The wheels had been turning for days.
Dirt, stone, dust. Again and again.
The rhythm of the convoy never changed. Carts creaked forward under the weight of supplies and passengers, boots struck the earth in practiced unison, and voices stayed low—always low. There was a constant haze in the air, faint trails of æther clinging to the road like old smoke.
Lucas sat in the rear cart, arms folded, legs stretched out across a crate he wasn't supposed to touch. A guard nearby shot him a look every few minutes, but never said anything.
He liked that.
It meant they hadn't decided what to do with him yet.
The road twisted through a lightly forested region—far from the wild horrors of deeper Crucible territory. These lands were stable, even civilized in places. Small villages reinforced with stone and runes. Watchtowers bearing the flags of minor noble houses. Militia patrols nodded as the convoy passed, and Lucas noticed more than one traveler stop what they were doing to bow as Lyss's carriage rolled by.
'Royal treatment,' he thought bitterly. 'All this for someone who plays knight with a clean face and too many guards.'
He adjusted his posture, letting his boot "accidentally" knock over a small crate beside him.
It hit the wooden floor with a loud thud.
The guard to his right narrowed his eyes.
Lucas stared back, deadpan.
The man looked away.
Lucas grinned faintly.
'Let's see how long it takes to break someone's nerves.'
He had nothing better to do.
The Crucible wasn't just endless ruins and monsters.
Not here.
Not in the zones humans had managed to claim, reinforce, and hold with blood and soul cores. Villages had sprung up where the ley lines were stable. Crude walls of enchanted stone protected families who had never seen Earth. Traders moved along the roads with magical lamps tied to their wagons, and children watched the passing convoy with wide eyes.
Lucas watched them back.
Some waved at the guards. One tried waving at him.
He didn't wave back.
The cart bounced over a ridge, passing a patrol checkpoint where armored guards bearing House insignias saluted Lyss's crest.
It was a strange contrast—this world of fantasy and war pretending to be civilized.
Too clean.
Too quiet.
Lucas sat up straighter and stretched with a loud, exaggerated yawn. One of the guards walking beside the cart glared at him again.
He gave the man a wink.
'Still not talking, huh? I'm doing great then.'
He whistled softly as they passed a supply outpost. Inside, he could see Awakened in training gear—some barely older than him—sparring with blades, axes, and magic in controlled duels. Sparks flew as two of them clashed with flaming swords.
Lucas scoffed.
'Let me guess. Born into power. Fed a class from the womb.'
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a dry strip of meat someone had thrown at him that morning. He tore off a bite like it owed him something.
The convoy paused for a brief inspection at the next barrier. While the guards exchanged documents, Lucas spotted a young noble girl in ceremonial robes passing by with two aides. She gave him a look. Not curiosity. Not fear.
Disgust.
He smiled at her like he'd just won a game she didn't know they were playing.
The aide whispered something into her ear. She looked away with a scowl.
Lucas leaned back against the cart, resting his boots on another crate, deliberately scratching it with his heel.
He didn't care whose it was.
The convoy had paused near a narrow stream that trickled between blackened rocks. Horses drank under the watch of bored guards, and nobles took the chance to stretch their legs and complain about the dust.
Lucas leaned against a crate beside the last cart, chewing on a strip of meat like it was the last food in the world.
Then he saw him.
A young noble. Cloak too clean, boots too polished. The kind of face that never had to hunt for food or worry about warmth. He walked toward the stream flanked by two guards, laughing at something only he found funny.
Lucas didn't like the sound of him.
The noble's eyes flicked toward him. A pause. Then a smirk.
"Didn't realize they were letting rats ride in noble caravans now."
Lucas smiled slowly.
He took the last bite of his food, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and tossed the strip of leather toward the noble's boots.
It landed inches from them.
"Careful," Lucas said. "Wouldn't want you to dirty your precious boots with peasant spit."
The guards straightened. One moved forward.
Lucas didn't back down. If anything, he took a lazy step toward them.
The noble gestured with his chin, smug. "I could have you whipped for that."
"You could try," Lucas replied. "Or better yet, send your dogs. I've got time."
One of the guards reached for his sword.
"Do it," Lucas whispered.
The tension snapped tight.
But before steel left the sheath, a new voice cut across the clearing:
"Don't bother."
Lyss.
She stood a few steps away, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on Lucas like he was a puzzle she was tired of solving.
The noble turned, indignant. "He just—"
"I don't care," she interrupted. "He wants a reaction. He wants a fight. Don't give it to him."
The guards hesitated. Then backed off at her command.
Lucas exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Damn. Thought I finally found the line."
Lyss stepped toward him, her voice low and cold.
"You think if you make enough noise, I'll throw you out? Let you wander off and vanish?"
He didn't answer.
She leaned closer, just enough for her voice to be a blade against his pride.
"You're stuck here, Lucas. Like it or not. You don't get to choose how this ends."
Lucas held her stare for a long second. Then turned away without a word.
He walked back to his cart, kicked a crate, and sat down hard.
'Fine. Keep me here. Just don't expect me to make it easy.'
Night had settled like a shroud.
The moon above was a pale, unnatural disc hanging in a bruised sky, veiled by the ever-present mist of The Crucible. Crickets chirped in distant patches of wild grass, and the crackling of campfires echoed faintly through the camp.
Lucas sat alone near the edge of the clearing.
Again.
A small fire danced in front of him, more for light than warmth. He wasn't given a tent, and he didn't ask for one. Just a bedroll and silence.
He preferred it that way.
No one talked to him unless they had to. The soldiers barely looked at him now—either out of habit or exhaustion.
He dragged a stick through the dirt beside the fire, watching the embers pop.
His mind wasn't still.
It hadn't been for days.
His legs ached from riding, his back from sleeping on uneven ground, and his pride from… everything else.
He exhaled slowly and muttered to the flames, like they might have the answers no one else would give him.
"Why in the actual fuck do you want me, Lyss?"
There was no sarcasm this time. No bite.
Just confusion laced with bitterness.
She could've left him. Could've handed him over to any guard, any post, any wandering execution squad. She didn't. She kept him close. But not trusted. Not free.
Just there.
He looked toward the noble tents—larger, brighter, quieter. Somewhere in there, she was sleeping. Or pretending to. Probably wondering if dragging him along was still worth the effort.
Lucas clenched his jaw.
'I'm not loyal. I'm not strong. I'm not even useful.'
He tossed the stick into the fire.
'So what the hell is she playing at?'
The flames flickered back at him with no answers.
Lyss stood just beyond the edge of the noble tent circle, her arms crossed over her chest, eyes fixed on the solitary fire at the far side of camp.
Lucas sat beside it, shoulders hunched, gaze lost in the flames. He hadn't moved in a while.
He looked small out there.
Not physically—he was tall, lean, strong enough—but small in that way people looked when they didn't belong anywhere.
One of her personal guards, Caeren, stepped up beside her, helmet tucked under his arm.
"You want me to finally throw him out?" he asked quietly, only half-joking. "One wrong look and most of the others would be happy to do it for free."
Lyss didn't answer right away.
She watched Lucas shift slightly, dragging a stick through the dirt like a bored child, only to fling it into the fire with frustration.
"No," she said eventually.
Caeren raised an eyebrow. "May I ask why not?"
"Because," Lyss said, her voice calm but cool, "I don't make decisions when I'm angry."
He nodded. "Still. He's going to keep causing trouble."
"I know."
"Then why keep him?"
She didn't look away from the fire.
"Because I want to," she said.
She paused.
"Just fire. And choice."
Caeren glanced back at Lucas and shook his head. "Doesn't look like someone worth saving."
Lyss turned toward her tent.
"I'm not trying to save him."
The last morning of the journey arrived without ceremony.
No grand sunrise, no shift in the sky. Just another fog-laced dawn in a land that never quite looked alive.
Lucas sat in the back of the wagon as the wheels rumbled over smooth, dark stone. The terrain had changed—more structured now. The road was too clean, too even. Maintained.
Controlled.
He could see it now in the distance.
Carved into the side of a towering mountain, half-ancient fortress, half-modern city.
The Elyndra Stronghold.
Pillars of blackstone rose from the mountainside like spears, reaching toward the clouds. Dozens of towers, bridges, and spires weaved together in a vertical maze of defensive architecture and noble opulence. Light shimmered from magical lanterns embedded along the outer walls, and massive gates stood open—only slightly.
The convoy slowed as they approached.
Lucas didn't say a word.
He just watched.
And as the gates loomed closer, his thoughts drifted back over the last two weeks.
The arguments. The stares. The insults. The constant threat of being kicked out, killed, or left behind.
And yet…
Here he was.
Still breathing.
Still unwanted.
Still here.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees, eyes fixed on the towering stronghold ahead.
'Two weeks of silence, sarcasm, and scorn… and somehow, I'm still here.'
His mouth curled into a dry smirk.
"Lucky them."