Iscor Plains stretched before them, lush and green, a sweeping contrast to the necrotic wastes they had left behind. Camps dotted the land around the gate, clusters of tents and wagons, smoke rising from cooking fires, guards posted watchfully at the edges.

  As Katya and Ragnar stepped through, a guard from the common folk hurried over.

  “You came from the wasteland?” he asked, his tone caught somewhere between disbelief and respect.

  “Yes, we did,” Katya replied. Then, lowering her voice, she whispered to Ragnar, “Show him the token.”

  Ragnar drew it from his cloak. The guard’s eyes widened. He muttered, almost reverently, “An Earth Token…”

  “The chieftain of the Pangui village gave it to us,” Katya said quickly.

  The soldier bowed low.

  “Do you have any carriages we can take? We need to reach a nearby village,” Katya added.

  “Yes, madam. At once.” He snapped his fingers to another soldier, who rushed off.

  Within minutes, a small carriage rolled forward. Katya and Ragnar climbed inside.

  “Earth Token, huh,” Katya murmured as the wheels began to turn.

  “Earth Token?” Ragnar asked.

  “It depends on how close the pangui are to outsiders,” Katya explained. “Sometimes they give Wood Tokens, my mentor once carried one. But Earth… that’s rarer. It’s reserved for the most trusted, the most respected.”

  “Your mentor… she was part of the Crimson Wing?” Ragnar asked.

  “Her name’s Maria,” Katya said quietly, eyes fixed on the fields rolling past the carriage. “Haven’t seen her in years.”

  “Crimson Wing,” Ragnar murmured. “Marius named it. He told me a name that could echo like a banner was important. Said it matched my hair.” His voice trailed into silence.

  “You were close to our founder, weren’t you?” Katya pressed gently.

  “He was my friend. Since the academy days.”

  Katya’s eyes lit up. “Academy? Tell me more!”

  Ragnar leaned back, as if sifting through fog. “It was called the Academy of Arcadia, the great scholarly center of the kingdom. They taught magic, philosophy, history… but also war. There was a knights’ division, for those who chose the sword. I was enrolled in both, mage and knight. Marius only studied as a mage.”

  A faint smile tugged at Ragnar’s lips. “He approached me after I defeated a fellow student. Not with spells, but with my fists. The others were horrified. Marius just laughed and said, ‘I see a future in you.’ That was how it began.”

  “The Crimson Wing has its own academy too,” Katya said. “Not big, but enough. People who can’t afford to learn sorcery anywhere else can go there. I took a few classes myself, though I was more drawn to studying the nature of the Weave than casting spells.” Her voice softened with a touch of nostalgia. “It’s been years since I last visited.”

  Ragnar listened in silence, his gaze distant. Half of his mind clung to her words, the other half still wrestling with the fragments of who he was.

  After a pause, Katya continued, more brightly. “There’s a trader in the village, works with the Crimson Wing. I’ll restock my supplies there. And… we can ask around for Shayara.”

  “Yes,” Ragnar said at last. His tone was quiet, heavy with thought.

  The carriage dropped them at the edge of the village.

  “It’s good they brought us here,” Katya muttered, stamping her foot. “But they could’ve waited. We had the Earth token.”

  “Those were military carriages,” Ragnar replied. “They’ll be needed elsewhere.”

  “Fine. Let’s find the trader.”

  They hadn’t gone far when a wavering voice called out behind them. “Katya? Is that you?”

  They turned. An old woman was shuffling toward them, leaning heavily on a cane. Katya froze for a heartbeat, then recognition hit.

  “You’re the lady who used to sit with Grandma,” Katya said softly.

  “It’s been so many years since I last saw you,” the woman said, her voice trembling with age and warmth.

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  “Ten. Since Grandma died,” Katya answered quietly.

  The woman’s gaze flicked to Ragnar. “And who’s this young man? Is he yours, is he?”

  Katya flushed crimson. “No, he’s not young,” she stammered, catching herself before blurting the rest. Not exactly a man, either. She forced a smile. “He’s a fellow researcher.”

  “My name is Ragnar,” he said politely.

  “Such a charming man,” the woman said, studying him with curious eyes. “And with the Crimson Wing, aren’t you?”

  Katya blinked. “How did you know?”

  “This village has always kept ties to the Crimson Wing. You didn’t know?”

  Katya’s chest tightened. Her grandmother had spoken of the Crimson Wing before, and she remembered now, there was a trader in this very village tied to the organization. He was the one she had come to find.

  Ragnar stepped forward. “Do you know the name Shayara?”

  The old woman’s brow furrowed. “Shayara…” she echoed. “There were a few with that name here and there.” She fell silent, eyes clouding with memory. Then her voice dropped, reverent. “But I think I know who you mean. The founding matriarch of Syr Village.”

  “Come, I’ll take you to Aisha,” said the old woman.

  “Aisha?” Ragnar asked.

  “She’s the current matriarch of the village,” Katya explained.

  They began making their way toward the village center.

  Ragnar wasn’t gliding through the air this time but walking.

  Katya leaned close, whispering with barely hidden excitement. “You’re walking? That’s great—less suspicion.”

  “I have boots now,” Ragnar replied flatly. Then, after a beat, he added, “Still, gliding was better.”

  They reached the village center, where the old woman led them into a dim hall. Another elder sat waiting inside, her long hair braided, faint runes glowing across her skin. Incense coiled lazily from a brazier at the room’s edge. Ragnar immediately noticed that the weave here was denser, more alive than outside.

  At last, the seated woman opened her eyes. A faint shimmer of perception magic flickered in them as she studied the two.

  “You’re Raha’s granddaughter?” she asked.

  Katya bowed low in answer.

  Then her gaze shifted to Ragnar. “You’re not human.”

  Ragnar gave a single nod.

  Cold sweat prickled at Katya’s skin. She opened her mouth to stammer some excuse, but the matriarch raised a hand.

  “Sit. Both of you. There is something you must hear.”

  The old woman brought forth a dusty diary and set it in Aisha’s hands. She brushed the cover gently before speaking.

  “Shayara was the founding matriarch of the Syr village, and the greatest sorcerer of her generation. This is her story.”

  Katya leaned forward, heart racing, while Ragnar sat utterly still, searching the shadows of memory.

  “Long ago, there was a kingdom called Arcadia,” Aisha began, her voice steady, measured. “Now it lies ruined, a grave of god-corpses. In those days, Arcadia waged war against the despairing host of the mad god Shraak and his chosen champion, the demigod Moloch.”

  Katya’s eyes widened, her breath caught.

  “And standing for Arcadia was its champion, Ragnar, the crimson-haired General of the Crimson Knights. The battle raged for days, but its echoes have carried through centuries, shaping all that followed.”

  Her eyes lowered to the diary, then rose again.

  “Among his army was a novice named Shayara. In the great battle she was remade in spirit, no longer just a recruit. When the fall of Arcadia began, she departed with that newfound strength and came here. In time she became our founding matriarch. Her gift of perception was unlike any other. It is said she bent reality itself and pierced the Veil to glimpse futures yet to come.”

  “What of Ragnar?” Katya asked, her voice taut, though the man himself sat only a breath away from her.

  “Ragnar faced the demigod Moloch and triumphed, but in the end he gave his life to do so… or so the tale is told.” Aisha’s eyes lingered on Ragnar.

  Katya’s chest tightened. The way the matriarch spoke, she already knew.

  “No,” Ragnar said at last. His voice was steady, but the pause after dragged. “I did defeat Moloch. It was after… after I fell.” His words splintered, like glass struggling to knit itself whole. Then came the whisper, almost to himself. “Those dead eyes…”

  The room held its breath. Silence pressed down, heavy and unbroken.

  Katya leaned forward, her voice trembling. “Dead eyes?”

  “There was… someone,” Ragnar murmured, fragments of memory still jagged in his mind.

  Aisha regarded him in silence for a long moment, then reached for a drawer at her side. She withdrew a single sheet of parchment, blank, yet faintly humming with weave, and placed it before Ragnar.

  “We have one note about such a figure,” she said carefully. “Eyes dead, yet alive. We never understood it.”

  Ragnar took the paper in hand, brow furrowing. “What is this?”

  “A legend,” Aisha said, her tone measured. “Our first matriarch, Shayara, foresaw a crimson-haired man, no longer fully human but who would one day come here with one of Syr blood. For him, she left this page. It has passed from matriarch to matriarch for generations, her spell keeping it sealed. None have ever opened it. Today, I give it to you. It was meant for this moment.”

  Ragnar narrowed his eyes. The weave around the page hummed faintly, threads shifting like something alive. He handed it to Katya.

  “Use your magic.”

  “What?” She blinked, confused.

  “The same trick you used to reveal the insignia. This spell bears Marius’s hand.” Ragnar’s voice was steady, almost certain.

  Katya hesitated, then pulled a pinch of gleam dust from her pouch. She rubbed it between her fingers, whispered the chant, and sprinkled it across the parchment.

  The paper shivered. A faint glow spread across its surface, runes threading into form. Slowly, letters burned their way into view.

  General.