The road from the North of Asiah to the Heart of Aroken was no gentle path—it was a trial in itself. The journey to Paladas, the greatest academy of magic and might in all the realms, was long, winding through frozen passes, shadowed forests, and ruined lands where ancient things still lingered.
Nagara Veldorys rode alone.
His cloak was frayed by wind and frost, his sword—once polished for ceremony—was now stained with the grime of battle. No longer a prince with an escort, he was a lone traveler burdened with memory and ambition. The scroll Redris had given him remained bound to his chest, protected by oilskin and magic thread.
Days turned to weeks.
He passed through nameless villages where people whispered of the war in courts, of monsters near the hills, of kingdoms breaking and rising. In one such village, he fought off a band of mercenaries who mistook him for a drifter with coin. He left them alive, barely. But word traveled fast: a Northian boy who wielded water like a blade was heading south.
In the deep woods of Dareth Hollow, he encountered beasts that moved only by night—things with too many eyes and hunger carved into their bones. His magic flared in desperate defense: cold, sharp water summoned into spears and shields. It was his first true fight since the duel for the crown, and though he emerged wounded, something in him had awakened.
Not the prince.
The survivor.
He walked the border of ruin near the Red Ravines, where wild flame spirits drifted in daylight and cursed travelers into ash. There, a dying soldier warned him: "Paladas is no sanctuary. Only the ruthless thrive. Beware those who smile too easily... and those who don't smile at all."
Nagara listened.
His shoulders were broader with burden. His eyes had sharpened. His cloak was torn, his sword chipped, his heart changed. But in his hand, still intact, was Redris's scroll.