularly eager to go through Muscle Strengthening, if it got him something similar, Rowan would see it done.

  The last thing was his trait, and the lack of progress he’d made with it.

  Since his fight against the Wyrmlings, no matter what Rowan tried, he just couldn’t seem to find his way back to that strange island.

  My Wellspring. A repository of Spirit, he shook his head. Whatever that means.

  If he had his way, Rowan would dedicate a few weeks to try and figure it out. Because he knew, with bone-deep certainty, that once he did, things would change. But some things just weren’t meant to be.

  I can’t risk getting my soul injured again. Especially when I’m alone.

  To start training that particular aspect of his Path, Rowan needed a few months with no one threatening him—or his friends.

  He hoped that happened sooner rather than later, but he wasn’t counting on it.

  Suddenly, Kai’s head shot up, his gaze focused on the cave entrance. Rowan was immediately alert, standing up, mana already churning through his channels.

  Rain fell, and thunder boomed, light from his campfire the only thing illuminating the damp cavern. An eerie sound reached his ears a moment later, like wind chimes clattering to a gentle breeze. Rowan’s eyes widened as realization dawned, and it took an effort of will not to change his [Firebolt] to a [Fireball].

  “Mist Wraiths," he whispered, ready for whatever the Stormspire Heights had in store for him.