Izzar’s chest heaved, his breaths shallow and ragged. He couldn’t run anymore. The weight of Aargon on his back had sapped every ounce of his energy. Although Aargon wasn’t large, the hidden armour beneath his robes and the countless gadgets strapped to him made him feel heavier than any adult. Izzar’s legs burned with each step, yet he pressed on, spurred by the growing sense of dread behind them.

  Viha, not far behind, moved with an unsettling ease. There was no sign of fatigue in her strides—only a sharp exhilaration. Her eyes gleamed with a fiery energy, the thrill of the chase feeding her relentless drive. She would have relished the opportunity to face the beast head-on, but even she knew the odds of doing so alone were slim. Meanwhile, Tarium trailed behind, visibly strained despite carrying nothing but his weapon. The jungle air, thick with damp mist and the scent of rotting vegetation, seemed to press down on them all.

  Finally, they broke through the dense undergrowth into a rare opening in the jungle. The sunlight filtered weakly through the perpetual haze, giving the area an otherworldly glow. Izzar eased Aargon down onto a bed of dried leaves at the centre of the clearing, his muscles trembling from the effort.

  “Whatever that was…” Izzar gasped, his voice shaky as he wiped sweat from his brow, “it won’t follow us into the open.”

  Viha stepped closer, her movements graceful despite the dirt and scratches marking her arms. To Izzar, she was striking, a fierce figure made even more radiant by her defiance of the planet’s harshness. She tilted her head with a smirk.

  “How do you know?” she asked, her tone playful, though her piercing gaze demanded an answer. “You said the wildlife on Dessix avoids humans—that it doesn’t attack.”

  “I was wrong.” Izzar’s voice carried a note of frustration tinged with lingering fear.

  Tarium stumbled into the clearing moments later, hunched over and wheezing. He dropped to his knees, clutching his sides. “These creatures… they’re being to attack,” he muttered, his words slow and deliberate, laced with exhaustion.

  Izzar straightened, his curiosity overcoming his fatigue. “What was that thing back there?” he asked, his tone insistent. His knowledge of Dessix’s wildlife was vast, yet nothing matched the size or aggression of what had pursued them.

  Tarium hesitated, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right words. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, his voice low and measured, as though speaking too loudly might summon the creature. “But something… or someone… is stirring the forest.”

  The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the distant calls of unseen creatures echoing through the misty jungle. Izzar’s unease deepened; the forest felt more alive than ever—yet wholly unnatural.

  Aargon began to stir, soft mumbles escaping his lips as his head lolled to the side. Tarium immediately crouched beside him, concern etched into his face. His trained eyes took in Aargon’s pallor and the awkward angle of his shoulder. “His collarbone is broken,” Tarium said grimly, his voice tight with worry. “This isn’t good. He’s a liability now.” The unspoken truth hung in the air—carrying Aargon through Dessix’s perilous jungle was a risk none of them could afford.

  Izzar knelt, staring at Aargon’s pale, sweat-drenched face. Instinctively, he placed a hand on the injured man’s shoulder, though he had no idea what to do next. He wasn’t trained in first aid, and the jungle was no place to fumble with inexperience. Closing his eyes, Izzar let his thoughts still, searching for clarity amidst the tension.

  The moment his thoughts quieted, it happened—like a floodgate opening within his mind. A startling clarity washed over him, vivid and all-encompassing. In his mind’s eye, he saw Aargon’s body not as flesh and bone but as a living map of energy and injury. His focus honed in on a specific area near Aargon’s shoulder, where faint, almost imperceptible puncture wounds marred the skin. Bite marks. Small, nearly invisible. His heart sank.

  Mud worms. It was unmistakable. The creatures’ venom must have seeped into Aargon’s system, sapping his strength and rendering him unconscious. Despite all Izzar’s studies, the true nature of Dessix’s wildlife remained elusive—predators, once thought passive, now revealed themselves as silent killers. Few researchers had ever mapped the intricacies of this alien world, and those who tried were often overtaken by its brutal and unpredictable ecology. Izzar had never even seen a mud worm up close before today.

  But the vision didn’t stop there. It stretched outward, pulling him away from Aargon’s body and into the pulsating heart of the jungle itself. The sensory explosion overwhelmed him—sound, movement, life. The jungle was alive, not merely thriving but teeming with relentless, vibrant energy. Every rustle of a leaf, every flicker of a wing or skitter of claws across damp bark resounded as if amplified. The cacophony of life surged in his ears, deafening and hypnotic.

  Above the tangled canopy, where the air shimmered with golden light from Dessix’s distant K-dwarf sun, majestic creatures soared. Their enormous wings spread wide as they glided effortlessly through the sky, iridescent feathers catching the light like scattered prisms. Izzar had never seen them before—had never bothered to look up—but now their presence felt profound, as though they were silent sentinels of the forest, guardians of something ancient and untouchable.

  His gaze shifted, drawn to the horizon where the towering citadel of Torne loomed like a defiant monolith. The scale was staggering; even from this distance, its immense structure dominated the landscape. But as Izzar’s perception sharpened, he saw what he had never noticed before: the citadel was lifeless. Not even the smallest bird or insect dared to venture near its stark, angular walls. The jungle, so relentless and encroaching, seemed to retreat in its shadow. A hollow emptiness radiated from the fortress as though it existed outside the pulse of Dessix’s ecosystem.

  In his vision, Izzar could feel Torne. Deep within the citadel, the man’s presence burned like a beacon. The sensation filled Izzar’s mind, sinking into his very bones. Torne was meditating—waiting. And though no words passed between them, Izzar instinctively knew that their mission was not yet complete. The weight of expectation settled heavily on his shoulders, a silent command reverberating through the jungle air.

  Izzar’s eyes snapped open, and for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The world around him seemed alien, transformed. The thick mist clinging to the trees, the endless calls of unseen creatures, the faint golden light filtering through the canopy—it all felt charged, as though he were seeing Dessix for the first time.

  Izzar broke the silence with an abrupt question, his tone sharp with intent. “Tarium, you were sent to give us a new task. What are Master Torne’s instructions?”

  Tarium, who had been lingering close to Aargon, turned slowly. His face was solemn as he knelt beside the unconscious man, glancing down at him with a flicker of concern. Finally, his gaze shifted to Izzar, his voice low and reverent.

  “My lord, you are to travel to the abandoned colonies to retrieve the Sword of the Ipsimus,” Tarium intoned, each word deliberate. “You must return to the citadel within nineteen days. This is the will of Epsimus Torne the Wise.”

  He stood, his tall frame rising with an air of finality, his eyes locked firmly on Izzar as if awaiting acknowledgement.

  Izzar blinked, the weight of the command settling over him. “The abandoned colonies?” he murmured, his surprise slipping through the cracks in his composure. “That’s on the other side of the planet!” His mind raced—he had never travelled so far across Dessix’s treacherous expanse.

  The words stirred fragments of memory from his studies. The abandoned colonies had once been home to the planet’s first settlers. They were pioneers, daring souls who had carved out an outpost in the unforgiving wilderness. Compared to similar colonies scattered across the galaxy, it had been small and isolated, hardly worth mentioning except for its grim fate.

  When Torne arrived, he claimed the colony as his own, forcing the settlers to trek through the dense jungle to the crater where his citadel now stood. The construction of the fortress had been merciless—starvation, injuries, and disease claimed nearly every worker. The few who survived fled Dessix at the first opportunity, but their scattered remains could still be found, hidden beneath the jungle’s endless sprawl, silent witnesses to Torne’s ambition.

  The sword. Torne’s sword. Once the citadel was complete, Torne had deemed the abandoned colonies a secure resting place for the artefact. No one knew the location nor even the existence of the planet itself. Dessix’s natural defences were impenetrable: predators, fog, and the jungle’s relentless growth ensured that no intruder would dare to trespass.

  The gravity of the task weighed heavily on Izzar, but Viha broke the tension. “What about Aargon?” she asked, her voice carrying a mix of genuine curiosity and unease.

  Izzar glanced down at Aargon, whose shallow breathing betrayed his fragility. For a moment, doubt flickered across Izzar’s face, but he quickly smothered it. “We either take him with us to the abandoned colonies, or we leave him here to die,” he said, his words clipped and sombre.

  Viha’s expression hardened, a storm brewing behind her eyes. “He’ll drag us down,” she countered, though her voice wavered. “He’s barely breathing. But… we can’t just leave him here to die.”

  She knelt beside Aargon, brushing a hand lightly over his broken form. Her hesitation was clear—her warrior’s instincts clashed with a deeper sense of morality. She looked to Izzar, silently pleading for an alternative, but his cold, calculating demeanour offered no reprieve.

  The jungle seemed to tighten around them, the shadows deepening, the distant hum of unseen life growing louder as if the very forest was weighing their decision. It felt alive, watching, its judgment palpable in the suffocating mist.

  Izzar stared down at Aargon, the boy who had been little more than a stranger hours ago. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, but his presence was already a burden Izzar couldn’t afford. The dark tendrils of the Order’s teachings wrapped around Izzar’s mind, drowning out the faint whisper of doubt. Emotion was weakness; hesitation was betrayal. His decision was clear—cold and final.

  “He stays here,” Izzar said, his voice devoid of warmth. His words cut through the tension like a blade. “The Master sent us on this mission for a reason. If we don’t return to the citadel before the days are up, the punishment will be far worse than leaving someone injured and alone.”

  Tarium shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the choice pressing on him as well. Yet, he nodded, his voice low as he murmured, “I must leave.” His tone carried no argument, only resignation to Izzar’s authority.

  Viha’s stomach twisted as she watched Izzar’s cold declaration take shape. She had not expected him to abandon Aargon—not like this. Despite her disdain for the boy, the thought of leaving him to fend for himself in the merciless jungle left her with a sour taste in her mouth.

  She cast a glance at Aargon’s unconscious form, his broken collarbone and shallow breaths telling a silent story of helplessness. The jungle’s fog hung heavy, a living shroud that promised to consume him. She looked back at Izzar, searching his face for some flicker of regret, but found nothing. His stoicism was unyielding.

  Torne’s teachings were harsh—unyielding in their demands for obedience and sacrifice. They had forged Izzar into an instrument of the Order, conditioned to follow commands without question, to silence doubt and emotion. He had no room for weakness, no place for compassion. He would leave Aargon behind because it was what the Order required, and for Izzar, that was reason enough.

  Yet, Viha could not ignore the pang of unease twisting in her gut. She was a warrior, born and bred in the brutal coliseums of Gandron, where bloodshed and survival were the only constants. There, she chose her battles, fought on her terms, and walked away only when the fight was done. Death was an accepted part of the arena’s contract—those who entered did so knowing the risks. But here, amidst the choking undergrowth of Dessix, this was no fair fight. Leaving Aargon alone felt like a betrayal of some unspoken code, even if she had no love for him.

  Aargon was supposed to be one of the three—a voice of wisdom to balance the volatile wills of two warriors. Now, he was a burden, a vulnerability they could not afford. Viha hated herself for feeling this way, but she hated Izzar more for the coldness in his eyes, the ease with which he could cast aside a comrade.

  The jungle’s hum grew louder still, a deafening reminder of the life teeming all around them, indifferent to their struggle. Viha clenched her fists, her warrior’s resolve at war with the faint, unfamiliar ache of regret.

  “The sun is moving fast,” Izzar murmured, his voice heavy with urgency. Overhead, the golden light of Dessix’s K-dwarf star was already dimming, streaks of shadow creeping through the misty jungle. On this planet, midday passed in the blink of an eye, and night descended like a predator, swift and unforgiving.

  Izzar’s fears weren’t rooted in the planet’s wildlife. It wasn’t the sharp-eyed Fargesrats or the relentless mud worms that haunted his thoughts—it was the jungle itself. The climate was ruthless, the cold biting even during the day. Night on Dessix was worse, the air heavy with moisture, seeping into every layer of their suits. The planet’s lack of axial tilt meant no seasons to break its eternal sameness: cool, humid, and perpetually overgrown.

  The jungle was a force of its own. It thrived with ruthless efficiency, its flora racing against time. By midday, plants reached full maturity, and their hardened vines and trunks were impossible to clear without significant effort. Even the citadel wasn’t spared from the relentless growth. Every day, the Modus Ipsimes sent teams to cut back the jungle, their efforts doubling as combat training against the living wilderness.

  “There are old ruins beyond the misty meadows,” Izzar said, his voice steady but laced with urgency. “We can shelter near the shrines for the night.”

  His own experiences in the jungle had taught him the value of preparation. Getting caught in the open at night wasn’t an option. He had been lost in the wilds before, the suffocating darkness and oppressive cold leaving scars he wouldn’t forget. Even their suits, designed to insulate and protect, couldn’t entirely fend off the damp chill of Dessix’s nocturnal air. Many of the planet’s early colonists hadn’t been as lucky. Poorly prepared and poorly equipped, they had succumbed to the jungle’s relentless assault, their bodies lost to time and the undergrowth.

  Izzar turned his gaze to Viha, kneeling by Aargon. Her hand rested on his injured shoulder, her face a mixture of frustration and determination as she willed him to wake. She wasn’t ready to leave him behind. Despite her warrior’s resolve, the weight of abandoning a comrade—even one she didn’t care for—was heavy.

  “We need to go, Viha,” Izzar said, his voice quieter but no less firm. “You don’t know the horrors that await us if we fail.”

  Viha bit her lip, anger flickering in her eyes as she looked up at him. Slowly, she rose to her feet, her movements tense and deliberate. She glanced once more at Aargon, then turned her gaze to the shadows deepening around them.

  “Is that what it really takes to be by your side?” she asked bitterly, her voice cutting through the jungle’s hum. “Ruling a galaxy unaware of your existence?” Her head dipped, a flicker of doubt crossing her features. Her thoughts raced, calculating the consequences of staying behind with Aargon versus continuing with Izzar.

  “There is only the Order of the Ipsimus,” Izzar replied, his tone devoid of emotion. The words fell from his lips like a mantra, rehearsed and hollow. “The law of the Order is just and final.”

  Viha studied him, her frustration mingling with something softer—pity, perhaps. The cold recitation reminded her of what Izzar was: a product of Torne’s teachings, forged to obey without question. The weight of the jungle pressed upon them both, but for Viha, it wasn’t just the wilderness that felt suffocating—it was Izzar’s unwavering devotion to a code that demanded everything and gave nothing in return.

  Viha’s thoughts churned as she studied Izzar, her warrior’s instincts clashing with the emotions stirring deep within her. A code of honour had been embedded in her since birth—one that defined her every action and decision. Now, as she watched Izzar’s cold resolve, she began to understand him in a way she hadn’t before. His rigid obedience to Torne wasn’t so different from her own loyalty to Gandron’s Warrior Guild.

  For both, one code replaced another, binding them to service. Izzar’s life was shackled to the laws of the Ipsimus. His every move was dictated by the will of a master he would follow to death. Viha realised he was no less a person than she was. Though she had been free to choose her battles and revel in her victories within the coliseum on Gandron beyond its bloodstained walls, she was not free at all. She was a representative of the Warrior Guild, a living embodiment of its ideals, and she bore that weight wherever she went.

  Fear, weakness, and retreat had no place in a warrior’s creed. As the jungle’s oppressive hum pressed against her, she came to a stark conclusion—she now knew what she had to do. Viha saw Izzar as one of her own, bound not by chains, but by duty. It took an unyielding devotion to leave behind a fallen ally in a place as unforgiving as Dessix. Yet, Izzar’s resolve wasn’t born of cruelty, but of the same unwavering loyalty that governed her own existence.

  “I will serve you,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. Her gaze lingered on Aargon, who remained motionless, fighting for his life.

  Izzar’s expression softened, though he held his composure. Relief flickered briefly in his eyes, knowing she had chosen to stay on the path laid before them. Yet, when she didn’t take his outstretched hand, he didn’t flinch. Physical contact was a rarity in his life, reserved for combat and training. He wasn’t expecting her to place her hand in his—but somewhere deep inside, he wished she would.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Since the moment he had met her, Viha had occupied a space in his mind he didn’t fully understand. She was unlike anyone he had ever encountered. Her strength, her defiance, her beauty—everything about her was captivating. But such thoughts felt like a betrayal of his training, a distraction from his purpose. Still, he couldn’t deny the growing admiration he felt for her.

  Suddenly, movement rustled through the jungle beyond the tree line. Both of them froze, instincts honed by the dangers of Dessix kicking in. The sound was faint but unmistakable—something was coming.

  “We need to move,” Izzar whispered, his voice barely audible over the rising cacophony of the forest.

  Viha nodded, her hand instinctively reaching for her weapon. Whatever was out there would be drawn to Aargon, his injured and weakened state making him an easy target. She clenched her jaw, the thought of leaving him behind gnawing at her conscience. But there was no time for hesitation. Together, they slipped into the dense undergrowth, moving swiftly and silently.

  Aargon’s presence, they hoped, would stall whatever tracked them—just long enough for the pair to vanish into the labyrinthine jungle, putting enough distance between themselves and their pursuer to make the hunt a challenge.

  Moving swiftly through the jungle, the two stayed close. Izzar led with purpose, his movements deliberate and precise. He knew exactly where he was going. Viha followed, her steps nearly silent despite the dense undergrowth. Yet, while Izzar moved with tension etched into every muscle, Viha’s energy was different—electric, almost eager. She had never known the thrill of being prey before, and though the sensation was unfamiliar, it ignited a strange exhilaration within her.

  Izzar, however, felt none of that. Being hunted was an experience he would rather avoid. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves set his senses on edge, the forest pressing down on him like a predator waiting to pounce.

  The jungle gave way to a clearing shrouded in dense fog, its silence broken only by the faint hum of distant life. As they approached the misty meadows, Viha froze mid-step, her sharp eyes catching a glimmer of blue light cutting through the haze. She squinted, focusing on the outline of a pyramidal structure looming ahead, its strange markings glowing faintly against the murky backdrop.

  “What is that?” she asked, her voice low and wary, though there was no mistaking the awe beneath her words. She moved closer, mesmerised by the artifact, unable to resist its pull.

  Izzar stopped beside her, his gaze narrowing as he took in the sight. The object wasn’t supposed to be there—he was sure of it. Dessix’s forests shifted constantly, the migrating trees and relentless flora erasing landmarks with unnerving speed, but this was something different. It had materialised, standing defiant against the ever-changing wilderness.

  The two approached cautiously, the artifact growing larger with each step until they were standing at its base. It towered over them, several heads taller, its angled surface carved with intricate markings that pulsed with an otherworldly blue light. The soft, muddy ground had caused it to tilt slightly, and thick vines clung to its edges, as though the jungle were trying to reclaim it. Almost hidden against the steep cliff behind it, the artifact seemed to be waiting for them.

  “This is what Torne sent us to retrieve,” Izzar said quietly, awe creeping into his voice. His eyes scanned the glowing markings, their patterns vaguely familiar, but the sheer scale of the artifact left him momentarily speechless.

  Viha tilted her head, her gaze running over the carvings, but her expression betrayed no understanding—only muted curiosity. To her, it was a means to an end, nothing more. She stepped back, letting Izzar take the lead.

  He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing the cool, smooth surface of the markings. A faint hum vibrated beneath his hand, and as the sunlight broke through the canopy, a single ray struck the pinnacle of the artifact, illuminating it in sharp relief.

  “It used to be part of the temple built on the mountain,” Izzar murmured, his voice distant, as though he were speaking to someone unseen. “The mountain destroyed by The Void.” His fingers traced the glowing engravings as he continued, his tone laced with reverence. “These markings… they tell the story of the man we know only as the Destroyer of Mount Void.”

  Viha crossed her arms, tilting her head as she studied him. His fascination with the artifact didn’t surprise her—he seemed to find meaning in things she didn’t care to understand. The history, the names, the symbols—all of it was wasted on her. But Izzar wasn’t finished.

  As his hand rested against the carvings, his expression shifted. His breathing slowed, his body stiffening as if caught in a trance. Viha watched as his eyes unfocused, his lips moving almost imperceptibly. She’d seen him like this before, moments where he seemed transported to some place far beyond her reach. This time was no different.

  Not like the first time he had encountered an artifact of this kind, the connection was immediate. The glowing symbols seemed to pull him into their depths, unravelling a story etched into the stone—a story he didn’t just read but experienced. The vision unfolded in his mind with vivid clarity, transporting him to the era depicted in the carvings.

  For Izzar, it was no longer just an artifact. It was a relic of the past, a key to understanding something far greater than himself. And yet, for all its wonder, the artifact carried with it a weight he couldn’t yet comprehend.

  “These are the words of the artifact,” Izzar said, his voice low and thoughtful. “It is incomplete. Master Torne does not possess the next part of the chronicle.” His hand lingered on the glowing carvings, and for a moment, his expression shifted—a flicker of realisation, as though he had just unearthed something that had eluded him until now.

  Viha tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in curiosity. “You haven’t seen this much of the encryption before, have you?” Her voice carried a sharp edge, cutting through the heavy mist that clung to them like a shroud.

  Izzar hesitated before responding, his fingers tracing the faintly glowing lines. “Master Torne and the Modus Ipsimes only showed me part of the encryption,” he admitted, his tone cautious, almost reluctant. “I never knew there was a rival to Lucius. They never told me this.”

  Viha’s gaze sharpened, but she said nothing, letting the silence linger. A single question burned in her mind, though she kept it unspoken, waiting to see if Izzar would arrive at the same conclusion. For his part, Izzar felt the weight of the revelation settle uneasily in his chest. It was as if the artifact’s story was meant for him alone, and yet, its meaning eluded him.

  Memories surfaced unbidden—nights spent wandering the citadel’s shadowy halls, catching faint glimpses of Master Torne muttering to empty air, his voice low and intense. Izzar had always dismissed it as the eccentricity of a powerful mind, but now… Could Torne have been communing with the spirits of the ancient dead? The thought sent a shiver through him. No, it was absurd. Humans couldn’t speak to ghosts. That was the stuff of myths and fables. He shook his head, brushing the notion aside.

  “Come,” he said abruptly, breaking the moment. “The night is coming. We can’t travel after dark.”

  Viha glanced at him, her brow furrowed, but she nodded, sensing his unease.

  “The misty meadows are just ahead,” Izzar continued, his tone steadier now. “We’ll have to move carefully. Many Fargesrats roam that area, and I doubt they’ll be any less dangerous than the one that attacked Aargon.”

  Viha’s hand instinctively moved toward her weapon, her muscles tensing at the mention of the creatures. She cast one last glance at the artifact, its glowing symbols fading as the sunlight above dimmed. Whatever secrets it held would have to wait. For now, survival was all that mattered.

  The two turned, slipping back into the dense undergrowth. The jungle seemed to grow darker with every step, its oppressive presence pressing down on them. Somewhere in the distance, a low growl echoed—a reminder that the forest was alive, and it was watching.

  It didn’t take long for them to reach the misty meadows, though Viha’s first impression left her perplexed. It was nothing like the meadows she had imagined—no open fields or gentle grasses. Instead, the terrain was an extension of the dense jungle, overrun with towering trees, sprawling shrubs, and clusters of ferns that blanketed the ground in a chaotic tangle. The oppressive sounds of the forest seemed louder here, the symphony of insects, distant calls, and rustling leaves swelling to a near-deafening crescendo.

  The trees were spaced farther apart in this area, allowing rare glimpses of the sky through the canopy. Viha tilted her head back, her gaze catching sight of the spiralling citadel far behind them, its jagged outline clearer than it had been since their journey began. She guessed that this was why the area had been named a meadow—it was the closest thing to an opening that could be found on Dessix, even if it hardly resembled one.

  Izzar moved with purpose, his steps deliberate and unyielding. He knew exactly where he was going, and nothing would deter him. The ruins beyond the meadows were familiar territory—a place he had visited many times during his ventures into the wilderness. Once, they had served as a meditation retreat for Torne, but the relentless undergrowth of Dessix had reclaimed the area over the years. Torne had abandoned it to nature, letting the structures crumble into ruins. For Izzar, however, the ruins had become valuable refuges, temporary shelters during missions that took him deep into the jungle.

  The two pressed forward, but a shared unease had settled between them. They both knew they were being followed—had known for some time now. The sensation of eyes in the shadows, of unseen footsteps mirroring their own, was impossible to shake. They didn’t know who or what was trailing them, but the feeling was unmistakable.

  As they entered the meadow’s heart, they kept their movements controlled and their senses sharp. Fargesrats were known to roam this area, their presence a constant threat. Viha’s hand rested on the hilt of her blade, her eyes scanning the foliage for any sign of movement. The creatures’ scaly green skin blended seamlessly with the jungle’s lush greenery, making them almost invisible against the backdrop of creeping vines and tangled branches. Their agility and speed made them deadly, especially as the dimming sunlight robbed the jungle of its clarity.

  The sun hung low now, slipping beneath the horizon and bathing the forest in a soft, golden light that quickly gave way to shadow. Izzar quickened his pace, determined to reach the ruins before night fell. Every second of daylight mattered.

  Suddenly, Izzar froze, his body tensing as his sharp hearing picked up a faint sound. A soft rustle, almost imperceptible, came from their right. He signalled for Viha to stop and crouch. She obeyed without question, dropping into a low stance, her eyes darting toward the sound.

  Three Fargesrats emerged from the foliage, their lean, muscular forms moving with eerie silence. They were roughly the same height as Izzar, their oval-shaped black eyes scanning the area as their nostrils flared, testing the air for any unfamiliar scents. They moved cautiously, their sharp claws glinting faintly in the last rays of sunlight.

  Izzar’s jaw tightened. He noted their behaviour, confirming his suspicion that the creatures relied primarily on sight to hunt. He motioned for Viha to lower herself further, his hand steady and deliberate. She complied, though he could sense the tension radiating from her. The thought of combat thrilled her, and her fingers twitched near the hilt of her blade. But Viha held her excitement in check, forcing herself to remain still.

  The Fargesrats passed within feet of them, their green scales blending so perfectly with the foliage that Viha nearly lost sight of them despite their proximity. Her breath caught as one paused, its head swivelling slowly, its nostrils flaring. She held perfectly still, suppressing every instinct to move. After a long moment, the creature continued, disappearing into the undergrowth with its companions.

  Izzar waited until the forest settled again, the sounds returning to their natural rhythm. He nodded to Viha, and the two began moving once more, their steps even more cautious now. The shadows deepened around them, and the jungle felt heavier, as though it were closing in.

  The night was coming fast, and they still had ground to cover.

  What felt like hours later, they finally reached the edge of the meadow. The air had grown noticeably colder, and Viha wrapped her arms tightly around herself, trying to fend off the chill. The fading light deepened the shadows around them, casting the jungle in an eerie, twilight glow. Each breath she exhaled was faintly visible, and the forest’s ever-present hum seemed to shift, growing sharper, almost watchful.

  Viha’s thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Aargon. It wasn’t like her to dwell on strangers, let alone care for them. She clenched her jaw, forcing the emotions down as she scanned the area. Her sharp eyes caught something unusual—a tree, towering and ancient, its bark scarred by deep, jagged marks.

  She froze, her instincts flaring, and reached out to grab Izzar’s cloak, yanking him back. He stumbled slightly but turned swiftly, his gaze narrowing as he read her expression.

  “What is it?” he asked, his voice low and tense.

  Viha pointed to the marks. “Are these from those rat creatures?” she asked, her tone equal parts curiosity and concern. She stepped closer, her hand brushing against the rough grooves carved into the bark. The claw marks were enormous, deep enough that her fingers could easily fit into them.

  Izzar approached cautiously, his eyes studying the scars with precision. His brow furrowed as he traced the edges of the marks with his fingertips. “No,” he said after a moment, his voice quiet but certain. “This wasn’t made by a Fargesrat.”

  “Then what?” Viha pressed, her unease mounting.

  Izzar shook his head, the unease in his expression mirroring her own. “These aren’t claw marks I recognise,” he admitted. “They’re… strange. They almost look like weapon strikes, not natural claws.”

  He leaned in closer, his fingers brushing against the edges of the scars. The cuts were clean, too precise for any animal he had encountered in the jungle. His thoughts raced. The marks were fresh—no more than an hour old. On Dessix, trees healed themselves rapidly, their bark knitting together within hours of being damaged. Whatever had done this was close. Too close.

  Viha glanced around, her hand instinctively moving to her weapon. The jungle pressed in, the dimming light making every shadow seem alive.

  Izzar stepped back from the tree, his expression hardening. He didn’t have time to puzzle over this. “Let’s go,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the growing tension.

  Viha hesitated, her eyes lingering on the marks. Something about them felt wrong, a faint whisper of danger that gnawed at her instincts. But Izzar’s urgency jolted her from her thoughts. Without another word, she turned to follow him, the unsettling image of the scarred tree burned into her mind as they disappeared into the deepening dark.

  Barely two hours later, they reached shelter. The trek had been gruelling, the cold seeping into their bones, and the wet air clinging to their skin like an unwelcome second layer. Viha struggled against the elements, her breath hitching as the chill cut deeper than she ever thought possible. The climate of Dessix was unlike anything she had experienced before—merciless in its quiet hostility.

  The shelter came into view as a crumbling relic of another time, an old, dilapidated structure with walls weathered by the jungle’s relentless advance. The building’s edges were jagged and uneven, its surface scarred by time. A single, narrow entrance greeted them, partially obscured by fallen vines and debris. Izzar knelt briefly, placing a thin floor stone in front of the door—a small measure of security, in case anything tried to follow them in.

  They stepped inside, the door creaking shut behind them. The dampness was less pronounced here, though the air remained frigid. Viha hugged her arms to herself, shivering uncontrollably. Her breaths were shallow and rapid, her body betraying her exhaustion and unfamiliarity with the brutal conditions. She cast a glance at Izzar, who seemed unfazed by the cold, his composure steady and unbroken. His body seemed trained, adapted to Dessix’s unforgiving climate, a product of years under Torne’s rigorous conditioning.

  The interior of the shelter was stark and empty. The plant life, which so easily overran most structures on Dessix, had been kept at bay. Izzar had ensured this using a special poison developed by Tarium—one that killed the roots on contact without corroding the stone walls. The room bore no comforts, no furnishings, only bare, weathered stone walls. It was a functional refuge, nothing more.

  Izzar moved purposefully to a corner of the room. He had long since calculated the optimal spot, where the drafts were weakest, and the cold struggled to reach. He gestured for Viha to join him, his expression neutral but expectant.

  She hesitated, her pride keeping her rooted in place despite the cold biting at her skin. Instead, she slumped against the opposite wall, facing the door. “I hope Aargon made it to shelter,” she murmured, her voice quiet but strained. Her eyes remained fixed on the shadows outside, her thoughts drifting to the boy they had left behind.

  The chill seeped deeper into her, and she bit her lip to suppress a shiver. Part of her longed to move closer to Izzar, to share his warmth and ease the ache that gnawed at her body. But she held back, stubborn and proud. She wouldn’t ask for comfort, not even from him.

  Izzar said nothing, his gaze briefly flicking to her before settling back into the dim corner. His silence felt heavy, impenetrable, as though he carried a weight that could not be shared.

  “If he survived, he would be rewarded by Master Torne,” Izzar said, his tone flat and unfeeling. There was no trace of concern for the boy they had left behind, only the cold certainty of his conditioning.

  Viha’s jaw tightened, her gaze still fixed on the door. “Why do you call him Master and not Grandfather?” she asked, her voice laced with frustration. She didn’t turn to face him, unwilling to let him see the irritation she felt.

  “Master Torne is the Supreme Master, High Epsimus of the Order,” Izzar began, his words rehearsed, as though reciting a mantra drilled into him since childhood. “I am a servant to him, destined to assume his responsibilities one day. The office he holds demands the utmost respect, even from those who might be considered family. When I was dedicated to the Order, I lost all family ties. I do not have a mother, a father, or a grandfather in the way you would think of them. Such associations no longer exist for me.”

  His explanation came with the unwavering conviction of someone who had never questioned it. To him, it was not a choice but an absolute truth.

  Viha frowned, her fingers absently brushing the cold stone at her side. She could understand the logic in his words, but it still unsettled her. Her own upbringing on Gandron had been harsh, but even in the Warrior’s Guild, there was room for familial bonds—though fragile, they were never erased entirely. Her father had demanded strength from her, had trained her to be relentless and unyielding, yet she had always been his daughter. She still called him “Father.”

  Her thoughts wandered, drifting back to Gandron. She longed for the comfort of her old life—the quiet moments in her large, sunlit chambers, the soft fur of her Teltar cats brushing against her as they curled beside her. Those creatures were her solace, the only beings she allowed herself to love unconditionally. Treated like royalty, they wanted for nothing, and in their simplicity, they had given her something rare: peace.

  A wave of longing washed over her. She missed them—the cats, the warmth of her home, even the rigid structure of her life on Gandron. This place, with its endless cold and its suffocating jungle, felt like the very antithesis of everything she had ever known.

  She stole a glance at Izzar. His face was as composed as ever, his expression revealing nothing of the weight he carried. She wondered if he ever felt the kind of longing she did, if he had ever yearned for the simplicity of companionship, for the touch of something—or someone—he could truly call his own.

  “Have you ever met your mother?” Viha asked, her voice quieter now, hesitant. She had never met her own mother, or if she had, the memory was long gone, lost in the haze of her earliest years.

  “Yes,” Izzar replied simply, his tone flat and matter-of-fact. He offered no further explanation, his gaze fixed ahead, his body unmoving.

  Viha hesitated, unsure whether to press further. “I’ve known my father for as long as I can remember,” she said, hoping to draw him into the conversation. Her words lingered in the air, unanswered.

  Izzar remained silent, his disinterest palpable. It wasn’t rudeness, she realised—it was something deeper. His training had stripped him of the indulgence of personal attachments. Family, relationships, even the simplest human connections were foreign concepts to him, replaced by an unyielding sense of duty. He was focused, disciplined, and bound entirely to the teachings of Torne.

  Viha studied him for a moment, wondering if there was any part of him left that could feel something as profound as love. She, a warrior hardened by years of combat, still longed for affection, for a connection that transcended her brutal life. But Izzar? He seemed almost untouchable in his devotion to the Order. And yet, she couldn’t help but admire him for it. It was a state she had tried and failed to master through her own training—an unflinching loyalty that demanded complete sacrifice.

  Her thoughts drifted, and for a moment, her guard slipped. Izzar noticed immediately. It hadn’t dropped once since the moment they met, and its absence now unsettled him. Though he didn’t fully understand why, he felt something stir within him—an unfamiliar sensation that he couldn’t name or place.

  To his surprise, Viha shifted closer, her movements deliberate but hesitant. She sat down beside him, her body trembling from the cold. He could feel the chill radiating from her, but he did nothing. He wasn’t sure what he should do—his training hadn’t prepared him for this. The cold was a minor inconvenience to him, something his body had adapted to over the years, but he knew it was taking its toll on her.

  Without a word, Viha curled against him, her movements uncharacteristically vulnerable. She pushed his arm up and around her, seeking warmth. Izzar’s heart raced in response. The closeness was strange, unsettling, but not unwelcome. It felt wrong, violating every teaching he had internalised, yet something about it also felt right, as though this moment had slipped through the cracks of his rigid reality.

  He looked down at her, his mind churning with a million conflicting thoughts. She had already closed her eyes, her breathing slowing as sleep overtook her. His gaze shifted to a damaged patch on the wall, and he forced his mind to still. He couldn’t let himself linger on what had just happened—what it meant or how it made him feel. He remained motionless, his arm still around her, staring at the wall until the flickering light of his internal clock marked the passage of time in silence.