The streets of Alto glowed under the warm hush of lanternlight. Market stalls were shuttered, soldiers marched in quiet formation, and rain whispered faintly on the cobblestones.
After parting ways with the others, Themis and Heathcliff walked side by side through the winding lanes.
“Trieni’s off resupplying arrows. Tristan’s probably redrawing the entire map by now,” Heathcliff muttered, resting his spear on his shoulder. “You think we’ll actually find anyone worth hiring this late?”
Themis’s gaze drifted toward a dimly lit building ahead. Laughter, clinking mugs, and the faint hum of a lute spilled from its doors.
He remembered Maestro Brauer’s words.
“If you find yourselves short-handed or your strength is not enough, go to Alto’s Tavern. Speak to the keeper there—he knows which blades and talents can be trusted. Recruit who you must.”
Themis pushed the tavern door open.
The Tavern of Alto was alive with motion—mercenaries trading boasts, maps scattered across tables, the air thick with ale and sweat. Behind the counter stood the keeper, an older man with a clean vest and the calm eyes of someone who’d seen too many campaigns.
“You’re the new captain... Captain Valeheart, aren’t you?” the keeper said, polishing a glass. “Maestro Brauer sent word you might come.”
Themis nodded. “We’re looking for one or two hands we can trust. The mission’s sensitive.”
The keeper’s grin was slight but knowing. “Then you’ll want to look at this list.”
He slid over a parchment lined with names and notes — mages, blades, scouts, and specialists for hire.
Heathcliff scanned down the page. “Half these names are expensive. The other half are insane.”
Before Themis could reply, a voice from across the room called out.
“Looking for strong arms?”
They turned.
A small, wiry man stood by the firelight — Liam, gray-haired, compact but coiled with strength like drawn steel. He carried a pack nearly twice his size and dropped it onto the floor with a solid thud.
The keeper chuckled. “That’s Liam. Don’t let the size fool you. He once carried an entire wagon of rations through the Lion's Highway — by himself.”
Heathcliff blinked. “You’re joking.”
The keeper shook his head. “He’s stronger than he looks — and faster, too. Makes a good scout. Doesn’t talk much, but gets things done.”
Liam gave a small shrug. “I lift, I run, I don’t complain. You need extra hands, I’m your man.”
Themis studied him. Something about the man’s composure — his lack of arrogance — caught his attention.
He extended a hand. “Then welcome aboard, Liam.”
Liam clasped it firmly. “Do you need me now or tomorrow? Where do we meet?”
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“The plain in the Clef Hills,” Heathcliff said. “Before dawn. Don’t be late.”
Liam’s grin was quick and confident. “I don’t do late.”
As they stepped back into the chill night air, Themis looked toward the mist-covered horizon.
New allies. New uncertainties.
But for the first time since the briefing… something in his chest felt steady.
Tomorrow, the Vanguard would gather.
And the journey to the Tower of Wind would begin.
Later, as twilight cloaked the outskirts of Crotchet in soft amber light, Themis stood beneath the familiar willow tree where laughter had once echoed, and secrets had been whispered under stars.
Shilol Lunareth was already there—waiting.
The breeze caught strands of her golden hair, sending them dancing around her face like sunlight in motion. She turned as he approached, her eyes catching the last of the day’s glow.
“You’re really going,” she said quietly.
Themis nodded, hands resting on the hilt of his sword. “The king has called. I can’t turn away from that.”
A silence settled between them, filled only by the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of city bells.
“I always thought you'd leave one day,” Shilol murmured, her voice soft but steady. “But I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
He looked at her then—really looked.
She had always been there. In the shadows of his training. In the warmth of his memories.
A comfort he’d never questioned.
Now, standing before her, the weight of what might be lost pressed against his chest.
She stepped closer, close enough that he could see the way her lashes trembled.
“Promise me you'll come back safe, Themis.”
Her voice cracked—barely louder than the wind.
“No matter what happens.”
He reached into his cloak then, as if remembering something.
“I almost forgot,” he said softly.
From his palm, he revealed a small pendant—silver, shaped like a teardrop of light. The metal caught the dying sun, glowing faintly in his hand.
“I found this in Alto’s market,” he said. “The stallkeeper said it’s a charm of return. They say it guides lost travelers home.”
He smiled faintly, almost shyly. “I thought you might like it.”
Her breath caught as he placed it in her hand. The pendant was simple, but warm, its edges smooth from countless hands before hers.
Shilol looked up at him, eyes glistening. “It’s beautiful.”
“Then keep it,” he said. “Until I come back.”
Their fingers brushed—his calloused, hers trembling.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke.
“I promise,” he said gently. “No matter what happens, I’ll come back to you.”
Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say more.
But she only nodded, clutching the pendant to her chest—eyes shining with everything she couldn’t say aloud.
Themis hesitated for a heartbeat longer, then turned away—his promise still warm on his lips.
As he walked back toward the path, he didn’t look back.
He didn’t need to.
Her presence—and the silver gleam beneath the willow—was stitched into his heart like a melody he’d never forget.