The night air was thin and cold, shimmering faintly beneath the stars as the two of them walked in silence.
The lady now strode beside him brazenly, without hesitation, and it left Eryndor momentarily speechless. Caught somewhere between disbelief and exasperation, he cast her a fleeting glance—a silent look that asked too many questions and received none in return.
For a time, neither spoke.
Then she turned her head, studying him for a long moment. Before her gaze made him even more uncomfortable, with a subtle tilt of her chin, she finally spoke.
"Who are you, wanderer?"
Eryndor gave her a strange look. He genuinely did not understand how she could be this shameless—nor why she had decided to follow him in the first place.
"Currently?" he decided to replied anyway. "Lost, dehydrated, and deeply reconsidering my life choices."
His voice was rough, but faintly amused. After thinking a moment, he added with a faint smile.
"Name's Eryndor. A Historian and an accidental trespasser of ruins."
She tilted her head slightly, moonlight catching on her silver hair.
"Historian? You're far from any archive."
"Archives are overrated," he replied. "All the best history tends to bury itself."
He paused, brushing dust from his sleeve.
"Today I was lucky—or unlucky enough—to dig in the wrong place until something shiny bit back."
That earned the faintest ghost of a smirk from her, that vanished as soon as it appeared.
"You have a talent for aggravating people." she said.
"Aren't you being a little brazen right now?" he retorted, genuinely baffled.
"And you're being awfully shameless following me around," he shot back.
"Lirien Vael'thar," she said suddenly, ignoring his words. "A wandering knight."
"Knight, huh?" Eryndor cocked his head. "Aren't you an elf, Lirien?"
Her eyes sharpened instantly, her hand brushing her ear on instinct.
"How do you know?" she asked, voice guarded.
"Don't be alarmed," he said lightly. "Your mana gave it away. I'm… sensitive to it. Even if you're hiding your ears with illusion. And illusionists with that level of finesse are usually elves."
Lirien exhaled through her nose—half irritation, half reluctant acknowledgment.
"You're an anomaly," she said. "Strong. Very strong. Yet somehow… naïve."
"Is that an insult or a compliment?" Eryndor replied. "I'll take both, I suppose. I usually polite about it."
She gave him an odd look but said nothing more.
They continued their steps beneath the clear night sky until a sound reached them—the hollow echo of boots, the clatter of iron against stone and sand.
Eryndor saw them first.
Raiders.
The same ones who had hunted him through the ruins.
More than ten silhouettes crept across the dunes, glinting faintly beneath the moonlight.
Eryndor sighed and clenched his fist beneath the gauntlet.
"They're persistent."
"They're yours, I assume?" Lirien asked coolly, eyes fixed on the approaching figures.
"Technically," he said. "But I'm open to reassigning ownership."
He squinted.
When he saw them multiplied as they closed in. He snorted
"And it looks like they brought friends."
"Maybe I should've killed a few of them earlier," he muttered.
Lirien heard them clearly now. Her hand was already on her sword.
"Too late now"
She drew it in one smooth motion, murmuring words in an elven tongue as shadows twisted around her like ink in water.
"I suppose diplomacy is off the table," Eryndor murmured.
"Unless you plan to lecture them to death," Lirien replied flatly.
An arrow hissed out of the darkness.
It flew straight for Eryndor's chest.
He casually swung his hand aside, deflecting it harmlessly with his gauntlet. He caught the second arrow between two fingers as golden script shimmered faintly beneath his skin.
"That's impressive," he said thoughtfully. "Ow. Still stings, though."
He stepped forward, slow and steady. Lirien moved beside him, cloak snapping in the wind.
Ten—maybe twelve—raiders fanned out, attempting to encircle them.
As they closed in, their leader—the brute with a scar crossing one eye—sneered and pointed his blade at them.
"That's the scholar," he barked. "You can't run now. Take the girl too—she'll fetch a good ransom."
Lirien's eyes narrowed to slits.
"Try," she said, brandishing her sword.
They came like wolves.
The Scripture thrummed in Eryndor's veins, whispering rhythms older than war.
A golden sigil flared beneath his feet as he launched forward.
His punch landed with the sound of shattering glass, sending one raider flying across the sand. The man struck a dune and did not rise.
Eryndor tapped his foot, oddly satisfied.
"Better" He hummed.
He realized he could control the Scripture more freely now albeit barely. It was not as extraordinary as before against Lirien, but certainly more efficient. That technique consumed too much mana. This, however, seemed feel sustainable.
Another raider swung a scimitar, striking Eryndor's arm.
The impact rippled like water against stone.
Eryndor caught the blade between his fingers and twisted.
The metal cracked and shattered.
The raider went froze and pale.
Eryndor grimaced—excited, yet faintly terrified by himself. He looked at him
"This is concerning," he muttered. "I swear, I used to be more of a reader than a fighter."
"What a load—!" the raider shouted.
Eryndor cut him off with a side kick.
The man vanished into a spray of sand.
Meanwhile, Lirien was art in motion. No, she was a ghost.
Her blade carved arcs of twilight, each strike weaving illusions and steel. A spear lunged toward her thigh, aiming to cripple her.
Before it could land, a sword pierced the attacker's chest.
His last sight was Lirien standing before him—then fading with the wind.
And in the blink of an eye, she reappeared ten paces away, cutting through two more raiders in a spiral of black mist.
Their lives ended instantly.
Eryndor glanced at her and called out,
"Well, look who reeks of blood now."
Lirien glared at him while parrying another strike.
"It's called self-defense."
"Yeah, yeah," he replied in mocking tone.
"Of course. Very ethical murder"
The remaining raiders broke past them, circling wide—
—and the fight was far from over.