Misford emerged through the afternoon haze like a fortress of grey stone and blooming ivy, clinging stubbornly to the rocky cliffs. At the city's heavily fortified outer gates, Sir Victor Bane stood armored and resolute. His formal, booming greeting was a sharp contrast to the wild, terrifying silence of the highland trails they had left behind.
To Sierra's surprise, the afternoon sun turning the spires into golden needles brought out a massive crowd. As the royal carriage rolled through the central market, a profound hush fell over the crowded stalls.
Merchants paused with bolts of unrolled silk still hanging from their hands, and young children scrambled up the edges of marble fountains just to catch a glimpse of the passing crests. To many of these border citizens, isolated from the capital, the Princess was a living legend finally rendered in flesh.
Lord Victor's welcome was a masterpiece of hospitality—polished, yet deeply rooted in the rugged, pragmatic traditions of the region. With a deep, sweeping bow, he beckoned the royal party toward a grand stone estate prepared exclusively for their arrival.
It was a manor of primeval stone and timber, nestled far from the city's clamor and offering a rare moment of luxury before their final ascent to the Academy. Within its walls, hearths blazed warmly, and silk linens replaced the rough furs of the trail. Here, beneath the watchful yet gracious eye of their host, they were finally allowed a moment of rest.
Once the dust of the journey had been washed away in steaming baths, the party gathered in the dining hall. The scent of rosemary-rubbed lamb and fresh bread lingered in the air as Lord Victor gestured proudly toward his family, seated beside him.
"Allow me to introduce my children," Victor began, his voice rich with pride. "Orion, my eldest. Marcus. And my youngest, Maeve."
He placed a firm hand on Marcus's shoulder. The young man rose to his feet, his gaze steady despite the royal presence.
"Misford does not merely offer its walls as a temporary place of rest," Lord Victor continued, looking directly at Sierra. "Marcus shall join your company on the road. He goes on behalf of our city—a proven blade and a witness for the dangerous trials that await at the Academy."
The next morning, another travelling party joined them.
They were announced as House Starfell, and their heir, Reed Starfell, entered the hall with a presence that drew attention not by force, but by quiet certainty. His cloak was the deep blue of a twilight sky, fastened with a silver clasp shaped like a falling star, and though his manners were impeccably polite as he bowed to Sierra, she immediately sensed the coiled alertness beneath his courtly exterior.
Introductions were made, pleasantries exchanged, and before long, conversation flowed easily among the gathered nobles. It was then that Lord Bane's son appeared, summoned from the training grounds beyond the estate.
Marcus led the group through the city's winding upper districts. Sierra walked with a rare sense of lightness, flanked by Elara and Kier, their childhood bond shielding them from the curious stares of the citizens.
To their surprise, Theon Stormborn emerged from a navigator's shop, his dark cloak billowing behind him like a storm cloud. He joined their procession with a silent nod.
"The city is not built on stone and history alone, Your Highness," Marcus said, gesturing toward the crowded Alchemist's Row. "Misford is the final breath of civilization before the Alpine Wild. We trade in silver, but we endure through vigilance."
As they walked, Marcus pointed out the fortified walls, built thick enough to withstand the abominations that occasionally wandered from the borders of the Witch Kingdom. Sierra watched the interactions among her companions — Elara's sharp tactical questions, Kier's effortless charisma, and Theon's brooding observations.
"We are a strange company," Sierra whispered to Elara.
"The best kind," Elara replied, her hand resting casually on the hilt of her blade. "A future general, a Stormborn, a son of Misford, a Starfell , Stone Heiress and a princess. The forest won't know what hit it."
*****
At dawn, the massive iron gates of Misford groaned open, releasing the expanded company into the ominous shadow of the Alpine Wild. The manicured fields and safety of civilization vanished behind them within minutes, swallowed whole by a dense forest of colossal, silver-barked trees. The ancient roots twisted across the earth like gnarled hands, and the canopy was so thick it choked out the morning sun, leaving the trail in a perpetual, ghostly twilight.
Sierra rode at the center of the formation, flanked by Elara and Kier. Behind them, Marcus and Theon Stormborn maintained a watchful rear guard. The air here was neither humid nor cool, but stagnant, tinged with the taste of ozone — a sign of the Witch Kingdom's proximity.
"Keep your mounts close," Sir Laurence commanded, his hand never leaving his blade. "The path doesn't just wander here – it shifts."
"The true border lies just beyond the edge of these woods," Marcus called out, guiding his horse closer to Sierra's carriage window. "Past that tree line begins the corrupted domain claimed by the subhuman witches. The air changes completely over the border."
A chill, sharper than the damp weather, slid down Sierra's spine. She reached into the folds of her dress, her fingers finding comfort in the runic hilt of her mother's hidden short sword.
Rain began without warning.
At first, the rain fell softly, whispering through the leaves, but within minutes it thickened into steady silver threads that soaked cloaks, darkened the earth, and filled the air with the scent of rain-soaked bark. The path turned slick beneath them, horses snorting uneasily as thunder
The soldiers tightened their formation.
They had just reached a clearing beside a sheet of still water known as Mirror Lake, as Marcus explained, when the attack came.
The surface, glass-smooth only moments before, shattered into violent ripples as shapes burst from the water — sleek bodies of liquid shadow with eyes gleaming like submerged moons.
Jaguars.
They moved with terrifying grace, half fluid and half flesh, their claws slicing through the air as they sprang toward the horses.
Steel rang. Shouts split the rain.
At last, the remaining creatures slipped back beneath the lake's surface, retreating as suddenly as they had appeared.
No one had died.
Two soldiers bore claw wounds, hastily bound, but they still stood.
They did not linger.
The escort urged the horses forward at once, hooves pounding against the mud as they pressed deeper into the forest, for everyone understood what the captain did not need to say aloud:
Creatures that attack in daylight are only the lesser dangers.
The second assault proved him right.
"Do you feel that?" Sierra whispered, her skin prickling uneasily.
"The ley lines are frayed here," Theon remarked, his voice devoid of its usual bravado. "We are walking through a wound in the world."
Kier guided his horse closer to Sierra's, his presence a silent vow of protection. "Whatever dwells in these woods," he muttered, "it hasn't faced a Valory blade yet."
They had not ridden long before shapes appeared among the trees — crooked silhouettes thin as branches, their faces hidden beneath tangles of hair and moss.
Hags.
They did not charge.
They watched.
Then shrieked.
The sound tore through the forest like a blade, sharp enough to rattle bone. Horses reared, soldiers cursed, and the escort broke into a hard gallop, abandoning all pretense of calm travel.
The hags followed through the branches, leaping from trunk to trunk with unnatural speed, their limbs bending at angles no human body should endure.
"Do not stop, no matter what! Cover your ears and ride!" Marcus shouted, his voice barely cutting through the deafening noise.
Arrows flew behind them, not to kill, but to drive the creatures back and buy precious distance. The shrieks faded slowly, swallowed by rain and wind, until the forest thinned and the ground opened into wide, scarred plains.
They had finally reached Kingshill.
Even beneath the storm-darkened, violet evening sky, this desolate land still bore the tragic, heavy memory of the old wars. The grass grew unevenly in sickly, yellowish patches, as though the vegetation itself feared the blood-soaked soil beneath it.
Broken iron spearheads and shattered shields lay half-buried in the mud, and shallow, skeletal hollows marked the ancient trenches where thousands of men had slaughtered each other.
No one spoke a word. The nobles and soldiers alike were simply too exhausted to function.
The rain had eased into a miserable, cold drizzle as darkness completely settled across the haunted plains. None of them possessed the physical strength or the spirit to raise tents or kindle campfires.
One by one, they dismounted without a shred of ceremony, sinking exactly where they stood. They collapsed against muddy saddles, leaned heavily against the wet carriage wheels, or curled up on cloaks hastily spread over the cold, damp ground.
Sierra lowered herself carefully from the carriage, her limbs trembling with a profound, deep-seated fatigue she had refused to acknowledge until now. The bitter wind whispered across the old battlefield, carrying the faint, unmistakable metallic scent of old iron.
Around her, the company had already surrendered to a heavy, dreamless sleep. Sierra lay back against her travel pack, staring up at the darkening, starless sky. The journey would continue at dawn, forcing her closer to the demon princes and political monsters awaiting her.
But tonight, even a princess was allowed to close her eyes and surrender to the weariness.
She closed her eyes, letting her breathing slow. But just as the edge of consciousness began to blur, a sound broke through the whistling wind.
Crunch.
The distinct, unmistakable sound of a heavy boot stepping on a brittle, rusted iron breastplate. Right beside her head.
Sierra's eyes snapped open in the pitch black. The air around her was suddenly freezing, and the runic blade beneath her cloak was burning against her skin like a hot iron.