V2C14 - What Comes After Quiet

Veyren’s Clearing – Morning Mist

The fire had long since burned out, leaving nothing but a curl of smoke rising into the dawn mist.

Lucen stirred first, eyes adjusting to the pale light spilling across the clearing. Everything was quiet—the forest, the sky, the air around them. He moved slowly, rolling his shoulder with a low grunt. His back ached from sleeping on uneven ground, but it wasn’t the worst ache he’d felt this week.

He sat up and glanced to his side.

Nyari was still curled slightly on her bedroll, one arm draped loosely across her stomach, tail twitching lazily near her boots. Her breathing was slow. Even.

Lucen stood carefully, brushing stray grass from his shirt. He stretched once, half a yawn escaping, and slung his satchel over one shoulder.

“Morning already?” Nyari’s voice came low, gravel-soft with sleep.

“Barely,” he replied.

She opened one eye. “You smell like burnt wood and sweat.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So do you.”

Nyari rolled onto her back and exhaled. “We should probably hit the bathhouse before we go anywhere.”

Lucen nodded. “Mistveil Springs?”

“Mistveil,” she agreed, sitting up and pushing her hair out of her face. “If we show up at the guild like this, Eyla’s gonna think we slept in a tree.”

Lucen gave her a look. “Technically…”

“Not the point.”

They packed up their things quickly—bedrolls, spare wraps, and Nyari’s twin daggers. Veyren never emerged from the cottage. Whether he was asleep or buried in scrolls, neither of them knew. Or asked.

By the time they stepped into the tree line, the mist was lifting, and the forest path toward Falridge waited like an old friend.

Falridge – Mistveil Springs Bathhouse (Cliffside Private Room)

Mistveil Springs wasn’t like the guild washrooms or roadside inns. It was quieter. Calmer. Built directly into the cliffside on the eastern edge of Falridge, it offered a series of mineral-fed pools—some open to the public, others tucked into private alcoves carved into the rock.

Lucen and Nyari had paid a few extra silver for one of the private baths: a quiet, stone-walled chamber with three sides enclosed and the fourth completely open to the air. That far side revealed a sweeping view of the forest valley below—mist curling off the treetops in long ribbons, with early sunlight painting the horizon gold.

The bath itself was carved into the stone floor, fed by a slow trickle of springwater spilling from a moss-covered lion’s head mounted on the back wall. Steam rose in lazy spirals and drifted outward over the cliff’s edge like smoke fading into the sky.

They started in the washing area, where warm water pooled in shallow wooden basins beneath polished brass fixtures. Lucen sat on a low stool, scrubbing his arms and chest with a bar of herbal soap, his breath rising in visible puffs as the steam thickened around them.

Beside him, Nyari rinsed her shoulders, her hair damp and clinging to her neck, tail flicking with every bucket poured over her back. Her motions were efficient but relaxed, like the whole routine was muscle memory from too many worn-out quests.

“You clean up well,” Lucen said, rinsing soap from his face.

“You finally stopped smelling like singed wood,” she replied, deadpan. “So do you.”

Once they finished scrubbing off the sweat and dirt from days of training, they wrapped themselves in soft linen towels provided at the entrance and stepped into the private spring.

Lucen entered first, sighing as the heat embraced him. He moved toward the side closest to the open cliff, leaning back against the smoothed stone rim and letting the view stretch out before him—green forests and rolling fog, distant and quiet.

“I could live here,” he said under his breath.

Nyari slipped into the water across from him, the towel snug around her chest, her shoulders glistening faintly with rising steam. Her ears twitched as she sank down to her collarbone, tail swishing slowly before resting on the surface like a lazy ribbon.

“Pretty sure you’d drown in your sleep,” she said. “You’re already half-melted.”

Lucen let his head fall back. “You’d miss me.”

“I’d miss the punching bag.”

They fell into a slow silence, the kind that didn’t ask to be filled. Only the sound of trickling water and the occasional gust of wind over the cliffs accompanied them.

Nyari’s eyes lingered on him, tracing his arms, chest, and the faint lines of definition visible beneath the water.

“You’re still holding onto those abs, huh?” she said casually. “Guess all that sword swinging’s paying off.”

Lucen raised a brow. “You’ve been tracking my progress?”

“I like to keep notes on my party members,” she said smoothly. “Especially the view.”

He chuckled, and for a moment, his gaze returned the favor.

Not boldly—but intentionally.

He let his eyes drift to where the towel clung to her frame, the curve of her collarbone, the way her posture always seemed relaxed but alert. The heat of the spring blurred the air between them, but she was sharp in his vision—outlined by light, steam, and quiet confidence.

“You’ve got a graceful figure,” he said, voice low. “I notice things too.”

Nyari blinked once.

Her ears gave a small twitch—surprised, maybe—but she didn’t flinch.

Then, a slow, knowing smile tugged at her lips.

“Careful,” she murmured. “You say stuff like that too often, I might actually believe you.”

Lucen smiled back. “Maybe I want you to.”

The air between them didn’t shift.

It pulsed.

Steam rose around their shoulders, the pool quiet except for the gentle ripple of water between them.

They didn’t lean closer.

But neither of them looked away.

The moment stretched—quiet, warm, and full.

Then Nyari tilted her head ever so slightly.

“Don’t drown,” she said.

Before Lucen could respond, her hand sliced through the water and sent a small splash directly at his chest.

He flinched, more from surprise than the splash. “Hey—!”

She was already standing, steam rising around her, towel still secure, water trailing down her legs as she stepped out of the spring with smooth confidence.

“Five points for precision,” she said over her shoulder.

Lucen stared at her back, water still dripping from his chest.

Then shook his head and laughed under his breath.

“Unbelievable.”

But his smile lingered.

Long after she disappeared behind the screen.

Falridge Ridge Path – Late Morning

They left Mistveil Springs refreshed, clean, and fully clothed—though Lucen swore he could still feel the warmth of the mineral bath in his bones. His hair was damp but drying fast in the sun, the breeze from the ridge cool against his skin.

The winding trail hugged the cliff’s edge, with wild pines overhead and a clear view of the valley below. The rooftops of Falridge peeked through the mist in the distance, sunlight glinting off tiled shingles and chimney tops.

Lucen walked with his satchel over one shoulder, steps unhurried.

Nyari strolled beside him, hands linked behind her head, tail swaying lazily with each step. Her damp hair caught the breeze, strands lifting just slightly as she squinted toward the horizon.

Neither of them spoke for a while.

But the silence was comfortable.

At one bend in the path, Nyari stepped slightly closer—close enough for her elbow to graze his arm for just a second too long.

Lucen glanced her way.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t say anything.

“Trail’s narrow here,” she muttered casually.

Lucen arched an eyebrow. “Incredibly narrow.”

Nyari’s tail flicked once—subtle, amused.

“Could’ve sworn you leaned,” she added.

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

Lucen smirked. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” she bumped his shoulder again, lighter this time. “You’re still here.”

Lucen shook his head, laughing quietly under his breath.

“Don’t tell me you’re trying to charm me.”

“I don’t try,” she said smoothly. “I succeed.”

Falridge – Adventurer’s Guild Hall

The heavy guild doors creaked open as Lucen and Nyari stepped inside, boots clicking lightly on the worn stone. The familiar din of voices, distant sparring, and shifting armor filled the air—comfortable, busy, alive.

They hadn’t been gone that long.

But long enough for it to feel different.

Lucen took a breath and stepped in, only to be greeted by the sharp ring of a voice from behind the front counter.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the Bronze ghost and his smug shadow.”

Lucen sighed.

Nyari grinned before they even reached the desk. “Miss us?”

Eyla didn’t look up. She was stamping papers like they’d personally offended her paperwork quota.

“Disappearing right after a rank-up? You know, some people celebrate by buying a round. You two vanished into the forest like a myth.”

“We were training,” Lucen offered, setting a hand on the counter.

“Mm-hm. And you just happened to emerge looking freshly boiled.”

Nyari leaned forward, chin in hand. “Mistveil was on the way back. It would’ve been rude not to stop.”

Eyla finally looked up. Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re glowing.”

“I’m clean,” Lucen corrected.

“You look like you’re about to drift off into a poetic dreamscape.”

Nyari made a soft “ooooh” sound behind him. Lucen ignored her.

“We came for a quest,” he said instead. “Preferably one that pays decent.”

Eyla raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself. “Running low?”

Lucen hesitated.

Nyari answered for him. “He bought a magic bag. Now he’s poor.”

“Flat-out broke,” Lucen muttered. “That thing cost more than my dignity.”

Eyla smirked and tapped her crystal glyph. Lucen’s Arcane Sigil shimmered into view above the desk—clean, glowing Bronze, recent quest history updated and complete.

“Lucky for you,” she said, sliding a parchment toward them, “this one’s actually decent. Caravan escort heading through the eastern ridge. There’ve been rumors of bandits tailing shipments, so the merchants requested guild presence.”

Lucen picked up the sheet. “What’s it pay?”

“Thirty-five silver base, hazard bonus if anything goes sideways.”

He did the math quickly. Not great. But for a broke Bronze? Enough.

He gave a small nod. “We’ll take it.”

Eyla stamped the bottom corner and flicked the parchment back toward him. “Try not to spend it all in one store this time.”

“I’ll try,” Lucen said.

“No promises,” Nyari added.

Falridge – Mirra’s Goods & General

The door creaked open with its usual sickly jingle as Lucen and Nyari stepped into the cluttered little shop. The scent of pine rope, parchment, and dried rations filled the space like always—packed shelves, sagging racks, and Mirra’s sharp eyes behind the counter.

She didn’t even look up.

“Bronze boy,” she said dryly. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon. Let me guess—you’re broke, but you need supplies.”

Lucen offered a sheepish grin. “Pretty much.”

Nyari yawned behind him and wandered toward the racks. “It’s an escort job. Couple days on the road.”

Mirra finally glanced up. “And you’re paying with…?”

Lucen scratched his neck. “Eyla said I could bill it to the guild.”

“Of course she did,” Mirra muttered. “That woman owes me lunch.”

Nyari returned with a roll of bandages and a pouch of powdered trail herbs. Lucen picked up a bundle of dried rations and two empty potion vials—just enough to feel prepared without pushing it.

Mirra took the items and set them on her counter. “No flint?”

Lucen shook his head. “Got fire magic. And light.”

She squinted. “So if your mana fizzles, you’re freezing.”

Nyari leaned her elbows on the counter. “If his mana fizzles, I’ll just steal his cloak. Problem solved.”

Mirra didn’t dignify that with a response. She tapped a flat stone glyph built into the counter, sending a soft pulse of mana through it. Light shimmered faintly as she swiped her hand across the panel, assigning the purchase to the guild’s expense ledger.

“There,” she said. “Thirty silver owed. Don’t forget, the guild covers it now, but I will hunt you down if you ghost on the repayment.”

Lucen took the supplies with a grateful nod. “I’ll settle it as soon as the quest’s done.”

Mirra waved a hand. “Don’t die. That bag of yours is still worth more than your life.”

Nyari smirked. “She means that affectionately.”

“No,” Mirra said. “I don’t.”

Mirra flicked her fingers toward the door. “Now go. Get paid. And don’t come back with more debts.”

Lucen slung the supply bag over his shoulder and nodded. “I’ll make it worth it.”

Nyari followed him out with a wave. “Bye, Mirra. Try not to miss us.”

The door closed behind them with a lazy jingle, the morning light spilling over Falridge’s cobblestone streets.

Falridge – Eastern Walkout

The door behind them gave one last wheeze of a jingle as it shut, and the early morning air rolled in crisp against Lucen’s face. The sky over Falridge was streaked with thin clouds, gold and blue bleeding together as the sun climbed higher.

The city was already wide awake.

Vendors tugged canvas tarps off their stalls in the upper market. A cart full of fresh bread trundled past them, trailing warmth and scent behind it. Children weaved through gaps in the crowd chasing a loose hoop. Somewhere nearby, a blacksmith’s hammer rang out like a metronome to the morning.

Lucen adjusted the strap on his satchel, the weight of the supplies pulling at his back—not heavy, but noticeable. Symbolic. Thirty silver lighter, and he felt every coin of it.

“I just paid thirty silver for dried meat and basic bandages,” he muttered.

Beside him, Nyari walked with her arms stretched behind her head, tail flicking lazily with each step. “You didn’t have to buy the good jerky.”

“I didn’t. That was the cheapest jerky.”

She snorted. “Then you’re just broke and unlucky.”

Lucen exhaled. “Mirra’s probably gonna charge me for looking at the bandages too long.”

Nyari raised a brow. “Honestly? I think she does that.”

They passed through the outer ridge square, the cobblestone giving way to beaten dirt as the buildings thinned. A few guild-affiliated adventurers sat along the ledge sharpening weapons or checking maps, nodding lazily as Lucen and Nyari walked by.

Lucen’s gaze drifted toward the city’s eastern wall. “So, how far is this caravan traveling?”

“Not far,” Nyari said. “Just out past Ashpine Hollow. Two days there and back, if nothing goes wrong.”

Lucen gave a small laugh. “So at least four days.”

“Minimum.”

The east gate came into view ahead. Past it, the land stretched open—low hills, spindly trees, and a well-worn road that curved into the distance. Just off the trail, three wagons were lined up side by side, canvas-covered and already loaded. Two drivers bustled around the lead cart while a third figure stood off to the side, arms crossed, surveying everything with a stern frown and a wind-swept coat.

Lucen slowed a little as they approached.

“That the guy?”

Nyari nodded. “Jerek. Caravan lead. Doesn’t talk much, but he’s sharp.”

Lucen’s fingers adjusted the strap on his shoulder again. “You think this’ll go smooth?”

Nyari gave a soft, amused hum. “If it does, we’re not in the right story.”

Falridge – Eastern Caravan Post

The man standing near the lead wagon turned as they approached.

He had a sharp jaw peppered with stubble and a coat faded by wind and road dust. One glove was fingerless. The other gripped a folded parchment like it had been read too many times.

“You the Bronze pair from the guild?”

Lucen nodded. “Lucen. She’s Nyari.”

The man nodded. “Jerek. Caravan lead.”

Behind him, three wagons were loaded and tied down tight—tight enough it made Lucen pause. Extra rope. Extra seals. One of the drivers was muttering while hammering a loose panel shut, a little too fast, a little too rough.

Jerek motioned them closer. “We’re heading east to Ashpine Hollow. Routine supply drop. Cloth, dried goods, tools—couple sealed crates for the outpost guild branch.”

Lucen glanced at the crates. “Anything sensitive?”

“Not by my ledger,” Jerek said. Then added, “But I wasn’t the one who packed ‘em.”

He shifted, eyes scanning the tree line for half a beat longer than necessary.

Nyari’s tail swayed behind her. “The request said bandit sightings.”

Jerek gave a short exhale through his nose. “That’s what the reports say. But truth is… no one’s actually seen them.”

Lucen tilted his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Two caravans came back light. No missing wagons. No bodies. Just… slashed cargo. Deep cuts. Like someone clawed into the crates and moved on. No tracks. No patterns. Just torn-up supplies and scared drivers who don’t have the spine to lie—so either they saw something, or they felt something.”

Nyari’s expression flattened slightly. “Bandits don’t usually slash food and leave gold untouched.”

“No. They don’t,” Jerek said. He glanced at the wagon behind them. “And one of the drivers said he saw something move between the trees last trip. Said it was tall. Wrong shape. Not a person. He left town the next day.”

Lucen’s hand rested subtly near his hip, where his sword hilt waited.

Jerek caught the gesture and gave a small nod. “I don’t know what’s out there. Maybe it’s bandits. Maybe something worse. But I get paid to move this cargo—and I don’t like delays.”

“You’ll have protection,” Lucen said.

Nyari nodded. “We’ll walk near the second wagon.”

Jerek tapped the parchment against his hand once, then turned toward the drivers. “Mount up! We move in ten!”

Eastern Ridge Road – Midday Departure

The creak of wheels and the steady clop of hooves filled the morning air as the caravan rolled out of Falridge’s eastern gate. The road ahead stretched wide and quiet, flanked by thinning grass and crooked trees that grew closer together the further they traveled.

Lucen walked beside the second wagon, his boots kicking up a soft trail of dust. The supply bag tugged at his shoulder, light but ever-present. Beside him, Nyari strolled with that same calm swagger she always had—daggers at her sides, eyes scanning the treeline.

The first hour passed without incident.

Just the steady rhythm of travel. Birds overhead. Distant rustling in the brush that always turned out to be nothing. Drivers spoke in low tones. Jerek occasionally rode back to check the wagons and give terse nods, but he didn’t say much.

Lucen liked that.

He didn’t trust jobs that started too friendly.

“You feel that?” Nyari murmured.

Lucen glanced sideways. “Feel what?”

She flicked her ears. “The quiet. Listen.”

He did.

No birds now.

No wind.

Just the creak of wheels… and that weight in the air. Like the road had swallowed its own breath.

Lucen’s hand drifted near his sword hilt.

“I thought I was just imagining it,” he said softly.

Nyari’s tail twitched. “You weren’t.”

They didn’t stop walking—but their steps were slower. More deliberate. Ahead, the road curved into Ashpine Hollow—a stretch known more for its overgrown paths and narrow passages than for actual danger.

Until recently.

Lucen’s eyes scanned the canopy above. Shadows moved between branches—not fast, but steady. Windless.

“Third wagon’s too far behind,” Nyari whispered. “If something splits the group, we won’t be able to reach it in time.”

“I’ll signal Jerek to tighten formation,” Lucen said. “We’ll ride tight through the hollow.”

They continued on. The trees began to rise around them—thick roots, moss-covered trunks, and thorny brambles lining the sides. The light overhead dimmed slightly, filtered through the dense overhead canopy.

Ashpine Hollow.

Where things went quiet.

And the wrong kind of watching started.

Ashpine Hollow – Mid-Route Stop

The wagons slowed as the trail narrowed, bark wheels crunching over crooked roots and uneven dirt. Thick moss hugged the base of every tree, and the overhead canopy let through only scraps of gray-green light. Shadows clung to the sides of the path, too dense for the hour.

Jerek raised a hand and gave a sharp whistle. “Hold up!”

The caravan creaked to a stop. Drivers stepped down to stretch legs and check wheels, but no one spoke louder than necessary.

Lucen stepped off the trail and paced a slow arc around the back of the second wagon. The dirt was soft here—almost damp. His boots sank slightly with every step.

Nyari knelt by a fallen log, one dagger unsheathed and resting across her knees. She was still, eyes scanning the hollow around them.

Lucen watched her tail twitch.

“You feel it again?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded. “Same pressure as before. Worse here.”

He glanced back toward the wagons. The forest was still. Too still.

No birds. No wind.

Only breath.

His own.

And Nyari’s.

Nothing else.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered.

Nyari stood slowly. “Neither do I.”

Jerek walked over, hands on his belt. “Ten-minute break, then we keep moving. Drivers are rattled. That’s normal. But if you two see something—say it now.”

Lucen looked him in the eye. “The forest is off. We’re being watched.”

Jerek’s jaw clenched faintly. “You see it?”

“No,” Lucen said. “That’s the problem.”

Jerek nodded once and walked off to check the front cart.

Nyari slid her dagger back into its sheath. “If something happens, we stay close to the second wagon.”

Lucen flexed his hand, then let out a slow breath. “Let’s hope nothing does.”

Then—just faintly—he felt it.

The air.

Shift.

It was like something inhaled.

The light through the trees dimmed slightly, not from cloud, but from movement. High, above the canopy.

Lucen stiffened. “Nyari.”

She was already looking up.

Then came the sound.

Not footsteps. Not hooves.

A low, heavy scrape—like claws across old bark.

Something large.

Something not human.

Lucen reached instinctively for his magic, wind building at his fingertips. “Not bandits,” he said.

Nyari’s ears twitched sharply. “Definitely not.”

Then, from somewhere deeper in the trees, a deep, almost growling breath echoed—followed by the faintest rustle of leaves… far too high off the ground.

Lucen took a slow step back, heart rising into his throat.

Lucen’s voice rang out sharp in the clearing. “Jerek! Get the wagons moving. Now!”

Jerek didn’t argue. He turned fast, barking an order to the drivers. “Double pace! Keep tight!”

The first and second wagons lurched into motion, wheels grinding through the earth as the mules picked up speed. The forest around them remained unsettlingly still, but at least something was moving.

Lucen turned to check the rear—

And froze.

The third wagon hadn’t budged.

Its driver, a young man with wide, panicked eyes, fought with the reins. One of the mules refused to move—locked in place, trembling. The wagon rocked slightly, half-caught on a dip in the road.

Nyari was already turning. “That mule isn’t scared of a squirrel.”

Lucen stepped forward, just as the shadows overhead thickened.

Then he heard it—

a slow, deep crack from above.

Branches didn’t sway.

They bent.

Something massive moved high in the canopy—gliding silently between the upper limbs. Lucen caught only glimpses of it: long limbs, plated skin, dragging motionless behind it like weightless roots.

“Lucen,” Nyari muttered, voice low. “That’s not a normal beast.”

He said nothing. Magic built instinctively at his fingertips, wind curling in soft spirals around his hand.

Then—

Snap.

A limb, too thick to be just a branch, shattered near the top of the hollow—and a hulking shape dropped like a stone.

It landed behind the third wagon with a ground-splitting thud, splintering roots and kicking up dirt. The rear of the cart lurched violently. One mule broke loose and bolted.

Lucen turned and saw it clearly now.

The thing crouched low, massive, muscle-bound and armored in bark-like plating across pale-gray skin. Its limbs were too long, curled unnaturally beneath its body like it hadn’t yet decided which direction to lunge.

It had no eyes.

No visible mouth.

Only rows of thin slits across its sides pulsing with breath.

Nyari’s eyes narrowed instantly. Her voice was tense—almost breathless. “That’s a Hollowmaw.”

Lucen didn’t look at her. “What?”

“They’re supposed to be extinct.” Her hand twitched near her dagger. “I saw one in a bestiary once. Maybe. The drawings were old. Incomplete.”

Behind them, Jerek’s voice came rough and tight. “They’re not gone. They’re just rare. They don’t come near roads unless they’re starving… or provoked.”

Lucen’s pulse kicked. The air felt heavier now. The creature hadn’t moved—but it was aware of them. Every muscle in its body was tensed. Waiting.

Waiting to see which one of them made the wrong move first.

Nyari slid a half step forward, one dagger flashing in the low light. “We can’t let it reach the caravan.”

Lucen stepped beside her. Wind circled his boots. His sword arm loosened slightly at his side.

“No,” he said. “We hold it here.”

The Hollowmaw’s claws began to slide forward, slow and smooth across the dirt—no wasted movement, no warning.

The Hollowmaw launched from its crouch like a whip uncoiling, no warning cry, no burst of breath—just violent, sudden motion. The ground cracked under its weight as it surged toward Lucen with terrifying grace.

Lucen didn’t think—he moved.

Wind exploded at his back, launching him into a sidestep. His blade sang as it cut through the air, wind magic laced into the arc. A crescent of force shot from the swing, slamming into the creature’s plated shoulder with a sharp burst of pressure.

The Hollowmaw skidded mid-charge, armor cracked along the ridge—but it didn’t fall. It twisted, limbs contorting unnaturally, then landed again with precision that didn’t belong to something that size.

Nyari came in fast from the flank, wind trailing around her ankles. She ducked under a branch, closed the distance with a blur of motion, and slashed with both daggers—striking where the plates thinned along the creature’s side.

The Hollowmaw let out a horrible, layered sound—half hiss, half screech, like pressure releasing from a broken pipe.

“Lucen!” Nyari called. “It’s fast—too fast for wide attacks!”

“Got it!” he shouted, eyes narrowing. He crouched low, kicking up a surge of wind at his feet to reposition. The Hollowmaw lunged again, front limbs slicing into the earth where Lucen had just stood.

Dirt exploded around him as he launched backward, tumbling once before planting his feet. He flung his left hand forward and unleashed a burst of fire—short and controlled, aimed for its underbelly.

The flames struck true. The creature reeled, smoke curling from blackened armor. It pivoted, not with rage, but calculation—like it was testing their range.

Lucen steadied his breathing. Think. Stay light. You’re faster.

He moved in again, blade raised, ready to strike—

—and then he tried it.

Earth.

He stomped hard, drawing power downward, willing the ground to rise. Lift. Shape. Pillar—

The mana twisted.

The dirt buckled, but the form didn’t hold.

The magic collapsed.

A dull throb ran up his leg. His knee buckled slightly from the recoil.

The Hollowmaw saw the hesitation—and moved.

Lucen barely had time to throw up a burst of wind, shielding himself with a gust that slowed the strike. Claws raked his shoulder instead of his chest, but the impact still sent him stumbling backward with a sharp grunt.

Pain flared. He hit the ground hard, rolled once, and came up gasping.

“Lucen!” Nyari was already moving.

She darted across the beast’s line of sight, drawing its focus away from him. One dagger scraped off its plated forelimb—no damage—but her second blade struck deep in the exposed joint under its leg.

Blood sprayed—thick and dark.

The Hollowmaw shrieked again, this time louder.

It spun toward her with a clawed sweep.

Lucen surged up from the dirt, drawing his sword with both hands. His limbs ached, Earth magic still unresponsive—but Wind? Wind was his.

He leapt.

Magic exploded along the edge of his blade as he brought it down in a sweeping arc—a wind-infused strike that slammed directly across the Hollowmaw’s gillline.

The beast shrieked again, staggering.

Steam hissed from its wounds. It clawed at the dirt—but its legs wobbled. It turned suddenly—instinct over pride—and fled, limbs propelling it into the trees, vanishing into the high branches with unnatural speed.

Then—silence.

Lucen stood there, chest heaving, blade still humming faintly with lingering wind magic. Blood streaked his shoulder. His fingers trembled—not from fear, but exhaustion.

Nyari exhaled beside him. “That was a Hollowmaw.”

He nodded, slowly. “You’ve read about it?”

“Bestiary sketches. Rare. Dangerous. They don’t attack unless they’re desperate.” She turned toward him. “Or angry.”

Lucen lowered his sword. “Guess we made it angry.”

She didn’t respond right away. Her gaze lingered on the trail the beast had vanished through, then dropped to the blood on his arm.

“You okay?”

Lucen winced. “Took a hit. I’ll manage.”

Nyari stepped closer, her eyes flicking down his arm. “You tried Earth, didn’t you.”

He nodded once.

She didn’t tease him.

Didn’t say anything at all.

Just reached out, brushing a bit of dirt from his sleeve.

“You held the line,” she said quietly. “That’s what mattered.”

They stood there for a few seconds in the hush of the forest. Somewhere ahead, they could hear the wagons—creaking again. Jerek was calling something out, voice faint but steady.

Lucen looked over at her, tired but focused. “We should catch up.”

Nyari turned with a faint smile. “Let’s. Before something worse shows up.”

And together, they started walking—two shadows moving through a forest that now felt just a little more real.

Author’s Note – End of Chapter 14

This chapter marked Lucen and Nyari’s first real taste of the unpredictable dangers that lie outside the structured walls of Falridge. What started as a routine Bronze-rank escort turned into something far beyond what either of them expected.

Lucen’s strengths—his wind, his fire, his blade, and his coordination with Nyari—have grown. But so have the stakes. His failed Earth cast wasn’t just a misstep. It was a reminder that strength isn’t just about what you know—it’s about knowing when you’re not ready.

Nyari, for all her teasing and swagger, stepped in without hesitation. The bond between them is sharpening with every fight, every near-miss, every shared silence after the storm.

And the Hollowmaw?

That was no ordinary monster.

Volume 2 is approaching its close—but Lucen’s journey, his magic, and the weight of what’s coming are just beginning to take shape.

Thanks for reading—and see you in Chapter 15.