The trade road grew rougher as the afternoon bled into evening.
Ruts deepened into channels carved by decades of rain and wagon wheels; stones thrust upward like broken teeth.
The forest on either side pressed closer—branches arching overhead until the path felt more like a green tunnel than an open way.
Ed walked point, senses taut: the sudden hush of birds, the faint metallic scent of old blood beneath the pine, the way the wind sometimes carried voices that weren't there.
Tia matched him step for step, staff held loosely in her right hand—not yet raised, but ready.
The wooden fish in her pocket thumped faintly against her hip, a stubborn heartbeat.
They had been silent for nearly an hour when the first arrow hissed past Ed's ear.
It buried itself in an oak trunk with a wet thunk.
Ed dropped instantly—pulling Tia down with him. They rolled behind the nearest fallen log, hearts hammering in perfect sync.
"Three," Ed whispered, already counting silhouettes moving through the trees ahead. "Maybe four. Light armor. Crossbows."
Tia pressed her back to the log beside him, breathing steady despite the spike of adrenaline.
"They're not trying to kill us yet. Warning shots."
"Warning shots from people who burn farms don't stay warnings for long."
Another arrow arced overhead—higher this time—embedding in the dirt several paces behind them.
A voice called from the trees—rough, confident, frontier-accented.
"Hero's mage! Porter! We know who you are. Step out with hands empty and no one needs to die today."
Tia's lips curled in a small, dangerous smile.
"They think we're still the people from ten years ago," she murmured.
Ed met her eyes. "Let's remind them we're not."
He rose just enough to peer over the log.
Four figures emerged from the undergrowth—three men and one woman, clad in mismatched leather and chain, red cloth tied around their upper arms like crude banners.
The leader—a broad man with a scarred cheek and a loaded crossbow—stepped forward, weapon leveled but finger off the trigger.
"Varkis sends his regards," the scarred man said. "He's offering amnesty to anyone who once served the false hero. Lay down your weapons, come quietly, and you'll live to see the new order."
Tia stood slowly beside Ed—staff now held in both hands, tip glowing a faint, warning emerald.
"The false hero," she repeated, voice carrying clear and calm across the clearing. "You mean the man who died so people like you could keep breathing?"
The scarred man laughed—short, ugly.
"Alexis is dead. His time is done. Varkis is the future. Join or burn. Simple choice."
Ed rose fully beside her, short sword drawn, stance loose but ready.
"Funny thing about choices," he said. "They work both ways."
The scarred man's smile vanished. He raised the crossbow.
"Now."
The other three loosed almost in unison—bolts hissing like black wasps.
Tia moved first.
She spun her staff in a tight circle; emerald light flared outward in a shimmering crescent shield.
The bolts struck it and shattered—wood and iron fragments raining harmlessly to the ground.
Ed was already moving.
He vaulted the log in a single fluid motion, closing the distance before the scarred man could reload.
The first bandit swung a shortsword; Ed parried without breaking stride, twisted inside the guard, and drove his elbow into the man's throat. The bandit dropped, choking.
The second lunged with a dagger—Ed caught the wrist, wrenched, heard the snap of bone. The dagger fell. The man screamed. Ed silenced him with a precise pommel strike to the temple.
The third—a wiry woman with twin hatchets—came in fast and low. Ed ducked the first swing, rolled under the second, and came up behind her. He hooked her ankle, pulled; she fell hard. Before she could rise he pressed the flat of his blade against her throat.
"Stay down."
She froze.
Across the clearing, Tia faced the scarred leader alone.
He had dropped the crossbow and drawn a heavy cleaver—rusted but sharp. He charged with a roar.
Tia planted her feet.
"Winds of swift thought," she began—voice rising like a song, "blade of emerald moonlight—"
The scarred man swung.
She sidestepped—graceful, almost lazy—and finished the incantation in a single breath.
"—coalesce into radiance pure. By the name of Lunaria Tia—manifest Single Blade Crescent!"
One perfect crescent of green light snapped into existence—smaller than the triple frenzy she had used against the dragon, but sharper, more precise. It flashed once.
The scarred man's cleaver clattered to the ground.
His right hand followed—severed cleanly at the wrist.
He stared at the stump in shock, then screamed.
Tia stepped forward, staff raised, light still pulsing along its length.
"Tell Varkis," she said, voice cold and clear, "the old songs are not finished. Tell him the mage still lives. Tell him if he wants to burn anything else, he'll have to go through me first."
The scarred man clutched his bleeding wrist, face ashen.
"You—you're supposed to be dead—"
"I'm not," Tia said simply.
Ed appeared at her side—breathing steady, sword still clean of blood.
"Go," Ed said. "Tell your warlord exactly what she said. Word for word. And if I see you again, there won't be a hand left to carry the message."
The scarred man scrambled backward, then turned and ran—stumbling into the trees, leaving a trail of blood drops behind him.
Silence returned—sudden, ringing.
Tia lowered her staff. The green light faded.
She looked at Ed—eyes wide, a little shocked at her own ferocity.
"I didn't hold back," she said quietly.
"Good," Ed answered. "They needed to see it."
He sheathed his sword and offered her his hand.
She took it.
They stood together in the middle of the ruined road—two people who had once been porter and mage, once expelled and abandoned, now something stronger.
The sun slipped below the trees.
The first stars appeared overhead.
And somewhere ahead—along the line of red banners—a warlord was about to learn that some fires refuse to be put out.