Below, Draven moved without slowing.
A small town passed beneath him in a blur of rooftops and dim early-morning streets.
Figures stirred below—merchants unlocking doors, workers stepping into the dawn air, thin columns of smoke rising from chimneys.
Ordinary life.
Unaware of the violence unfolding beyond their borders.
Draven did not look down.
He did not pause.
His steps remained swift and controlled, cutting through alleys and narrow passages when necessary, vaulting obstacles without breaking rhythm.
The cat nestled quietly against him.
The slime clung to his wrist, absorbing faint traces of dirt and blood as they moved.
Efficient.
Practical.
He adjusted his route to avoid main roads.
No reason to attract attention.
No reason to linger.
The border lay ahead.
He could sense the invisible threshold where one kingdom's authority ended and another began.
Once crossed, pursuit would become more complicated.
More political.
Safer.
Far ahead, Vaelith's red barrier flickered faintly as she pushed relentlessly toward the line.
Draven maintained his pace below, weaving through the town's outskirts before returning to open ground.
The sun continued rising.
Soft light spilled across the land.
He ignored it.
No hesitation.
No pause.
The town disappeared behind him.
Only the border remained ahead.
Draven didn't slow.
The border wall loomed ahead, rising high and stretching across the horizon—stone layered with reinforced defenses marking the edge of the kingdom. Guards lined the parapet in the distance, small silhouettes pacing between watch points, their armor catching faint traces of moonlight.
Security. Structure. Control.
Draven kept moving.
His steps struck the ground in quick, controlled bursts, each impact measured and deliberate, each one carrying him forward with unbroken momentum. There was no hesitation in his stride. No glance over his shoulder.
The wall grew larger with every step.
Tall.
Imposing.
A barrier meant to regulate passage and deter intrusion.
He didn't stop at its base.
He reached it—
—and vaulted.
A single, fluid motion.
His hand caught the stone edge, fingers gripping just long enough to redirect force before he propelled himself upward. The movement was efficient, economical. No wasted effort.
The cat remained secured against his chest, silent and steady.
The slime clung to his hand, absorbing faint residue from his skin as if anchoring itself more firmly with each surge of motion.
Draven cleared the lower section and landed lightly atop the border wall.
He was gone in the same breath.
The guards stationed along the parapet barely registered what had happened.
One moment the air was still.
The next—
A dark shape had landed beside them.
Not a looming presence.
Not a direct confrontation.
Just a fleeting distortion of motion.
By the time their heads turned—hands tightening instinctively around spear shafts—the figure had already moved on. Only displaced air and the faint scrape of boots against stone marked that he had ever been there.
Draven hadn't slowed.
He had used the wall as nothing more than a step.
Mana surged through him in a controlled pulse.
Not explosive.
Not wasteful.
Just enough.
He launched himself from the edge in a clean arc. Night air rushed past as he cut through it, silent and precise. For a suspended moment he seemed to hang against the sky, a dark silhouette framed by moonlight—then he twisted midair and descended.
He landed far beyond the wall.
Knees bent.
Impact absorbed.
Momentum redirected.
Then he continued forward.
No pause.
No glance back.
Only movement.
Behind him, the guards stared into the darkness.
One blinked slowly.
"…What was that?"
Another tightened his grip on his spear.
"I… don't know."
A third swallowed.
"An intruder?"
The first guard shook his head.
"No intruder moves like that."
His gaze searched the tree line where Draven had vanished.
There was no trail.
No lingering signature.
Only the distant rustle of leaves disturbed by wind.
The guard exhaled.
"Whatever it was… it's gone."
They exchanged uneasy glances.
The wall had been breached.
Not through brute force.
Not through destruction.
But through overwhelming speed—so absolute it denied them the time to respond.
The second guard muttered under his breath.
"Intruder…"
The word felt insufficient.
Whatever had passed them—
Was already beyond reach.
---
The next wall rose into view—larger, taller, and far more fortified than the last.
The border of **Eryndor**.
Draven didn't slow.
His pace remained relentless as he crossed the open terrain toward it. The structure dominated the landscape, its stone face reinforced with layered defensive arrays. Watch posts dotted the top at regular intervals. Patrol routes were clearly defined. Mana sensors were embedded along the structure—designed specifically to detect unauthorized crossings.
This kingdom did not rely on sight alone.
As he neared the base of the wall, a faint hum rippled through the air.
Then—
An alarm.
Sharp. Immediate.
A pulse of detection magic surged outward, and red sigils flared along the wall's surface. The mana detector had triggered.
Guards above snapped to attention, voices rising in coordinated shouts.
"What was that?"
"Detection ping—sector three!"
"Lock down the perimeter!"
Draven's eyes narrowed.
He hadn't anticipated automated detection at this border. The previous wall had relied solely on physical surveillance—no embedded sensors, no arcane alarms.
A lapse in calculation.
He exhaled once, controlled.
That was on him.
For a brief moment he considered withdrawing—masking his presence fully and re-approaching from a different angle. But hesitation would cost time.
He activated the earring.
A subtle pulse of mana radiated outward, compressing and suppressing his signature. His presence folded inward, concealed from magical detection.
To any arcane sense scanning for mana fluctuations—
He vanished.
But invisibility to magic did not equal invisibility to sight.
He was still moving.
Still approaching.
Still visible across open ground.
The guards saw him.
Of course they did.
The alarm had already drawn their attention.
Figures shifted along the wall—armored soldiers pivoting, spears lowering, bows raised. Their silhouettes sharpened against the red glow of activated runes.
Draven did not slow.
He had never intended to.
Open terrain stretched before him. No structures. No shadows deep enough to mask movement. No elevation to exploit.
Only distance.
The guards shouted again.
"Intruder!"
"Stop where you are!"
"Archer line—ready!"
Bows were drawn. Mana-infused arrows crackled faintly, energy coiling along their shafts. Defensive formations shimmered to life along the parapet, translucent barriers flickering into existence.
Draven calculated in an instant.
Engagement would waste time.
Retreat would cost momentum.
Flanking would require distance he did not have.
The wall extended far in both directions—fortified and patrolled.
Time lost was unacceptable.
He continued forward.
The cat shifted faintly against him but remained quiet.
The slime clung to his fingers, absorbing traces of grit and debris as though grounding itself against the incoming surge of speed.
Draven focused.
If concealment failed—
Velocity would suffice.
Mana threaded through his limbs in controlled bursts. Not explosive. Not reckless. Precisely measured to enhance acceleration without destabilizing his balance.
His strides lengthened.
The ground blurred beneath him.
The alarm continued to blare, echoing across the night.
"Fire!"
Arrows launched in unison.
Dark shapes streaked toward him, leaving faint trails of luminescent energy in their wake.
Draven assessed trajectories instantly.
Numerous.
Layered.
But predictable.
He twisted mid-stride, altering his angle without breaking momentum. A seamless adjustment—minimal motion for maximum effect.
Arrows struck the earth where he had been a heartbeat earlier.
He did not waste effort dodging individually.
Efficiency dictated survival.
Motion over reaction.
Forward.
The guards called for reinforcements. Additional formations activated along the wall, mana barriers strengthening as more soldiers took position.
Not ideal.
But manageable.
Draven closed the remaining distance.
More arrows.
More spells.
Bursts of light cutting through darkness.
He adjusted with fractional shifts—small pivots, subtle tilts of the torso, controlled redirections of weight.
Projectiles tore through empty air.
He reached the base of the wall.
Stone towered above him, carved with layered defensive sigils now glowing crimson under alarm conditions.
A barrier.
Like the last.
He leapt.
Mana surged upward in a measured pulse, reinforcing muscle and bone without excess strain.
His hand caught the edge. Fingers dug into stone. He vaulted with fluid precision.
Shouts erupted along the parapet.
Draven cleared the lower edge and landed atop the wall.
A single heartbeat.
No more.
He met the wide eyes of the nearest soldier. The man reached for him—instinct overriding thought.
Too slow.
Draven released another surge of mana and pushed off.
A sharp, decisive launch.
He crossed the remaining span in a blur, body cutting through air before gravity could fully reclaim him. The guards barely processed the motion—only a distortion of space and wind where he had stood.
By the time weapons adjusted—
He was already descending beyond the wall.
A dark streak against the night.
Then—
Gone.