I am Ren Drakemore, age 9, the 2nd Prince of the Kingdom of Arcadia, and I am on a journey to the Kingdom of Hyperion.

"Fire Bolt!" Maribel intones, sending a narrow jet of flame three meters out from her outstretched right hand. She sits at the rear of the wagon, legs dangling over the edge, facing backwards down the road.

"Yeah, almost had it…" she mutters, seemingly responding to something Envy has said in her head. Her brow furrows in deep concentration as she prepares for what must be her hundredth attempt.

She clutches her mask tightly to her chest with her left arm, aiming her right palm back along the road.

"Fire Bolt!" she shouts, louder this time. A blazing, spear-like bolt of flame materializes before her hand and rockets off, not quite in the direction she was aiming. We watch in stunned silence as the firebolt tears through the air like a comet, veering left and slamming into the trunk of a massive oak tree lining the road.

With a deafening explosion, wooden shrapnel bursts in every direction. The ancient tree—trunk nearly blasted through—sways, creaks, and then begins to fall in slow motion, crashing through its neighbors with thunderous snaps and splinters before slamming into the forest floor with a ground-shaking boom.

Buttercup and Huckleberry whinny and jump in alarm, the wagon rocking from the impact's distant tremor. I could swear Huckleberry even casts a particularly judgmental glance over her shoulder at us.

"We did it!" Maribel squeals, rolling onto her back, kicking her legs in the air, and hugging the mask with giddy excitement. She leaps up and pumps her fist. "I can't believe it!"

Holding the mask aloft, she grins. "Thank you, Envy!" A beat passes, then she adds, "No way! I've tried to learn fire spells for years and never even came close—it's because you're such a great teacher!"

I sigh as a splintered piece of wood—blasted skyward during Maribel's last spell—zips past my face on its return journey to Gaia. It clatters off the side of the wagon with a sharp thud, barely audible over Maribel's revelry.

"Nice power, but… was that actually what you were aiming at?" I ask skeptically as bits of bark and debris continue to rain down around us.

"Well, no," Maribel admits, completely unfazed. "But I was aiming at a tree, so I was close."

"That's not how 'close' works," I mutter under my breath—but the comment is lost on her, far too giddy with her success to notice.

She and Envy haven't stopped chatting or experimenting with their new powers for the entirety of the three-hour wagon ride.

The morning already started poorly—with the migraine-inducing surge of Maribel's memories forced into my brain like iron nails pounded one after another. But I've had no chance to recover. Every time I think there might be a moment of quiet, Maribel says something out loud, responding to a comment from Envy that the rest of us can't hear.

She's still learning how to keep her side of the conversation in her head, so we've all been subjected to a one-sided dialogue.

"That tree was over five hundred years old," Willow remarks dryly, one elegant brow arched. "But congratulations on mastering a rank-one fire spell."

Maribel freezes mid-victory dance, then shoots Willow a sharp glare.

"Oh, I'm so sorry—were you friends?" she retorts with a theatrical eye-roll before flopping back down and returning to her cheerful banter with Envy.

Despite the lingering headache, I can't help but feel a faint sense of satisfaction. I hadn't expected Shadow to give her the mask so soon, but clearly, whatever they talked about last night must have nudged her into the perfect mindset. It's a big step—one that's been a long time coming. Shadow played his part well.

"Or, what if we combine them?" Maribel says suddenly, excitement lighting up her voice. She wedges the mask between her thighs to free her hands, then stretches both arms forward in concentration.

Two small portals of swirling black void appear—one in front of her and one directly above. She grins, focused. "Fire Bolt!"

The flaming projectile erupts from her palm and vanishes into the forward portal—only to reappear instantly from the one above, arcing skyward in a blazing streak.

I lean back and shade my eyes, watching with a smile as the firebolt rockets into the sky and vanishes in the upper atmosphere.

"Did you see that?!" Maribel cheers, pumping her fist.

"Impressive," Shadow remarks calmly.

"That could be very useful," I add, genuinely impressed.

Maribel beams at us, clearly pleased to have our praise. Not only has the mask granted her access to spells she once struggled to master, but the additional mana stored within it allows her to make far better use of her demanding spatial magic.

"Okay, I'll take a break from slinging spells," she says, flopping onto her back across the crates of potions. Holding the mask aloft with both hands, she stares up at it like a giddy girl chatting with her best friend. "Now tell me more about you."

Watching her like this—so full of energy, confidence, and joy—I feel something warm settle in my chest. She's bonded with the mask faster and more naturally than I'd hoped. She's happy, and that makes me happy. The gift was a success.

From the moment we discovered her natural affinity for spatial magic, I knew I had to find a way to harness it. That's why I instructed Shadow to stay close, protect her, and earn her trust.

Spatial magic is among the most powerful and versatile schools of spellcraft. It allows teleportation, portal creation, and even gravity wells strong enough to crush entire cities. But that power comes with risk. The discipline is notoriously unstable—miscasting even a simple spell can be fatal. Most mages won't go near it without a rare aptitude like hers.

I, unfortunately, don't possess that aptitude.

So I pursued another path: to learn spatial magic not through practice, but by inheriting the memories of someone who did.

Memory transference through magic is possible. I knew that much. But I needed time to develop a working method and a strategy for using it. Eventually, I refined a variation of my soul transfer spell—one enhanced with telepathic functions strong enough to draw out and imprint magical knowledge from another person.

The final piece was acquiring mithril. Its ability to store vast mana reserves made it the perfect vessel. With it, I could enchant something as small as a mask with the same energy I was able to store in Shadow's old steel body. No other material could hold such mana in such a compact form.

"We're approaching the border checkpoint," Shadow announces, pulling me from my thoughts.

Maribel perks up and quickly tucks her mask into her bag.

Far ahead, a stone wall rises between the trees, with a reinforced metal gate spanning the road. The fortification stretches maybe fifty meters in either direction before being swallowed by the dense undergrowth of the Erwin forest. I suppose someone on foot might be able to slip around it, though the twisting roots and thick foliage would make that a miserable endeavor—certainly no wagon would make it through.

I cast Far Sight to get a better look.

Atop the battlements, I spot several Arcadian mages clad in blue and white military uniforms, their eyes fixed on us with wary intensity. They stand alongside soldiers in light plate and chain, each manning defensive positions spaced evenly along the wall.

The wall itself bears the unmistakable scars of long-standing conflict. Deep, jagged gouges—clawed into the stone in parallel sets—stretch nearly to the parapets, evidence of countless savage things that have tried to scale these defenses. Judging by the weathering, this battle against the beasts of the forest has raged for years. Moss creeps up the base, and ivy winds its way through cracks and mortar, as if the forest itself is slowly trying to reclaim what was once its own.

As we near the gate, the road grows rougher—our wheels jolt against cracked and broken stone where sections have been blasted away. Small blackened craters pock the path, signs of past battles or magical detonations. The edges of the road are littered with the bones of monstrous beasts, some long bleached by the sun, others more recent and half-rotted. The sour stench of decay clings to the air, thick and offensive, as buzzing insects feast on the carnage.

Shadow brings the wagon to a halt before the massive gate, and all our eyes drift up expectantly towards the guards standing watch atop the wall.

"What's your business here?" a voice calls from above.

"I am a merchant, bringing wares to market in Hyperion," Willow replies confidently, her voice poised and authoritative as she gestures toward our wagon's load.

"Just you four? Alone?" the guard shouts back, leaning over the wall and scanning the empty road behind us. His tone carries doubt. I can't blame him. A single wagon crossing through the Forest of Erwin without guard or caravan must seem suspicious—or suicidal.

"Yes, just the four of us," Willow calls back.

The guard steps away from the parapet without another word. A moment of silence follows, and I find myself staring up at the portcullis, mentally willing it to rise.

What's taking so long?

We still have a long road ahead, and I'd much rather be out of this forest before sundown. The sun is already slipping low, casting the sky in amber hues—this is no time for delays.

Finally, with a deep rumble and the clatter of heavy chains above, the iron gate jerks to life. It shudders, then slowly begins its ascent. The grinding echoes off the walls as it climbs, before slamming into place four meters overhead with a metallic clang that rings through the air like a gong.

Beyond the threshold, the road continues through the interior courtyard of the small fort—no more than a hundred meters across. Lining both sides of the road, rows of guardsmen stand at the ready, waiting for our entrance.

A flick of the reins from Shadow, a groan of protest from Huckleberry, and the wagon lurches back into motion. Our horses have been slower to start with every stop—clearly tired from hauling both Shadow's considerable weight and our cargo.

Looks like they could use a break too…

As we trundle past the row of Arcadian guards, I take note of their pristine condition. Despite the signs of past battles etched into the walls, the men themselves look clean, well-fed, and uninjured. Their mithril armor gleams, and their weapons are spotless—polished to a shine.

For a place that's seemingly very hostile to live in, they all look suspiciously well-rested.

Then again, maybe the attacks aren't that frequent, leaving them plenty of time to polish their swords.

Looking around, I take in the interior of the fort. Four two-story stone buildings with terracotta-tiled roofs anchor each corner of the tall outer walls, enclosing a central courtyard bathed in warm, magical light. Luminous crystals set into brass brackets line the stonework, casting a steady glow over the area.

At least twenty men surround us now, with more stationed along the battlements above. From one of the buildings, I hear voices echoing—laughter and the clatter of dishes. A glance through a ground-floor window reveals several soldiers seated at long tables, eating supper in what appears to be a dining hall.

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The remaining buildings are likely a mix of barracks and storage. Based on the number of guards present and the scale of the structure, I estimate this outpost houses at least fifty to sixty men—roughly one in five of them a mage.

My assessment is cut short by a sharp command.

"Halt!" barks a guard, stepping forward, looking every bit as surly as he sounds. He glowers at our wagon as it creaks to a stop before him. His helmet bears a blue-plumed crest running down the center—fancier than the others—marking him as the one in charge. In his ungloved hand, he holds a half-eaten sandwich filled with some unidentifiable meat, suggesting he may have just recently been among those in the dining hall.

He takes another bite, chewing slowly as his eyes scan each of us in turn, like he's weighing a complex problem. After a long moment, he turns to Willow and, with a note of thinly veiled irritation, asks again, "So what's your business here?"

Willow raises a brow and answers politely, "As I said, I am a merchant bringing wares to market—"

"Right, I heard that load of manure the first time," he cuts her off, scowling. "I don't buy it for a second. I'd sooner eat my own helmet than let you pass without verifying who you really are."

"That would be impressive," Willow replies with a pleasant smile.

"You four are clearly suspicious," the guard continues, undeterred.

He gestures toward Shadow with his sandwich. "We've got the big guy in a mask."

Then to Maribel. "One clearly dressed like a thief."

Maribel's expression shifts from wary to openly irritated.

"Then there's a child..." He points at me.

"And finally, you," he says, turning back to Willow. "No offense, m'lady, but you don't look like any merchant I've ever met. Frankly, you look like you haven't seen the sun in years."

"What exactly are you accusing us of?" Maribel cuts in before Willow can respond.

Willow, Shadow, and I all turn to her with visible concern. The three of us know her temper—and her lack of tact. She has the potential to make this situation much worse.

"You might be criminals," says the guard with the plumed helmet, giving a casual shrug as if the thought were self-evident.

"And it's your job to protect the country from criminals, right?" Maribel presses.

"Exactly. Which is why we're detaining you," he says, gesturing to his men. Several guards break formation and begin closing in around the wagon.

"We aren't criminals. And you have no evidence to support that claim—just that we look suspicious?" I add, the heat rising in my neck.

"We may not have evidence yet," the officer replies coolly, "but we can contact the capital, see if there are any wanted criminals matching your descriptions."

His men fully encircle us now, hands hovering near weapons.

"Then wouldn't it make more sense to let us leave the country?" Maribel challenges, her voice sharp. "If you think we might be criminals, shouldn't you be trying to keep us out, not trap us inside?"

She clenches her fist. "Letting us pass means we are no longer your problem—you can get back to your dinner." The officer briefly glances at his partially eaten sandwich at her words. "But if you detain us, you'll be stuck housing and feeding four guests until the capital finally tells you we're innocent. That's a lot of wasted time, effort, and resources—for a hunch."

The officer narrows his eyes at her, clearly unimpressed by her logic. With a sigh, he removes his helmet and takes another bite of his half-eaten supper, chewing slowly as if to show just how little he's moved by our words.

That calm, almost dismissive gesture sends a clear message—this is only going to get worse.

The situation is escalating fast—and in the worst direction.

Silently, I prepare to cast a barrier, my fingers twitching toward my sword. I don't want to fight these men. They're probably just doing their jobs. But if we let them disarm and bind us, we're finished. That would be the perfect opportunity for one of my father's agents to strike.

But the real danger isn't what I might have to do. It's what Willow will do.

She won't let them take us. If it comes down to it, she'll wipe out this entire outpost. And I don't want that.

I don't want to kill Arcadian soldiers. It also wouldn't help my future claim to the thrown if I were responsible for massacring my countrymen.

"Good sir knight," Willow finally chimes in, her tone serene—far calmer than the situation seems to warrant. She offers a graceful smile, her posture relaxed and regal.

The officer turns back to her with a sigh, the kind of sigh that suggests he's already decided what he's going to do and is merely humoring her with one last shred of patience. "What?"

As his gaze meets Willow's, something subtle shifts. Both his hazel eyes and her brilliant blue ones briefly shimmer with a faint swirl of magical light. It's barely perceptible—so soft and fleeting that only a mage with refined perception might notice it at all. And even then, only if they were watching at just the right moment. Most would likely assume they imagined it.

Following the subtle sign of Willow's enchantment, the officer's expression softens. His eyes lose focus, drifting blankly as though staring through the world rather than at it. The sharp suspicion that once tensed his features melts away entirely. His arms go slack, and the half-eaten sandwich slips from his fingers, falling to pieces as it hits the ground.

"There's no reason to keep us, is there? Surely you can let us be on our way," Willow coos, her voice laced with a sweetness so unnaturally pleasant it borders on toxic. If you know she's fae, then you understand what that tone truly is. A dangerous and insidious magic wrapped in velvet words, designed to unravel minds

The entranced officer speaks without shifting his gaze or tone. "There is no reason to keep these good people. Let them be on their way."

His voice is flat, detached, and entirely without the conviction of conscious thought.

The surrounding guards exchange puzzled glances, hesitating for a moment. But then, obediently, they back away from the wagon and return to their previous positions.

Maribel and I both exhale a sigh of relief as the gate ahead groans to life. The iron portcullis rattles upward, the gears clanking overhead. Just beyond it, I catch sight of the enchanted officer—now methodically plucking the blue plume from his own helmet, his expression vacant and glassy.

The guards behind him exchange baffled glances, unsure whether to intervene or pretend it's not happening.

By the time our wagon lurches forward, he's stripped the helmet bare. As we pass through the gate and out into the road beyond, I glance back just in time to see him stuff one of the feathers into his mouth and begin chewing.

"Is he going to be… okay?" I ask, watching as two of his comrades attempt—with a mix of concern and hesitation—to stop him from force-feeding himself more feathers. The gate descends behind us with a loud clang, cutting off the bizarre scene from view.

I look to Willow, hoping for some kind of explanation. She simply offers a serene shrug, as if she has no idea what I'm referring to.

"What the heck was all that?" Maribel demands, eyes wide.

"Maribel, dear," Willow replies sweetly, "Please leave the negotiating to me." The silent implication being that Willow doesn't think Maribel is that good at convincing people.

Maribel looks like she's about to argue, but after a moment—likely due to a quiet word from Envy—she simply huffs, shoots Willow a scowl, and turns away with dramatic flair.

We continue down the road for another mile before coming to a second outpost—this one on the Hyperion side. Along the way, we pass a large stone marker set beside the road, etched with the sigils that mark the official border between Arcadia and Hyperion.

As we travel further, the forest begins to change. The trees grow more sparse, and the undergrowth thins noticeably. By the time we reach the Hyperion checkpoint, the sun has nearly set. Only the faintest traces of its light remain, clinging to the horizon like a dying ember.

The Hyperion fort, like the last, is a tall stone structure that spans the road and extends a fair distance into the forest on both sides. Signs of ongoing struggle against the forest's monstrous inhabitants are evident—scorched and cratered ground, shattered trees, and copious amounts of dried blood staining the earth. However, unlike the previous outpost, there are no rotting bodies to be seen.

Along the parapets, gas lamps are mounted in brass brackets, each fitted with polished mirrors to focus and direct the light. As we approach, beams from the lamps rotate toward us, tracking our movement. The guards manipulate the swivel-mounted brackets to keep us illuminated.

At regular intervals along the top of the wall are large metal cylinders—devices unfamiliar to me. They rotate slowly to face our wagon as we roll to a stop at the gate's base.

Then comes the familiar question, one that brings with it a twinge of apprehension.

"What is your business here, travelers?" a guard calls down from above.

"I am a merchant bringing my wares to market in Hyperion," Willow replies smoothly.

"What kind of wares?" the guard calls back.

The question strikes me as oddly specific. I'm not sure why it would matter.

"Healing potions," Willow replies crisply.

There's no further inquiry. The gate begins to open immediately after she speaks. Unlike the Arcadian gates, this one groans and shudders as it rises—its motion halting and uneven, lifting in jerky increments as if powered by a manual crank hauling an exceptionally heavy pulley system.

As the gate creaks open, a group of men in unfamiliar uniforms comes into view. They aren't arranged in any sort of formation, nor do they eye us with suspicion. Instead, they watch our approach with something that almost looks like hope.

My eyes are drawn to the shocking condition of the fort as we pass through the gate. The buildings along the interior wall appear to have once been sturdy stone structures, but they've long since crumbled into disrepair. Now, they stand only thanks to crude patchwork—wood, stones, and clay clearly sourced from the surrounding forest. Instead of a proper kitchen, I notice a large, dormant firepit fitted with bellows and a rusted iron grate, likely used for cooking. Not far from it lies the carcass of a mountain wolf, long since stripped of its meat. That explains why there were no corpses outside the walls—they've been eating the monsters they kill.

Shadow guides the wagon forward and brings it to a stop before the eight figures standing near the road in the center of the courtyard.

Their appearance is... baffling.

They're a diverse mix of races—something I hadn't expected at all. Among them stands a stout dwarf with an intricately braided beard, a slender foxkin with rust-colored fur, and a tall elf with emerald green eyes. Two of them are races I don't even recognize: one resembles a humanoid eagle, which I believe is called an Aarakocra, and another has curling ram-like horns, dark red skin, and piercing amber eyes.

Yet all of them wear the same uniform: dark green tunics and trousers, paired with brown leather armor. The only metal pieces are the simple cuirasses covering their torsos and the conical helmets on their heads. Each has black chevrons stitched onto their sleeves in varying numbers.

I glance around at the rest of the fort's defenders stationed along the walls and see the same thing: a blend of different non-human races. This is nothing like Arcadia, where non-humans are barred from military service entirely. The contrast is striking.

Their weapons are just as unusual—narrow-bladed swords hang at their sides, alongside strange wooden-handled devices embedded with short, cylindrical pieces of metal. At first glance, their gear resembles that of lightly armored battlefield mages.

But my magical senses tell a different story. Not one of these men possesses even a fraction of the mana capacity required to be a mage. What's more, none of them carry staves, wands, or rings set with focus crystals—the standard equipment for any military spellcaster.

"May I see your merchant license?" one of the human guards asks, stepping forward. He seems young, and the helmet he wears is no fancier than the others. However, there are four stitched chevron-like markings on the sleeve of his uniform. I don't know what they mean, but perhaps they signify some kind of authority.

As he examines it, I take a closer look at him—and at the others. They all appear underfed, with hollow cheeks and the sluggish movements of men pushing through fatigue. Bandages cover the dwarf's left forearm, stained faintly with dried blood beneath his rolled-up sleeve. The foxkin winces subtly as he shifts his weight, revealing a wrap tightly coiled around his right calf. The Aarakocra's wing-joint is bound in cloth and leather strapping, likely splinting a strain or fracture. The elf has a linen wrap peeking from beneath his cuirass at the collarbone. If these are the men deemed fit for duty, I can only imagine the state of Hyperion's forces beyond this outpost.

The ram horned guard approaches the wagon and lifts the lid of a crates. He peers inside, rummages for a moment, then holds up a potion bottle for the ranking guard to see. The officer gives a nod, and the potion—not so subtly—is not returned to the crate.

The guard hands Willow her card back. "I presume these three are under your employ?" he asks as she replaces it in her bag.

"Yes," Willow replies calmly. "These two are adventurers I hired for protection," she says, gesturing to Shadow and Maribel. "And the boy is my—" she pauses, "—my ward. He travels with me."

"You four are free to enter," the guard says, though his voice carries a hint of discomfort. "But unfortunately, I'm going to have to confiscate your potions," he adds, almost apologetically.

"What?" Maribel snaps, leaping to her feet and pulling her mask from her bag. Her other hand hovers near her dagger.

"I wasn't aware the Hyperion army had sunk so low as to resort to banditry," Willow says coldly, though she raises a hand to keep any weapons from being drawn.

"Remain calm," Envy interjects telepathically to all of us. "We can resolve this in our favor without bloodshed."

I didn't need the warning. I think I already understand what's really happening here. And while I'm confident any one of us could take these soldiers in a fight, violence won't be necessary to turn this situation to our advantage.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the guard replies, voice laden with guilt. "But potions are in critically short supply across the entire kingdom. The King has issued a decree—every shipment is to be collected and redistributed where it's most urgently needed. It's for national security."

His tone isn't threatening—it's desperate. He probably believes he's seizing the livelihood of a traveling merchant, and he hates himself for it. To him, the cause must seem greater than any individual's needs.

But of course, he has no idea this shipment is just a fraction of my true supply. Despite that, I have no intention of handing it over for nothing.

"Look at the state of them," Shadow adds telepathically. "Some of them seem to have been wounded for a while. They probably don't have any healers either."

"Ren," Envy says softly in my mind, "I think it is time for you to stop being the merchant's ward—and start being the prince."

I nod slightly. I was thinking the same thing.

I rise to my feet, standing tall atop a crate and speaking with all the poise and authority I can muster.

"You may not take these potions."

The guards look up at me in surprise.

"I am Ren Drakemore, second prince of Arcadia, and I come to your kingdom as an official envoy. These potions are not for sale—they are the foundation of a diplomatic negotiation between our two nations."

I let that settle for a beat. I gesture to the crates beneath me.

"Seizing these would not just be theft—it would be seen as an act of aggression against Arcadia."

The stunned silence from the Hyperion guards is exactly what I wanted. Eyes widen. Hands retreat from weapons. Even the officer's mouth opens slightly in shock. Good, looks like they're convinced.

"Please forgive me, m'lord!" says the ram horned guard who had taken the healing potion earlier. His voice is full of shame as he holds it out.

Before I can reach for it, Maribel drops to a crouch and snatches it from his hands with a sharp glare—so fierce you'd think she had been the one stolen from.

"We apologize for the inconvenience, Prince Drakemore," adds the officer, offering a deep, respectful bow. Around him, the rest of the guards look dejectedly at the wagon, their expressions making it painfully clear they'd been hoping to keep some of the potions for themselves.

I allow them a moment of silence, then offer a confident, warm smile.

"That said—if your men are in need of healing," I say, hopping down from the wagon in front of them, "I am a trained healer. I'd be happy to cure what ails them... in exchange for an escort to the capital."

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