The three, now acquainted, had drifted from their camp, the smell of cinder fading into memory as they strolled with purpose through the rocky terrain. All except Arlen, who limped several paces behind, struggling to match their stride. He watched them pull ahead in steady increments before they'd slow, waiting for him to catch up.
Without the tight wraps they'd fixed around his wounds, he'd likely be dead by now—either from blood loss or torn apart by rock-backs.
"Senna!" Vocht called out. She moved silently, outpacing even him. Lost in her own thoughts, she'd pulled far ahead of them both.
She skidded to a halt and turned, her expression shifting to awkward recognition as she realized how far she'd left them behind.
"Why the rush?" Vocht asked.
Arlen finally caught up, his breath coming in ragged heaves as he clasped at his wound. He leaned against a tall rockface that cast long shadows across them all, the stone formations around them like the teeth of some massive beast.
"We're not too far," Senna replied. "Any moment now and we should be back at Dazeen."
Arlen thought back to his climb atop one of the jutting rocks, when he'd spotted what he thought was a river in the distance. Whatever he'd seen had been deceptive. That illusory proximity now mocked him after the grueling half-day trek with his companions.
"Y-you sure?" he managed between breaths.
Senna's eye flashed with sudden anger. "You don't trust me? Go find your own way then!"
"No, that isn't what I meant."
"Senna," Vocht cut in, "we've talked about this. Not everyone is your demon."
"Listen," she insisted, "I've traveled much of the southern spine. I know my way around."
Arlen regretted saying anything. Speaking to Senna was like throwing dice where most sides came up snake eyes.
"I only meant that it didn't seem this far when I looked from above," he explained, gesturing to the rock formations they'd passed. "Before we met, I climbed one of these."
"You forget about maneuvering, Arlen," Vocht said, wiping sweat from his brow despite the chill in the air. "We don't move in straight lines, so the journey stretches longer than the crow flies. This region is the low-heights of the Woken Spine." A sly grin crossed his face. "I know you're a foreigner, so I'll share some geography—as long as you don't report it to your king."
A hint of a smile cracked the corner of Senna's lips.
"I know the cities," Arlen replied, seizing the chance to catch his breath while recalling what common knowledge he had.
"Right." Senna crossed her arms, her face stern. With only one good eye, her attempts to blink came off as winks, giving her glare toward Arlen a peculiar intensity, as though he were beneath her homeland itself.
"Well, you mentioned Kimash the capital," he continued. "Where the Lord of the western world, High King Malagrast Zid resides, father to Prince Kerious Zid and brother to Lady Glint, all children of Queen Consort Vesperine."
Vocht and Senna stared at him in stunned silence. Night creatures filled the void with their chirping as surprise registered on their faces.
"I guess that's what being a Mazandrian noble gets you," Vocht chuckled. "Shit, you really know your stuff."
"I'm not a noble, Vocht," Arlen said quietly, his gaze falling to the faint yellow grass beneath his feet. "Not anymore."
"Tsk." Senna's dismissive sound cut through the air.
"Yeah, guess you can't sell me off."
"Wasn't planning to," Vocht replied.
"That all you know?" Senna challenged.
"Other than the major cities, not much. The Woken Spine I've only heard mentioned—never learned anything about the region itself."
Senna unfolded her arms and resumed walking, having caught onto Arlen's ploy for rest before Vocht noticed. Arlen could see the difference between them—Vocht more lenient, careless even, offering only a shrug before gesturing to follow her. Though Senna now moved at a brisk walk rather than her previous pace.
"The Woken Spine stretches southwest to northeast across our kingdom," Vocht explained as they walked. "Dangerous territory between, for certain. It lies southeast from Ternlock region, where I hail from. I was surprised to find these low heights extending this far south when I arrived two months back."
"How many regions make up Eskadar?" Arlen asked.
Vocht rested his hand on the small sheath at his side, tilting his head toward the stars as if counting.
"There's Ternlock in the north, the Low Heights—not just in name—makes up the southern region and connects to the coasts. Everything east of the Spine is The Crown East. Most officials, guilds, and the central population live in the eastern half of Eskadar."
Something shifted inside Arlen—a strange feeling of confirmation. He'd suspected he was in enemy territory, but part of him had clung to hope it wasn't true. Hearing it from Vocht's mouth made his situation feel suddenly, unbearably real.
Why here. Dammit! The thought was directed partly at himself, partly at Had'rial, if the Heir could hear his thoughts.
"I know this is off-topic, Arlen," Vocht said, glancing back. "Your blade—aside from being well-crafted, Senna and I didn't notice anything special. Which makes me wonder... are you Flared by chance?"
Senna's pace slowed perceptibly. She looked back with unmistakable interest before quickly turning away when she caught Arlen returning her gaze.
Arlen considered the question carefully. He was Flickered, lowest of the tiers, yet somehow felt unworthy even of that modest rank. The world divided its protectors into Knights and Gravers. Arlen belonged to the latter, less respected category used for the registry and dark field cleansers, seen as disorganized compared to the knightly orders. The title felt distant now, almost surreal. He'd never distinguished himself in battle, following his brother Kael's path after their mother's death. Arlen had always felt he owed her memory something—perhaps the truth his brother and father had shied from. But now even that seemed an impossible dream.
"Flicker," he answered after a long pause.
"Really?" Senna blurted, then cleared her throat. "Most Flickers we've encountered spread chaos around them, with no control whatsoever."
"That's true," Vocht agreed. "Usually Flickers have strong connections to the Flare—in skill or environmental influence—but it manifests chaotically until controlled. But you..." He stopped walking, Senna doing likewise. "You show no signs of danger, within or without. Just a novice with a blade. No offense."
"Right," Arlen said slowly. "I tend not to match what you'd expect, given how troubled I am inside."
"From your past?" Senna interjected, her hardened tone softening slightly, though her accent remained rough as gravel. "Something meaningful?"
"No. More like rage."
"Rage?" Senna echoed.
"For sure," Vocht nodded thoughtfully. "I've heard of Flickers limited to emotional triggers. Their power only emerging through uncontrolled feelings. Once met a man who affected air pressure through his tears alone, causing waves along a beach that mirrored his dark state—the darkness that comes from Sephelos. But rage is rare. I can imagine how it might influence the world, though I've never witnessed it firsthand."
Senna resumed walking, absently scratching her chin. Arlen followed, knowing something about his connection to the Flare had always been wrong. Even his father Amund had remarked on it once. The difference between someone like his brother, a Seared who deliberately manipulated the unnatural, and himself was stark. Other Flickers at the Registry's Yard of Training possessed a tether to Sephelos they could sense and touch internally. That realm embodied the darker aspects of life—and when those Flickers reached for it, what returned wasn't a gentle ripple but an overwhelming wave they couldn't control. Yet Arlen had never felt any tether to the Else. Never sensed any connection at all, except in moments of pure rage.
"Some of us are different, some of us aren't," he concluded, walking past the two down the dirt path cutting through the yellow grass.