Date: June 15, 541 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Dawn found Ligra in an unusual state of anxious anticipation. The city, which had always lived by the strict schedule of the Agrim Family, seemed to hold its breath. Rumors of Alvost's legion movements had reached even the most remote corners, and the clang of hammers, usually melodic, now sounded like a funeral knell.
For Dur, this day began not with training, but with silence. Divilla didn't come to the training ground. Instead, a servant in a gray livery entered their quarters and silently placed two sets of field gear on the table. They weren't ceremonial armor—just dense leather, reinforced with thin steel plates at critical points, and heavy cloaks capable of protecting against bad weather and thorny undergrowth.
Dur put on the gear slowly, listening to his body. His body had reached the point where he felt himself a single whole with his weight. His muscles were dense, like dried wood, and the energy inside flowed in an even, heavy stream, ready at any moment to surge into his limbs. Regeneration had completely erased the traces of yesterday's needles overnight, leaving only a feeling of vigor and a strange, cold resolve.
When he and Maël went out to the northern gate, a small crowd had already gathered there. It wasn't a festive rally—the people of Ligra were pragmatic. These were those who saw in Dur and Maël not just warriors, but defenders of their peace.
At the front stood Gorn. The senior patrolman looked older, his armor polished to a shine, but weariness was evident in his eyes. Beside him stood Kest and the other guards with whom Dur had once tracked saboteurs in the tunnels.
"So, you're leaving," Gorn stepped forward. He didn't try to hug or shake hands—in the presence of Divilla, who stood a little apart by her horse, it would have been inappropriate. "Ligra will remember your 'Shadow Eagle' token, Dur. You're a good tracker. I hope in the East you won't forget how to read tracks."
Gorn handed Dur a small bundle of thick cloth. "Here's a whetstone from the Blue Mountains and a supply of dried meat. A trifle, but on the Frontier, even that is a treasure. Come back. Maël... take care of your friend."
Maël nodded seriously, accepting Gorn's words. He no longer looked like a spoiled heir. A month under Divilla's supervision had purged the excess arrogance from him, leaving only a razor-sharp readiness.
"To horse," Divilla's voice cut short the farewell. She was no longer that bored aristocrat reading reports on the parapet. She wore the Agrim battle armor—deep purple with silver engraving—which seemed a part of her own body. Her Spirit of Castling was felt even in the way she held the reins—the space around her seemed to tremble slightly.
They rode out of the gate under the silent gazes of the townsfolk. Ligra was left behind, quickly turning into a small speck against the backdrop of harsh hills. Ahead lay the road east, to the Iron Gullet—a place where the history of the Agrim Family could either continue or end in blood.
The journey through the scorched lands would have taken weeks for an ordinary caravan, but Divilla's detachment moved quickly. She didn't use her Castling to move the group—that would have been too burdensome—but she led them along paths known only to members of the Inner Circle.
Dur's physical conditioning allowed him to endure the long ride without fatigue. He felt his body adapting to the horse's rhythm, his energy passively strengthening his spine and knees. Maël had it harder—his Spirit constantly demanded attention, reacting to every change around him, but he held on steadfastly.
By the evening of the second day, the landscape had changed. The fertile hills gave way to gray rocks and a sparse, sickly forest called the "Fanged Thicket." Here, even the air was different—heavy, with a taste of sulfur and ozone. It was a sign that they were approaching Alvost's sphere of influence, whose gravitational magic was beginning to distort the natural background.
Divilla suddenly raised her hand, ordering the detachment to halt. Her eyes narrowed.
"The war hasn't reached these woods yet, but the peace is already broken," she said, looking into the thicket. "The energy disturbances from the Iron Gullet are driving the local wildlife mad. Dur, Maël—to me."
They rode up to their mentor. Divilla pointed to the torn carcass of a forest deer by the roadside. The beast wasn't just killed—it was literally torn apart, and its flesh looked burned, as if by acid.
"That's a pack of Grey Spinebreakers," Divilla explained. "Ordinary predators, but due to the energy distortion in the air, they've mutated. Now they don't just eat; they destroy everything living. Right now, the pack is half a mile from here, by the stream where our forward supply train is stationed."
She looked at Dur and Maël. Her gaze was cold and demanding. "I'm not going to waste my fighters' strength on these creatures. That's your task. Deal with the pack. If even one wagon of the supply train is damaged—you'll walk back to Ligra. And without gear."
"Alvost scouts?" Maël asked, checking the fastenings of his sword.
"They're not here," Divilla cut him off. "Alvost values order no less than we do. They won't unleash their hounds until they've taken their positions. Your enemy now is the chaos caused by their power. Go. Dur, use your forest experience. Maël—don't waste energy needlessly."
Dur dismounted. He felt his feet touch the solid, dry earth. He drew his hunting knife. The steel settled familiarly into his palm.
"Let's go, Maël," Dur said quietly. "It doesn't smell like magic here. It smells like blood. This is my world."
They plunged into the forest. Divilla remained on the road, watching their retreating figures. For her, this wasn't just an assignment, but a test. She wanted to see how the "talented middle-grounder" and the "heir of the whirlwind" would work together in conditions where there were no training needles, only teeth and claws filled with maddened will.
Dur moved silently. His regeneration and strengthened body allowed him to ignore the thorny branches that scratched ordinary people. Ahead, he heard a low, guttural growl and the sound of tearing flesh. There were at least five Spinebreakers. And they were very hungry.
Dur looked at Maël and gestured towards a bypass route. The real hunt was beginning. The first hunt on the road to the Iron Gullet.