It was the night of the morning they had started their journey. The cold hung heavy in the air, biting through the layers of cloth and leather that Callan wore. He had seen wonders of nature with his own eyes for the first time: frozen rivers that glittered like glass in the pale light, dark woods stretching endlessly into the horizon, and animals—wild creatures who roamed the snow-covered earth, their breaths visible in the crisp air.
Despite the harshness of the journey, there was a sense of awe that filled him as he rode. He didn't have a horse of his own, of course—he was still too new, too unimportant in the eyes of the inquisitors for such luxuries. Instead, he rode in the back of Galar, the towering figure whose broad shoulders and iron-clad presence seemed to absorb the cold itself. The journey was uncomfortable for Callan, to say the least. The snow whipped at his face, the wind biting his skin, and his posture was awkward as he clung to Galar's armor. It was a little embarrassing, but no less exciting.
The road was treacherous, narrow and winding, the frozen landscape stretching out endlessly before them. The stench of damp earth, the sound of hooves on the hard, frozen ground, and the quiet crunch of snow underfoot were the only sounds that accompanied them. There were no travelers on this road—just the inquisitors, Callan, and the vast, untouched wilderness.
But despite the discomfort, the cold, and the isolation, a sense of purpose simmered in Callan's chest, warming him more than any crackling fire could. His life in the monastery felt distant now, like a dream fading with the rising sun. He had left behind the walls that had kept him safe, sheltered, and ignorant for so long. This was real—this journey, this mission. It was dangerous, and he could feel the weight of the ring at his finger, but there was something exhilarating in the unknown. It was as if the world outside the monastery was finally opening up to him, even if he was still unsure of what he would find.
When they finally made camp, night had swallowed the woods whole, leaving only the sound of distant wind threading through the trees and the soft, rhythmic snort of the horses tethered nearby. Callan eased himself down beside the fire the inquisitors had built, the ache in his legs flaring sharp as he stretched them out. He had never ridden so far, never clung so long to another man's back, and now every joint in his body throbbed in quiet protest.
Rhenar had disappeared into the trees not long after they halted, and returned not much later with a deer slung over his shoulder—lean, frost-laced, its eyes wide open and glassy. Neither of the men had said a word during the skinning. The blood steamed faintly as it hit the snow, and soon the scent of meat and smoke drifted into the air.
They worked with methodical precision. While the stew boiled in a blackened pot hung over the fire, the two inquisitors pitched a tent with practiced ease. Every movement was efficient, every tool already in reach. Callan watched quietly, his breath curling in front of him in soft clouds.
When they sat down to eat, it was in silence.
Callan held the warm bowl between his hands, grateful even as the heat burned his fingers a little. The meat was tough, the broth thin, but he hadn't tasted anything so satisfying in years. He ate in silence, just like them, sneaking glances when he thought they wouldn't notice. There was something in the way they stared—not at the fire, not at each other, but at nothing at all. As if their minds lived somewhere far off, in places colder than this forest, deeper than the night around them.
He didn't dare speak. Not unless they spoke first.
So he ate, and watched, and listened to the quiet, broken only by the occasional crack of the fire or the snap of a twig somewhere in the trees beyond.
Callan stood there for a moment longer, clutching the hunting knife like a lifeline, the unspoken rejection hanging heavier than the night air. He glanced down at the blade in his hand, then quietly returned to his place by the fire. He sat with stiff limbs, careful not to make noise, folding into himself in the space between the two armored men.
He didn't speak.
The flames crackled softly, casting flickering light against the snow-glazed trunks around their camp. The shadows loomed tall and quiet, swaying with the wind, whispering like they knew secrets Callan didn't. He watched the smoke drift up into the dark sky, felt the ache in his legs and back slowly settle into a dull, constant throb. It was cold again. The kind that found every seam of his clothes, every breath he drew. The warmth he had felt riding behind Galar was fading now, replaced by the low hum of exhaustion and doubt.
Without warning, Rhenar rose. He moved with the same silent grace he always did, methodical and without waste. He went to his warhorse—taller and leaner than Galar's—and reached into a heavy side pouch slung beneath the saddle.
From it, he pulled a book. Bound in dark, weathered leather, corners bent from long use, the thing looked plain, but solid—functional.
He turned and tossed it toward Callan without fanfare.
"You need to know of things," Rhenar said simply, his voice like stone scraping against stone.
The book landed in Callan's lap with a quiet thud. He looked down at it, unsure what to expect. No title marked the cover, no decoration or sign of its contents. It was heavy in his hands, its leather dry and cold to the touch.
Callan looked up to see Rhenar already turning away, settling back into his seat beside the fire as if the exchange were already done, as if no further words were needed.
Swallowing the tightness in his throat, Callan opened the book.
Callan turned to the first page, the crackle of old paper a strangely comforting sound in the quiet of the camp. His eyes passed over the title, stamped in faded ink with an unfortunate mix of arrogance and bluntness:
"History and Houses of the Kingdom of Roven; Simplified for Denser Students" — By Archmaster Glinwood
He blinked. His lips twitched in a faint, involuntary grimace.
Callan raised his eyes toward Rhenar, half-expecting a smirk or some glint of amusement in the older man's face. But Rhenar remained as still and unreadable as ever, his gaze fixed on the fire, expression carved from stone. If the title was a joke, it wasn't one he found worth acknowledging.
With a small breath, Callan lowered his eyes and began to read.
The first few pages were dry introductions, but he pushed through them until he reached the meat of it—the Houses, each with a small crest drawn beside their names, rough but recognizably heraldic.
Two of them had been marked. Not subtly. Each with a bold exclamation point inked in the margins in a stiff, deliberate hand.
The first:
House Lenor – A minor noble house of the Northwest, controlling a stretch of forested land known for ironwood trees and small-scale mining. Not particularly wealthy, but well connected in regional politics. Known for traditionalist values, strong martial roots, and stubborn loyalty to the Old Codes. Lenor banners fly beneath the boar, black on crimson.
The second:
House Klint – An aging noble house also seated in the Northwest. Historically aligned with the crown during the Civil Conflicts, though largely removed from capital affairs in recent years. Their lands lie closer to the coast, rocky and less fertile, but with a firm grip on trade routes. Influential through marriage ties. Their crest bears a storm hawk in flight, silver on deep green.
Callan furrowed his brow slightly, rereading both entries. The names meant little to him—but the marks beside them... they probably meant these were the houses they would've afflicted to in the mission
He glanced again toward the inquisitor, but Rhenar gave no sign that he cared whether the boy understood or not. Galar was sharpening his blade beside the fire, the rhythmic rasp of stone on steel rising and falling in steady strokes.
Callan looked back to the page. His fingers tightened ever so slightly on the edge of the book.
Callan kept reading, eyes tracing line after line, pulling scraps of knowledge into the hollow spaces where his education should have lived. Names of houses—noble and minor—blurred together like half-remembered dreams. Some bore beasts in their banners, others celestial bodies or weapons, each tied to lands he had never seen, customs he'd never heard, and bloodlines older than the very monastery stones he once called home.
He read of House Auren, rulers of the fertile midlands, and House Durnhald, whose copper sigils once gleamed on battlefield before the Crown clipped their ambitions. He learned that House Marrith bred griffons once, though no griffon had been seen in the skies in over two generations. That House Eorlyn held sway in the southern ports, their power tied to ships and spices, and whispers of darker trades left politely unspoken.
and spices, and whispers of darker trades left politely unspoken.
The firelight danced over the page as his tired eyes lingered on a description of House Vaur, a house said to be "silent and distant, but deeply rooted." The note in the margin read only: Careful.
Before he could turn another page, a voice cut through the quiet like a blade.
"Sleep," Galar said.
It wasn't a suggestion.
Callan stiffened slightly, glancing up. Galar hadn't looked up from his place by the fire, still focused on his gear, sharpening, checking, cleaning. Rhenar had already settled against a tree stump, cloak pulled tight, gaze closed off from the world.
Callan nodded silently and closed the book, pressing its worn leather cover flat with both hands. He set it aside gently, brushing a few crumbs of dirt from the spine before curling beneath the rough blanket they'd given him.
His legs still ached from the ride. The cold had crept into his bones. But his mind—his mind was burning with new names, new banners, new pieces to a puzzle he didn't yet understand.
Still, when he closed his eyes, the darkness behind his eyelids felt heavier than sleep.
That night, sleep took Callan not like a gentle wave, but like a weight dragged over his consciousness—slow, heavy, inevitable.
He was walking. Barefoot on stone. The ground beneath him was wet, slick with something that smelled faintly of iron and smoke. The corridor stretched endlessly in both directions, cloaked in shadow, the ceiling too far above to see.
Faint whispers echoed from the walls, hushed voices speaking in a language he didn't know—but somehow understood. They weren't speaking to him. They were speaking about him.
A light flared ahead—dim and golden, like the glow of a dying lantern. He moved toward it, though his legs felt sluggish, as if wading through cold molasses. His breath was visible in the air, even here.
The walls grew closer. Symbols etched into the stone began to glow faintly—an eye, a ring, a sword broken in half. A heartbeat pulsed beneath his feet, deep and slow, as though the stone itself were alive and watching.
He turned a corner.
There was a door.
Tall. Ancient. Carved from blackened wood and bound in tarnished brass. The eye was there again, the same eye as the one on Galar's armor, but weeping now—streaks of something dark running from its carved lashes.
He reached out, and as his fingers touched the surface, the door opened on its own with a groaning sigh.
Inside was not a room, but a sky.
Stars wheeled above, spinning unnaturally fast. A ring hovered before him, suspended in mid-air—Cuall na hAimléise, unmistakably. But it was far larger now, large enough to encircle his entire body, and it turned slowly on its own axis. Around it, black threads drifted like smoke caught in water, each thread whispering a name he didn't recognize.
As he stepped forward, the ring turned to face him.
A voice, low and vast, filled the sky—not from the ring, but from everything around it.
"Why do you carry me, little shadow?"
Callan tried to speak, but no words came. Only a sound—a dry gasp.
The voice continued, patient and unyielding.
"Would you shape fate, or be shaped by it?"
The ring began to glow, softly at first, then brighter and brighter, until it swallowed the stars, the sky, the earth beneath him—
He woke with a gasp, his breath fogging the chill air of the tent. The fire had burned low, Galar and Rhenar still unmoving in their places.
But for a long moment, Callan could feel something wrapped around his chest—not physically, but like a presence, a lingering touch from whatever place his mind had wandered.