It was the sixth hour when Sir Riordan and Sir William, accompanied by their squires, found themselves halfway between the palace grounds and Fort Galdra. A message had been intercepted from the fort: a wyvern, spotted along the southern border of Caerwyn.

By the time they arrived, a full squadron of knights were already stationed at the outer fields—silver armor polished to a mirror-shine, inlays catching the mid-morning light. Upon their pauldrons bloomed the symbol of a rose, its petals ringed by curling thorned vines. A deep blue sash draped each of their shoulders, marking them as knights of the Blue Rose.

“Lord Wright,” Riordan greeted as their horses slowed to a halt. “We weren’t aware you’d be taking the order.”

“We were passing through on our way to Langley,” Lord Sebastian Wright replied, casting a glance toward the royal guard beside him before turning back to face the approaching riders. “Heard rumors of a wyvern and, well—turns out the locals weren’t just spinning tales. A few homesteads to the west were attacked. It’s retreated east, into the woods.”

“If you have the beast under control, we’ll direct our attention to civilian recovery,” Riordan offered with a nod.

Thallan stifled the urge to scoff. How knightly—to pass off the task as soon as danger reared its head. Yes, Sebastian’s men were more capable, better equipped than two knights and their squires. But was there no pride in action? No sense of duty sharp enough to draw blood?

His gaze drifted back to him. Their eyes met. Sebastian’s mouth curled, just slightly—a tilt of amusement meant only for Thallan. Then, as if a curtain had fallen, it returned to the carefully measured smile he gave to Riordan.

“Yes, of course, Sir Riordan,” Sebastian said smoothly. “Though, one of my men was injured on our last deployment. Might I borrow your squire for this hunt?”

Thallan’s fingers tightened around the reins.

“You want a squire to assist?” Riordan echoed, his brow drawing together.

“Unless you’d prefer to join us yourself?” Sebastian replied, tone edged with a knowing grin.

Riordan exhaled through his nose. “If it is my squire you want, then you may have him, Lord Wright.” He turned in the saddle, glancing back at Thallan. “Return to the royal palace once the matter is resolved. I expect a full report.”

With that, Riordan pressed his heels into his mount, leading William and the other squire westward without another word.

Sebastian’s voice cut through the settling dust. “Well, Thallan. Ever killed a wyvern?”

“No,” Thallan replied, his gaze flicking toward the woods stretching eastward before settling back on Sebastian.

“Well, today you’ll learn how to. Dismount. We’re going on foot.”

Thallan obeyed, sliding off Ghealach and handing off the reins to one of the royal guards tending to the steeds. His boots touched the ground with a muted thud, the cool forest air beginning to wrap around them as they pushed forward on foot.

He matched pace with Sebastian, his voice low but steady. “Why did you want me to join you?”

“I did say I wished to see you in action, did I not?”

“You did. Yes.”

“Then indulge me, Thallan. What do you know of wyverns?”

He answered automatically, the knowledge drilled into him long ago. “Winged reptiles, not dragons. Two-legged. No elemental affinity. Their bite venomous, their tail barbed. Hearing’s decent, but they rely on scent the most. Eyesight’s dull, they detect movement more than shape.”

While boys his age recited literature and traced the lineage of dead kings, he was learning the anatomy of monsters, the weight of a sword, the quickest way to kill in close quarters. That was the Quinrel way—to raise their sons not as men, but as weapons honed for the crown.

Sebastian nodded, seemingly pleased. “Good. Now let’s pretend this is your command. What’s your next move?”

They slipped beneath the shadowed canopy. The forest was thick with brambles and damp with the musk of overturned earth. Sebastian rested a gloved hand against a tree trunk, glancing back at him.

Thallan’s eyes dropped to the ground. A trail of deep, gouging tracks broke through the foliage, dark spots of blood marking the path like breadcrumbs. He glanced at the other knights. No mockery in their expressions—just watchful interest.

“If it’s retreating,” he said slowly, “then it’s wounded. An ambush would be best. Half the squadron should fall back—too many of us would make too much movement. But we’d need a signal, in case it turns.” He hesitated, then asked, “Do you have witches in your ranks?”

“Four.”

“I’d take two in with the forward group. The other two stay back with the second squadron. Silent signal—light in the sky, unmistakable but quiet. We can’t risk drawing more beasts.”

He looked to Sebastian, expecting a smirk or some barbed remark. But the older knight only watched him in silence.

Then, with crisp authority, Sebastian turned. “You heard him. Squad Two, hold position in the clearing. Keep visual on the treeline. Signal flare if assistance is needed. Two witches forward, two remain. Move.”

Without hesitation, the knights split and set to their roles with fluid efficiency. Thallan’s chest tightened—not from nerves, but from something deeper. The unsettling weight of being listened to and respected.

The forest swallowed them whole.

Underfoot, the earth was soft with moss and rotting leaves, muffling their steps to little more than a whisper. Above, the canopy tangled with threads of pale light, fractured and dim, casting the world in a dusky green gloom. Every now and then, a branch creaked. A bird darted off in a startled flutter. But otherwise—silence.

Thallan kept his gaze sharp, the trail of blood intermittent but steady enough to follow. The tracks had begun to stagger, deeper on the right side—favoring an injured limb. It was slowing down.

He fell in step beside Sebastian again, lowering his voice. “It’s dragging one leg. It’ll either turn to defend itself soon… or it’s seeking a place to die.”

Sebastian gave a faint hum. “You speak like someone who’s hunted before.”

“I have,” Thallan replied. “Just never something that could fly.”

At that, the older knight smiled—an unreadable thing, neither mocking nor warm. “Flying is only an advantage if it has space to rise. And these trees? They’re not generous.”

A gesture from Sebastian’s hand signaled the others to fan out. Silent coordination. They moved with purpose, stepping where others stepped, careful not to break branches or rustle undergrowth. Trained, obedient. It was clear they’d done this many times.

Thallan felt the air shift before he heard the sound—a low, rattling exhale, like bellows rasping through a cracked chest. He instinctively lifted his hand, signaling halt and they obeyed.

The breath came again. Then a heavy thump. Another.

It was just ahead, beyond the ridge of knotted roots and thick bramble. The copper tang of blood was stronger now—metallic and wet on his tongue.

He crouched beside Sebastian, voice barely audible. “If we rush it, it’ll run or lash out. But if we can draw it out…”

Sebastian nodded once. “Suggestions?”

“A decoy,” Thallan said. “Let it think it has the upper hand.”

One of the witches stepped forward quietly. “Illusion or sound?”

“Sound,” Thallan said. “It’s hunting by scent and movement, not eyes.”

With a whispered incantation and a flick of the witch’s fingers. A rustle to the left—like something large stumbling through the underbrush.

The wyvern’s head jerked up into view. Scales mottled in mud and blood. One leg hung at a broken angle, dragging against the brambles. It was young, maybe not even fully grown. But still monstrous. Still lethal.

Its nostrils flared. Its eyes fixed to the illusion’s source. Thallan didn’t wait. He moved in low, blade drawn in silence. No flourish, no shout—just clean intent. The others followed in swift, practiced rhythm, flanking the beast.

It all happened in heartbeats.

But for Thallan, it felt longer. Slower. Like the weight of his father’s lessons pressed into each step. He didn’t feel the fear. Only the focus. Cold, honed, unshaking.

As the wyvern lunged, Thallan met it not with hesitation—but purpose.

The wyvern’s tail lashed—razored barbs slicing the air—but Thallan was already moving, ducking beneath the arc with precision drilled into his bones since boyhood. He felt the breath of it pass above his head, warm and rancid.

It reared back, throat bulging grotesquely as sword after sword carved across scale and sinew. There would be no fire. No ice. No surge of magic from that gullet. Its weapon was worse. The venom had already begun to flow—he could see it drip from the jagged fangs, viscous and greenish-black.

Those teeth weren’t meant just to kill. They were meant to maim. To paralyze. If it didn’t crush you in its jaws or rip you limb from limb, it would poison you. First came the numbness, then the blur of senses. Then came stillness. Not death, not yet. Just enough to leave you docile, pliant. A warm, breathing meal to be stored away, consumed when the creature saw fit.

Around them, the forest breathed damp and heavy. The storm from days before had soaked the ground, and the dew still clung to bark and leaf. Fire, here, was usually a risk. But now… Now the moisture hung thick enough to smother any stray spark.

Thallan’s fingers twitched around the hilt of his sword, heat already building in his palm. He drew in a breath through his nose, grounding himself. 

He called the fire.

It answered like an old friend—low, steady warmth kindling beneath his skin, wrapping the length of his blade until it shimmered faintly, heat-blurred. Not roaring. Not wild. Controlled. Measured. Contained around steel.

The wyvern lunged again, jaws snapping for the nearest knight—but Thallan was faster. He surged forward in a flash of motion, twisting under its reach, and plunged the burning blade up beneath the ridge of its jaw, where softer scales met exposed muscle.

The fire surged on impact—heat searing deep into tissue. The wyvern shrieked, a ragged, gurgling sound as its head flung skyward, blood pouring in crimson arcs.

But Thallan held on.

He drove the blade deeper, twisting once, his body braced low. Fire bloomed inside the wound like a sunflower forced open in bloom. Then, finally, the creature sagged. One last breath rattled from its throat before it collapsed to the side, hitting the earth with a thunderous, wet thud.

Silence returned. Even the birds were quiet.

Thallan stood over the carcass, chest rising and falling in slow, steady rhythm. Smoke curled from his sword. 

Behind him, Sebastian Wright gave a low whistle. “Now that,” he said, stepping forward, “was a sight worth waiting for.”

Thallan didn’t reply right away. He simply looked down at the beast, its body already cooling, and let the fire die quietly in his hands.

It felt good.

To do more than observe, more than be the blade waiting quietly in its sheath until summoned. To move on instinct and training, to show what had been etched into him. This—this was what he was meant for. Not courtly posturing, not the stale air of the palace or being summoned like an afterthought by lords or knights who saw him as little more than a tool passed down from his father. No. This was right.

The camaraderie. The clarity of action. The weight of a cause that didn’t demand him to be silent or smaller than he was.

This was where he belonged.

“Not bad for a squire,” Thallan finally said as he sheathed his sword, voice laced with wry amusement.

Sebastian stepped to his side, his hand landing with quiet weight on Thallan’s shoulder. “You did good.”

The squad was already at work—knights bent over the wyvern’s body, cutting and extracting what was of use. Barbs from its tail. Leather from its wings. The poison sacs preserved if unruptured. The head severed as proof of the kill. Everything else would be left to the forest to reclaim.

They exited the woods together. The canopy parted slowly into sky, the scent of iron and pine left behind. One by one, the knights mounted, and so did Thallan, lifting himself atop Ghealach with practiced ease.

Sebastian navigated his horse beside him. “I wish for you to swear fealty to me,” he said, simple and unembellished.

Thallan’s spine straightened, the reins tugging slightly beneath his fingers. “There is already an arrangement,” he answered. “The Quinrels pledged service to the crown long before I was born. My blood is already spoken for.”

“I am one of King Aodren’s vassals,” Sebastian replied. “My retinue is his. You would not be renouncing anything.” A pause, “I’ve already spoken to the king. The pledge is yours to take.”

“Why are you so insistent?” Thallan asked, the words light on his tongue, but something in his chest tightened all the same.

“Because I see potential being wasted.” Sebastian’s gaze was steady, unflinching. “And because I believe you wish to do more. If you want to kill. If you want to see beyond Tirnovia’s borders—”

Beyond Tirnovia.

Past the edges of Caerwyn.

Away from her.

The thought struck with such immediacy it nearly startled him. And yet, there it was—unfolding quietly behind his breastbone.

“You don’t need to answer now,” Sebastian said, taking his silence as consideration. “Just know, the Order of the Blue Rose is open to you, Thallan Quinrel.” He gave a final nod, then tapped his heels to his mount’s sides and signaled his men forward.

Thallan watched them go, the deep blue sashes trailing behind silver armor, like ribbons pulled by the wind. He remained still, Ghealach shifting beneath him, a breeze whispering through the trees behind them.

There was a choice now, sitting quietly on his shoulder. Not a demand. A door. And it waited.