They moved along a narrow path, overgrown with brush, barely wide enough for their horses to pass. Though the sun had already risen on the horizon, the thickness of the trees kept their steps in shadow.

“Brother, don’t go so far ahead.”

Dyro had a clear lead, cutting his way forward with swift strikes of his weapon.

“I told you not to call me that,” he replied without taking his eyes off the path. “And I don’t need you to watch over me.”

“It’s not about that,” Sven said. “I’m worried.”

Dyro let out a short, humorless laugh.

Nox walked a few steps behind, his gaze fixed on the line of shadows stretching between the trees. The path narrowed between dark rocks, and the wind carried a stale scent—like old metal and dying smoke.

“Stop talking,” he whispered. “We’re being followed.”

Sven frowned.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“It’s not something you hear,” Nox replied. “It’s something you feel.”

The first movement was clumsy—a stone tumbled from higher up the path and struck the ground at their feet. Nébula let out a soft cry and hid behind Sven’s shoulder, instinctively dimming her glow.

“Come out,” a voice called from the darkness. “We don’t want to hurt you if you cooperate.”

Six figures slipped between the rocks. Then one more. Men in worn clothes, with rusted knives and eyes far too attentive to Sven’s spear—and to the small glimmer trying to hide behind his neck.

“That spear’s worth more than the three of you put together,” one spat. “And that little glowing thing? I’m sure someone would pay well for a creature like that.”

“Looks like we got lucky,” another mocked. “A couple of nobles wandering into our territory.”

Dyro dismounted and stepped forward, placing himself between them without even looking back. His hand closed around the hilt of his silver sword.

“Turn around,” he said calmly. “And you might still walk away.”

The bandit let out a dry laugh.

“And what are you going to do, pretty boy? Tell your lordling to hand over that spear—and his pet—and maybe we’ll leave those pretty faces with just a few scars.”

Nébula began to tremble, hiding behind her master.

“Please,” Sven intervened, his voice steady. “Let us pass. There’s no reason to fight.”

“Then give us what we asked for,” another growled impatiently.

“I can’t.”

One of the men, hidden at the back, raised a crossbow and aimed straight at Sven. That was enough.

Dyro drew his blade in a single motion.

“Last warning,” he said—and his gaze was sharper than the steel in his hand. “Leave.”

The answer was the snap of the crossbow.

Sven barely managed to dodge, but the bolt struck his mount in the flank. The animal reared, screaming in pain.

Nébula let out a cry that tightened the air even further. Nox rushed to shield her with his body while Sven tried to calm the horse, whispering broken reassurances.

It only took seconds of chaos.

Dyro launched himself at the nearest bandit. He dodged a stab with a clean turn and drove his blade into the man’s side. The speed of the movement left the others stunned.

The second fell before they could react.

The crossbowman stepped back to reload—

—but a knife flew from Dyro’s hand and buried itself in his arm, forcing him to drop the weapon with a choked scream.

From where they stood, Sven and Nox could only catch flashes of silver as the blade moved with the grace of a deadly dance.

In the blink of an eye, only three men remained—disarmed, and far wiser. They chose to flee rather than test their fate.

The path fell silent.

Dyro wiped the blade clean on the grass and sheathed it calmly as he returned to the others. The fight had posed no challenge to him; not even a strand of his long hair was out of place.

Nébula flew toward him, rubbing her cheeks against his shoulder in gratitude.

“You’re amazing!”

Dyro returned the gesture, awkwardly scratching behind one of her ears.

“Are you alright?” he asked, looking at Sven.

“Yes… but my horse was hit.”

The animal was still standing, trembling. A fragment of the bolt still jutted from its flank.

“We need to find a place to camp,” Sven said. “I can treat him and let him rest.”

“There’s a settlement nearby,” Nox nodded. “Let’s stay on the outskirts.”

The three of them moved on for a few more minutes before setting up a makeshift shelter among the brush.

The camp fell into silence, broken only by the low crackle of the fire and the weary snorts of the injured horse. Sven knelt beside the animal, pulling out small vials and makeshift bandages from his bag.

“Easy…” he murmured, applying a thick salve to the wound. “It’s over now.”

Nox stepped closer, holding a small light to illuminate the injury. The scent of herbs mixed with the smoke.

“The way Dyro fights is remarkable,” he commented. “I’ve never seen anything like it among the kingdom’s knights.”

Sven nodded without looking away from the wound.

“It is. My father used to say he was as gifted as his own captain of the guard.”

He glanced up briefly at Dyro.

“They were best friends too.”

Dyro didn’t respond. He simply wiped the dried blood from his sword with a cloth, his eyes fixed somewhere on the ground.

“Can you hide us for the night?” he asked Nox without looking at him. “I don’t want us to be found while the horse can’t move properly.”

Nox nodded.

“I can, but only for a few hours. Maintaining a veil like that drains energy.”

He stepped away from the camp. Raising his hands, he began tracing symbols in the air with his fingers, murmuring ancient words that sounded more like breaths than speech. The shadows of the trees drew closer around the clearing, as if the forest itself wrapped them in a quiet cloak.

When he returned, the air felt different. Stiller.

“They shouldn’t be able to see you from the road,” he said. “At least not tonight.”

Dyro sheathed his sword and, without looking at him, asked:

“Why does it bother you when Sven calls you brother?”

The question landed directly, without warning. Dyro’s jaw tightened.

“Because he isn’t.”

Sven looked up, hurt, but said nothing.

“I’m just the son of one of King Alear’s knights,” Dyro continued, his voice firm. “Nothing more. My father was the best in his guard. His Highness Alear respected him as an equal. So when he was killed, he took me in without hesitation.”

Nox watched him in silence.

“Even so, it must feel good to belong to a family,” he said carefully.

“It did.”

Dyro lifted his gaze, and for a moment, the hardness in him cracked.

“Until those damned shadows took everything from us.”

The fire crackled between them.

Nox didn’t answer right away. He stared into the embers, as if something long-burning reflected there.

“And you?” Dyro asked. “Don’t you have a family?”

Nox blinked, surprised by the directness.

“No. I grew up in an orphanage, but I ran away as soon as I could. I’ve lived alone in the forest for as long as I can remember.”

His gaze remained fixed on the ground, as if searching for memories there—memories that didn’t seem kind.

“Until I met Sven,” he added quietly. “I like to think he is… my family.”

He paused briefly.

“Sometimes, the strongest bonds are found by serendipity.”

Dyro stood without a word and stirred the fire with the tip of his boot. The embers crackled, sending brief sparks into the darkness.

He took off his cloak and, with an awkward motion, draped it over Sven’s shoulders.

“Don’t fall asleep too close to the edge of the clearing,” he muttered.

Sven looked up, surprised by the gesture, but said nothing. He nodded.

Nox watched the scene in silence, his hands close to the warmth of the fire.

“I think you’re right,” Dyro said as he sat back down. “I’m sorry for being so harsh earlier. I do appreciate you covering for us.”

The mage blinked in surprise, while Sven watched him with a warm smile, as if to confirm it. For the first time since deciding to follow them, Nox didn’t feel entirely out of place.

Somewhere far from there, the night draped its mantle over the secrets of a few.

In an underground chamber, eight figures dressed in black gathered around a ghostly flame. The walls were draped with ancient banners, where shadow devoured the moon in inverted symbols.

“The moon has made its move,” one of the figures broke the silence, casting a prepared mixture into the fire.

The powder crackled as it touched the flame. Thick smoke rose in spirals, forming wild shapes that twisted in the air before dissolving against the stone ceiling.

“How could Zelene’s influence have survived after all these years?” another voice murmured from the shadows.

“Through your incompetence,” someone snapped. “If the job had been done properly from the start, none of this would be happening.”

“We can still fix it,” a female voice replied, trembling. “We’ll reach him and prevent the convergence.”

“I wonder if your loyalty still lies with this cult,” another figure questioned. “You had the perfect opportunity to end it—and you didn’t.”

“It wasn’t that simple,” she said coldly. “He’s always had that guard dog with him.”

She nervously twisted a ring around her finger. “But this time, I will finish it.”

“I certainly hope so,” declared the oldest voice in the circle. “Either way, our greatest weapon is already on its way. There is no room for error.”

The ghostly flame stirred, casting long shadows across the walls.

“May the eclipse banish the Moon forever,” they intoned in unison.

And the darkness itself seemed to lean in to listen.