The city of Litwick was alive with celebrations. Its citizens filled the streets while the returning adventurers basked in the glory.

  Their battle had been hard fought, and even harder won. Lives were lost, Paths were severed, and families were left with fewer members than before. But the price of safety was never cheap. Not in the Kingdom of Vandral, and certainly not in the Wilds.

  The goblin tribe was just the beginning of the upcoming hardships, and while most of them knew it, none spoke that fact aloud. There was a time for worry, and there was a time for triumph.

  Away from the noise, in the backyard of a place Rowan had just started considering his home, standing under a tall oak where he’d spent countless hours pushing himself forward, stood six people.

  There was a sadness in their expressions, yet it was overshadowed by a fierce, unshakable determination.

  Rowan looked at each one of his friends, readying himself to leave.

  “What’s got you looking so down?” Silvia asked, nudging him with her shoulder. “It’s just a month or two. We’ll be right there with you before you know it.”

  Kai trilled softly as Zoe fed him another one of her pellets, fussing over the little menace.

  “I know, I know,” Rowan chuckled, yet the weight pressing down on his shoulders didn’t lessen. “I’m just worried you’re going to get into trouble, and I won’t be there to fix it,” he said with a wry smile.

  Omi snorted. “ There’s so much wrong with that sentence that I don’t even know where to start.”

  Rowan clapped his shoulder. “Then don’t.”

  He walked up to Zoe, his arm outstretched. “Can I have my familiar back?”

  She looked up, seemingly not thrilled by the question. Kai—the little traitor—curled up closer, letting out a quiet, disappointed caw.

  “Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” Rowan asked, crossing his arms. “Fine, you stay here. I’ll find someone else to feed all the Silver-rank monsters I plan on killing in the next couple of months. Maybe a sparrow, or a hummingbird.”

  That got his attention right quick, and with one final nuzzle, Kai flew out of her arms and onto Rowan’s shoulder.

  “That’s what I thought,” he snorted, scratching the little bugger under his beak.

  Zoe locked eyes with him and an unspoken conversation passed between them. He nodded slightly, the knot in his stomach tightening.

  Last night, when the rest of the Grove fell asleep, she’d come to see him.

  Rowan tried not to think about the implications of her vision, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t on his mind.

  An onyx blade piercing his chest, blood pooling beneath his body.

  He flared [Iron Will], pushing away the sense of foreboding.

  Having a Goddess involved in his business wasn’t something Rowan particularly wanted, but seeing as she sent one of her future Apostles his way, there wasn’t much he could do. Death loomed whichever way he looked, and this was just another obstacle to add to the pile.

  And besides, it wasn’t like her vision prophesied him dying. Rowan assumed having a sword thrust through his chest wouldn’t be a particularly pleasant experience—if it even happened—but there were ways of living through it.

  He stepped back, looking them over one last time.

  “Be careful, okay?”

  Nemir walked up to him, clasping his shoulder. “We’ll be fine,” he reassured him. “Litwick has never been safer, and our popularity never higher,” he smiled. “You bribed your way into everyone’s good graces, and now we get to reap the rewards while you spend your time in the cold and the rain.”

  Rowan knew he could have said more. To beg them to be careful. To not put themselves in any unnecessary danger. But they weren’t children.

  So instead, he simply nodded. “Alright,” he said softly, letting out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

  Stepping back, he pulled out a teleportation token to the Stormspire Heights.

  Each of them had two of their own, and the beacon that had resided in his room for the last six months was safely tucked away in the Vault. Once he left, there was no coming back. Not quickly at least.

  The Verdant Vale might have been a weaker region, but that didn’t make it small. Another token could take him back, yet depending on where it put him, it could be a month's walk back to Litwick.

  He could see his own determination and concern reflected back at him, and the sight warmed his heart.

  “Thank you,” he said softly. “For everything.”

  Rowan wiped at his eyes, letting out a low chuckle. “Gods, you’ve got me choked up.”

  Omi frowned, glancing at Silvia. “I thought nobles were supposed to be… I don’t know, stoic?” he whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  She nudged him with her shoulder, whispering just as loudly. “Right? But it’s not like we’ve met a lot of Dukes. For all we know, they could all be crybabies.”

  Rowan laughed, the last of his tension leaving him. This wasn’t a farewell, it was a temporary goodbye.

  “Alright, I think I'd better go before I hear something flog worthy.”

  Taking out the token, he took a steadying breath before activating it.

  The enchantments flared to life a moment later, and the countdown before he left for good began.

  Annie walked up to him, tightly wrapping her arms around him. Rowan gladly returned the embrace.

  “Be safe,” she whispered, pulling back, looking at him with an amused smile. “And try not to do anything too dramatic.”

  “I’ll try not to,” Rowan smiled back. “But no promises.”

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  The rest of the Grove soon joined in. Rowan savored the embrace, only pushing them away when he felt the enchantment getting close to completion.

  With one final look, he straightened up, slicking his hair back and calming his racing heart.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he smiled, feeling sorrow at leaving his newfound family, and joy at having found them in the first place.

  As the enchantment flared to life, whisking him away from Litwick, Rowan found himself counting down the days until they’d be reunited once more.

  It would be a while before he saw them again, but if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that these five would follow him to the ends of the earth. No matter what. And for now, that was more than enough for him.

  .

  .

  .

  Far to the north, in the Deadlands beyond the Walls, a man kept watch.

  He remembered the pride he felt when he’d been given this post. It had filled his heart with warmth and pushed his already unshakable loyalty to new heights.

  Though the love and adoration certainly hadn’t hurt.

  Raising his hand, he summoned a wisp of his mana. It coiled through his body, heavy and familiar, his constant companion for as long as he could remember. The hordes of the dead had become familiar with it too, yet the fear it usually evoked didn’t stop their endless assault.

  Flicking his wrist, he tried to send them back to Morrigan’s embrace.

  It didn’t work. But then again, it never did.

  Sighing, he moved closer. His hands blurred, spells flew—boiling skin, disintegrating bones, shattering Cores.

  Once, he’d taken pride in his task. It had been a culmination of a lifetime of work. Hours spent toiling away over tomes, dense enough to make his mind ache and heavy enough to break bones should they close over his fingers. Yet it had all been worth it.

  He’d shown his worth to the right people, climbed the ranks of the Tower and came out of it as a fully fledged war-mage. A servant of the people, a sword against the darkness, a shield against despair.

  So why did he feel so… empty?

  All around him, the dead lay shattered. Their bodies seemingly broken beyond repair, yet Tyrian knew it was just a matter of time before they rose again.

  With a working of Intent, he reappeared back in base camp, the now familiar din of activity doing little to soothe his spirit.

  He slowly made his way over to the temple of Eldara, walking through its halls without so much as a glance at the masterful tapestries adorning its walls. Tyrian knew he should have hurried, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

  “Ah, Mage Tyrian,” a kindly looking man said. “What can I do for you?”

  Without so much as a word, he placed a hand on his shoulder, and a moment later both of them appeared back in the Deadlands.

  “They’re getting up,” he pointed out. “I’d appreciate a [Purify].”

  The priest, to his credit, didn’t look disoriented for long. His eyes locked on the swirling mass of miasma rising from the corpses, already being funneled back somewhere their gazes couldn’t follow.

  Tyrian pulled a chair out of his storage ring and sat down.

  The priest's chant echoed against nothing, a golden glow illuminating their surroundings as it battled against the swirling vortex.

  When did watching this become so dull? Tyrian couldn’t help but ask himself. When did I stop caring?

  But he knew the answer to that question.

  His eyes moved south, instinctively knowing where the jewel lay. Or, well, at least what was left of it.

  It took another ten minutes before the miasma was dealt with, though he used that term lightly. The priest did what he could, but most of it still ended up funneled back up north. Back to the lich’s sanctum, recycled, only to be thrown against them once more.

  A pyrrhic victory.

  Tyrian stood back up, teleporting both himself and the priest back to camp, walking back to his home with a thoughtful frown on his face.

  He knew he couldn’t keep going like this.

  Tyrian wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was a follower. He might have been a capable war-mage, but a leader, he was not. Yet since the fall of House Athlain, who he followed tasted bitter.

  Laying down in his bed didn’t bring the comfort it usually did, and like most days, he found his mind wandering to the event that had upended his life.

  He remembered the confusion he felt when the Authority of Dusk and Dawn encapsulated the city. Their weight was usually a calming presence, a soothing wave that pushed away the darkness.

  More than once, Tyrian had had the honor of venturing into the Northern Reaches with one—and sometimes even both—of the Archmages. And not a single time had he felt threatened.

  Those expeditions had always been the hardest, yet Tyrian knew with a bone-deep certainty that they’d come out victorious.

  But that day, it was different.

  Anger. Disbelief. Betrayal.

  Those had been the emotions he felt coming from the Duke and Duchess of Eiselyth. And when he saw the Archdemon towering over the palace, fear gripped his heart. There was nothing he—or anyone else—could do to help.

  That day, a heavy toll had been paid for victory. House Athalin fell. Their line extinguished.

  Only young Rowan was left alive, yet his affliction prevented him from taking up the mantle, with the fire at the Holfsted Estate smothering all hope of a revival.

  Tyrian could do nothing but turn with the wind, giving his services to House Davar as they took stewardship of Athalin lands.

  He sighed, his eyes closing as he attempted to find respite in the familiar embrace of sleep. His musings changed nothing, and his duty remained the same. Now, more than ever, a war-mage’s services were needed.

  Yet even still, as Tyrian slipped into a deep and dreamless slumber, he couldn’t help but hope for something more.

  .

  .

  .

  Lyrial stood in a seemingly unimportant cavern in the Scorched Plateau, eyeing the cracks in the walls. Her frown deepened as she ran a finger over a particularly strange fissure.

  “Why am I here?” she asked herself.

  [Fate’s Embrace] was a skill few knew she had, and if that ever changed, there was a non-zero chance she’d end up being stuck at a desk for more time than she would have liked. And Lyrial was willing to put every ounce of her considerable strength into making sure that never happened.

  A shudder went through her at the thought of King Tiberius finding out about her little secret. That was not a conversation she wished to have. And it definitely wasn’t a fight she wanted to pick.

  That way lay dragons, she thought, her eyes scanning the cavern. Literally.

  A low growl pulled her attention to the vent at the center. It seemed the Ember Crawler currently occupying it had finally grown a pair.

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re big and scary,” she waved him off. “We get it.”

  The monster had frozen in fear when she’d first entered, but after seeing her do nothing but stare at a wall for the last half hour, that fear had morphed into anger.

  “Stupid lizard,” she muttered. “And to think, I almost let you live.”

  With a distracted flick of her wrist, Lyriel pulled the slightest bit of mana from her Core and sent it towards the beast. It didn’t even have time to blink before a tearing sound echoed through the cavern, its body split cleanly in two.

  “That’ll teach you to growl at me,” she grumbled.

  Lyriel’s Domain flexed as she caught a whiff of something familiar in the air, and when she realized what it was, her expression hardened.

  It was faint. Barely even there.

  “Wizardry,” she whispered, a shiver going down her spine.

  Something deep below her stirred, another Domain pressing against her own.

  Lyriel gave it a polite tap, sending her emotions through the link to let the slumbering Beast King know she had no plans on disturbing its rest. Lai’s little experiment was interesting, but it paled in comparison to what she’d just uncovered.

  Little Roro was doing something he really, really shouldn’t be doing, and while she was usually one to encourage that sort of behavior, this was different.

  Taking a deep breath, she summoned a messaging stone from her ring.

  She’d wanted to find him on her own, but it seemed the time for games had passed.

  Sending a sliver of her mana into the enchantment, she spoke. “Horus? You there?”

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