Chapter 12: The Ruins of Cathern

  The afternoon lingered in a somber hush. Aeron sat near the stream, tending to a skewer of charred meat, while Ivyl Wall remained hidden behind a large boulder, drying her sodden clothes over a separate campfire. Occasionally, she peered out to check on him. Aeron was a gifted hunter but a wretched cook; his mind was far from the meal, consumed entirely by the desperate need to reach Chiryl.

  After a quiet night beneath the boughs of a great oak, the two decided to detour toward the border of the Waggon Kingdom, hoping to intercept the royal bridal procession on the far side of the Tar’Muffin territory. To bypass the Crown's checkpoints, they disguised themselves and joined a merchant caravan—one of the large fleets that maintained "friendly" relations with the border captains.

  Thanks to Aeron’s brute strength and Ivyl’s Lion Tribe illusions, they were quickly hired as laborers. After four grueling days of navigating mountain passes and trading with remote hamlets, the caravan finally reached the Isudan trade route.

  Isudan was a scorched, desolate expanse—a true wilderness of stone and sand. By day, temperatures soared above fifty degrees Celsius, a heat so oppressive it felt like a physical weight. But when night fell, the desert bit back with a bone-chilling cold that could break even the strongest man. Only the sky remained constant: a vast, cloudless dome of stars. It was these stars that Ivyl used as her compass, ensuring the caravan’s path aligned with their own.

  Unlike smaller merchants who clung to riverbanks, these massive caravans chose the dangerous border paths for discretion. They carried high-value cargo—goods that the Council of Mages preferred not to track. While bandit attacks were a constant threat, the profits were so immense that even if only sixty percent of the goods arrived, the gains were incalculable. They functioned on a cycle of high turnover, losing men constantly and replacing them with seasonal laborers or mercenaries.

  By the seventh day, they were deep within the heart of the waste, reaching the territory of the ancient city of Cathern. Here, the livestock villages and Royal outposts vanished, replaced by jagged mountains and swirling dust dancing through the ruins of a forgotten civilization.

  Aeron, wrapped in thick robes to ward off the sun, reined in his black horse, struck by the grandeur of the ruins. He had seen sketches of Cathern on the Walls of Honor at the Lorencine Academy, but the reality was far more haunting.

  "This was the home of the First Signer, wasn't it?" Ivyl asked, riding her white mare beside him.

  Aeron nodded, his blue eyes wandering over the shattered stone houses. "That’s what the legends say. But that was over fourteen millennia ago. I can’t believe it still..."

  "...Exists?" Ivyl finished for him. "Many things endure when they shouldn't, Aeron. Aren't you yourself a walking myth?"

  Aeron smiled and spurred his horse forward. They would rest here for the night before the final, treacherous push through the sands of Tar’Muffin at dawn.

  Temporary tents were erected atop the foundations of ancient homes. Aeron noticed old iron rings for tethering animals embedded in the stone—evidence that this caravan had used Cathern as a waypoint for generations.

  But what Aeron did not know was that as the camp fell into a deep, exhausted sleep, the western tents were already beginning to burn.

  "Raiders! Raiders!" a voice screamed, shattering the silence of Cathern.

  Orange flames roared into the night, reflecting off drawn steel as hoofbeats thundered through the rising dust. Screams of agony erupted from every corner of the camp. Aeron bolted upright in his tent just as a spray of blood splattered across the canvas from the outside. He threw on his leather armor, drew his sword, and lunged into the chaos, shouting for Ivyl.

  "Gah!" A raider wearing a thick desert turban lunged at him, only to be blasted five meters back by a sudden gust of frigid air.

  Ivyl lowered her staff and ran to Aeron’s side. "We're being overrun! We have to leave, now!"

  "But the merchants!" Aeron protested. "The guards have already fallen. If we leave, they're dead!"

  "Are you insane?" Ivyl barked. "If professional soldiers couldn't stop them, what can the two of us do?"

  "But you’re a powerful mage!"

  "I’m a mage, not a god!" Ivyl snapped. "I can handle a few, but a horde this size will drain my mana in minutes. And you know what happens then!" She grabbed his sleeve, her eyes desperate. "Stop thinking, Aeron! Run! Do you want to save your Princess or die in the sand?"

  Aeron hissed through his teeth, turned, and ran with her toward the horses. He wheeled his horse beside hers and then delivered a stinging slap to the flank of her white mare.

  "Go, Ivyl! I'll catch up!"

  The mare bolted, carrying the protesting sorceress out of the city gates. Arrows whistled past her, forcing her to keep riding, leaving Aeron behind in the burning ruins.

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  Clang! Aeron parried a blade and drove his elbow into a raider's throat, freeing a cowering merchant. A massive man nearby, wielding a greataxe, spotted him and roared, bringing the heavy weapon down in a vertical arc.

  Aeron gritted his teeth and braced for the impact. Fortunately, the Tuckerham blade was forged of superior steel; it did not shatter. The blow forced Aeron to his knees, the weight of the axe nearly crushing his collarbone.

  Insulted that a boy had survived his strike, the bearded raider delivered a brutal kick to Aeron’s chest. Aeron flew backward, sliding across the cold sand. As he scrambled to reach his sword, the axe swung down again. Aeron rolled desperately, the blade burying itself in the ground where his head had been a second before.

  Aeron lunged, his sword grazing the giant’s flank, but the man didn't even flinch. He yanked his axe free and, with a cruel laugh, swung the flat of the blade into Aeron’s jaw.

  Blood sprayed from Aeron’s lip as he collapsed. He stared in disbelief; he had never met a man whose raw strength surpassed his own Signer-enhanced power.

  "You should have stayed abed, pup," the raider spat. He let out a war cry in a desert tongue and charged.

  Aeron, acting on pure instinct, grabbed a half-burnt log from the campfire and hurled it. The raider swatted the ember aside and raised his axe with both hands for the killing blow.

  Aeron instinctively closed his palms together, as if to catch the falling blade. For a heartbeat, he felt nothing but emptiness. Then, a piercing shriek, like the howl of a wolf mixed with the cry of a banshee, tore through the air.

  Aeron’s hands never touched the steel. Between his palms, a radiant golden light erupted—filaments of shimmering energy interlaced like a spiderweb, wrapping around the axe head and locking it in place. The raider groaned, his muscles bulging and sweat pouring down his face as he tried to push the axe through the light. The steel didn't move an inch.

  Aeron felt a sudden, profound sense of peace. He didn't realize that on his shoulder, the Signer mark was glowing with a blinding intensity. Energy pulsed between his hands, releasing a warm golden mist that soothed the bruises on his face.

  Smiling, Aeron flicked his wrists forward. The axe was ripped from the raider's hands, hurtling into the night sky before thudding into a distant sand dune. The raider fell to his knees, his predatory eyes replaced by the hollow gaze of the defeated.

  "Are you... a sorcerer?" he stammered.

  "No," Aeron said, his voice echoing with a new power. "I am a Signer."

  Thwack. A sudden flash of fire exploded in Aeron’s vision, followed by total darkness. Someone had struck him from behind with a heavy club.

  The blistering heat of the morning sun and the grit of the wind woke Aeron the next day. He found himself in a large wooden cage, his limbs shackled to heavy iron frames. He wasn't alone.

  "You're finally awake," said Hagoth Duffin, the caravan leader.

  Aeron squinted, looking at the bald, sun-darkened merchant sitting across from him. "We've been taken, haven't we?"

  Hagoth nodded toward the south. "The goods and the others are being sent to their dens in Waggon—slave traders and black markets. But you and I? We're being taken to the Tar’Muffin border. We're high-value hostages."

  "Why me?" Aeron croaked through cracked lips. "You have a fortune to trade for your life. Who would pay for me?"

  "No one would pay to save you," Hagoth replied with a dry chuckle. "But there are plenty in the Empire who would pay to kill you. Your face is on every bounty board in Lorencine. And the Council of Mages? They’d pay anything to snuff out a Signer." Hagoth smirked. "I’ve traveled with you these past days and never suspected... but I am curious about one thing."

  Aeron tried to look around, but the wooden stocks holding his neck prevented him. "There must be a hundred men guarding us," Aeron noted. "Why do you care about curiosity when we’re dead men walking?"

  "You're blunter than I expected, Aeron," Hagoth said. "What I’m curious about is that power you showed last night. You stopped an axe with your bare hands. Why can't you just break this cage?"

  "If I could do it again, you wouldn't be asking me that," Aeron sneered. "My power is unstable. I don't even know what that spell was."

  "Interesting," Hagoth whispered, his voice dropping so low only Aeron could hear. "I have a proposition for you. A wager. If these bandits fall into Imperial hands, they’re finished. All they care about is the gold our heads will bring. My life is worth a third of my fortune. If you agree to my terms, I will use the other two-thirds to buy your freedom along with mine."

  "Why save me?" Aeron asked, suspicious. "What’s the catch?"

  "Simple. You will help me make back that money a hundred times over," Hagoth said. "Don't look so surprised. You are a Signer! Men are already whispering your name in taverns—even in Lorencine. You are the spark of a fire simmering across Crestorim. With my backing and your name, we can rally the thousands of other Signers hiding in the shadows."

  "You aren't afraid of losing your head for saying that?" Aeron was stunned by the merchant's audacity.

  "Life itself is a wager, Aeron!" Hagoth replied. "We all have a grudge against the Mages. My father was hanged when I was your age for smuggling medicinal powder to a plague-stricken village. I’ve carried that hatred my whole life. You are the change the future needs. Let me help you return the Signers to the throne they held millennia ago!"

  "Tempting," Aeron said coldly. "But honestly? I just want to finish one task and then disappear for the rest of my life. Your ambition is too large for me."

  "Think carefully," Hagoth urged. "Without me, the next people who pay for you will be your executioners. As a Signer, you lost the right to 'disappear' the moment you were marked. Fate didn't put us in this cage together by accident. You were born to break the Empire."

  Aeron didn't answer. He stared out at the white dunes. Hagoth wasn't wrong, but his path led to a world on fire—to wars that would leave countless mothers weeping. That wasn't the life Aeron wanted.

  "I will get out of here soon, Master Hagoth," Aeron said, a small smile playing on his lips.

  "So you accept my help?" Hagoth asked hopefully.

  "No," Aeron shook his head. "I don't know how yet, but I will escape. You were right about fate, but perhaps it put me here to test my resolve, not to tempt me into a new war."

  Hagoth stared at the young man, speechless. There was something in Aeron’s blue eyes—a light as bright as the desert sun—that pushed back the merchant’s cynical shadows.

  "I won't start a war for someone’s profit," Aeron said firmly. "I won't tarnish the name of Teh’Bvera—my order—Hagoth. I was a knight before I was a Signer. I swore to live and die with honor." He blew a stray hair from his forehead and continued, "If a war comes with my name on it, it will be a war to protect the innocent, not to destroy a throne."

  Hagoth Duffin looked at the sixteen-year-old knight with newfound respect. He saw the flicker of his own youthful dreams in those eyes.

  "I will save you, Aeron," Hagoth said sincerely. "Not for what you can do for me, but for what you might do for the people of this continent. I believe in you."

  Far off, hidden by the high dunes, a sorceress on a white horse watched the slave caravan with patient, narrowing eyes.