The forest thinned as Emberroad unspooled before them, a winding path marked by faintly glowing embers embedded in the stone and soil. Though the air shimmered with a persistent, unnatural warmth, the land itself bore no signs of burning—only the eerie glow that gave the road its name. They had reached the halfway mark between Greystead and the capital, and though the journey was far from over, a sense of transition hung in the air.
Kieran glanced toward Maera, who had been uncharacteristically quiet. She rode with sharp eyes and a firmer grip on the reins, her body tense with anticipation. Beside him, Ysolde adjusted the strap of her pack and stared down the road.
"We're close to Emberwatch Crossing, aren't we?" she asked.
Maera nodded. "About an hour out. There's an outpost there. A good place to rest before the final stretch. If things are as quiet as they should be."
Kieran felt a familiar flicker in his chest—the now-constant presence of his mana pulsing within. He had practiced again during their last brief stop, but the fire inside him remained wild. He had managed to summon flickers and sparks with more intent now, yet the sensation was still like grasping smoke laced with lightning.
As they rounded a bend, the ruined remnants of an old monument came into view. A half-buried stone pillar jutted from the roadside, its carvings long worn by heat and time. Kieran slowed, letting his gaze linger.
Ysolde noticed. "What is it?"
He shook his head. "Just... feels like we've crossed a boundary." The words settled on his tongue with more weight than he expected. Kieran couldn't explain it precisely, but something in the air felt denser, charged—as though the world had subtly shifted underfoot. It wasn't just the change in scenery or Maera's warning about politics and scrutiny. It was something deeper, something pressing at the edge of his senses, the way his mana occasionally stirred without cause. As if some unseen presence had taken notice the moment they passed the worn stone marker.
Maera turned in the saddle. "We have. Beyond this point, we're in territory under tighter scrutiny. Less wilderness, more politics. More eyes."
They pressed forward. The road widened, and soon, the shape of Emberwatch Crossing came into view: a fortified waystation with stone walls and a tall watchtower rising from its center. Smoke curled from a cooking fire within. Several travelers' wagons were parked outside the gates.
As they approached, a pair of guards stepped forward, hands resting casually on the hilts of their weapons. One of them, a grizzled man with a notched brow, raised a hand.
"State your business."
Maera leaned forward. "Traveling under the banner of House Ashveil. We seek rest and passage."
The man blinked, then gestured to the other guard. "Check the rolls."
Kieran fidgeted slightly. His fingers brushed the hilt of his father's sword beneath his cloak. He could feel the air tighten around him—like the moment before a storm. Not danger, necessarily. But something significant.
After a few moments, the second guard nodded. "They're listed. Go on through."
The gates opened with a groan, and the trio rode into Emberwatch Crossing. The courtyard within was bustling—merchants, travelers, a few horses tied to posts. A tired-looking innkeeper waved them toward the stables.
Once their horses were settled, they made their way into the outpost's main hall. The scent of roasted meat and old wood filled the space. A large hearth dominated the far wall, and a handful of rough-hewn tables surrounded it.
Maera found them a seat in the corner, with a clear view of the doors. She ordered a simple meal for the group, and once the server had gone, she lowered her voice.
"We rest here tonight. Tomorrow, we make for the capital. We keep a low profile. No use drawing attention."
Ysolde nodded. "Do you think word of what happened could have reached this far?"
Maera frowned. "Possibly. But we won't know how far the rot has spread until we get closer."
Kieran stared into the fire for a long moment, his thoughts drifting to the prophecy. To the flame that answered his call. To the invisible script burned into the stone and into him. He could feel the road pulling him forward.
But for now, the fire was warm, and the food would come soon. The moment was calm. And he would use it to prepare for what lay ahead.
Because calm never lasted long.
As the evening wore on, Emberwatch Crossing's hall filled with the sounds of laughter and music. A few traveling minstrels began to play stringed instruments near the hearth, and patrons raised mugs in time with the lively rhythm. The clatter of dice and cheers from a nearby table added to the bustle.
Kieran leaned back slightly in his seat, watching the scene unfold. There was something comforting in the normalcy of it all. The tavern felt alive—full of people with stories, with destinations, with futures.
Ysolde tapped her fingers in time with the music, occasionally humming along to a tune she recognized. Maera, though still alert, allowed herself a faint smile at a particularly bawdy verse sung by one of the performers.
They ate well—roasted pork with herb-crusted potatoes and a sweet, spiced cider that warmed Kieran's stomach. The taste was a small luxury after the days on the road.
By the time the fire had burned low and the crowd began to thin, Kieran felt the first real pangs of fatigue. The comfort of the warm room, the full belly, and the safety—however temporary—lulled him into a rare state of peace.
But still, somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt that quiet pull. The road ahead waited. The truth waited.
And his fire—ever burning—would not let him forget.
Just as they were about to call it a night, a boy about Kieran's age approached their table. His cloak was travel-stained, and his eyes, bright and curious, flicked between them.
"Mind if I sit?" he asked, gesturing to the empty seat beside Kieran. "I couldn't help but overhear—are you all headed to the capital too?"
Maera glanced at him, then at the others. She nodded slowly. "We are. And you are?"
"Thorne," the boy said, plopping down with a grin. "Thorne of Eastmere. I'm on my way to take the academy entrance exam."
Ysolde's brow lifted in surprise. "Same here."
Kieran offered a faint smile. "You're traveling alone?"
Thorne shrugged. "I've got an escort outside. My uncle's a merchant—we parted ways here." He looked around the tavern with open wonder. "Place like this sure beats campfires."
They shared a small laugh, and the mood lightened. For a brief while longer, they chatted about the road ahead, about the academy, and what awaited them all in the capital.
Though the fire still burned in Kieran's veins, for the moment, he let the warmth of company and the comfort of conversation ease the weight on his shoulders.