A long, squat building of wood and stone sat behind a defensive stone wall, positioned about three hundred yards outside the village. The wall followed the north side of the road for nearly fifty yards, its top lined with hardened defensive positions. Archers moved along its length, eyes scanning the surrounding hills and grasslands with quiet vigilance.

At the far end of the wall, a contingent of soldiers stood across the road, forming a firm blockade.

The caravan halted several yards short of the checkpoint. Three mounted soldiers peeled away from the garrison line, riding forward to meet Tybour, Haningway, Rishmond, Bantore, and Norft as they advanced from the head of the halted column.

Torg trailed along behind Rishmond, his short, stocky frame nearly invisible behind the bulk of Bantore and Norft. His small feet made no sound on the road, and he kept his head low, his glowing eyes flicking between the soldiers ahead and the archers stationed along the wall.

Few noticed him.

Fewer still understood what he was.

But Rishmond could feel him back there—steady as a shadow. Watching everything.

The leader of the riders reined in her horse with practiced ease, turning the big grey gelding sideways with a firm tug of the reins. She was a striking figure—her exposed skin tanned a warm golden brown, every muscle in her arms and shoulders honed and hard beneath fitted armor.

Her hair, raven black, was gathered into a tight braid that began at the crown of her head and jutted upward, held rigid by coils of gold and silver before cascading down to the middle of her back in a long, braided fall.

Her armor was polished but worn—clearly used, minimalist in design, tailored for agility as much as protection. At the top of her breastbone shimmered a tattoo, etched in bright metallic green. It caught the morning light with an otherworldly gleam—the unmistakable signature of Glittergreen ink. Powdered from the rare magical crystal and mixed into enchanted dyes, such tattoos weren’t decorative. They enhanced.

This one—formed in the ancient sigil of strength—meant the woman wasn’t just a warrior.

She was augmented.

She was someone who fought often—and won.

“Well met, Major Asherton,” said Tybour.

His voice was smooth as silk, thick as honey to Rishmond’s ears. Perhaps the strain of casting two large portals in as many days had taken its toll after all. Rishmond glanced sideways at the First Mage’s face and caught what might’ve been a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Welcome, First Mage, to the Malminar Garrison in The Reaches,” Major Asherton replied. “We’re glad you’ve arrived safely—and saddened to hear of the misfortunes along your road. We are prepared to receive you.”

She dismounted in a fluid motion and stepped forward as Tybour moved ahead of his party. The two of them faced each other in the space between their entourages like duellists—poised, wary, powerful.

Asherton extended her left hand, palm up. Her right remained resting lightly on the hilt of her sword.

A flicker of light sparked to life above her open palm, quickly forming into a softly spinning orb. Faint runes traced themselves along its surface, pulsing with power. Now and then, narrow beams of light blinked into existence, darting outward before vanishing in the morning air. A steady, resonant hum accompanied the orb’s rotation.

A second hum answered a heartbeat later, deep and vibrant, as Tybour raised his own hand and mirrored the gesture. His sphere of light bloomed into being—more refined, perhaps, but just as steady.

Rishmond tasted cinnamon. Sweet and spicy, like hard candy melting on the tongue. He smelled it too, curling through the air like incense.

The two orbs floated forward, slow and deliberate, until they touched.

For a moment, both glowed silver-blue.

Then they fused into a single, crystalline sphere the size of a man’s head—clear as ice, perfect as glass—and in the next breath, it vanished.

A palpable wave of released tension rippled through the onlookers.

An audible exhale moved through the gathered guards and soldiers, the civilians, even some of the caravan leaders. Shoulders relaxed. Hands dropped from hilts.

The ritual was complete.

They had been accepted.

“Rosa!” Tybour exclaimed, striding the last few steps toward the garrison commander.

They clasped forearms in the manner of old comrades, the grip firm, their eyes locked.

“Tybour,” she replied—her tone more reserved, but not cold. There was friendship in it, cautious but genuine.

Tybour’s left hand rose to cup her right shoulder, the gesture familiar and unhurried. His hand trailed down her bare arm to her elbow, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

Then they stepped apart.

Tybour’s half-smile bloomed—charming, easy, with that familiar sparkle in his eyes.

Ambrosia Asherton looked at him for a long second, expression unreadable. Then her eyes softened, just a touch, and her mouth stayed firm.

But she smiled back—with her eyes alone.

Several paces back, at the front of the main caravan group, Illiar and Cantor exchanged knowing glances. Even from this distance, they could see the spark between Tybour and Ambrosia Asherton.

Rishmond remained blissfully unaware of the tension—or history—between the two.

“Major Asherton,” Tybour said with a small bow and a sweeping gesture of his right arm, stepping aside. “Allow me to introduce Rishmond Bar—one of the most promising young Wizards since... well, since me.”

He beamed at Rishmond, eyes twinkling with mischief. Then he turned that same warm smile back on Ambrosia, adding, “Rishmond, this is the esteemed Major Ambrosia Asherton, commander of the Malminar Garrison here in The Reaches. Quite likely the most skilled swordsman in Malminar—possibly in the world. I’ve never seen her equal.”

Rishmond stepped forward, inclining his head in a respectful bow, careful to maintain eye contact. Major Asherton's eyes were bright green and piercing, and Rishmond had the sudden, sharp feeling that she was peering straight into his thoughts—measuring him.

He smiled slightly. Despite her aloofness, he liked her immediately.

He extended his arm and grasped her forearm in the soldier’s grip. Her hand met his with quiet strength, and for a brief moment, her features softened. Her head tilted slightly, and a smile formed easily across her lips.

“Rishmond. Bar? As in Halmond?” she asked, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “I hadn’t heard they had a second son. You appear to be about the same age as Pillip.”

She didn’t release his arm, but turned her head toward Tybour with the question in her eyes.

“Not by birth, no,” Rishmond said. “I came to Malminar as an orphan. Hal and Berti took me in—me and my best friend, Toby. They’re our parents now.”

Tybour raised both eyebrows, his mouth curving into a wry smile. He inclined his head slightly toward Rishmond, saying nothing.

An unspoken understanding seemed to pass between Tybour and Ambrosia.

“Ah. I see.” Ambrosia’s tone shifted, quiet and reflective. “I would expect nothing less of Hal and Berti.”

Her hand still gripped Rishmond’s forearm as she studied him. “You’re about the age Pillip would be… if he were still alive.”

Her voice softened just a hair—then she squinted at his face again, the scrutiny returning with interest.

“A promising Wizard, eh? I’ll expect great things, then, if Tybour is impressed by you.” She tugged him a step closer, her eyes narrowing in amusement. “How’s your sword-arm? Is Tybour teaching you? Haningway as well?”

As Rishmond nodded, she leaned in slightly, examining him more closely. He caught her scent—jasmine, mint, and dragon-flower—blended with the clean bite of well-oiled leather and a hint of horse sweat. The overall effect was… pleasant. Striking.

She pushed him back a step, then spun him gently, still holding his arm, inspecting him from different angles with the eye of a soldier sizing up a recruit.

“Well, you seem healthy. Fit. I look forward to sparring with you soon.” Her grin was sharp, playful. “I’m always curious to see just how well Tybour trains his students with a blade.”

Rishmond glanced over as she released his arm and stepped back. Tybour, unsurprisingly, was smiling.

“Yes, a sparring session would be a good thing,” Tybour said. “But it’ll have to wait. Our business with the mine takes priority.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rishmond added quickly, turning back to her. “Haningway, Tybour, and Ueet are all teaching me. Swordplay and other fighting styles. I’m better than most my age, but I know I’ve still got a long way to go.”

He offered his most disarming smile—the one that worked best on authority figures he admired.

“Few are as good as me…” Ambrosia replied, not boastful—just stating fact. Her voice trailed slightly, and then—

“Ueet?”

Her head snapped toward Tybour, lips pressed into a thin line. The warmth vanished from her expression, replaced by something unreadable.

She did not seem pleased to hear that name.

Tybour held up both hands, palms open in mock surrender. “Long story,” he said. “But we need him for this expedition—and I suspect we’ll need him even more before it’s over.”

He stepped to the side, tilting his head with that same charming, sideways grin. “I’m sure you’ve heard something of why we’re here. And what we’re after.”

He paused—just long enough for the small crystal golem to emerge from behind the cluster of soldiers, weaving around boots and armor until he stood clearly before the group.

“This is Torg.”

The golem gave a stiff, mechanical bow. “Hello, Wizard Asherton. I am Torg.”

He paused, his gemstone eyes flicking across her and the soldiers behind her. “I am at your service, Wizard.”

Rishmond caught a faint scent—like rain on warm stone, threaded with lilac. He glanced down and saw the lines of magic within Torg pulsing brighter, flowing faster. The fireworks in Torg's head blossomed and turned gold and green, blooming like flowers of light.

This was new.

Torg wasn’t just radiating magic.

He was using it.

Rishmond’s pulse quickened. He knew, without knowing how, that Torg was measuring Ambrosia’s magical potential—quietly, elegantly, with divine precision.

He turned his gaze back to her face, studying her reaction. But if she noticed the spell, she gave no sign.

Ambrosia stared for a long moment. So did the soldiers behind her.

“I truly thought the reports had been exaggerated,” she said at last.

She stepped forward, armor whispering softly, and crouched beside the golem to get a closer look. Her tone shifted—less formal now, more curious. Almost reverent.

“Amazing,” she murmured. “I’ve heard of golems. Stone, bronze, even flesh. But never one made of crystal.”

Her voice dropped. “Is he truly an emissary from the Gods?”

“I would not call myself an emissary, Wizard,” Torg replied.

His voice was calm, crystalline, almost melodic in its precision. “I am but an assistant to the Goddess Denisisie. I have specific tasks to achieve at her behest and am granted a measure of discretion in how I carry them out—within defined parameters, of course.”

He tilted his head slightly, the facets of his body catching the morning light.

“I do not speak for the Goddess, nor for any other God, though I may relay messages. And have, in the past.”

There was no pride in the statement. No reverence either. Only truth.

“My current task is to bring Wizard Rishmond to an audience with my mistress, Denisisie, and to protect him at all costs until that goal is fulfilled.”

He paused, as if recalibrating his next statement.

“I have also been asked by Wizard Rishmond and Wizard Tybour to assist in restoring the Gods’ access to mortals. To do so, we must first ascertain where the Gods have gone—if they have gone anywhere at all. That is why we have come here: to retrace the last known steps of the Goddess Denisisie, and to discover where she is… and why she has ceased contact with the mortal world for such an extended time.”

Gasps and whispered murmurs erupted from the soldiers and attendants gathered behind the major. Disbelief, awe, nervous energy—all blooming at once.

But Ambrosia Asherton did not flinch.

She raised a single hand, palm out.

The murmurs died instantly.

She held Torg’s gaze—or what passed for a gaze in that polished crystal face—and spoke in a low voice, more to herself than to anyone else:

“Well,” she said. “That explains the portals. And the Warlocks.”

“You’ve come to discover where the Gods have gone?” Rosa asked, her voice cool with suspicion. “As Denisisie’s assistant, should you not already know why she came here, what she was doing, and where she went afterward?”

She didn’t raise her voice, but something in her tone—measured, precise—made Rishmond’s skin prickle. There was a shift in her posture too. Subtle. Barely perceptible. But the air around her sharpened.

She was already alert. Now, she was ready.

“Do you think all the Gods disappeared the moment she—they—came here?” she continued, not waiting for Torg’s reply. “You believe your being here will bring them back from their hiatus? That they’re in the mines, sipping cave-water, or hiding somewhere in the wilds of the Glittergreen Mountains? Ignoring mortals? Watching us from the shadows for hundreds of turns?”

She frowned down at Torg, skepticism clear in her voice—but something else lingered beneath it. Not just doubt. Not just disbelief.

Resentment.

"Why would they come here," she asked, "just to abandon us?”

Before Torg could respond, Tybour stepped in smoothly.

“Rosa,” he said, his tone light but steady. “We’ve already discussed much of this with Torg, and we’ll gladly go over it again with you—and anyone else who’s interested.” He gestured to the soldiers and staff gathered nearby. “But perhaps we should do it somewhere inside, with hot food and good wine?”

Rosa turned her head slowly, fixing Tybour with a long look. Her frown deepened for just a moment—then vanished.

She smiled. Brilliant. Dazzling.

Dangerous.

“Yes. Let’s.”

She held the moment, letting the silence stretch before speaking again. “I have a strong feeling that a good wine—and perhaps a stronger spirit—may be needed to hear this story.” Her eyes lingered on Tybour. “And besides... you and I have unfinished business.”

Her tone was casual.

But it brooked no argument.

Tybour offered none.

“Come,” Rosa said, turning sharply from Tybour. The invitation—or perhaps command—was directed at Rishmond, Cantor, and Illiar.

She extended one dark-gloved hand to Rishmond, took his without hesitation, and began pulling him behind her toward the open gates of the garrison. He followed without resistance, surprised but not displeased.

Cantor and Illiar had stepped forward earlier, during the tense exchange between Rosa and Torg—drawn by the gravity of the conversation, unwilling to hang back when something this big was unfolding. Now, they moved with Rosa, a step behind but clearly included in her sweep.

“Illiar,” Rosa called over her shoulder, “it is good to see you again. Have you been keeping up with your sword training? You were one of my most promising students."

"Yes, ma'am, I have. Thanks to you, I am one of the best in Retinor." Illiar's voice was guarded but tinged with pride.

"Good!" Rosa's voice held genuine pride. "How is your father? Still burly and surly?”

“He is as well as can be expected for someone afflicted with his particular condition,” Illiar replied, her voice light and smooth, though Rishmond recognized the tempered iron beneath. “And despite being burly, he is far from surly. In fact, his constant jesting tends to drive me to distraction.”

That was Illiar’s diplomatic tone. Polite. Measured. A stone wall wrapped in velvet. Despite the guarded exchange, Rishmond could feel the history and affection. He was certain Bantore and Rosa were friends, of a sort anyway. He also knew that the particular condition Illiar referred to was his being her father, and as such believing he had a right to know more about her personal life than she would like.

Rosa let out a soft huff of amusement—approval, perhaps—and a faint grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. She turned her gaze on Cantor without breaking stride.

“And you, young lady—what is your name, and how did you come to be surrounded by these well-meaning but bumbling men?”

Her eyes flicked up and down Cantor, measuring, weighing.

“You look capable,” Rosa said. “Are you?”

Cantor met Rosa’s gaze evenly, walking just behind Rishmond and Illiar as they passed through the courtyard. She hadn't flinched when Rosa's eyes raked her from head to toe—measuring, challenging.

“I’m Cantor,” she said, her voice calm and level. “And yes. I am capable.”

There was no bravado in her tone. No flattery. Just truth, stated plainly.

“I’ve survived a shipwreck, a demon-spawn attack, and traveling with the First Mage and Rishmond." She emphasized the last as if it was paramount to a Demon attack. "I don’t know everything yet, but I know how to listen, how to fight, and how to stand my ground when it counts.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t need to.

“I’m here because I earned my place.”

Rosa let out a low, thoughtful hum, the corner of her mouth twitching upward.

“Well then,” the Major said, “perhaps you’ll be the first one I spar with.”

Rosa kept a brisk pace, dragging Rishmond along by the hand as she fired off question after question at Illiar and Cantor. Her tone shifted with ease—casual, commanding, curious. She seemed to know Illiar to some degree, which surprised Rishmond. For all his familiarity with Illiar and Bantore, he’d never once heard the name Ambrosia Asherton.

The conversation swirled around him, a rapid current he couldn’t quite follow as they passed through the garrison gates and into the stone-paved courtyard. Rosa never slowed.

The main building loomed ahead, a squat fortress of thick walls and reinforced doors—clearly meant to withstand more than bandits or beasts. This was a proper stronghold.

Rosa led them through the entrance and down a short hallway, opening a set of broad, double doors that revealed a grand hall beyond. Long wooden tables formed a wide square around the center of the room, which had been left open. In the middle of the space, a wide square hole in the floor led to a descending stairwell.

A man in clean, pressed livery emerged from below, carrying a tray stacked with silver place settings and polished cutlery.

Rosa strode confidently to the head of the central table and directed Rishmond to sit at her right, Cantor at her left, and Illiar to Rishmond’s right. Still the questions flowed—directed only to Cantor and Illiar—as if Rishmond were merely cargo she’d hauled in behind her.

He was content to stay silent.

Until she turned.

Her grip on his hand finally loosened, and she looked at him—really looked at him—green eyes sharp and invasive. He felt the weight of her attention like a vise on his skull.

“Where did you say you were born, Rish?” she asked.

Her voice had softened slightly, but the intensity behind it hadn’t dulled.

“May I call you Rish? I like the sound of it.”

“Y-yes, of course. If you wish,” he stammered, caught off guard. The nickname hit him like a surprise embrace and a veiled command at once.

He considered for just a moment.

“I don’t actually know where I was born,” he stated, voice quiet but firm. “Mott, I suppose. The nuns at the orphanage told me they found me on their doorstep when I was perhaps two months old. Dropped off by some traveling merchant, they said.”

He paused.

He did not flinch from her gaze.

He tried not to think about the truth—not the fragmented memories, not the mystery of his earliest months. He told himself he wasn’t lying. Just… protecting something he didn’t fully understand.

“Nasty city,” Rosa said. Her voice dropped into something almost warm. “I’m glad you’re here now instead of there.”

Rishmond believed her.

And he realized—he liked her. Fierce, strange, unyielding as she was, there was something honest in her scrutiny. Something he trusted.

Dinner was brought and served. The mood lightened quickly as Rosa steered the conversation toward their travels, eager for stories and impressions from each of them. She was sharp, witty, and unexpectedly funny. Rishmond found himself smiling more than once.

Quick glances with Cantor and Illiar confirmed what he felt—they were charmed by her, too. The tension that had wrapped them all so tightly began to ease. For the first time in days, Rishmond let himself relax.

He watched Illiar's face for a long moment. He found himself smiling as he watched her. He did not turn away when her eyes found his. He wanted her to know he was watching. She smiled and Rishmond suddenly found himself surprised that the smile was almost shy. And definitely fond. He smiled back before returning his attention to Rosa.

Torg stood quietly behind Rishmond’s chair, a short but solid obstacle for the servants weaving behind the line of seated guests. Most of the food had been served from the open center of the square-shaped arrangement of tables, but the occasional tray or pitcher passed narrowly around the edges.

Rishmond’s gaze drifted around the hall. Finally, he spotted Tybour and Haningway seated more than halfway down the left side of the square. They appeared deep in discussion with an important-looking Alteman clad in layers of vibrant cloth and fine jewelry.

Food was eaten, wine poured, laughter shared.

And then the plates were cleared, and the rhythm of the room shifted.

Rosa rose smoothly to her feet and gave a sharp nod toward someone across the chamber. A bell rang—a bright, crystalline tone—and conversation fell away like mist burned off by sunlight. All eyes turned to the head table.

“It is time,” Rosa announced, her voice crisp and commanding, “to hear the tale. What truly brings this expedition to the Glittergreen Mines—and how it came to be.”

Her gaze dropped to Rishmond, direct and unyielding.

“I understand that you are something of the cause?”

Her expression was unreadable. Stern. Expectant.

Rishmond opened his mouth, unsure of what he would say.

But Tybour’s voice rose smoothly from the center of the room.

“Major,” he said, “it will require more than just Rishmond’s telling…”

He now stood in the open square at the heart of the chamber, framed by torchlight and solemn attention.

He had changed.

Gone were the weatherworn greys of travel. He now wore the official robe of his station—white and gold, adorned with the sigils of the Wizard’s Guild and the Malminar Crown. The cloth shimmered faintly with threads of enchanted light, its fine stitching catching the torchlight like morning sun off fresh snow.

“…but tell it we shall.”

As Tybour stepped forward to speak, Rishmond caught the faint scent of lilac and cinnamon.

He turned his head slightly and glanced up at Rosa, still standing beside him. The scent was coming from her—from the subtle shimmer of magic woven into the air around her. An enhancement spell. One designed to sharpen her senses and imprint every word, every gesture, into perfect memory.

Not a spell that required strength, no—but one that demanded control. Finesse.

Rishmond’s opinion of the Major rose again. She might not radiate magical power the way Tybour or he himself  did, but her precision was something else entirely.

Together, they recounted the tale.

Tybour led much of it, but Rishmond, Cantor, and even Torg all contributed. They shared the truth of how the golem had been discovered—not the fabricated tale they’d told back in Retinor. They spoke of the island, the descent into the ancient vault, the awakening of the crystal golem, and the revelation that he served the Goddess Denisisie herself.

They explained how the expedition had been formed, the storm, the sabotage, the sinking of the Porpoise, the monstrous battle in the savannah.

Only one detail was deliberately omitted.

Teilmein.

Tybour had warned Rishmond earlier: “Not yet. Not until we know more.”

So they didn’t speak of murder. Not tonight.

Throughout it all, most of the garrison held their questions until the end. They listened—captivated—as Torg finally delivered his message: that the Gods had gone silent, that Denisisie had vanished, and that he believed they could be found... and convinced to return to the mortal realm.

There were gasps. Murmurs. And no shortage of emotion when the tragedies and losses were revealed—so many dead, so many buried on the journey.

Yet when the demonspawn was mentioned, the reaction was... muted. A few grim expressions. One or two quiet oaths. But no shock.

Rishmond realized, with a creeping unease, that the garrison had likely seen such creatures before. Perhaps many times.

This was the Reaches, after all.

Tybour watched Rosa’s face as they spoke, always gauging her reactions. She was careful—too careful. He could tell she believed there was more to the tale than had been told tonight. And she was right.

But the omissions were necessary.

Later, he’d explain. Later, he’d take her wrath—and her wisdom. He needed both.

Without realizing it, a soft smile played at the corners of his lips as he watched her. It was an old smile. A familiar one.

The telling gave way to questions, and the questions to discussion. Wine flowed, but the mood never became jovial again. Not really. The weight of the tale was too great.

After the telling, Rosa and Tybour locked eyes in a silence deeper than words. Rishmond watched, unable to decipher the meaning—but certain that something vast had passed between them. Something old. Something unfinished.