I woke up feeling… fresh.
Which was wrong.
For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Trying to process the fact that—somehow—I had slept. That, after everything, my body had simply decided that shutting down for a few hours was a reasonable response.
But as the minutes ticked by, the memories caught up with me.
The Mother. Dead.Rikard. Dead.Eindva. Met her. Made a deal. Killed her.Astrid. Dead by my own hands.Rhazan. Dead.Sieg. Killed a God right in front of me.
All of that happened in a single day.
I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over my face. It was almost funny. If I sat down and told someone everything I'd been through in the last twenty-four hours, they'd think I was insane.
Hell, maybe I was.
I forced myself up, dressed quickly, and strapped my sword to my hip. I left Rhazan's head on the table still. I don't need it anymore, I pity the one who will clean my room later on.
My body felt lighter.
Not because I was well-rested.
Because I was stronger.
Even now, I could feel the echoes lingering in my bones. The raw power of Astrid's berserker strength. The sharpened instincts of a man who had already stepped beyond the line of morality.
This wasn't just a feeling.
It was who I was becoming.
I pushed the thought aside and left the room.
Downstairs, the inn had come alive. The scent of fresh bread and sizzling meat filled the air, mixing with the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of mugs.
The old innkeeper was behind the counter, same as before, polishing a mug as if he hadn't moved since last night.
He looked up when I approached.
"Slept well?"
I nodded. "Better than I expected."
The old man grunted, setting the mug down. "You look like you've been through hell."
If only he knew.
"Just a long few days." I kept my tone casual.
He didn't pry. "What'll it be?"
"Whatever's hot."
A few minutes later, a plate was set in front of me—thick slices of roasted meat, fresh eggs, and dark bread slathered in butter.
I took a bite. It was good. Simple, but good.
The innkeeper leaned on the counter, watching me eat.
"Storm's rolling in from the east," he muttered. "Could last a few days."
I glanced toward the window. The sky was still clear, but I could see the faintest hint of dark clouds on the horizon.
"Could use the rain," I said, mostly to fill the silence.
The innkeeper grunted. "Could drown the crops too. Farmers always complain one way or another."
I smirked. "That's farmers for you."
He let out a small chuckle, then tapped the counter. "You headed somewhere?"
"The square. Meeting someone."
"You army?"
"Not anymore."
He studied me for a moment. "You don't look like a mercenary."
I just shrugged and took another bite. What was I supposed to say? That I was on my way to hunt down actual Gods?
Eventually, he just shook his head. "Well, wherever you're going, eat up first. No use facing the day on an empty stomach."
I did exactly that.
Drakenburg's central square was already bustling when I arrived. Merchants called out from their stalls, peddling everything from fresh produce to stolen trinkets. Blacksmiths displayed their wares, the clanging of hammers against steel ringing through the air.
I ignored all of it.
Sieg was exactly where he said he'd be.
Standing near the fountain, arms crossed, gaze cold as ever.
He looked up the moment he saw me.
"Took you long enough."
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. "Had breakfast."
Sieg scoffed. "Good. Would be a shame if you dropped dead from an empty stomach."
"Come on." Sieg said as he clapped his hand.
One moment, we were standing in the bustling square of Drakenburg.
The next—silence.
The shift was instant. Like stepping between breaths. One blink and the world had ripped itself away, the noise of the city swallowed into nothingness.
We were no longer in Drakenburg.
Instead, we stood in the middle of a camp.
Four tents. Simple, sturdy, made from thick fabric reinforced with metal braces. Three of them were dark and empty, untouched. But the fourth tent—glowed. A faint, eerie light pulsed from within, casting strange, shifting shadows against the canvas.
In the center of the camp, a large pot hung over an open fire, bubbling with the scent of spiced meat and herbs. The air was crisp, untouched by the smoke of cities, filled instead with the distant sound of wind rolling over the land.
Sieg exhaled and clapped his hands together.
"Thank you, Naestra."
I turned, eyes scanning the camp until I saw her.
She was sitting at a table, bent over a large, unrolled map, her boot propped up on the edge of the wood. She held a dagger loosely in one hand, tapping it absentmindedly against the parchment.
Her hair was short and uneven, like she'd cut it herself with the same daggers she carried. Her outfit was lightweight, built for speed, black leather and deep violet cloth tucked neatly under layers of shadowed armor.
A rogue.
She didn't even look up at Sieg's words—just grunted.
"That'll be five gold, good sir."
Sieg ignored her.
I didn't.
Because that's when she finally looked up.
Her gaze landed on me—sharp green eyes glinting with mischief.
And then—
"Oh!" Her whole face lit up. "A new guy!"
Before I could even blink—
She was in front of me.
One second, she was at the table. The next, she was right there, circling me, inspecting every inch of my body with blatant curiosity.
Her hands moved too fast—grabbing my arms, squeezing my shoulders, even patting my waist like she was appraising a damn horse.
I stiffened. "What are you doing?"
She ignored me.
Completely.
Sieg, however, didn't.
"Naestra, Erik. Erik, Naestra."
I glared at him. He looked unbothered.
"She's our transporter," he continued. "She can teleport between realms. She's handy."
Naestra finally pulled back, tapping a finger against her chin. "Hmm. Well, he's got some muscle, at least. Little stiff, though. Do you ever stretch?"
I opened my mouth—then closed it.
Sieg sighed. "Naestra."
She threw her hands up. "Alright, alright."
Then, she turned back to me, grinning. "So—are you strong?"
I hesitated.
She leaned in. "Come oooon, I need to know if we're gonna die because of you."
Thankfully, Sieg saved me.
"He's capable."
Naestra squinted at me. "Hmm. Capable's a broad term. I'm capable of cooking, but that doesn't mean anyone should eat it."
"A fresh soul graces our midst," he intoned, his voice weaving through the air like the hush of wind in forgotten tombs. "Long have we endured the tides of fate, but strength alone is an edifice most fragile. It must be tempered. Refined. Fortified against the weight of inevitability."
His hollow gaze lingered on me, unreadable in its emptiness.
"And thee?" His bony fingers clasped together, the faintest creak of aged bone beneath his robes. "Art thou a blade honed, or merely steel yet to know the forge?"
I hesitated. How the hell was I supposed to respond to that?
Before I could even attempt an answer, Sieg stepped up beside me, arms crossed.
"Yeah, Orlan speaks like that. You'll get used to it."
Naestra snorted. "If you live long enough."
Orlan tilted his head slightly, as if studying me from a different angle.
"Ah, my deepest lament. The weight of age oft burdens the tongue with relics of a bygone era." He placed a hand over his chest. "I am Orlan Greaves, keeper of the arcane, scholar of the forgotten, and witness to time's endless waltz."
Then, he extended his skeletal hand toward me.
"And thou art?"
I took it, hesitating only slightly. His grip was firm but weightless, his bones smooth as polished ivory.
"Erik. Erik Voller."
Orlan nodded, releasing my hand.
"A name untested upon mine ears. Yet all who walk the path of strength must needs bear its burden."
He leaned forward slightly, as if peering through me rather than at me.
"So then, Erik Voller—art thou a blade honed, or merely steel yet to know the forge?"