Dusk bled across the Kharuun Delta like spilled wine, turning the Nyxara River from obsidian to molten copper. Nyxara Veilborn slipped from the servants' gate of the Wavecrown Palace wearing the rough linen of a river-trader's daughter: hooded cloak of faded indigo, sandals worn thin by years of walking the reed paths, a small satchel slung across her back containing only what mattered—two curved spirit-spears wrapped in oilcloth, a vial of river-water sealed with wax (her mother's last gift), and a thin knife etched with shadow-runes.
She had chosen her companions with care. Three only. Any more would draw eyes.
First was Kwezi Riverwhisper, a priestess of the lower orders, thirty summers, skin scarred from childhood offerings to the water-spirits. Her hair was cropped short in mourning for a sister drowned in a border flood—Azura's flood, though no one dared say it aloud. Kwezi could read currents the way others read scrolls; she would sense disturbances in the river long before they reached the delta.
Second came Jabari Songblade, once a griot of the palace court, now disgraced for singing a verse too truthful about the queen-regent's late husband. Thirty-five, lean as a reed-spear, fingers callused from lute strings and dagger hilts. His voice could charm a crocodile or curse a man's blood to boil; he carried no weapon save his tongue and a hidden bone-flute that doubled as a blowpipe.
Third—and most dangerous—was Tafari Ironback, a former river-guard captain stripped of rank after refusing to execute a family accused of harboring Harmony Faction sympathizers. Forty-two, broad-shouldered, face mapped with old scars, one eye clouded from a spear-thrust he never fully healed from. He carried a heavy river-axe and a grudge the size of the Nyxara itself. Nyxara trusted him because he hated Azura more than he feared her.
They met beneath the hanging willow-bridge at the eastern edge of the city, where the water lapped soft against the pilings and the night market lanterns bobbed like fireflies.
"You're certain of this path?" Tafari asked, voice low gravel. He eyed the river as if it might betray them. "The queen's spies are everywhere. Even the fish have ears."
Nyxara pulled her hood lower. "The fish answer to me tonight. And the shadows will hide us until we reach the savanna fringe."
Kwezi knelt at the water's edge, dipped both hands in, and murmured a quiet prayer. Tiny ripples spread outward—not natural, but deliberate, carrying her awareness downstream. After a moment she straightened.
"The currents are… wrong. Something is moving east to west. Cold. Empty. Like a vein opened and never closed. Blood has frozen in places where blood should never freeze."
Jabari whistled softly through his teeth. "The Blood-Drinker, then. The one the traders whisper about. Eight soldiers and three war-beasts in a ravine—left like dried husks, red ice everywhere. They say he didn't even raise a blade. Just… looked."
Nyxara's blue veins pulsed once beneath her sleeves. She had felt it earlier that afternoon—a distant tug, like a thread pulled taut across the savanna. The shadow she sent had returned fragmented, carrying only impressions: a man walking alone, black veins crawling like roots, crystals glinting in the sun, and a presence older than the river watching from inside him.
"He's not a myth," she said. "And he's not random. Whatever he is, he started in Ashenveil Hollow. The same night Vulgaroth's legion passed through. The queen wants him dead or chained. I want answers."
Tafari hefted his axe onto his shoulder. "Answers get people drowned. If he can drain gods, what's to stop him from draining us?"
"Nothing," Nyxara said simply. "That's why we don't approach as enemies. Not yet."
Kwezi frowned. "You mean to speak with him?"
"I mean to observe. Learn what bargain he made. Learn who—or what—holds the other end of the chain." She turned to Jabari. "You'll sing the tale when we return. But only the truth. No flattery for the queen."
The griot gave a crooked smile. "My tongue has been waiting years to speak freely."
They moved out along the eastern reed-paths, keeping the river on their left. The city lights faded behind them; soon there was only the lap of water, the cry of night herons, and the soft crunch of sandals on packed mud. Nyxara walked at the front, letting her shadow stretch ahead along the bank—longer than natural, darker than the night allowed. Every few paces she whispered to it, and the shadow rippled forward, scouting bends and hidden watchers.
An hour out, Kwezi halted.
"Something ahead," she whispered. "The water tastes of iron. And frost."
They crouched behind a thicket of papyrus. Ahead, a small fishing village huddled against the riverbank—huts of reed and mud, nets drying on poles. Lanterns glowed in a few windows, but the central firepit was cold. No laughter, no children running. Only silence.
Nyxara's shadow slid forward along the water, slipping beneath the surface like ink. Moments later it returned, carrying images: overturned boats, blood-streaked banks, bodies slumped in shallows—five fishermen, two women, a child. Their skin shrunken, eyes sunken, limbs rigid with scarlet frost blooming from mouths and wounds.
Jabari cursed under his breath. "Same as the ravine stories."
Tafari gripped his axe tighter. "He was here. Recently. The frost hasn't melted yet."
Nyxara stared at the village. The river carried the faint scent of blood and something colder—something ancient. Her veins ached in sympathy.
"He's not killing for sport," she murmured. "He's hunting. Following the legion's trail. Toward us."
Kwezi dipped her fingers into the water again. Her face paled. "The current… it's pulling toward him. Like the river itself wants to join whatever flows in his veins."
Nyxara stood. "Then we follow it too. Faster now. No more stops unless we must."
They skirted the dead village, keeping to the shadows. The moon rose higher—blood-red, cracked like old clay—and the savanna opened before them: endless grass whispering secrets, thorn-acacias standing like silent sentinels.
Far ahead, a faint trail of frost glinted on the riverbank—small patches where water had frozen in mid-ripple, scarlet crystals embedded like fallen stars.
Nyxara felt the tug again, stronger now. Closer.
Somewhere in the dark grass, a man with black veins was walking west.
And the river was singing his name.