The morning of our departure dawned gray and spiteful, like a noble whose dinner invitation you've declined. Heavy clouds pressed down on the keep, and a thin drizzle turned the courtyard into a mire that perfectly matched my mood.

  Willem supervised the loading of our meager baggage with the grim focus of a man preparing for battle. In many ways, we were. Court might lack drawn swords, but it made up for it with sharper tongues and more calculated strikes.

  "Final inspection, my lord?" he asked, rain dripping from his weathered face.

  "Might as well check that we've packed sufficient humiliation," I replied, tugging my travel cloak tighter. "Court always seems to demand more than I bring."

  My mother emerged from the main hall, somehow managing to look immaculate despite the weather. She wore an older dress, but one skillfully maintained to conceal its age—much like our family's standing at court. The emerald signet gleamed on her finger, catching what little light penetrated the clouds.

  "You're taking the old northern route?" she asked, eyes flicking toward the Sisters, who were making final adjustments to their carriage.

  "The main road would be faster," I acknowledged.

  "The northern route passes closer to the old stones," she said cryptically. "It might prove... instructive."

  I raised an eyebrow. "More family secrets?"

  Her face softened momentarily. "Guidance, Magius. Some things must be experienced rather than explained."

  Before I could press further, Sister Morgana approached, somehow completely dry despite the steady rain. "We should depart within the hour. There's a seventy-six percent probability of heavier rain by midday, and a mountain crossing is better attempted in light precipitation than heavy."

  My mother's eyes met Morgana's in a silent measuring. "Take care of my son, Sister. The paths he's beginning to walk can be treacherous for the unprepared."

  "Probability favors the prepared mind," Morgana replied. "Though it cannot eliminate all variables."

  Mother's hand briefly touched my arm—a rare display of affection. "Your father would be proud, Magius. Not of the circumstances, perhaps, but of how you're facing them."

  With that oddly heartfelt sentiment, she retreated into the keep, leaving me with the unsettling feeling that she expected something significant to happen on this journey beyond mere court attendance.

  "Your mother understands more than she reveals," Sister Hekate observed, joining us beneath the shelter of the gatehouse. "The emerald she wears bears witness to generations of Pathfinders."

  "So I'm discovering," I muttered. "Though mostly I'm discovering how much has been kept from me."

  Sister Circe bounded up, splattering mud in a radius that somehow missed her entirely while liberally decorating my boots. "Ready for adventure? I've packed extra stabilizers in case you start glowing in inconvenient places!" She tapped her temple meaningfully. "Court's full of old magic—all those ancestral halls and hidden passages built over convergence points. Probably why nobility's so odd—too much magical resonance scrambles the bloodlines. Like leaving cheese too long in the sun!"

  Willem cleared his throat in a manner that somehow conveyed both amusement and skepticism in a single grunt. "The horses are ready, my lord."

  "Then let's depart before my mother reveals any more cryptic family traditions," I said, climbing into the carriage.

  The Sisters exchanged glances before Sister Morgana spoke. "Actually, Lord Greywers, we suggest you ride alongside the carriage for at least the first part of the journey."

  "In this weather?"

  "Your bloodline awakening necessitates familiarization with natural energy patterns," Hekate explained. "The silver ring provides necessary damping, but total isolation would hamper your development."

  Sister Circe nodded vigorously. "You need to feel the squiggly bits of the world! How else will you learn to see the paths? Can't learn swimming by reading about water—you've got to get wet and swallow half the lake first!"

  I sighed, already feeling rain seeping through my cloak. "I've been riding in rain for most of my knightly career. I was rather looking forward to the novelty of staying dry."

  "Eighty-three percent chance you'll thank us for this in the future," Morgana said with infuriating certainty.

  Willem brought my horse—a dependable gelding with the good sense to look as annoyed as I felt. "At least misery appreciates company, my lord," he observed, handing me the reins.

  And so our strange procession departed from my keep—one minor lord on horseback, three mysterious "nuns" in their peculiar carriage, and Willem riding rear guard with the pack horses. If anyone had told me a month ago that I'd be traveling to court with unregistered healing practitioners disguised as legitimate medical professionals, I'd have asked what they were drinking and whether they'd share.

  But my life had taken a decidedly surreal turn since that blue serum had seeped into my wound. As we followed the muddy northern road, I found myself increasingly aware of subtle differences in the landscape—not visible to the eye, but somehow perceptible nonetheless. Certain hills seemed to hum with energy I could feel through my saddle. Streams crossed our path where the air felt thinner, as though reality itself were less substantial at these intersections.

  The ring on my finger warmed and cooled in patterns that corresponded to these sensations. When we passed a particularly ancient oak standing alone in a field, the ring grew so cold it almost burned, and I couldn't suppress a gasp.

  The Sisters' carriage window immediately opened, Circe's color-shifting eyes peering out. "You felt it! The old tree! It's standing right on a junction point where three paths cross. Look closely—can you see the blue shimmer around the roots?"

  I squinted through the rain. For a brief moment, I caught a glimpse of something—a faint luminescence that reminded me of the patterns that had marked my chest, pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat.

  "Good, good!" Circe clapped her hands in delight. "Your eyes are waking up! Like flowers opening to moonlight instead of sun. Keep watching for the shiny spots. They're everywhere once you know how to look!"

  Willem rode up alongside me, concern evident in his weathered face. "Everything all right, my lord?"

  "Apparently I'm developing the ability to see magical energy paths," I replied dryly. "Just another typical journey to court. Perhaps next time I'll sprout wings."

  He glanced at the oak tree, then back at me. "That old thing? Always felt strange when we'd pass it on patrol. Makes the horses nervous."

  I stared at him. "You can sense it too?"

  Willem shrugged. "Not in any fancy way. Just always felt... off. Like walking over someone's grave." He adjusted his rain-soaked hat. "Some places just have a feeling to them. Any soldier worth his salt knows that."

  This was unexpected. I'd assumed my newfound sensitivity was entirely due to the blue serum and my supposedly special bloodline. The idea that ordinary awareness might overlap with these perceptions was both comforting and unsettling.

  "The awareness isn't binary," Sister Morgana called from the carriage, somehow having overheard our conversation despite the rain. "Ninety-seven percent of people possess some minimal sensitivity to energy flows. Your bloodline simply amplifies this natural human capability to functional levels."

  "Meaning I'm not special, just more sensitive than most?"

  "Specialized, not special," she corrected. "Like having particularly acute hearing or sight. Useful for specific applications, but ultimately a variation of common human traits."

  Somehow, that made me feel better. Not chosen or cursed, just... different in degree rather than kind. Like being taller than average, but still fundamentally human.

  By midday, the drizzle had indeed transformed into a proper downpour, and my earlier annoyance at being made to ride in the rain evolved into full-blown resentment. I was about to demand refuge in the carriage when we crested a hill and I saw our first destination—a roadside inn named The Crossroads, though the actual crossroads lay a quarter-mile further on.

  "We'll rest here," I called to Willem. "Dry out and continue when the weather improves."

  The inn was typical of its kind—a sturdy two-story building with stables attached, smoke curling from multiple chimneys in defiance of the rain. As we approached, I felt a curious sensation—like walking through a wall of gently vibrating air. The ring on my finger pulsed once, almost like a warning.

  Sister Hekate's head emerged from the carriage window. "Thou feel'st it," she said, slipping into her archaic speech patterns. "The inn straddles a crossing of paths."

  "Is that significant?"

  "Inns and taverns often form at such junctions," she explained. "Places where travelers naturally converge, guided by currents they sense but cannot name. The paths whisper to weary feet, though mortal ears hear them not."

  As we dismounted in the courtyard, I noticed other travelers taking shelter from the deluge—merchants with their guards, a pair of journeyman craftsmen, and most notably, a group wearing the white and gold livery of the Phoenix Collective. Not full healers, but support staff—the kind who handled logistics and supplies for their more esteemed colleagues.

  "Interesting coincidence," I murmured to Morgana as she emerged from the carriage, looking perfectly dry and composed while I resembled a half-drowned rat.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "Coincidence has a thirty-two percent probability in this instance," she replied quietly. "The Phoenix maintains regular supply routes along major roads. Their presence here is statistically unremarkable."

  "And the other sixty-eight percent?"

  Her amber eyes flicked to the Phoenix employees. "Deliberate monitoring of travel routes from your keep. The Collective rarely leaves variables unobserved."

  We secured rooms—one for me, one for the Sisters to share, and Willem would sleep in the stable with the horses as he preferred. The innkeeper, a portly man with the permanent squint of someone who spends too much time checking coins for authenticity, showed appropriate deference to my title while his eyes continuously darted to the Sisters with naked curiosity.

  "Healers, my lord?" he asked as he led us upstairs. "Rare to see such specialists traveling outside the capital."

  "My recovery requires ongoing care," I replied vaguely. "Court appearances wait for no man, injured or otherwise."

  "Of course, of course." He unlocked a door to a surprisingly decent chamber. "Our finest room, as befits your station. The, ah, Sisters can take the adjoining room. Connected by that door there, for... medical convenience."

  His insinuation wasn't subtle, but I let it pass. Better he assume some scandalous arrangement than guess the truth. The gossip about a minor lord's improprieties would fade; the gossip about illegal magical practices would summon Phoenix investigators.

  Once alone, I peeled off my sodden clothing and changed into something dry. Through the wall, I could hear the Sisters unpacking their equipment, glass vials clinking and Circe's animated voice bouncing between topics like a hummingbird between flowers.

  A knock at the door announced Willem, who'd brought up a tray of food and a pitcher of ale.

  "Phoenix men are asking questions downstairs," he reported, setting the tray on a small table. "Casual-like, but pointed. Wanting to know if anyone's seen a noble traveling with unusual companions."

  "Seems my popularity is increasing," I said, pouring a mug of ale. "Any other travelers worth noting?"

  "Merchant caravan bound for the capital. Two craftsmen headed to castle renovations. Nothing suspicious." Willem hesitated. "Though there is a woman traveling alone, keeping to herself in the corner. Has that look."

  "What look?"

  "The one that says she's more than she appears." Willem had spent enough years in military service to develop reliable instincts about such things. "Watches everyone but doesn't want to be noticed watching. Military training, if I had to wager."

  I made a mental note to observe this woman at dinner. "The Sisters think the Phoenix men might be monitoring roads from my keep."

  Willem nodded. "Makes sense. They left awful quick after their inspection. Seemed more like they were reporting back than giving up."

  A knock at the connecting door interrupted us. Sister Morgana entered without waiting for a response, carrying a small cloth-wrapped package.

  "You've noticed the Phoenix personnel," she said, not bothering with pleasantries. "Their presence is within anticipated parameters, but precautions remain advisable."

  She placed the package on the table and unwrapped it, revealing three small objects: a coin, a folded piece of parchment, and what appeared to be a smooth black stone.

  "Probability shields," she explained. "Designed to create statistical confusion around your presence. Not invisibility, but a tendency for observers to overlook connections between events."

  "Magical disguises?" I asked, picking up the coin. It appeared to be an ordinary silver piece, though slightly warm to the touch.

  "Pattern disruptors," she corrected. "They create minor probability fluctuations that make coincidences appear random rather than meaningful."

  Willem eyed the items with healthy skepticism. "And they work?"

  "With seventy-nine percent efficiency in controlled testing." Morgana placed the coin in my hand. "Keep this with you during communal meals. The parchment should remain in your room, and the stone in your travel pack."

  I pocketed the coin, oddly comforted by its weight. "I assume there's a reason we don't simply avoid the common room entirely?"

  "Conspicuous absence creates stronger suspicion than controlled presence," she explained. "Better to be seen engaging in ordinary behaviors than to hide and confirm their interest."

  She departed as abruptly as she'd arrived, leaving Willem staring at the closed door.

  "Strange women," he muttered.

  "And getting stranger," I agreed, sipping my ale. "Though I'm beginning to think they're exactly what I need for whatever this is becoming."

  ***

  The inn's common room filled quickly as evening approached and the rain showed no sign of abating. A large fire crackled in the stone hearth, and the smell of roasting meat and fresh bread provided a welcome contrast to the damp chill outside.

  I took a table in the corner with Willem, who positioned himself to watch the room while appearing to focus solely on his meal. The Sisters entered separately, each taking a different position—Morgana near the Phoenix personnel, Hekate by the window, and Circe chatting animatedly with the innkeeper's wife.

  The coin in my pocket felt unusually heavy, and I noticed how people's eyes seemed to slide past our table, as though something discouraged sustained attention. A curious sensation, neither uncomfortable nor particularly noticeable unless I focused on it.

  "The woman," Willem murmured, nodding toward a solitary figure seated near the hearth.

  I observed her casually between bites of surprisingly decent stew. Slender but strong-looking, with close-cropped gray hair and practical traveling clothes that might have belonged to either gender. Most notable was her left hand—or rather, the intricately crafted metal prosthetic that replaced it. The fingers moved with surprising dexterity as she ate.

  "Military," I whispered. "The posture's unmistakable."

  Willem nodded. "Officer, I'd wager. The way she's positioned herself—back to the wall, clear view of all entrances."

  As if sensing our attention, the woman's eyes flicked to our table. For a brief moment, our gazes met, and I felt a shock of recognition that hit me like a crossbow bolt.

  "Captain Dureforge," I breathed.

  Willem's hand moved instinctively toward his knife. "Your commanding officer? Here?"

  Captain Eliza Dureforge had been my direct superior in the border patrols—a stern, efficient officer with a reputation for brutal honesty and unwavering loyalty to her soldiers. What she was doing at a roadside inn on the northern route to the capital, I couldn't begin to guess.

  She gave no obvious sign of recognizing me, though I caught the slight narrowing of her eyes before she returned to her meal.

  "This complicates matters," Willem muttered.

  "Or simplifies them." I took another casual sip of ale. "The Captain has no love for bureaucracy or the Phoenix Collective. She lost that hand fighting while they debated whether her unit's combat qualified for emergency coverage."

  Before we could discuss further, a commotion erupted near the bar. One of the Phoenix men had cornered Sister Circe, his voice just loud enough to carry over the ambient conversation.

  "I'm certain I recognize you from the capital," he insisted. "The botanical research division, wasn't it? Under Magister Wells?"

  Circe's eyes were cycling through colors rapidly, a sign of agitation I'd come to recognize. "Me? No, no, you must be thinking of someone else! I've been in the eastern provinces for ages. Though I did have a cousin who worked in the capital—maybe that's who you're thinking of? She had purple hair sometimes and a tooth that glowed in the dark because of an alchemical accident, which was really funny at parties—"

  The Phoenix man's face registered growing confusion as Circe rambled on, her speech accelerating until the words tumbled over each other.

  "—and then the entire laboratory smelled like cinnamon for weeks! Speaking of which, has anyone ever told you that your aura has the most fascinating cinnamon-y edges? It's quite unusual, might indicate a minor spice allergy or possibly too much time near resonance chambers without proper shielding—"

  I rose, sensing the need for intervention before Circe talked herself into a corner or, more likely, revealed something too strange to ignore.

  "Sister Circe," I called, approaching them. "I believe it's time for my evening treatment."

  The Phoenix man turned, eyes widening slightly in recognition. "Lord Greywers, isn't it? I don't believe we've been introduced, but I noticed your arrival earlier. Tristan Mercer, supply coordinator for the Phoenix Collective." He offered a slight bow. "I was just remarking to your... healer... that she seems familiar."

  "Sister Circe trained in several institutions," I replied smoothly. "Perhaps you observed her during her residency."

  "Perhaps." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Traveling to court, I presume?"

  "The summons waits for no man, and my recovery progresses well enough for travel." I gestured to Circe. "Thanks to my specialized care team."

  Circe beamed, her eyes settling into a benign blue. "Lord Greywers is an excellent patient! So cooperative. Hardly screamed at all during the regenerative procedures! Though the bone-knitting did make him whimper rather spectacularly—"

  "That will do, Sister," I interrupted firmly. "My medical particulars aren't for public discussion."

  "Oh! Right, right—confidentiality protocols!" She tapped her nose conspiratorially. "My lips are sealed like an alchemical vessel under pressure, though those sometimes explode if you heat them too quickly—"

  I placed a firm hand on her shoulder, steering her away. "If you'll excuse us, Mr. Mercer. Medical necessities."

  As we retreated, I felt his eyes following us, calculating and suspicious. The coin in my pocket grew uncomfortably hot, then suddenly cooled. When I glanced back, Mercer had joined his colleagues, already engaged in conversation as though our interaction had been forgotten.

  "Sorry about that," Circe whispered, still bouncing slightly on her toes. "I get talky when nervous. It's a thing. Morgana's always telling me to count to ten before speaking, but I usually get to about three before more words just pop out like corks from a shaken bottle!"

  "It's fine," I assured her, though it wasn't. "Just try to avoid further interactions with Phoenix personnel."

  When we reached the stairs, I noticed Captain Dureforge watching us, her expression unreadable. She raised her metal hand in the slightest of gestures—not quite a greeting, not quite a warning.

  Back in my room, I found Sister Morgana waiting, her probability board spread across the small table.

  "The situation has evolved," she announced without preamble. "The Phoenix representative recognized Circe, though imperfectly. And your military superior's presence introduces a variable with insufficient baseline data for accurate prediction."

  "Captain Dureforge," I confirmed. "She was my commanding officer when I was injured."

  "Her presence has reduced our successful passage probability to sixty-four percent." Morgana adjusted something on her board. "We should depart at first light, regardless of weather conditions."

  "Is she a threat?"

  "Unknown. Her motivation coefficients are complex." Morgana's eyes met mine. "But the convergence of Phoenix personnel and military authority at this specific junction point suggests external orchestration rather than coincidence."

  I thought of the strange sensation I'd felt upon approaching the inn—the vibrating air, the pulse from my ring.

  "This place," I said slowly. "The crossing of paths beneath it. Is it possible others can use these junctions to... what? Track movement along them?"

  Morgana's expression changed subtly—surprise, quickly masked. "You've made an intuitive leap with only a seventy-two percent probability of independent discovery at this stage. Impressive."

  "Not an answer."

  "Yes," she admitted. "Major junctions can be monitored by those with appropriate sensitivity or equipment. The Phoenix Collective has developed crude instrumentation for precisely this purpose."

  A knock at the door interrupted us. When I opened it, I found Sister Hekate, her expression grave.

  "We have a complication," she said. "Captain Dureforge wishes to speak with thee. Alone. She awaits in the stable."

  I glanced at Morgana, who was already calculating on her board.

  "Probability of betrayal: thirty-one percent," she reported. "Probability of valuable alliance: forty-seven percent. Remaining probabilities distributed across neutral or mixed outcomes."

  Not the most comforting assessment, but better odds than most gambling establishments offered.

  "I'll meet with her," I decided. "Willem can position himself nearby as precaution."

  Hekate nodded. "I shall prepare contingencies should intervention become necessary."

  As I buckled on my sword belt and prepared to face yet another unexpected complication, I couldn't help but wonder how a simple journey to court had become so fraught with hidden currents and dangerous crossings.

  The irony wasn't lost on me—I'd spent years as a Knight-Protector navigating physical terrain, only to discover I was now traversing landscapes far more treacherous and unpredictable.

  And we hadn't even reached the mountains yet.