They settled at a table with Brynna and two other knights, effectively creating a wall around Connor. Soon, steaming bowls of hearty vegetable stew and fresh bread arrived. Connor's appetite had returned after days of bland travel rations; he dug in appreciatively, savoring the bursts of rosemary and garlic. All the while, he couldn't help but overhear snatches of conversation swirling in the inn:
"...saw a male healer once, but he was old as sin. This one's a youth!"
"Could bring luck to the harvest, having him step on your field, they say..."
"Bet Lady Vesna's furious he's out here beyond her reach."
"Hush, don't you know Councilor Yara's right there? Keep your voice down."
He did his best to tune it out. He focused on the knights' table chatter instead—Brynna was recounting a humorous anecdote of a time her battalion accidentally camped on a spriggan mound and got chased by angry tree-spirits all night. The other knights guffawed. Connor found himself smiling genuinely at the tale. It was nice, almost normal, to sit and eat and laugh with people.
As he wiped the last of the stew with crusty bread, a figure approached the table—Mistress Rana, the merchant leader, accompanied by Thea. Both carried ledgers and a sort of fawning eagerness (at least on Rana's part).
"Pardon the interruption, Captain, Councilor," Rana began smoothly, inclining her head to Sela and Yara (who had joined them). "I wished to inform you we've concluded inventory. One crate of alchemical philters was cracked in the lamia fight and three crossbow bolts expended. I've tallied costs for requisition." She handed Yara a parchment with figures.
"Thank you," Yara said, scanning it and nodding.
Rana then cleared her throat, eyes sliding to Connor. "Additionally, if it pleases, we have arranged some fresh supplies for Mr. Connor. A gift from Halwick Trading." She snapped her fingers softly at Thea, who stepped forward and presented a small wicker basket covered with a checked cloth. "Just a sampling of our best—dried fruits, candied nuts, a flask of sweet spring wine—nourishment for the remainder of the journey."
Thea offered the basket to Connor, giving him a shy smile. He returned a polite one and accepted it. "That's very kind, thank you," he said. The contents did look tempting.
Mistress Rana smiled graciously. "It is our honor. If there is anything else you require—perhaps some silk pillows, a finer cloak?—I would be delighted to provide it, courtesy of Halwick Trading's storeroom here at the post."
Sela interjected firmly, "We have all necessary provisions, Mistress. Your generosity is noted, but unnecessary."
Rana dipped her head. "Of course, security and comfort are in capable hands." She didn't push further, but Connor could sense she was trying to ingratiate herself. Likely she still hoped to earn some favor or even just the chance to brag that she'd provided for him.
Yara, ever diplomatic, raised her mug. "To Halwick Trading's hospitality then. Thank you, Mistress Rana." Everyone drank to smooth the social waters.
Just then, one of Rana's mercenary outriders entered the inn and caught her eye. The mercenary subtly beckoned her over. Rana excused herself with a quick curtsy and moved off to confer with the woman in hushed tones near the bar. The mercenary wore a ragged leather jack and had a scar across her cheek—a hard-bitten type. As they spoke, Thea remained by Connor's side awkwardly, not sure if she was dismissed or not.
Sela gave Thea a gentle nod and smile. "Thank you, Thea. Why not go enjoy a meat pie or something? You've earned it after those honey-cakes the other night."
Thea bit her lip, glancing to Rana then back. "I should… I might need to tally the—"
Yara chuckled kindly. "We won't tell if you take ten minutes for yourself, dear. Go on."
Relieved, Thea nodded. "Thanks! I'll be right back then." She hurried off toward a stall outside that was selling meat pies, casting a last grin toward Connor.
With the merchant apprentice gone and Rana occupied, the table relaxed again. But Sela's eyes narrowed slightly as she watched the merchant and the mercenary conversing. Connor noticed her hand resting near her sheathed sword. "Is something wrong?" he murmured.
Sela murmured under her breath, "Not sure yet." She flicked her gaze to Yara, who had also noticed. The councilor gave a minute nod—a silent communication to stay alert.
Connor's stomach tightened. Was this the betrayal the outline had warned of? Mercenary outriders attempting to sell him at the trading post… It fit. But he mustn't jump to conclusions without evidence.
Rana and her mercenary exited the inn together, presumably to check something outside. A moment later, Brynna returned from checking on the horses, taking her seat with a frown. "Captain, small issue: two of the hired outriders are missing. That scrappy woman Karai and the lanky one with the crossbow, Hennie. I did a headcount to distribute feed—those two weren't there."
Sela's expression darkened. "Did you send someone to find them?"
"Already on it," Brynna said. "Likely off gambling or wenching. But seemed odd given we literally just arrived an hour ago."
Yara tapped a finger on the table, thinking. "Captain, did those two join on in Aurelia or were they local hires?"
"Local from Aurelia, recommended by the Merchants Guild," Sela said quietly. "Though my gut never liked Karai… She asked too many questions around campfires."
Connor felt a chill. Pieces were aligning. He leaned in and whispered, "Could they be working for… someone else? Lady Vesna's agents, or traffickers?"
Sela grimaced. "Possibly. The trading post has buyers who wouldn't blink at dealing in illicit human cargo if the price is right."
Yara lowered her voice, "We need to find them, quickly. And where Rana went—she left rather abruptly."
They rose from the table as one. Sela gestured for two guards by the door to come over. "Quietly start a search. Two outriders AWOL—Karai and Hennie. Detain if found." The guards nodded and slipped out.
Connor stood close to Sela, trying to appear nonchalant though his heart thudded. The last thing he wanted was another violent confrontation, especially here among civilians. But the notion of being "sold" or kidnapped here in a relatively safe haven was horrifying.
Yara suggested, "Connor, perhaps you should return to your wagon for now—just as a precaution."
He hesitated, not wanting to hide, but saw the sense. "Alright."
With Brynna and another knight escorting, they stepped back out into the midday bustle. The mood outside was cheerful; a minstrel had begun to play a fiddle tune by the well, and some travelers were dancing. It seemed impossible that danger could lurk under such a scene, yet Connor's skin prickled with unease. His aetheric sense was quiet, but his intuition told him a storm was about to break.
As they walked toward the parked convoy, Thea suddenly intercepted them, nearly colliding with Connor. She had a small hand-pie in hand, half-eaten, and looked flustered. "Oh! Sir Connor—sorry, I—"
"It's alright," he assured her, steadying her by the arm gently.
Her eyes darted around. She leaned in and whispered quickly, "Something's wrong. I overheard Mistress Rana talking with Karai behind the stables. They… they were discussing routes and payments, and I heard your name." Her freckles stood out on her ashen face. "They mentioned meeting someone by the old mill at noon."
Sela, Yara, and Brynna immediately closed in, forming a protective ring as they pretended to examine something in the basket Connor carried. "Tell us exactly what you heard," Sela murmured.
Thea swallowed. "Mistress told me to pack some extra gear onto her wagon. I went to fetch rope from the stable and… I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but they were on the other side of the wall. Karai said 'once we have the lad, we cut north through Ravenpass and meet Zahir's crew at the big dead oak by dusk.' Mistress asked if the "item" would be harmed because it better not be, and Karai laughed and said something like, 'He'll be fine, just sleeping.' I realized they meant you." She looked at Connor apologetically. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know what to do. I-I left as quietly as I could and came to find you."
Yara placed a comforting hand on Thea's shoulder. "You did the right thing, dear. And you were brave to do it."
Thea's eyes watered. "I… I always looked up to Mistress Rana. I never thought she'd— she's selling him, isn't she? Selling you," she said to Connor, voice shaking with anger or fear or both.
Connor felt oddly calm at the confirmation, maybe because he'd braced for it. "It seems so."
Sela whispered to Brynna, "Sound the silent alarm with the others. We intercept at the mill, quietly. I want Rana and Karai alive for questioning if possible."
Brynna nodded and strode off, casually looping back toward the wagons with a pretense of checking horses but undoubtedly spreading word to key personnel.
Yara fixed Thea with a gentle but firm look. "We need you to stay safe now. Go to the inn, find the Post Overseer or one of our knights named Nima. Tell her Captain Var requests she secure Mistress Rana's wagon and goods right now."
Thea sniffed, wiping her eyes, and straightened. "I will." She hesitated, then said to Connor, "Be careful. Please." He gave her a reassuring nod.
In moments, a plan snapped into action. Connor was escorted swiftly back to his wagon and told to remain inside until fetched. He obeyed, peeking through a gap in the canvas. He saw about a dozen of Sela's best fighters and a few of Brynna's knights break off in twos and threes, fanning out through the trading post strategically. They moved casually, not to arouse suspicion, but all headed in a general same direction: north, where apparently an old mill ruin stood near the edge of the settlement.
It took all of Connor's willpower not to slip out and follow. But he knew he'd be a liability in a melee right now, still not fully recovered from the lamia fight and without a good grasp on his powers. So he stayed put, heart pounding, gripping one of the candied nut jars from Rana's gift basket as if it were a stress ball.
The minutes crawled. The sounds of midday commerce and chatter continued outside, oblivious to the covert drama unfolding. Connor closed his eyes, trying to sense any magical flux that might hint at conflict. He felt faint tingles—perhaps the residual of his own anxious energy, perhaps nothing.
Then, a commotion: muffled shouts from the north side of the trading post, the unmistakable clash of metal. A few screams of alarm from bystanders. It was happening.
Connor's hand tightened around the jar so hard he heard the pottery crack. He set it down, forcing himself to breathe. He hated this waiting, hated being helpless in a box while others risked themselves for his sake.
At last, the wagon door was yanked open. Nima's freckled, sweaty face popped in. "It's alright, sir. We've got them."
He exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. They escorted him out. As he approached the scene by the mill—an old stone foundation overgrown with ivy—he saw Sela's troops returning with prisoners in tow.
Mistress Rana, usually so composed, was limping and disheveled, her dress torn at the sleeve, hands bound with rope. Her eyes burned with anger and fear. Karai, the scarred mercenary, was similarly bound and cursing under her breath, a bruise blooming on her cheek. Two more of Rana's lackeys were also captive, one with an arrow sticking out of her calf (Zara's handiwork likely, as the monster-huntress was present twirling a second arrow casually).
They were all marched to a cleared area behind the inn, away from the gathering curious eyes, to be questioned. The trading post overseer and a few local guards had shown up, bristling at trouble in their town, but Yara diplomatically eased them by promising a tidy resolution and compensation for any damage.
Connor stood at Sela's side as she confronted Rana. He felt oddly detached, looking at the woman who had fed him and flattered him days on end, now revealed as a conspirator. There was a pang of hurt—he'd not considered her a friend, but the betrayal still stung.
Rana, seeing him, spat at the ground. "This is absurd. I've done nothing wrong! You attack me and my people without cause—"
"Cut the pretense," Yara said coldly. "We know you plotted to kidnap Council ward Connor and sell him to the highest bidder, likely that Zahir cartel scum out of the desert. We've already confiscated the sedatives you hid in your wagon and found the message cylinder with instructions from your buyers."
Rana's face blanched at that. Then she sneered. "So what? A man's life is wasted coddled by you lot. I'd have given him a purpose among those who know how to use such… assets." Her eyes flicked to Connor, and they were full of contempt now, devoid of the sycophantic shine from before. "All men ever do is sit in cages like pets. At least I'd have gotten rich improving that."
Sela moved so fast, Connor barely saw; she seized Rana by the front of her dress and yanked her forward, nearly off her feet. "You misguided wretch," Sela growled inches from her face. "He is a person, not a horse to trade, not an object for your coffers."
Rana laughed bitterly. "Tell yourself that, Captain, but you've had him locked up this entire trip, haven't you? You think he's free? You think he's not an object to the Council? Don't play saint—at least I admit what he is in this world. A commodity. And commodities fetch high prices."
Sela's fist drew back; for a moment Connor thought she might strike Rana. But she closed her eyes, mastering herself, and released the woman with a shove. "Take them away. Overseer, you can decide if they're held here for a circuit judge or taken to Asterholt for trial. The charges are kidnapping, treason, endangerment of a protected male—"
Karai snorted. "Protected male. Hell of a title."
One of Brynna's knights cuffed Karai hard. "Silence."
The overseer, a no-nonsense older woman, nodded. "We have a stockade. We'll keep 'em till the next magistrate swing or send 'em with your convoy if you prefer, Captain."
Yara conferred with Sela quietly. Given time constraints, they decided the convoy would take the prisoners to Asterholt, where the Council could make an example of them. Plus, leaving them at the trading post risked local bribery or escape. The overseer agreed and promised to send statements of the events.
As the captives were led off, Mistress Rana gave a final glance toward Thea, who stood a short distance behind Connor. "Ungrateful little brat," Rana hissed at her. "After all I taught you—"
Thea glared back, tears on her cheeks. "You taught me numbers and trade, ma'am. Not cruelty. I chose what's right." Her voice shook but held firm.
Rana had no retort, and the guards hauled her away with the others, who were now sullenly silent.
Connor let out a long breath. It was over. A strange calm settled in him. He looked at Thea, who was trembling now that the confrontation was done. He went to her and gently put an arm around her shoulder. "Thank you, Thea," he said softly. "You likely saved me from a terrible fate."
She bit her lip and nodded, suddenly overcome. "I couldn't let them hurt you. Or take you. That wasn't—" she hiccuped a sob she'd been holding—"that wasn't the adventure I wanted."
He realized she too had been swept up in this journey's promise, probably hoping to see wonders and do good, not witness betrayal and violence. "It's alright. You did brave and right by yourself," he comforted.
Yara approached, smiling kindly at Thea. "Miss Thea, the Council will remember your deed. You've shown exceptional loyalty and courage. If you'd like, I'll personally recommend you for a position in Asterholt's trade guild—under far better leadership than your former mistress."
Thea's eyes widened. "Truly? I… thank you, my lady. That would be—" She wiped her face, trying to regain composure. "I'd appreciate that greatly."
Sela gave Thea a nod of respect as well. "Well done, apprentice."
Yara then turned to Connor with a rueful smile. "That's twice now on this journey you've faced mortal peril and come out alright. Starting to think you might actually have luck on your side."
Connor rubbed his temple. The headache was returning after all the stress. "If this is luck, it's the exhausting kind," he quipped, earning a laugh from the group.
The mood in the convoy by late afternoon was a mix of somber and victorious. They'd rooted out the snake in their midst, but at cost of trust. The mercenaries not involved were nonetheless eyed warily now by knights and Watch. Two of them decided to quit the caravan at Havenmoor, offended by the suspicion (or perhaps just unnerved). No one stopped them.
The rest reorganized. Thea, having no loyalty or future with Halwick Trading now, was invited to join the convoy officially as an assistant quartermaster under Yara's wing for the remainder of the trip. She eagerly accepted, happy to be free of Rana.
That evening, the post hosted a communal dinner for the convoy and locals—a gesture of goodwill and to dispel the sour taste of the foiled kidnapping. Connor found himself seated at a long table with Sela, Brynna, Yara, and the local overseer. Many toasts were raised to "catching the traitors" and "safe travels onward." More than a few eyes lingered on him with curiosity and admiration. He tried to handle it graciously, recalling Marisela's etiquette lessons: polite nods, modest words, deflect praise to others.
As dusk settled, the convoy began preparations to move on. They decided to cover a bit more distance under the cool of evening and camp just beyond the post, to put it behind them. The prisoners were secured in one wagon under heavy guard.
Before leaving, Connor stepped aside to look back at Havenmoor. Lanterns glowed warmly in windows, silhouettes of people moving about in their routines. A normalcy he longed for, but which seemed ever out of reach. Perhaps one day, if he earned that freedom, he could travel incognito, just a face in a tavern with no fuss.
As if reading his thoughts, Sela came up beside him. "Penny for them?"
He smiled faintly. "I was thinking how nice it'd be to just be… nobody important. To walk into a place like this and not cause a stir."
She nodded. "I imagine it would. And I hope you get that, someday."
"In Asterholt, maybe I can be less conspicuous," he mused.
"Likely not," Sela chuckled. "But we'll see what we can do."
They resumed the journey as twilight wrapped the world in purple and silver. Connor rode in Sela's wagon again, with Thea joining them as Yara's assistant, chattering softly about inventory counts. The atmosphere felt lighter despite what had happened, as if the group had become more tight-knit by overcoming the treachery.
That night's camp was uneventful, and Connor slept deeply, exhaustion finally catching up.
Chapter 9: The Titan's Roar
Gray dawn light filtered through low clouds as the convoy wound into the foothills of the Silverspine Mountains. The air carried a metallic chill, hinting at higher altitude. It was day eight of travel, and Asterholt was only two days away by their estimates. Spirits were cautiously high; the worst, it seemed, was behind them.
Connor spent the morning perched at the front of Sela's wagon, the heavy canvas rolled up to let him watch the road ahead. He marveled at the changing landscape. Sheer granite cliffs jutted on either side at times, funneling them through narrow passes. Waterfalls from snowmelt cascaded down mossy rock faces, their mist refreshing on the breeze. The path grew steeper and more rugged, causing wagons to lurch and creak on the incline.
By midday, they reached a plateau known locally as Wind's Corner—an exposed stretch where the mountain winds howled almost constantly. There they paused to let the beasts rest and to scout the upcoming route through the final mountain pass. Connor stepped out with Sela to stretch his legs and gaze upon the valley below. The view was breathtaking: rolling forests giving way to the plains they'd crossed, the thread of the road winding back toward distant Aurelia.
He felt a pang of both pride and disbelief. They had come so far. Through storms, monsters, and human treachery, they had persevered. And he had come far too—from a frightened newcomer to someone who had started to make a difference, however small.
"You've grown quieter these last hours," Sela noted as she approached, handing him a tin cup of hot tea. "Tired?"
"Not exactly," Connor said, sipping. The tea was laced with peppermint and something invigorating. "Just… thinking. About everything."
She nodded, leaning on the wooden fence that marked the overlook's edge. "It's a lot to process. This world has thrown more at you in a month than some face in years."
He traced a finger along the cup's rim. "I keep wondering: why me? Why am I here, doing these things? Some accident of fate… or something more? At times I feel like I'm living someone else's story."
Sela looked at him thoughtfully. "I can't answer the cosmic why. But I know that in the short time I've known you, you've shown more adaptability and courage than many who were born to this life. Maybe fate knew what it was doing putting you here." She offered a small smile. "Or maybe it's all random and we just make the best of it. Either way, you've saved our hides and we'll get you safe to the end."
Connor returned the smile. He realized he'd come to trust Sela implicitly—a trust forged in fire and danger. Having an ally like her made all the difference.
The horn signal came that the scouts had returned. Brynna jogged up the road toward them, armor clanking lightly. "Captain! The path ahead… it's partially blocked. Looks like a recent rockslide in the pass. We can clear it, but it'll take time, and we'll be funnelled in tight."
Sela frowned. "Any sign of instability or more slides?"
"Hard to say. The area's geothermally active—steam vents and such around. Could be naturally caused, but…" Brynna lowered her voice, "the scouts felt watched. Like something big was in the vicinity. No visual, but tracks of smashed trees along one slope."
Connor felt a prickle. Stone-back Titan, came to mind from Yara's mentions. He saw Sela and Brynna exchange a knowing look.
"Alright," Sela said. "Double the perimeter guard. Keep our artillery ready at the rear where they can angle shots up. We'll clear the slide quickly but carefully. If something comes… form circle and hold until it's down."
Brynna nodded and went to relay orders.
Connor's mouth had gone dry. "This… something big. You think it's the Titan, don't you?"
Sela grimly checked her sword's edge. "Possibly. There's been reports of a Titan in these highlands, yes. Pray it's moved on. If not… we'll manage."
He knew their plan: circle wagons, use alchemic artillery and rune-lances to bring it down, if possible. Titans were rare giant beasts with rocky armored hides—some said born of earth elementals. Difficult to kill, extremely strong.
Connor swallowed. Part of him wanted to volunteer help, but what could he really do against a mountain that walks? And he remembered his promise to focus on surviving and not be a reckless hero.
The convoy proceeded into the pass. It was a narrow defile between towering cliffs. Loose stones crunched underwheel, evidence of the slide. Sure enough, not far in, they came upon a massive pile of rubble blocking half the road—boulders and debris that had tumbled from above.
Work crews, mostly the strong shield-maidens and mercs, began prying and shifting the smaller rocks, setting up winch-pulleys to drag larger ones aside. It was arduous but doable. Connor, standing by the wagon, found himself unconsciously attuning his senses, scanning the heights.
He felt it before he heard or saw it—a deep thrumming in the aether, like a low electric hum pressing on his ears. His breath caught.
Then a shout: "Movement up top!"
All eyes snapped upward. On the clifftop silhouetted against the overcast sky, a shape loomed. It was gargantuan—at least five times the height of a person. At first it could be mistaken for part of the mountain itself, a craggy outcrop. But then it moved, stepping forward with a grinding of stone.
Connor's heart thundered. The Titan was a monstrous humanoid figure seemingly carved from the mountain—its skin rough granite, its back covered in jagged protrusions like a shell of boulders (hence stone-back). Two glowing ember-like eyes set in a head without a neck. It opened a maw and bellowed a sound that was half roar, half avalanche.
"Titan! Form up!" Sela roared.
The convoy exploded into action. Wagons were pulled tight, forming a makeshift circle in the widest part of the pass they could manage. Knights and guards raised weapons. The artillery crew cranked their field cannon, aiming it upward.
The Titan, spurred by either territorial rage or hunger, began its descent. It didn't climb so much as step off the edge of the cliff—sliding down the slope with thunderous impacts as it used its weight to break its fall, each step shaking the ground.
It reached the base of the cliffs with alarming speed, now only a hundred yards from the convoy. Up close, it was even more terrifying—four arms, each ending in a massive stony club-like fist, and a barrel chest that glowed faintly with cracks of inner heat. It roared again, the force of it like a gale that sent dust flying.
"Hold... hold…" Brynna ordered her archers, waiting for optimum range.
The Titan lumbered forward, surprisingly fast for something so huge, each footstep quaking. When it was fifty yards out, Sela gave the command: "Loose!"
The alchemists fired the cannon with a boom, launching a volatile sphere that struck the Titan's shoulder and exploded in a brilliant flash. Simultaneously, archers fired bolts inscribed with shatter runes that detonated on impact, and knights braced spears crackling with energy.
The valley echoed with blasts and the Titan's enraged bellows. Chunks of stone chipped off its body where hits landed, but it barely slowed. It swung one mighty arm and hurled a boulder—likely a piece of itself or the ground—straight at the convoy.
"Look out!" someone screamed. The boulder sailed in a high arc. Most scattered, but one young squire—a girl of maybe sixteen carrying a quiver to an archer—froze in its path, eyes wide.
Connor's heart lurched. In that instant, time seemed to slow. The boulder, the size of a barrel, tumbled end over end. The squire, petrified, was directly beneath where it would land. Others were too far to grab her in time.
Without thinking, Connor moved. He flung out his hand and reached with his power toward the falling mass. Unlike the lamia, this was even larger, heavier—an entire weight of rock. But something in him, some reserve he didn't know he had, surged. Perhaps it was the mathematical clarity of its trajectory, his mind perceiving angles and vectors instinctively. Perhaps sheer adrenaline. He visualized catching the boulder in a giant invisible hand and pushing its course aside.
His muscles tensed, his teeth bared in effort. At the last possible second, the boulder's path curved—just a little, but enough that instead of crushing the squire, it crashed into an empty wagon behind her. The wagon exploded in splinters.
Connor gasped, dropping to one knee as a wave of vertigo punched him. Warm wetness trickled from his nose—he wiped and saw blood. The world tilted, but through blurred vision he saw the squire unharmed, scrambling away in shock.
Then he heard Zara's voice near him, astonished: "He deflected it… Saints alive."
There was no time to reflect. The Titan was still advancing, though now with one arm hanging oddly from the cannon blast. It slammed into the ring of wagons, swatting one aside like a toy. Screams rang out.
But as it breached the circle, the convoy fought back fiercely. Brynna led a trio of knights who dashed under the Titan's swing to slice at its legs with rune-blades, leaving glowing cracks. Zara fired bolt after bolt at its eye sockets. Sela donned a gauntlet with an etched sigil and from it shot a focused beam of white-hot energy that lanced into the creature's chest, causing it to recoil.
The Titan tried to smash downward with both upper fists, but one fist met a shimmering magical shield—Zara had thrown a barrier sigil in its path—and the other glanced off a wagon's reinforced frame (the wagon Connor had been in, ironically, warded to resist attack).
Staggered by the combined assault, the Titan gave one last groan of pain. It teetered, its rocky knees buckling as the runic energy from the knights' blades ate away at its joints. With a thunderous crash, the giant fell backward, collapsing onto the slope from which it came. The ground rumbled with aftershocks.
"Don't let up!" Sela yelled. The artillery crew fired a second shot directly into the downed Titan's midsection. An explosion spouted flame and debris. When the smoke cleared, the Titan lay still, a gaping molten crack in its torso oozing magma-like ichor.
Silence fell save for the ragged panting of the survivors and the crackle of a small brush fire from the blasts (quickly being doused by a few quick-thinkers with dirt and water).
They had done it. The Titan was slain.
Connor, head still spinning, felt strong arms help him up—It was the young squire he'd saved, her face streaked with dust and tears. "S-sir, are you alright? You saved me, I think, you—"
He managed a nod, though he felt like he might faint. "I'm okay. You?"
She let out a half-sob, half-laugh. "Yes… thanks to you." Impulsively, she hugged him, then remembered herself and stepped back, bowing deeply. "I owe you my life. A-all of us do," she stammered, as others began to gather around.
Connor became aware that many were looking at him. Not just checking on him, but looking at him with a kind of awe. He'd been at the center of two miracles today: the warning of the lamias days before, and now visibly diverting a boulder mid-air. It was getting harder to downplay his role as mere luck.
Sela pushed through the crowd, relief evident in her eyes when she saw him standing. "Connor." She clasped his shoulders. "That was…" She shook her head as if in disbelief, then simply pulled him into a brief, fierce embrace. "Thank you," she whispered near his ear.
He felt heat rise to his cheeks but patted her back. "I couldn't let her die."
Sela released him, nodding. By now Brynna and others were assessing the aftermath. Miraculously, no one had been killed. A few broken bones, several bruises and cuts, one wagon destroyed and two damaged, but all lives intact.
As medics attended the injured, a cheer suddenly rose from a cluster of mercenaries and squires. "Three cheers for Sir Connor, the Titan-tumbler!" one hollered.
Connor cringed at the moniker, but the cheer took on life. People were elated and needed to celebrate something. The cry was picked up around: "Titan-tumbler! Omen's luck! Hurrah!"
He wanted to protest that it was everyone's victory, not his alone, but his voice would be lost in the adulation. Sela gave him a sympathetic half-smile. "Just smile and wave," she teased quietly.
So he managed a faint wave, and the crowd whooped. It was absurd, really—he'd barely done anything, just nudged a rock. The women had felled the beast. But he understood; symbolism sometimes mattered more than facts. In their eyes, his presence truly had brought fortune: no casualties against a Titan was no small feat.
As the adrenaline faded, Connor's nosebleed stopped, but a pounding headache set in. He slumped on a rock while others cleared what remained of the slide (ironically, the Titan's fall had also knocked aside much of the rubble, inadvertently clearing the road).
Zara passed by and placed something heavy and cool in his hands. It was one of the Titan's smaller stone scales from its back—a grey fragment the size of a plate. "For you," she said with a rare grin. "Trophy. Proof that we fought a mountain and lived."
He managed a smile. "Thanks. I'll treasure it." It was ridiculously heavy; he set it down beside him, doubting he'd carry it all the way, but touched by the gesture.
By late afternoon, they were moving again, limping out of the pass and down into the final valley before Asterholt. Connor rode atop a wagon next to Thea for fresh air, swaddled in a blanket as he recovered. Thea was bubbling over with recounting the sight of the Titan fight—she had watched from a safe distance, thankfully. He mostly just listened and nodded.
Finally, as the sun dipped low, the walls of Asterholt came into view. Tall and made of black stone, they encircled a city perched against the mountains, with towers at intervals flying royal banners. Connor's heart quickened at the sight of destination. Smoke rose from chimneys within, and even from here he heard the faint clang of an evening bell.
A small delegation rode out to greet them on the road—a unit of Asterholt's city guard, all women of course, led by a silver-haired officer. Upon seeing the convoy and learning of its trials (word spread ahead via communication crystals, perhaps), she personally welcomed Connor: "It is our honor to receive you, Sir Connor. Asterholt stands ready to protect you."
As the gates opened and he passed under the portcullis, Connor felt a flood of emotions: relief, triumph, fatigue, anxiety for what lay ahead. The fortress-city was smaller than Aurelia but bustling. Cobblestone streets paved the way, lined with sturdy timber-and-stone houses. People paused and stared as the convoy entered—news had clearly preceded him here as well. Whispers of "the man from the capital" and "male mage?" swirled. Some cheered (likely stories of the Titan fight already embellished). Connor only half-registered the fanfare.
They brought him to Asterholt's keep where quarters were prepared. In a grand torch-lit hall, after brief formalities, he was finally left in relative peace with Sela, Yara, and Marisela—who to his surprise was present, having arrived by an earlier airship once the city was deemed safe.
Marisela's warm hug nearly brought him to tears; he hadn't realized how desperately he missed her comforting presence. She fussed over him, scolding softly about how thin he'd gotten, how pale. He endured it with a grateful grin.
As night fell, Connor settled onto a real bed in the keep's guest wing—a luxury after days of cots and wagon floors. Clean linen, a mattress that didn't sway with every bump. He exhaled, staring at the stone ceiling engraved with protective sigils.
He was alive. The journey was over, but in truth, a larger journey lay ahead—life in Asterholt, forging his path further, uncovering more of his magic, navigating the politics anew. But he felt more prepared now. Hardened, if gently, by the road of iron petals that he had traveled.
He thought of Thea and Zara and even that young squire—all who had now gravitated toward him in friendship after starting as strangers or even foes. That gave him hope. He thought of Sela's unwavering support and Marisela's love. That gave him strength.
In the quiet of his room, he took out his journal by lamplight and wrote a few lines, summarizing the journey for himself: Ten days, two ambushes, one betrayal, one Titan, countless lessons. I have seen what this world truly is beyond the city: beautiful, perilous, and alive. I have been a pawn, a cargo, a lucky charm… and perhaps a friend, even a hero to some. But I remain myself, Connor. And I won't waste this chance fate gave me.
He underlined that last sentence. Then closed the journal.
As he blew out the lamp and lay back, he felt the faint tingle of Asterholt's protective wards hum through the stone walls—a comforting, thrumming lullaby of security. Outside, the night watch called the all's-well.
Connor closed his eyes. In his mind, he didn't see lamia fangs or Titan fists in that moment, but rather the faces of those he had come to care for on this journey. And he knew they would face whatever came next together.
He drifted to sleep, a quiet blade being sharpened for the trials to come, not yet swung—but no longer merely an echo in a foreign world. He was finding his voice, step by step, on the road of iron petals that had led him here.
Act 2: Walls of Black Glass
Chapter 10: Sanctuary's Price
Cool recycled air whispered through hidden vents, carrying the sterile bite of alcohol and crushed lavender. Electric blue lumen-strips hummed overhead, their light refracted in the polished obsidian floor tiles. The scent of ozone clung to every breath Connor drew, as if the very walls were charged with magic. Far above, a narrow window of black glass leaked in a blade of morning light. In the distance, something metallic groaned—a lift descending deep within the fortress heart of Asterholt's citadel.
Connor inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Only yesterday, he had thought the velvet confines of Lilygarden House stifling; now these endless black corridors promised a sanctuary even more unyielding. He had traded one gilded cage for another—this one built of shadowed glass and unwavering vigilance.
What will this sanctuary cost me? The question pulsed in his mind with each echo of his bootsteps. Am I a guest here, or just a prisoner with fancy new bars?
Ahead of him, Captain Sela Var's uniform coat swished with each stride. The warrior's posture was ramrod straight, her hand never far from the pommel of her saber. She led him through a junction where an archway opened into a broad rotunda lined with statues of solemn-faced matriarchs. At the center, a fountain burbled softly, perfuming the air with mineral tang. Asterholt's fortress had moments of beauty, it seemed—though even the water sparkled with contained energy, outlined by faint azure runes around the basin.
"Almost there, Connor," Sela said without turning, her voice low and reassuring. The echo off the high ceiling lent her words a ghostly timbre. She glanced over her shoulder to offer a brief, tight smile. Her steel-grey eyes were softer than usual, as if sensing his unease.
He mustered a return smile and squared his shoulders. "I am ready," he replied, and hoped it was true. The Council's top med-mages were expecting him for a full examination. Another test, another room full of watchful eyes. He could still feel the thrum of wards under his skin from yesterday's portal transfer—if he closed his eyes, he might still be back in the convoy, wind howling and monsters chasing the armored transports across the night. Connor shook the memory away and quickened his pace to match Sela's.
They reached a set of double doors wrought from dark steel and engraved with interlocking sigils. The sigils glowed faintly as Sela pressed her palm against the access plate. With a hydraulic hiss, the doors parted. A wave of antiseptic heat rolled out. Inside, crystals set along the ceiling bathed the infirmary in white light.
Two figures awaited them: robed healers in the emerald trim of the Medicinal Guild. Both women bowed the moment Connor crossed the threshold. "Welcome, Sir Connor," said the elder of the pair, her voice musical and overly polite. Fine wrinkles crinkled at the corners of her eyes as she straightened. "I am Magister Ilse, chief aetherician. We are honored to tend to you today."
The younger healer, little more than a girl a few years Connor's junior, practically quivered with nerves as she carefully laid out instruments on a tray. Connor flushed despite himself. He still wasn't used to it—the deference, the awe with which every stranger regarded him here. In Aurelia, Marisela's gentle fussing had been one thing, but this was on another level entirely. An entire city's worth of expectation weighed on him now.
"Thank you. I… appreciate your help," he managed, keeping his tone gentle. He'd learned that much at least: a kind voice and a soft smile went a long way toward easing their skittishness.
At his side, Sela dipped her head in a courteous nod to the medics. "Magister. Novice." She acknowledged each in turn. "I will remain here at a respectful distance." Unspoken was the promise in her stance—that she would allow the examination, but woe betide anyone who overstepped with her charge.
Magister Ilse gestured to a padded reclining chair surrounded by softly whirring apparatus. "Please, be comfortable, Sir Connor. We're simply going to run a diagnostic spell sequence and a physical check-up. Nothing to worry about." Her tone was warm, professionally calm, yet the way her eyes darted to the glowing sigils on his forearms betrayed curiosity.
Connor approached the chair. The cushions hissed as he sat; it was surprisingly soft, molding to his shape. Leather straps hung unused at the sides, and he wondered if those were standard or a precaution specifically for him. The hum of nearby thaumaturgic devices tickled at his senses—a faint prickle across his skin, like static electricity dancing just above the surface.