Trin went to the barracks before dawn, when the air was still cool and the streets were mostly empty.
The compound gates stood half-open, guards yawning as the night watch changed over. Inside, the yard was quiet—no shouted drills yet, no clatter of weapons. Just a few figures moving through their routines and the soft murmur of early-morning preparation.
In the small side room that had served as his workshop, Trin set the pack on the table and took a strip of plain cloth from his supplies. He laid the staff across it and wrapped it carefully, folding the cloth snugly so no carved lines showed through. With a few practiced knots, he secured the bundle and lashed it to the side of his pack, where it would ride unnoticed among spare leather and tools.
For now, it was just another length of wood among many.
He swung the pack onto his shoulders, testing the weight. It pulled slightly to one side; he adjusted the straps until it settled more evenly. Satisfied, he stepped back into the yard.
Garran, Lysa, and Naera were already at the main gate by the time he arrived.
Garran wore travel gear over his mail—a heavier cloak rolled at his back, saddlebags slung over one shoulder. Lysa checked the fletching on her arrows one last time, counting them under her breath. Naera stood with her staff in hand, cloak drawn close, hair braided back more tightly than usual.
"You're punctual," Garran said as Trin approached. "Didn't even need to bang on your door this time."
"I thought I'd spare the inn walls," Trin replied.
Lysa eyed his pack. "Traveling light," she said approvingly. "Good. Less to lose."
Naera's gaze lingered briefly on the wrapped length at his side, curiosity flickering for a moment before she pulled her eyes away. She said nothing.
Captain Mereth met them at the gate long enough to exchange final words.
"Stay on the main road as much as you can," she told Garran. "There are patrols most of the way. Bandits don't like witnesses. If you must cut through the woods, do it fast and don't camp long."
"Yes, Captain," Garran said.
"And remember," she added, glancing at Trin, "you're representing the Freewardens. Try not to insult any councilors unless they really deserve it."
"I'll do my best," he said.
"I meant him," she told Garran dryly, jerking her head toward Trin. "You I've already given up on."
Lysa snorted. Naera's mouth twitched.
The captain stepped back. "Go, then," she said.
They passed through the town gate and out onto the road.
***
Travel settled into its own rhythm.
The main way to Lorenfell was wide enough for two carts to pass and worn smooth by years of traffic. Fields flanked the first stretch—patchwork squares of crops, scattered farmhouses, the occasional pasture where cows lifted their heads as the group went by.
By midday on the first day, the town was only a smudge behind them. The road dipped into low, rolling hills, dotted with copses of trees and small streams. They shared the way with the occasional merchant caravan, a few peddlers, and once a group of soldiers marching the opposite direction, armor clinking in unison.
Trin walked near the middle of the group by default.
Garran led, eyes on the horizons and the line of the road. Lysa often ranged ahead or slanted off to one side, slipping into brush to check for anything that might be lurking out of sight. Naera's pace matched Trin's more often than not; her staff clicked softly against packed earth, the motion as natural as breathing.
They encountered trouble, as any group on a long road eventually did.
On the second afternoon, a trio of twisted boar-like creatures charged them from a thicket—jaws too wide, eyes milky with some alchemical corruption. Garran's shield took the first impact; Lysa's arrows found the soft spots behind their forelegs. Naera sent a wash of force that turned the last aside long enough for Garran's sword to finish it.
Trin watched, weight forward, ready to step in if the line broke—but it never did. They handled it cleanly and efficiently. When it was over, he helped drag the carcasses off the road into the brush.
"You're very good at killing things without me," he noted.
"I've had practice," Garran said.
Lysa flicked boar blood from the end of an arrow. "We'll let you know when we need a stitched strap," she said.
Naera glanced at him, something searching in her gaze. "Or when something refuses to stay dead that should," she added.
"Let's hope that remains hypothetical," he said.
They moved on.
Nights were spent at waystations or in small clearings off the road, depending on how far they'd gone. The first night, they found an old patrol post—four walls, half a roof, enough shelter to make sharing space with a draft preferable to sleeping in the open. The second night, they camped under a stand of tall trees near a stream, firelight pooling under the branches.
It was on that second night that Trin chose his moment.
Lysa had taken the first watch, perched on a fallen log near the edge of the firelight, bow across her knees. Garran lay rolled in his blanket close by, already snoring softly. The forest hummed around them with the quiet sounds of nocturnal life.
Naera sat on the other side of the fire, staff laid across her lap, staring into the flames.
Trin sat a little way off, back against his pack, pretending a deeper interest in the stew pot's residue than it deserved. He watched Naera's profile; the orange light limned the line of her jaw, the ink marks, the faint exhaustion under her eyes.
She didn't glow now. Not outwardly. But something around her felt…tuned differently. The way her gaze lingered on the shifting embers, the way her fingers moved absently along the wood of her staff, tracing patterns only she saw.
He shifted, quietly untying the cloth-wrapped bundle from his pack.
"Naera," he said.
She looked up, drawn out of whatever pattern she'd been following in the fire.
"Yes?"
"Walk with me a moment," he said. "Just beyond the light."
Her brows drew together slightly. She glanced at Lysa, who gave a small shrug as if to say, *I'll shout if something eats me.* Garran snored on, oblivious.
"All right," Naera said.
She stood, taking her current staff automatically. Trin shook his head once. "Leave it," he said. "You won't need it for this."
That earned him a more suspicious look, but she obeyed, setting the staff carefully on the ground beside her bedroll.
They walked together just outside the circle of firelight, far enough that their faces were shadowed but the camp remained in view. The forest beyond was a deeper darkness, the trees reduced to silhouettes against a strip of star-pocked sky.
Trin stopped when they reached a patch of relatively even ground.
He held out the wrapped bundle.
"I made this for you," he said.
Naera blinked. "You…what?"
"A while ago," he said. "I was waiting for a time when you were less likely to have a priest faint nearby."
Her expression shifted—surprise, then something warmer, tempered by caution. "What is it?"
"A tool," he said. "Nothing more. Nothing less."
She took the bundle carefully, feeling the weight through the cloth. Her fingers lingered on the knots for a heartbeat, as if aware something more than wood lay under the twine.
"May I?" she asked.
"That is the point," he replied.
She untied the cloth, unwrapping it with the slow precision of someone used to traps and tricks. The staff emerged piece by piece: smooth wood, pale in the faint starlight, with shallow grooves catching what little light there was.
When she finally freed it and cast the cloth aside, she held it fully in both hands.
The change was immediate.
A faint, subtle glow flowed from her fingers into the wood—not blinding, not even enough to light more than their outlines, but visible. It traced the path-marks carved along the shaft, filling them with a soft, pale radiance before settling into a steady, quiet sheen.
Naera sucked in a breath.
"Trin," she whispered.
He watched closely. "How does it feel?"
She shifted her grip, letting the staff's weight settle into different positions. Her hands found the carved grooves without needing to look; the balance seemed to anticipate her movements.
"…Natural," she said slowly. "Like I've been using it for years and just forgot for a while." She tightened her hand near the top. "The old one always felt a little…off. Stiff. This doesn't."
Her eyes unfocused for a heartbeat, gaze turning inward.
"And?" he prompted.
She frowned, then relaxed. "And…quieter," she said. "In here." She tapped her temple lightly with two fingers not holding the staff. "Since the blessing, it's like I've been hearing two things at once. The world as it is and…something underneath. Threads. It's been…loud. Not unbearable. Just constant."
She closed her eyes, fingers resting on the carved path-marks.
"With this," she went on, voice softer, "it's as if someone took half the noise and offered to hold it for me. I can still feel the patterns, but they're…organized now. Like lines instead of chatter."
A small, relieved laugh escaped her. "I didn't realize how heavy it felt until some of it shifted."
Trin let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"That was the idea," he said. "Not to add power. Just to…align it. Give it somewhere comfortable to go."
She opened her eyes, looking down at the staff with new appreciation. "You carved path-marks," she said, fingers brushing the grooves. "Not the temple symbol. Older style. More…fluid."
"They're not hers," he said. "Not exactly. Just echoes. Something for your hands to remember when your mind is tired."
Naera turned the staff once more, watching the faint glow pulse gently along the lines.
"It's beautiful," she said simply. "Not fancy. But beautiful."
"That may be the highest praise you could give it," he said.
She looked up at him, the soft light catching in her eyes. "Thank you," she said. "Truly. For this. For thinking of it. For…understanding that I didn't want a banner strapped to my back."
"You're welcome," he replied. "Banners are heavy. Staves just help you walk."
She huffed a quiet laugh. "I'll remember that."
For a moment, they stood in companionable silence, the staff's gentle glow a bridge between them.
Then Naera's expression grew more serious.
"Does this mean," she asked slowly, "that I'm…tied more tightly to her now? To whatever path she's got me on?"
"Yes," he said. "And no. The tie was already there. This just gives you something to lean on while you learn how to walk with it."
"That sounds like something she'd say," Naera muttered.
"In this case, it's something I'm saying," Trin replied. "She prefers more metaphors."
Naera smiled faintly. "I'm starting to see why you two argued a lot."
"Our arguments were…productive," he said.
She looked down at the staff again, then back toward the fire where Lysa's silhouette was still visible against the glow and Garran's form was a lump under his blanket.
"Do we tell them?" she asked. "About…any of this?"
"Not yet," Trin said. "Not more than they already know. Let this be a tool, not a declaration."
Naera nodded. "I can live with that."
She planted the staff lightly, testing how it met the earth. The soft glow dimmed, settling into the grain as if it had always been there.
"Come on," she said. "If I stand out here much longer, Lysa will assume you're recruiting me for some mysterious order and demand to join."
"Would that be so bad?" he asked.
"For the order, yes," Naera said. "She'd never stop talking."
They returned to the camp.
Lysa glanced up as they stepped back into the firelight, eyes flicking to the new staff. "That's not the one you left on the ground," she observed.
"No," Naera said, settling onto her bedroll. "It isn't."
Lysa eyed Trin and smirked. "Crafter of sorts," she said. "Always with the surprises."
Trin only inclined his head.
Garran snored on, oblivious.
The rest of the night passed without incident. Naera took a later watch, and Trin noticed how naturally her new staff rested in her grip, how her gaze seemed a little less strained as she scanned the darkness.
***
The next days blurred into the steady cadence of travel.
The landscape shifted gradually—hills rising higher, fields giving way to scrub and then to more ordered farmland as they neared the capital's reach. Villages grew more frequent along the road, each with its own small cluster of houses and a common well. The traffic thickened: more carts, more riders, more travelers with business beyond their own village boundaries.
No more beasts attacked. No more bandits tried their luck. The road, for once, seemed to accept their passage without objection.
On the fourth day, around mid-afternoon, they crested a long, gentle rise.
The view opened before them.
In the distance, spanning a wide curve of land and river, rose Lorenfell—the capital of Vaelion.
Even at this distance, its scale was clear. Walls of pale stone encircled the city like a second horizon, punctuated by towers that caught the sunlight. Within, roofs clustered and stacked, some peaked, some flat, all jostling for space. At the city's heart, higher still, a central keep or palace rose above the rest, its banners faint but visible, stirring in a breeze that had not yet reached the travelers.
The river gleamed like a band of hammered silver, cutting along one side of the city and disappearing beyond.
Trin stopped at the top of the rise, the others drawing up beside him.
"There she is," Garran said, a note of reluctant pride in his voice. "Lorenfell. Heart of the beast."
"Looks…busy," Lysa said, shading her eyes.
Naera's fingers tightened around her new staff. "Looks like a lot of paths," she murmured.
Trin studied the city in silence.
Here, in this cluster of stone and will, decisions were made that rippled outward across the kingdom Althera had tended in secret. Here, people drew lines on maps and called them borders, wrote laws that tried to pin chaos into ordered shapes.
Here, his presence might matter more than anywhere he had stepped so far in this world.
"Another road," he said softly. "Another center."
Garran glanced at him. "You ready for it?"
"No," Trin said. "But I'm going anyway."
They started down the slope toward the grand city in the distance, the dust of the road rising around their boots as Lorenfell's walls slowly grew larger with each step.