The wagon groaned to a halt, its weathered timbers protesting the journey's end. The teamster—a leather-faced man who smelled of tobacco and road dust—scratched his stubble and spat into the dirt. "Hill's too steep from here. You'll walk the rest."
Myhra was first to dismount, her boots sinking into the rain-softened earth. The moment her feet touched ground, a wave of nausea slammed into her. Her breath hitched as an invisible fist clenched around her ribs. Heartbeats drummed in her ears, loud enough to drown the whispering pines.
"Problem?" Carli's voice cut through the fog. The taller woman loomed beside her, flame-haired and sharp-eyed, already scanning the tree line. Ten years of night missions had honed her instincts to a razor's edge.
"Travel fatigue." Myhra forced a smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her fingers trembled.
Carli's snort conveyed volumes. "Three nights chasing shadows through the Blackmire would drain a stone golem." She hefted her pack with a grunt, but her gaze never left Myhra's face. "Tell me you're not seeing things. First time I pulled double watches, I swore the armory brooms were vampiric assassins."
"Not hallucinating." Yet the lie tasted bitter. Myhra pressed two fingers to her wrist. The pulse beneath her skin raced like a cornered hare's.
Behind them, Oda bounded from the wagon with the energy of a spring colt. "Scout ahead?" he chirped, bouncing on his toes. Moonlight glinted off the throwing knives strapped to his thighs.
"No." The word came out sharper than intended. Myhra softened it with a commander's practiced calm. "Secure Carli's artifacts first. Then home."
To her surprise, Carli didn't argue. The veteran merely adjusted the satchel containing their cursed haul—a collection of soul-trapping urns that had already cost them two good hunters. Her silence spoke louder than any complaint.
Oda saluted with exaggerated flourish. "Orders received!" He slung Carli's pack over one shoulder, his boyish grin undimmed by the oppressive night.
As they trudged up the path, Carli fell into step beside Myhra. "You're white as a burial shroud," she muttered. "If you collapse before debrief, I'm leaving you for the crows."
Myhra's laugh came easier this time. Three years ago, such barbed concern would've stung. Now she recognized it for what it was—the only affection Carli knew how to give.
The older woman paused, her profile etched in moonlight. "Still can't believe they gave a baby-faced thing like you command." She flicked Myhra's braid—a rare gesture of camaraderie. "Try not to die before breakfast, Commander."
Then she was gone, striding ahead with Oda chattering at her side. Myhra watched them disappear into the pines, their banter fading into the night.
Alone now, she turned toward the crest of the hill. Somewhere beyond it, Redstone Castle waited.
And something within it was calling her name.
The advantage of immortal lineage flowed through Myhra's veins like quicksilver, granting power that made veteran magic-wielders seem like children playing with sparks. Yet what truly unsettled observers wasn't her strength—it was how each victory seemed to uncover deeper, darker layers to abilities that should have been mapped generations ago. The Royal Archives contained no records of a bloodline that grew stronger through combat, as if battle itself fed some hidden hunger.
When the wagon's rumble faded into the misty distance, Myhra remained statue-still. Dawn's first light bled across the road, painting the forest edges in liquid shadow. Between the ancient oaks, the darkness didn't merely linger—it pulsed. Watching. Waiting. Her hand drifted to the hilt of her dagger as primal awareness screamed that something in those woods mirrored her own unnatural nature.
"Just fatigue," she lied to the empty road, tasting copper. The excuse crumbled when she crested the hill.
Redstone Castle dominated the horizon like a fresh wound. Its crimson spires drank the moonlight, glowing with stolen radiance. Myhra's childhood memories of playing near its gates curdled—this wasn't the dormant relic from her youth, but a predator wearing castle-shaped skin. The stones seemed to breathe, their rhythm syncopated with her suddenly racing heartbeat.
Her gaze jerked toward the village below. Four stone cottages clustered at the hill's base, three dark as graves. Only her family's home showed signs of life—golden light bleeding through shutters, hearth smoke curling skyward like a sacrifice. The contrast made her stomach clench; that fragile warmth stood defenseless against the castle's brooding presence.
A whisper slithered through the windless night—not sound, but the absence of it. The castle's shadow stretched toward the village, black tendrils grasping across the meadow. Myhra's dagger left its sheath before she'd consciously decided to draw it. The blade's edge shimmered with the same unnatural crimson as the castle stones.
"Not just a castle then," she murmured. The realization should have terrified her. Instead, something deep in her bloodline thrilled at the challenge.
The village square exhaled history beneath Myhra's boots, its cobblestones worn smooth by generations of footsteps. She paused at its heart, drawn irresistibly to the mountain path - that ancient artery winding up toward the temple's luminous peak. The flag at its spire lashed against the indigo sky like a trapped spirit, its crimson triangle bleeding into the darkness.
Light pooled around the temple's base, not the meek flicker of oil lamps but something fiercer - as though the stones themselves remembered sunlight. A shiver ran down Myhra's spine that had nothing to do with the wind. The villagers whispered that these walls warded off evil, but standing here now, she understood the truth: the temple didn't repel darkness. It gathered it. Stored it. Waited.
Her breath steadied as the temple's presence thrummed through her bones, that familiar current of power humming just beneath her skin. For three heartbeats, peace settled over her like a mantle.
Then the square's silence broke her reverie.
The thatched roofs hunched like sleeping beasts, their shuttered eyes blind to the night. Ancient oaks formed a living palisade, their twisted limbs heavy with moss that whispered secrets in a language even her bloodline couldn't decipher. Somewhere beyond them, her family's private shrine pulsed with older magics, its energies twining with the temple's like lovers' fingers.
Her gaze snapped northward against her will.
Redstone Castle's silhouette tore at the horizon, its rust-colored stones glowing faintly as though steeped in old blood. Tonight, its towers didn't merely stand - they strained. Reached. Myhra's throat tightened as a new understanding crystallized: the temple and castle weren't opposing forces. They were counterparts. And something had disturbed their ancient balance.
The lantern trembled in her hand as she reached her grandmother's cottage. Warmth bled through its shutters, but no amount of hearthlight could ease the chill creeping up her spine. The castle's presence was a physical weight now, its attention fixed upon her with predatory focus.
Then - movement.
A shadow flitted across the highest gallery, too swift for mortal eyes to track. But Myhra's eyes weren't entirely mortal. Her lantern crashed to the ground as she surged forward, drawn by something deeper than curiosity.
The gate stood ajar.
Not broken, not forced - opened from within. Moonlight licked the rusted hinges where fresh scratches gleamed. Above her, the castle's walls breathed, their stones shifting almost imperceptibly like the sides of some great beast. The unbreakable seal had been broken. The impossible had stirred.
And it was waiting for her.