I woke to the sound of shouting in the street below.
For a disorienting moment, I didn't know where I was. The room was unfamiliar, the bed too soft, the sounds all wrong. Then memory crashed back—I was in Millhaven, in the Broken Wheel inn, three days from House Thorne and a lifetime from everything I'd known.
I sat up, wincing as every muscle in my body protested. Three days of hard travel had left me sore in places I didn't know could be sore. My feet were blistered, my shoulders ached from the pack, and there was a persistent throb in my lower back.
The shouting continued below. I moved to the window and looked out.
The street was already busy despite the early hour—the sun had barely cleared the horizon. Merchants were setting up stalls, guards were changing shifts at the gate, and a crowd had gathered around what looked like a public notice board.
The shouting came from a town crier, a thin man in official-looking clothes standing on a wooden box.
"Hear ye! Hear ye! By order of Captain Mordren, all citizens are advised that increased patrols will be conducted on the eastern roads due to recent incursions by forces of the Ashen Empire! Travel beyond Millhaven is undertaken at personal risk! Caravan escorts are required to register with the garrison! Hear ye!"
The Ashen Empire. Solarius's territory. Even here, hundreds of miles from the Crimson Wastes, his influence was felt.
I watched the crowd disperse, most people looking worried. Increased patrols meant increased danger, which meant fewer caravans willing to risk the eastern routes, which meant it would be harder to find passage.
I needed to move quickly.
I washed my face with water from the basin on the table—cold, but refreshing—and changed into my cleanest shirt. First impressions mattered when you were trying to convince someone to hire you.
Downstairs, the common room was serving breakfast. The innkeeper's promise of a meal included was apparently generous—I received a bowl of thin porridge, a chunk of hard bread, and weak tea. Not exactly a feast, but it was hot and filling.
I ate quickly while eavesdropping on the other patrons' conversations.
"...three caravans refused to leave this week. Too dangerous, they said..."
"...heard the Burning Legion hit a convoy two weeks ago, forty miles east. Killed everyone, burned the goods..."
"...Captain's recruiting mercenaries for escort duty, but the pay's shit..."
"...old Viktor's still planning to leave tomorrow, crazy bastard. Says he's been running these routes for twenty years and isn't stopping now..."
That last one caught my attention. I turned toward the speaker—a grizzled man in his fifties with the weathered look of someone who spent his life on the road.
"Excuse me," I said, keeping my voice polite. "You mentioned someone named Viktor? Is he organizing a caravan?"
The man looked me up and down, taking in my youth and relatively clean appearance. "You looking for passage east? Bit young for that kind of trouble, aren't you?"
"I can handle myself."
He snorted. "Sure you can. Yeah, Old Viktor's putting together a convoy. Leaving tomorrow at dawn, heading to Ashford Station. That's the last fortified outpost before you hit the real badlands. He's been asking around for extra hands—guards, laborers, anyone willing to work for passage and a few silver."
"Where can I find him?"
"Warehouse district, south side of town. Big building with a painted wagon wheel on the front. Can't miss it." The man leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Word of advice, kid. Viktor's a hard man. Doesn't suffer fools, doesn't coddle people, and expects everyone to pull their weight. You show up looking for an easy ride, he'll toss you out on your ass. But if you're serious about going east and you're willing to work, he might give you a chance."
"Thank you," I said sincerely.
The man nodded and returned to his breakfast, conversation over.
I finished my meal and headed out into the morning streets of Millhaven. The town looked different in daylight—less intimidating, more functional. It was a working town, focused on trade and survival rather than aesthetics or comfort.
The warehouse district was easy to find—a collection of large wooden buildings near the town's south gate where merchants stored goods before transport. I found Viktor's warehouse quickly, marked by a faded painting of a wagon wheel and the constant activity of workers loading supplies onto three large wagons.
The wagons themselves were impressive—heavy-duty construction with iron reinforcement, covered by canvas tarps, pulled by teams of four horses each. These weren't merchant wagons for luxury goods; these were survival vehicles built to withstand attacks and rough terrain.
I approached a worker who was securing crates to one of the wagons. "I'm looking for Viktor. Is he here?"
The worker jerked his thumb toward the warehouse entrance. "Inside, arguing with the blacksmith about axle reinforcements."
I entered the warehouse and immediately located Viktor by following the sound of heated debate.
"...telling you, those axles won't hold if we hit rough terrain! I need the reinforced versions!"
"And I'm telling you, those cost twice as much and I'm not extending more credit! You already owe me for the last shipment!"
Viktor was exactly what I'd expected—a bear of a man in his late fifties, with a gray beard, scarred hands, and the kind of presence that suggested he'd survived things that would have killed lesser men. He wore practical traveling clothes reinforced with leather at the joints, and a sword hung at his hip with the casual familiarity of someone who knew how to use it.
The blacksmith was younger, stockier, with the soot-stained apron and muscular arms of his profession.
"Then I'll pay when I return," Viktor growled. "You know I'm good for it."
"If you return. Word is the eastern routes are suicide right now."
"Word is always that the eastern routes are suicide. I've been running them for twenty years and I'm still here." Viktor's eyes flicked to me standing in the doorway. "What do you want?"
"I heard you're organizing a caravan east. I'm looking for passage."
Viktor's expression shifted from irritation to assessment. He looked me over with the practiced eye of someone who'd hired hundreds of people over the years. "You don't look like a merchant. Too young to be a mercenary worth hiring. What are you, runaway noble?"
The accuracy of his guess startled me, but I kept my face neutral. "Does it matter?"
"Depends. You running from debts? Criminal charges? Angry father with a private army?"
"Personal reasons. Nothing that'll bring trouble to your caravan."
Viktor grunted. "Personal reasons. Right. You got any useful skills? Can you fight? Drive a wagon? Cook? Fix equipment? Or are you just another desperate idiot who thinks the Crimson Wastes are some kind of romantic adventure?"
"I can fight," I said. "And I learn quickly."
"Can you fight. Everyone says they can fight until they're actually facing someone trying to kill them." He crossed his arms. "Tell you what. I need guards for this run. Lost two of my regulars to a better-paying job with the garrison. You sign on as a guard, you get passage to Ashford Station plus five silver marks when we arrive safely. You slack off, cause trouble, or prove useless, I leave you on the side of the road. Deal?"
Five silver marks plus passage. It wasn't generous, but it was fair. And it got me exactly where I needed to go.
"Deal," I said.
"Good. You got a weapon?"
I pulled out my kitchen knife.
Viktor stared at it, then at me, then burst out laughing. "A kitchen knife. Oh, that's perfect. Kid, you planning to threaten bandits with cooking? Maybe dice them up for soup?"
Heat flushed my face. "It's what I have."
"Well, what you have is useless." He turned to the blacksmith. "Tomas, get the kid a proper weapon. Add it to my tab."
The blacksmith sighed. "Viktor—"
"I know, I know. But I can't have someone on my crew with a gods-damned kitchen knife. Get him something basic. Short sword, maybe a spear."
Tomas muttered something unflattering but gestured for me to follow. We went to the back of the smithy where racks of weapons hung on the walls—swords, axes, spears, daggers, all in various states of repair.
"Viktor's got a soft spot for strays," Tomas said, pulling down a short sword. "Likes to think he's helping people. Truth is, he's gotten half a dozen naive kids killed over the years by bringing them into situations they weren't ready for." He handed me the sword. "This is basic, but it's solid. Iron blade, decent balance, nothing fancy. Keep it sharp and it'll serve you well."
I took the sword and gave it a few experimental swings. It was heavier than I expected, the weight distribution completely different from the practice weapons I'd trained with at House Thorne.
Tomas watched critically. "You have some training. Noble household?"
"Something like that."
"Thought so. You've got the form but not the experience. Formal instruction but no real fights." He pulled down a leather belt with a scabbard. "Wear it on your left hip, draw across your body. And kid? If you're really planning to go east with Viktor, learn to use that thing fast. The Wastes don't care about your training or your noble background. They'll kill you just as quick as anyone else."
I strapped on the belt and sheathed the sword, feeling the unfamiliar weight settle against my hip. It was a strange sensation—both reassuring and terrifying. A real weapon for real danger.
"Thank you," I said.
Tomas just shrugged and returned to his argument with Viktor about axle costs.
I left the smithy and spent the rest of the morning watching the caravan preparations. Viktor ran a tight operation—every crate was inspected before loading, every wagon wheel checked for damage, every horse examined for health. Nothing was left to chance.
The other guards introduced themselves throughout the day. There were five of us total:
Krell was the senior guard, a veteran soldier in his forties with a nasty scar across his face and the thousand-yard stare of someone who'd seen too much combat. He carried a heavy axe and wore battered chainmail that had clearly turned aside more than one blade. He barely acknowledged my existence beyond a grunt.
Mara and Senna were twins, mercenaries in their late twenties who fought as a team. Mara used a sword and shield, Senna preferred dual daggers. They had the casual competence of professionals who'd survived by being good at their job. They looked at me with obvious skepticism.
Finn was closer to my age, maybe seventeen, with the nervous energy of someone on their first real job. He wielded a spear and kept practicing his stance whenever he thought no one was watching. We nodded at each other in the solidarity of shared inexperience.
And then there was me, the youngest, least experienced, most obviously out of place.
As the day wore on, I helped where I could—carrying crates, feeding horses, learning the layout of the three wagons. Viktor's caravan was transporting general supplies to Ashford Station: food, tools, weapons, medicine, and trade goods. Nothing exotic or valuable enough to attract major attention, but essential for frontier outposts.
By evening, the preparations were complete. Viktor gathered everyone in the warehouse for a final briefing.
"We leave at dawn," he said, his voice carrying authority. "Route is the standard eastern road to Ashford Station. Seven days if the weather holds and we don't hit trouble. When we hit trouble—not if, when—I expect everyone to follow orders immediately. No heroes, no idiots trying to prove themselves, just do what I say and we'll get through it."
He pointed to a crude map on the table. "First three days are relatively safe. Empire patrols cover this area, and there are way stations where we can stop. Day four is when things get dangerous. We enter the border territories—officially unclaimed land, but really it's a buffer zone between the Empire and the Ashen Empire. Bandits, deserters, wild beasts, and occasionally Solarius's scouts."
Solarius. The name sent a chill through the room.
Viktor continued. "If we encounter the Burning Legion, we run. Don't fight, don't engage, just run. We can outpace their scouts if we dump cargo and move fast. Anyone who tries to play hero against those things will die, and probably get the rest of us killed too. Clear?"
Everyone nodded.
"Good. Day six and seven, we're in the final approach to Ashford Station. That's the most dangerous stretch—Solarius's forces know that any caravan that makes it this far is carrying valuable supplies, so they hit hard. We'll be traveling in tight formation, no breaks except for absolute emergencies."
He looked around at each of us. "I've been running this route for twenty years. I've lost wagons, I've lost cargo, and yes, I've lost people. But I've never lost an entire caravan, and I don't plan to start now. You do what I say, when I say it, and we'll all get through this alive and paid."
"What about magic?" Senna asked. "If we hit an Essence beast or a hostile mage, what's the protocol?"
"Depends on the threat. For basic Essence beasts, the guards should be able to handle them. For serious magical threats—hostile mages, enhanced creatures, anything beyond normal capacity—I've got some tricks." Viktor patted a leather pouch at his belt. "Enchanted items, some defensive wards, enough to get us out of most situations."
"Are you a mage?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Viktor's eyes fixed on me. "I'm an Adept-level earth mage. Not strong enough to fight a real combat mage, but strong enough to reinforce wagons, create barriers, and slow down pursuers. It's kept me alive this long."
An Adept. That meant he could manifest his affinity reliably, had developed basic techniques, but wasn't powerful enough to be considered a serious threat. Still, any magic was better than none, and earth magic was perfect for defense and protection.
"Anyone else have magical abilities?" Viktor asked.
Krell raised a hand. "Spark-level fire. Can light torches and campfires, not much else."
The twins shook their heads. Finn looked embarrassed and stayed silent.
Viktor's gaze settled on me. "What about you, kid?"
Everyone was looking at me now. I felt the weight of their attention, the expectation that I'd confess to being completely Unawakened and therefore useless.
I could tell them the truth. Could reveal that I had power beyond anything they'd expect, that I could erase matter with a touch, that I'd killed bandits and wolves with barely any effort.
But the moment I did that, I became something other than a desperate kid looking for passage east. I became a threat, a mystery, something to be feared or exploited.
"Unawakened," I lied smoothly. "No magical ability."
Disappointment flickered across Viktor's face. "Figures. Well, at least you're honest about it. Better than the idiots who claim they can use magic and then freeze up when we actually need it." He clapped his hands. "Alright, everyone get some rest. Dawn comes early, and we've got a long week ahead."
The meeting broke up. I headed back to the Broken Wheel, my new sword heavy at my hip, my mind churning with thoughts.
Seven days to Ashford Station. Seven days of pretending to be a normal, non-magical guard while keeping the void hidden. Seven days of potential threats that could expose my secret or force me to reveal it.
And if Solarius's forces did attack, what would I do? Let people die to maintain my cover? Use my power and risk everything?
I didn't have answers. I'd have to figure it out as I went.
Back in my room, I practiced drawing the sword, getting used to the weight and motion. The blade felt foreign in my hand—not wrong, but unfamiliar. I'd trained with swords at House Thorne, but always under controlled conditions, never expecting to actually use one.
Now I had a real weapon for real threats.
Though the real weapon was inside me, coiled around my heart, hungry and patient.
I slept fitfully that night, dreams filled with burning cities and corpses with pieces missing, the void whispering that I should embrace it, use it, let it consume everything until nothing remained.
I woke before dawn to the sound of activity in the streets. Caravan day.
I gathered my meager belongings, checked my new sword one more time, and headed to the warehouse district.
The three wagons were lined up and ready, horses harnessed and eager to move. Viktor was doing a final inspection while the guards took their positions. Krell would ride point on the lead wagon, the twins would cover the middle, and Finn and I were assigned to the rear wagon.
"Stay alert," Krell told us gruffly. "Most attacks come from behind, trying to pick off stragglers. You see anything suspicious, you yell. Don't try to handle it yourself."
Finn nodded nervously. I just met Krell's eyes and nodded once.
As the sun crested the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and red, Viktor climbed onto the lead wagon and raised his hand.
"Move out!"
The wagons lurched into motion, wheels creaking, horses snorting. We passed through Millhaven's east gate, the guards there watching us with expressions that said they thought we were idiots.
Maybe we were.
But idiots or not, we were heading east into danger, into the unknown, into the territories where Solarius's shadow loomed over everything.
I walked beside the rear wagon, hand resting on my sword hilt, feeling the void pulse quietly in my chest.
This was it. The real journey was beginning.
And I had no idea if I'd survive it.
The first three days were exactly as Viktor had described—uneventful.
We traveled east along well-maintained roads, passing through small villages and way stations where we stopped to water the horses and purchase fresh supplies. The Empire's influence was clear here—regular patrols kept bandits away, and the locals were friendly if a bit wary of anyone heading toward the Wastes.
I fell into the rhythm of caravan life quickly. Walk beside the wagon during the day, help set up camp in the evening, take shifts on night watch, eat simple meals around the campfire, sleep under the stars or in a bedroll under the wagon if it rained.
Finn turned out to be decent company. He was the fourth son of a minor merchant family, seeking adventure and fortune in the east because he'd never inherit anything at home. Naive, maybe, but earnest and willing to learn.
"Why are you heading east?" he asked me one evening while we took first watch together.
"Looking for opportunities," I said vaguely. "Same as you."
"Yeah, but..." He hesitated. "You're different. You don't talk like a commoner or move like one. Noble background?"
I considered lying, but Finn had been honest with me. "Bastard son. Cast out of the family. Figured I'd find my own way."
"Ah." He nodded sympathetically. "My cousin was a bastard. Never got treated right, always the outsider. Joined a mercenary company eventually, last I heard. Maybe that's what we're doing—finding new families in the Wastes."
"Maybe."
The twins, Mara and Senna, kept to themselves mostly, though I occasionally caught them watching me with calculating expressions. Professional mercenaries sizing up a potential threat or ally.
Krell remained distant and professional, focused entirely on the job. Viktor checked in with everyone regularly but didn't socialize beyond what was necessary for leadership.
It was a strange sort of isolation—surrounded by people but connected to none of them. I told myself it was safer this way, that getting close to people meant risking exposure of my secret.
But part of me missed having someone to talk to. Missed Sera's sharp observations, missed even the casual cruelty of my half-siblings because at least it was familiar.
On the fourth day, everything changed.
We entered the border territories at midday. The shift was subtle but unmistakable—the road became rougher, less maintained. Villages disappeared, replaced by the occasional abandoned homestead with burned-out buildings and fields gone to seed. The Empire's patrols stopped appearing.
Viktor called a halt and gathered everyone.
"From here on, we're in hostile territory," he said. "No more stops except for absolute necessities. We travel in tight formation, weapons ready at all times. First sign of trouble, you sound the alarm. Everyone clear?"
We all acknowledged understanding.
"Good. Let's move."
The atmosphere in the caravan shifted immediately. Everyone was tense, constantly scanning the surroundings, hands on weapons. Even the horses seemed nervous, their ears constantly twitching, eyes rolling at shadows.
We traveled until dusk before Viktor found a suitable campsite—a small clearing with good visibility in all directions and a rock formation at our backs so nothing could approach from behind.
"No fires tonight," Viktor ordered. "Cold camp. Watches rotate every two hours. Krell and I take first watch, twins second, Finn and the kid third."
We ate dried rations and settled in for an uncomfortable night. I lay in my bedroll staring up at the stars, hand on my sword, the void pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat.
Somewhere in the darkness, I heard something howl. Not a wolf—something else, deeper, with an edge that sent primitive fear racing through my veins.
An Essence beast. Had to be.
I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, knowing tomorrow would bring our first real test.
I was right.
The attack came at dawn.
I was on watch with Finn, both of us groggy from lack of sleep, when I heard the thunder of hooves in the distance.
"Viktor!" I shouted. "Something's coming!"
Everyone scrambled awake, weapons drawn, forming a defensive perimeter around the wagons. The sound grew louder—definitely horses, multiple riders moving fast.
They burst out of the tree line fifty yards away. Eight riders, armed with swords and bows, wearing mismatched armor that identified them as bandits rather than organized soldiers.
"Bandits!" Krell roared. "Defensive positions!"
The riders charged straight at us, screaming war cries. Arrows whistled through the air—one thudded into the wagon beside my head, another caught Finn in the shoulder and he went down screaming.
I drew my sword, heart pounding, watching the charging riders get closer, closer—
Viktor slammed his hands against the ground and Essence flared. The earth erupted in front of the bandits, creating a wall of stone and dirt six feet high that their horses couldn't jump.
The charge broke apart in chaos. Horses reared, throwing riders. Some bandits managed to control their mounts and circle around the barrier, but their momentum was broken.
"Now!" Viktor shouted.
Krell charged the nearest bandit with a bellow, his axe taking the man's head off in one brutal swing. The twins moved as a unit, Mara's shield blocking a sword strike while Senna's daggers found the gap in armor.
I stood frozen for a heartbeat, watching the violence unfold around me. This was nothing like the fights in the forest—this was organized chaos, professional killers trying to murder each other.
A bandit broke through the melee and charged straight at me, sword raised.
Training took over. I raised my sword to block—the impact jarred my arm, nearly made me drop the weapon. The bandit was stronger, heavier, experienced.
He pressed the attack, his blade a blur of strikes. I backpedaled, blocking desperately, my arm going numb from the repeated impacts.
He was going to kill me. I could see it in his eyes, the cold calculation of a predator about to make a kill.
I could reach for the void. One touch and he'd cease to exist.
But not in front of everyone. Not where they could see.
The bandit's sword came down in an overhead strike intended to cleave my skull. I sidestepped—barely—and his blade buried itself in the wagon wheel.
While he struggled to pull it free, I thrust my sword forward in a clumsy attack aimed at his exposed side.
The blade skittered off his leather armor, doing no damage.
He yanked his sword free and turned on me with a snarl.
Then Mara's shield slammed into his back, sending him sprawling. Senna was on him instantly, daggers finding the weak points in his armor with surgical precision.
The bandit gurgled and died.
Mara looked at me, breathing hard. "You're welcome."
I nodded, unable to speak, shaking with adrenaline.
The rest of the fight was over quickly. Krell killed two more bandits. Viktor used his earth magic to trap another under stone. The remaining bandits fled, realizing this caravan was more dangerous than they'd expected.
Silence fell, broken only by heavy breathing and Finn's whimpering.
"Check for injuries!" Viktor ordered, already moving to examine Finn's arrow wound.
Miraculously, the rest of us were unharmed. The bandits had been skilled but disorganized, and our defensive position had given us the advantage.
Finn's shoulder was bad but not fatal. The arrow had gone through muscle, missing anything vital. Viktor pulled it out—Finn screamed—and bandaged the wound with practiced efficiency.
"You'll live," Viktor told him. "Keep it clean and don't use that arm for heavy work."
He turned to me. "You alright, kid?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Because you nearly died just then. Froze up in the middle of a fight." His expression was stern but not unkind. "First real combat?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"Thought so. Listen—freezing happens. Everybody does it their first time. But out here, freezing gets you killed. Next time someone comes at you, you don't think, you don't hesitate, you just react. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now help the twins drag these bodies off the road. Don't want them attracting scavengers."
We spent the next hour cleaning up the aftermath of the attack. The dead bandits were looted for anything useful—a few silver marks, some better arrows, a decent knife—then dragged into the brush. Their horses had scattered during the fight.
As we worked, I realized how close I'd come to death. If Mara hadn't intervened, that bandit would have killed me. My sword skills were inadequate, my combat experience nearly zero.
I needed to get better. Needed to learn how to fight with steel and skill, not just rely on the void.
Because using the void meant revealing myself. And revealing myself meant losing the anonymity that kept me safe.
We got back on the road by midmorning, everyone quiet and shaken. Finn rode in one of the wagons, his shoulder too injured for walking. I walked beside the rear wagon as before, but now my hand never left my sword hilt.
The border territories stretched before us, endless and hostile.
And somewhere ahead, in the Crimson Wastes, Solarius's forces waited.
This was just the beginning.