Travel companion

The wheels of the carriage rumbled over uneven stones as the Veynar crest gleamed faintly in the morning light. Lucien leaned his elbow against the window frame, gaze set on the stretching horizon. The countryside blurred past in a wash of warm green and gold, yet for him the road felt heavier than it should have.

It was supposed to be Arian sitting across from him, teasing him about his restless legs or rolling his pale eyes at Lucien’s endless commentary. Instead, silence answered him. Arian’s sickly face still lingered in his memory from the day before—the fever-bright eyes, the way he tried to smile but could barely lift his head.

Lucien had wanted to wait longer, even a week, but the enrollment date loomed closer each day. If he delayed too much, he might miss the examinations entirely. And so, with only his knight, Sir Rowan, at his side, he had climbed into the carriage and departed.

“You’re quieter than usual, young master,” Rowan’s deep voice broke the rhythm of hooves. The knight rode beside the carriage on a black charger, helmet tucked under one arm. “If you keep sulking, the horses will feel it too.”

Lucien chuckled softly, though the sound was hollow. “Maybe they should sulk. We were supposed to arrive early and explore the city. Now look at me, abandoned.” He let his head thump lightly against the wooden frame. “I should have dragged him along, fever or not.”

Rowan gave him a sidelong look. “And kill the boy on the way? You’d have no companion at the Academy at all then.”

Lucien smiled faintly, conceding the point. He straightened, tapping his fingers on the hilt of the sword resting by his side. It wasn’t ceremonial—not anymore. 

For the past two years, he had trained daily in his estate’s courtyards, sweat and bruises proof that a Veynar heir should not rely solely on name or magic. His healing spells were weak, a mere glow and a mending touch, but a blade in his hand? That was something he could trust.

The days blurred into a rhythm of travel—rolling hills, scattered hamlets, nights in noble inns where people whispered and bowed at the sight of the Veynar crest.

Lucien tried to keep busy. At rest stops, he often sparred with Rowan, their blades clashing in the setting sun. The knight never held back, and though Lucien ended each match with sore wrists and a bleeding lip, he laughed it off. It was better than stewing in silence.

Still, when dusk fell and the firelight dimmed, he would find himself staring into the flames, wishing Arian were beside him.

---

On the ninth day, as they wound through a dense forest road, Lucien heard it—splintering wood, followed by a shriek that sliced through the stillness. The horses reared, snorting. Rowan raised his hand, signaling a halt.

Smoke curled above the treeline ahead. Then came the growl—low, guttural, inhuman.

“Stay in the carriage,” Rowan ordered, drawing his longsword.

Lucien was already halfway out before the knight finished speaking. “Not a chance.”

The scene that met them was chaos: a carriage overturned, wheels snapped, its once-polished wood torn apart like kindling. A hulking beast—wolf-like, but its hide shimmered with a slick, oily darkness—stood over the wreck. Its muzzle dripped red. 

Around it, smaller creatures darted, shadow-formed scavengers with gnashing teeth.

A figure stumbled from the wreckage, barely upright. Tall, slender, his hair catching a glint of pale violet in the broken light.

Lucien’s grip tightened on his blade. “Rowan, the survivor!”

The knight charged the main beast, steel flashing. Lucien sprinted toward the smaller creatures, swinging his sword in practiced arcs. One lunged; he twisted, cutting it down. Another snapped at his leg—his boot struck its jaw, and his blade followed through.

The survivor collapsed, clutching a bleeding arm. Lucien skidded to his side, driving his sword through a crawling shadow before it could bite. “Stay still,” he urged. “You’re safe now.”

The boy’s lips moved, but no sound came out. His eyes were wide, dazed, and trembling.

Lucien pressed his palm over the wound, summoning a faint green glow. The magic tingled, warmth seeping into torn flesh. It wasn’t much—it never was—but the bleeding slowed, pain easing from the boy’s face.

By the time Rowan cleaved through the last beast, the forest was littered with dissipating shadows, their bodies fading like mist. The great wolf-thing collapsed with a final shudder, its oily form melting into the earth.

Lucien exhaled, brushing hair from his damp forehead. His heart hammered, but the exhilaration of combat still thrummed in his veins. “Not bad for a warm-up,” he said, flashing a grin at Rowan with a bleeding hand. 

The knight only shook his head. “You’re reckless. Heal your hand too. Did you even noticed that ?” But there was no true reprimand in his tone.

---

The boy they rescued was quiet as they helped him to his feet. Up close, Lucien saw that his hair wasn’t merely violet—it shimmered between amethyst and pale lavender, long enough to fall past his shoulders. His clothes, though dirtied and torn, bore the crest of a family, he didn't knew about. His features were delicate, almost ethereal, but his hands trembled as he tried to brush dirt from his sleeves.

“What’s your name?” Lucien asked gently while healing his hand. 

The boy hesitated, starring at Lucien's hand before answering, voice soft. “Caelith… Caelith Elorien.”

“Elorien,” Lucien repeated with a nod. " You’ve got some luck—if we hadn’t come by…” He left the sentence unfinished, not wanting to deepen the terror still etched on Caelith’s face.

Rowan inspected the wreck. “The beasts destroyed everything. He won’t make it far alone.”

Lucien clapped his hands once, decisive. " Then he comes with us. Our carriage has space, and it seems he’s headed the same way, aren’t you?”

Caelith blinked, startled, then gave the smallest of nods.

“Good. Settled.” Lucien offered a smile, bright enough to cut through the heavy air. “Come on, Caelith. You’ve just been promoted to travel companion.”

---

The days that followed were different. Caelith sat opposite Lucien in the carriage, back straight, hands folded neatly in his lap. He spoke little, answering in short phrases when prompted, eyes often darting to the window as though unsure he deserved to meet Lucien’s gaze.

Lucien, of course, filled the silence with ease.

“So tell me, do all Eloriens grow their hair like that? Or is it just you trying to outshine the flowers?”

A faint flush crept up Caelith’s cheeks. “It… is tradition, in our branch.”

“Tradition, hm? Well, it suits you.” Lucien leaned back, arms spread along the seat. “When we reach the Academy, people will mistake you for a prince. I’ll have to stand guard to keep admirers away.”

That earned him a startled glance, quickly hidden as Caelith looked down.

Lucien grinned. “You’re shy, aren’t you? Reminds me of Arian.”

The name slipped out before he could stop it. His smile softened. “He’s my childhood friend. We were supposed to come together, but… well. He got sick.”

For a while, the rhythm of the carriage filled the silence. Then Caelith’s voice, quiet as falling rain: “You miss him.”

Lucien met his eyes. The boy’s amethyst gaze was steady for the first time, though still gentle.

“Yeah,” Lucien admitted, chuckling under his breath. “More than I expected, honestly. But you’re here now, so maybe you’ll get the honor of enduring my endless chatter.”

Something flickered in Caelith’s eyes—surprise, then the faintest hint of a smile.

---

Half a month passed, landscapes shifting from rolling plains to the salt-bitten winds of the coast. The day they reached the harbor city, Lucien leaned out of the carriage window like a child seeing the world anew.

White stone towers rose above bustling streets, flags bearing the Academy’s sigil fluttering from every archway. Students in fine clothes hurried along, servants carrying trunks, merchants shouting their wares. And beyond the harbor, the sea stretched vast and glittering, where ships ferried passengers across to an island crowned by spires that pierced the clouds.

The Academy.

Lucien’s heart leapt at the sight. He grabbed Caelith’s sleeve. “Look—it’s real. All of it. We’re finally here.”

Caelith’s gaze lingered on the distant spires, his lips parting as though to speak, but no words came. He simply nodded, eyes shimmering with awe.

Rowan dismounted, signaling the ferry. “Young master, it’s time.”

Lucien turned back to the water one last time. For a fleeting instant, his reflection in the waves shifted—his own golden eyes darkened, lips curving into a smirk he hadn’t made. A shadow, faint but undeniable.

He blinked. The image was gone. Only ripples remained.

“Lucien?” Caelith’s voice was soft.

Lucien forced a smile, shaking it off. “Coming.” He stepped toward the ferry, the sea wind tugging at his hair.

And so, without Arian by his side, Lucien crossed into the unknown, where destiny waited with open jaws.

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