Cyrus and Layla sat in a shared silence as the Shadowrunner trundled along the uneven dirt roads, the mechanical hum of its wheels blending with the occasional creak of the wooden frame. Outside, the stars began to pierce the dark, purple-tinged sky, their cold light casting a soft glow over the desolate landscape. The stillness inside the wagon was thick, weighed down by the gravity of the journey ahead, and the lingering tension between them.
Layla, fidgeting slightly in her seat, finally broke the silence. "So… you gonna say anything? I still haven't gotten your name." Her voice was soft but carried a note of curiosity, her wide blue eyes watching him with a mix of caution and interest.
Cyrus kept his gaze forward, his thoughts still focused on the mission at hand. After a brief pause, he responded, testing the lie he would have to live. "Cyrus Vale."
She seemed to relax, the tension in the air easing as she leaned back against the seat. "Cyrus Vale, huh? Well, it's nice to meet you, Cyrus Vale. So… are you going to be taking the entrance exam too? I heard it's pretty intense."
There was a brief hesitation before he answered, his voice measured, guarded. "Yes. I'll be taking it. I'm… from Lionsworth." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, careful to keep his tone neutral. "I haven't left the city before. I'm not used to meeting new people."
Layla tilted her head, her eyebrows drawing together in thought. "Lionsworth? Never heard of it. But then again, I haven't been to many places either." She shrugged, dismissing her own ignorance with a smile. "Guess that makes both of us out of our element."
Her lightheartedness was disarming, and though Cyrus felt no inclination to join in, he knew he had to keep up the facade. "I suppose."
Layla's eyes brightened as she turned toward him, her pink hair glowing faintly in the lantern light. "Well, I'm excited about Ebonspire! I've dreamed about going there since I was a kid."
Cyrus nodded vaguely, but the excitement she exuded was foreign to him. He had been raised in darkness, and the bright anticipation of something like a school of magic felt distant. "I've heard it's impressive," he replied, forcing a tone of interest.
"Impressive?" Layla laughed, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "Impressive doesn't even begin to describe it! Ebonspire is legendary. It's the oldest wizarding academy in the world! Founded by Alaric the Wise, the First Archmage. They say he could command all four elements with a flick of his hand, and his statue still stands in the courtyard, right where he built the academy over a thousand years ago."
Cyrus listened intently, though his face remained impassive. Layla's stories, while told with wide-eyed wonder, were rich with the details he would need to blend in. History, reverence—he would have to mimic her awe to fit among the other students.
"And then there's Morgana Shadewing," Layla continued, her voice taking on a hushed tone. "She was one of the academy's first students and became its most legendary teacher. She could control shadows themselves—bend them to her will like they were living things. She created the Veil of Shadows that surrounds the academy. It's said no one has ever breached it."
Cyrus's interest piqued at the mention of Morgana Shadewing, a wielder of shadow magic. It seemed there were pieces of Ebonspire's history that aligned more closely with the Crow's End than he had been led to believe. He filed the information away, calculating how such a legacy might be used to his advantage.
Layla gazed out the window as if she could already see the towering spires of the academy. "And Thalion Stormrider. His laughter still echoes in the Great Hall during thunderstorms, or so they say. He could summon lightning with just a word."
Cyrus forced a nod, though his mind remained focused on the mission. He could sense Layla's boundless enthusiasm, but for him, Ebonspire was not a place of wonder—it was a target, a fortress to be infiltrated, and its secrets were far more valuable than the statues or legends that filled its halls.
Layla shifted in her seat, her voice dropping into a tone of awe. "And then there's Magnus Solis. The Grandmaster himself. Some say he's the most powerful wizard alive today. I can't believe I'm actually going to see him with my own eyes… the thought of being in the same place as someone like him? It's overwhelming."
Cyrus remained silent, his thoughts darkening at the mention of Magnus Solis. The name had come up in his briefings, but hearing Layla speak it with such reverence gave it new weight. Magnus Solis—the man who stood at the heart of Ebonspire, the man he would have to deceive, perhaps even kill, if the mission demanded it. There was no room for awe or admiration where Solis was concerned. To Cyrus, the Grandmaster was simply another obstacle in his path, one that needed to be studied, manipulated, and eventually brought down.
Layla's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "So, what about you? What's your story, Cyrus Vale?"
He turned his gaze toward her, the weight of the question pressing on him. He had been trained for this, to lie without hesitation, to play a role so convincingly that even he would start to believe it. "Not much of a story," he replied evenly. "My family deals in rare artifacts. They sent me to Ebonspire to hone my magic, to learn how to protect our business and expand it."
Layla's eyes widened in fascination. "Rare artifacts? That sounds incredible! You must've seen some amazing things."
Cyrus forced a tight smile, though there was no warmth behind it. "I've seen a few things. But none of that matters now. What matters is passing the entrance exam."
Layla nodded enthusiastically. "Right! The exam's supposed to be a real challenge. Only the best make it through."
Cyrus leaned back, letting her enthusiasm wash over him. His role was set, and the lies he had woven were already taking root. He would need to keep Layla close, perhaps use her to navigate the intricacies of the academy. Her innocence, her eagerness to share, could prove useful.
Layla's chatter filled the dim interior of the Shadowrunner, her voice a bright contrast to the somber atmosphere that clung to the wagon. She talked with wide-eyed enthusiasm about Ebonspire's enchanted libraries, where ancient tomes floated between towering shelves, the words written in forgotten languages. She described the academy's floating towers, suspended in mid-air by magic so old no one knew who first cast the spells. She mentioned the intricate gardens, filled with rare and dangerous plants that grew under the watchful eyes of ancient wards, their shimmering magic barely visible, protecting both students and the plants from each other.
Each word painted a vivid picture of a place steeped in power and history, a place where the very stones seemed to hum with latent magic. But as Layla's words swirled around him, Cyrus's thoughts remained focused on the mission ahead. Every detail was important, every piece of information she unwittingly gave him would serve him later. Yet, there was a fleeting part of him, buried deep beneath layers of darkness, that wondered what it would feel like to see Ebonspire through her eyes, to view it not as a target, but as a place of wonder, as she did.
But those thoughts were dangerous, distractions he couldn't afford. They were quickly smothered by the weight of his purpose.
Layla's voice continued, a gentle backdrop to the cold calculations in his mind, until she paused, the rhythm of her excitement breaking. She turned her attention back to him, her curiosity bubbling to the surface.
"Say, Cyrus," she began, her tone lighter but inquisitive, "is Lionsworth known for its strong wizards?"
Cyrus kept his gaze focused outside the window, the desert now giving way to the distant outline of forests in the far horizon. His voice was steady, his words carefully chosen. "No. It's a city of merchants and farmers."
Layla tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied him, trying to make sense of the puzzle he presented. "Is that so? Then why are you so good at fighting? I mean…" She hesitated, clearly unsure if she should continue, but her curiosity won out. "I've never seen anyone as young as you take on four grown men like that. You must be really strong—I could barely follow your movements."
Cyrus paused, considering his next words carefully. The last thing he needed was for her to grow suspicious. "Maybe it was just the adrenaline," he said, his tone casual but with a calculated undertone. "You know, fight or flight kind of thing."
Layla frowned slightly, clearly trying to reconcile his explanation with what she had seen. Her brow furrowed in thought, but after a few seconds, she nodded, though she didn't look entirely convinced. "Adrenaline, huh?" She sighed lightly. "I suppose that makes sense."
"Whatever it was," she added, her voice taking on a tone of admiration, "you were incredible. Seriously, you saved my life back there. But don't worry— I won't tell anyone about what happened. I get the feeling you'd rather keep things low-key, right?"
Cyrus glanced at her, a flicker of relief crossing his mind as he saw her relax. She wasn't pushing any further, at least for now. "You're right. I prefer to stay out of the spotlight. It's better if we keep this between us."
Layla smiled brightly, her playful nature returning as she leaned back in her seat, seemingly content with the secrecy. "Don't worry, I get it! You're one of those too cool for school types, aren't you?" She giggled softly, her teasing filling the wagon with a brief warmth that cut through the chill of the night outside.
Cyrus didn't respond to the teasing, but a small part of him appreciated her willingness to let the subject drop. In another life, under different circumstances, he might have allowed himself to join in, but that part of him was gone—buried beneath years of training, loss, and the demands of the Crow's End.
Layla fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, her gaze drifting back to the stars flickering in the sky. After a while, she turned to him again, her voice softer now, almost hesitant, as though she was about to reveal something personal.
"So, Cyrus," she began, her voice softer now, as if she was about to share something personal, "I guess since we're going to be spending some time together, you should know a little more about me." She paused, a small smile tugging at her lips. "I'm from a place called Shire Cove. Ever heard of it?"
Cyrus shook his head slightly, keeping his expression neutral but listening intently.
"Didn't think so," Layla continued, her smile widening. "Shire Cove's not exactly well-known outside of certain circles. It's a magical city on an island far to the west. Picture this: beautiful and sunny all year round, white sandy beaches, crystal-clear waters… It's like living in a dream. The entire island is steeped in magic—every tree, every stone, every wave in the ocean carries a touch of it. The air itself feels alive with energy."
As she spoke, her eyes seemed to glow with the memories of her home, the warmth and light of Shire Cove reflected in her words. Cyrus could almost picture it—a place of serene beauty, far removed from the cold, shadowy world he knew.
"My family's one of the royal houses that governs the city," Layla continued, her tone taking on a hint of modest pride.
"We've been there for generations, ruling alongside a few other families, each of us specializing in a different kind of magic. My family, the Wisehearts, have always been masters of ice magic. My great-great-grandmother, Aurora Wiseheart, was the one who brought the ice magic to our family. She's kind of a legend back home—there's a statue of her in the city's main square."
As soon as Layla mentioned her family's status, something clicked in Cyrus's mind. The attack on her earlier—suddenly it all made sense. A royal from a powerful magical family, traveling alone to Ebonspire Academy… She was a prime target for anyone looking to gain leverage or settle old scores. The men who had attacked her must have known who she was, or at least suspected her importance. Perhaps they were hired by a rival family, or even someone with a grudge against the Wisehearts.
Cyrus kept his expression neutral, though his thoughts raced as he pieced it together. Layla had been lucky—if he hadn't intervened, she might have been captured, or worse. The realization brought a subtle shift in his perception of her; she wasn't just a talkative, naive girl on her way to the academy. She was valuable, a target in a world full of shadows and danger.
Layla, oblivious to Cyrus's internal calculations, noticed his intrigued expression and grinned, leaning forward slightly as she continued.
"You want to see something cool?" she asked, not waiting for a response before reaching into her coat. From within its folds, she carefully withdrew a slender wand, its surface shimmering with a pale, frost-like sheen.
The wand was crafted from a delicate white wood that seemed to glimmer with an inner light, and its handle was wrapped in silver filigree, intricate patterns winding around it like swirling snowflakes. At the tip of the wand, a crystal of pure, flawless ice was embedded, its edges catching the light and refracting it into a spectrum of icy blues.
"This is Frostlily," Layla said, her voice filled with affection as she held the wand out for Cyrus to see. "It's been passed down in my family for generations. They say it was crafted by the same ice mage who taught my great-great-grandmother. The wand's pretty special—it's attuned to the cold, so it's perfect for ice magic. I've been practicing with it since I was a kid, and I've gotten pretty good, if I do say so myself."
Cyrus looked at the wand, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied its intricate design. He could feel the faint aura of cold radiating from it, a chill that seemed to cut through the warmth of the wagon. The magic within the wand was potent, and it was clear that Layla had a deep connection to it.
"Impressive," Cyrus said quietly, his tone neutral, though there was a hint of genuine respect in his voice. "Ice magic, you say? I've never seen it up close."
Layla's smile brightened, and with a playful twirl of her wrist, she flicked the wand toward the window. The air around them seemed to shimmer for a moment, and then a delicate flurry of snowflakes began to form in the air, swirling gracefully before settling on the glass. The snowflakes were tiny, perfectly formed, and they sparkled like diamonds in the light of the wagon's interior.
"It's my favorite spell," Layla said, watching the snowflakes with a fond smile. "They're not just pretty—they're also a great way to cool down a hot day back home. But they're also a reminder of where I come from, of the power that flows through my family's blood. Sometimes, when I'm feeling homesick, I'll conjure up a little snow just to remind myself of Shire Cove."
Cyrus watched the snowflakes melt against the window, the fleeting beauty of the ice magic reminding him of the ephemeral nature of so many things. He glanced back at Layla, noting the pride in her voice, the way she spoke of her family and her home with such warmth. It was a stark contrast to his own upbringing—a world of shadows and secrets, where warmth was a fleeting illusion.
But now, with the knowledge of her status, he also recognized the danger she was in—and by extension, the potential danger to himself. Being associated with someone like her could attract unwanted attention, and that was the last thing he needed.
"Shire Cove sounds like a special place," Cyrus said, his voice soft but tinged with a distant tone, weighing the implications of her status in his mind.
"It is," Layla replied, her eyes softening as a wistful smile crossed her lips. "But now, it's all about Ebonspire. I want to prove myself, you know? To make my family proud. Maybe even make a difference in the world, like my ancestors did."
Cyrus gave a small nod, though his thoughts were elsewhere. He had no family to honor, no legacy to uphold. His purpose was singular, driven by the shadows that had shaped his life. But as he watched Layla tuck Frostlily back into her coat with such care, he felt an unfamiliar pang—a faint longing for something he could never have. A life not bound by darkness, where family, heritage, and purpose were clear, not twisted by betrayal and blood.
The Shadowrunner rumbled on through the night, the stars above shining coldly in the endless expanse of sky. Layla's stories of Shire Cove and her aspirations echoed in the quiet, a distant dream in a world filled with shadows. But soon, her voice began to slow, her words trailing off as fatigue caught up with her. Cyrus glanced over and saw that she had slumped against the window, her eyelids fluttering closed.
"Good night… I guess," Cyrus muttered to himself, leaning back into his seat. He rested his head against the cold glass of the window, the soft hum of the wagon lulling him into a rare, uneasy stillness. His eyes closed, and he allowed himself to drift—just for a moment—into the darkness that always waited just beyond the edge of sleep.