The road to Celdoras was rutted and dry, lined with spindly trees that offered little shade and even less charm. Dawn painted the horizon in stripes of gold and amber as Ethan and his pack assembled at Virestead's eastern gate, the dimensional tent now collapsed to its pocket-sized cube and tucked safely into his pack alongside the carefully hidden pouch of platinum and gold.

  Durgan Ironheel's caravan was smaller than Ethan had expected—just six wagons in total, each pulled by a pair of sturdy draft horses. The lead wagon, distinguished by its reinforced sides and deeper red paint, clearly belonged to the dwarf himself.

  “There you are,” the dwarf called, waving Ethan over. “Was beginnin’ to think ye’d changed your mind.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Ethan said, patting the hilt of his new short sword. It still felt unfamiliar—more like a warning label than a weapon. He shifted his pack higher. “Warm feet. Nervous stomach.”

  Durgan’s gaze moved past Ethan to the pack.

  Moose stood solid and alert—every inch the reliable sentinel.

  Buster yawned with theatrical flair, then gave the dusty road a betrayed look like it had personally interrupted his nap schedule.

  Pixie had already vanished under one wagon, reappeared on top of another, and was now sniffing a saddlebag with extreme prejudice.

  Amelia stayed close, quiet and watchful, her bright eyes flicking between the wagons and Ethan’s boots.

  “Quite the menagerie,” Durgan said, rubbing his beard. “That big one looks like he knows what he’s doin’. The rest look like someone rolled random dice and said, ‘aye, that’s a team.’”

  “Don’t let appearances fool you,” Ethan said. “Pixie’s smarter than she looks, Buster’s stronger than he acts, and Moose is the reason we’ve made it this far.”

  He paused, then added, “They’re a mess. But they’re my mess.”

  “Aye, I’m sure they are,” Durgan said with a knowing smirk. “Half the town’s still talkin’ about how you and your beasts tore through those goblins like a trained unit.”

  Ethan didn’t quite smile. He just nodded. They had survived, yes. But that fight had been chaos—close calls, blood, instincts barely ahead of disaster.

  Pixie, of course, projected smug pride through the bond: “WE WON! I was VERY fast.”

  They got moving with the sun still low in the sky. The pace was slow. Too slow. Ethan walked beside the second wagon, sweat already gathering at the back of his neck.

  Moose trotted silently at his left. Pixie darted ahead like she’d been appointed scout, tail high, paws eager. Buster had tried to ride. That lasted fifteen minutes.

  A loud, echoing “blehhhhh” from the back of a wagon signaled the end of his noble experiment. He tumbled off the tailgate and landed with a soft thud in the dirt.

  “I’ll walk,” he muttered as he caught up, ears drooping. “This world hates me. My stomach hates me. Everyone hates me.”

  “No one hates you,” Ethan said. “But yeah, your stomach’s a traitor.”

  Amelia was the only one riding. She was curled up in a shaded corner behind the bench seat of the lead wagon, nestled on a folded saddle pad someone had repurposed into a small den. Her head peeked over the side from time to time, eyes following the wagons, the trees, Ethan.

  Her presence in the bond had shifted lately—less emotion, more thought trying to find shape. And now…

  …this…

  A whisper stirred in Ethan’s mind. Not a sound, not a full thought. But something.

  He blinked. Looked up.

  Amelia was watching him. Calm. Focused. Still.

  Their eyes met—just for a beat too long.

  Nothing was said, but something passed between them all the same—a faint, unspoken thread of recognition that made his stomach twist in excitement.

  He looked away before she did, not entirely sure he hadn’t imagined it.

  The road continued in silence for a while, the rhythm of hooves and wagon wheels filling the space where words didn’t quite belong.

  “Is this normal?” Ethan muttered under his breath.

  “It’s caravan speed,” came a dry voice beside him.

  The woman had appeared from nowhere—slightly grizzled, sun-browned, with a bow slung across her back and a hat that had probably seen three wars. She didn’t look at him. Just kept walking.

  “You move slow, you move safe,” she said. “Wheels break. Horses spook. Bandits love the ones who rush.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “You’re the Tamer, right? The one with the weird wolves.”

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  “They’re dogs,” Ethan said automatically. “From a very different part of the map.”

  “Still weird,” she replied, not unkindly. “That little one looks like she drinks lightning, and the big one’s built like a damn bear.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  The woman grunted and moved ahead, steady as ever.

  A moment later, Pixie’s voice nudged the edge of Ethan’s thoughts.

  “She has a hat.”

  Ethan blinked. “Okay?”

  “That means she might be a monster. Just saying.”

  Ethan sighed. “Not this again...”

  Pixie huffed. “I’m watching her.”

  The caravan crested a ridge around midmorning and paused to water the horses and let everyone stretch.

  Pixie tried to introduce herself to a draft horse with way too much enthusiasm. Moose growled once and herded her back before hooves started flying.

  Ethan sank onto a flat rock and uncapped his waterskin.

  The first sip was stale—warm, flat, and weirdly earthy. Like minerals and canvas had been left out in the sun too long.

  He grimaced. “Nope.”

  A short distance away, near the lead wagon, a barrel of water sloshed beside a dip bucket—probably filled from the stream they’d passed earlier. He walked over, dumped the rest of the old water, and refilled the skin with fresh.

  The next sip was better. Less musty. Still warm.

  He pulled a cold stone from his pouch, smooth and faintly blue. With a flick of intent, he pressed just the tip into the mouth of the waterskin and pushed a thread of mana through it.

  The pulse of energy that surged back was stronger than expected. He yanked the stone out and blinked.

  The next sip hit like a glacial slap—ice-cold, almost too cold.

  He didn’t complain. The sun was climbing. Too cold was a feature, not a bug.

  After a few minutes, though, the waterskin started freezing his hip through the side of his pack.

  With a sigh, Ethan slid the pack off, unbuckled the flap, and dug through the top layer—bedroll, rations, rope—until his hand found cool metal.

  He pulled out the dented Yeti mug, still wrapped in a strip of cloth where he’d tucked it after Virestead. Still intact. Still his.

  He poured some of the chilled water into it and took a slow sip.

  The water stayed cold. He let himself enjoy it.

  His gaze drifted toward the nearest wagon. Now that it was still, he noticed glowing lines etched into the wood—fine, rune-like patterns along the wheel rims and axles, pulsing faintly like slow-moving veins.

  “What are those lines?” he asked. “They look… carved?”

  “Aye,” Durgan said, stomping past. “Proper etched mana channels. Keeps the axles from snapping under load, spreads the weight better.”

  “They’re enchanted?”

  “Course they are. Stonecrafter-grade. Each wheel runs off a mid-tier mana stone. Burns one every few days. Faster if the wagon’s enchanted for comfort.”

  “Shock runes?”

  Durgan grunted in approval. “Like ridin’ a cloud instead of a cart with attitude.”

  He pulled out a small gem—purple and faintly glowing. “This one’s a water purifier. Drop it in a bucket and it’ll pull the swamp out overnight.”

  Ethan leaned closer. “And each color means something?”

  “Aye.” Durgan tapped the stones, lining them up on his palm. “Blue’s water. Red’s fire. Brownish green’s earth. Yellow’s energy. Purple’s purification. There’s others, but those’re the road basics.”

  “Shape?” Ethan asked.

  “Power level,” Durgan said. “The bigger the facets, the bigger the kick.”

  “And glow?” Ethan asked curiously.

  “Clarity.” Durgan held one up to the light. “Bright and clean? Fully charged. Cloudy or dim? She’s near dead.”

  He nodded toward a lean man near the third wagon, rotating a blue gem slowly in his fingers.

  “That’s Sam. Funny sort, but good with mana flow. Keeps our stones topped off between stops. Saves me from crackin’ open spares.”

  Ethan touched the small cold stone hanging from his belt—pale and dim compared to Durgan’s glowing ones.

  “What do you call these? The ones that don’t light up unless you feed them?”

  Durgan gave a grunt. “Drystones. Not official, but that’s what folk call ’em. Empty ’til ye juice ’em yerself.”

  He pulled another from his pouch—cloudy, drained, same size as Ethan’s. “Here. This one’s dead flat. I use it for training.”

  Ethan took it, curious. He pushed in just a thread of mana.

  The stone flared instantly. Not just active—fully bright, glowing clean and sharp like it had just spent hours soaking in a leyline.

  Durgan blinked. “Well… I’ll be damned.”

  Ethan froze. “That wasn’t too much, was it?”

  “Too much?” Durgan turned the stone slowly. “Ye filled it in one breath. Most folk need a half hour and a headache.”

  He looked at Ethan again—closer this time. “You done that before?”

  “Not like that,” Ethan said. “Didn’t mean to. Just… nudged it.”

  Durgan let out a low whistle and tucked the stone back into his pouch.

  “Remind me not to let you near the mana lanterns. You’ll pop ’em like firecrackers.”

  He straightened with a grunt, glancing at the sun through narrowed eyes.

  “Break’s over! Let’s move. Wagons up. Guards back in position.”

  Groans and the shuffle of feet rippled through the camp as people packed away food, stretched their legs, and mounted up. Hooves clopped. Leather creaked.

  And then the caravan rolled on.

  The rest of the day passed in slow, steady rhythm. Hooves on dirt. Wagon wheels creaking. Wind brushing dry grass in soft waves.

  Ethan kept walking, the cold waterskin pressed against his side like a secret blessing. The rest of the pack fell into their own travel patterns—Moose on silent perimeter patrol, Pixie ranging ahead in bursts of joyful chaos, Amelia sleeping, dreaming, watching.

  And Buster, trailing near the back, muttering every few minutes under his breath.

  Something about ratios.

  Something about regeneration rates.

  Ethan didn’t ask.

  But he had a feeling Buster wasn’t muttering because he was mad.

  He was muttering because he couldn’t stop thinking.