The caravan continued its journey through the Highlands, now flanked and led by Cairine and her group. The Highlanders moved with a grace and fluidity that spoke of generations spent mastering these rugged lands. Their steps were silent, their formations instinctive, and the way they communicated—often with just a glance or a subtle hand signal—reminded Merlin of a wolf pack on the hunt.
Merlin, for his part, watched them intently, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. He observed how they used the terrain to their advantage, how they blended into their surroundings even when in plain sight, and how their movements were in harmony with the ambient mana of the Highlands. It wasn't just skill—it was a deep connection to their homeland, one Merlin found both fascinating and humbling.
He kept his questions to himself at first, preferring to observe and learn without interrupting. Yet, when something puzzled him or sparked genuine curiosity, he didn't hesitate to ask. Cairine seemed to respect this approach, and while she was guarded in her responses, she didn't dismiss him.
"Captain," Merlin asked one afternoon as the caravan crested a hill overlooking a deep valley, "your warriors move as though the mana of the land itself guides them. Is this a skill passed down through training, or is it something inherent to Highlanders?"
Cairine glanced at him, her expression unreadable. After a moment, she spoke. "Both. We train for years to read the land, to feel its rhythms. But the mana here… it's part of us, as much as the blood in our veins. The Highlands shape their people, Disciple Merlin, just as surely as we shape the Highlands."
Merlin nodded thoughtfully, storing the information away. "And the signals your group uses to communicate? They're almost… instinctive. Is that something anyone can learn, or is it specific to your clan?"
This question seemed to amuse her. A faint smile tugged at her lips. "It's specific to those who earn their place in the clan's guard. But learning it? Aye, anyone with patience and sharp eyes could pick it up—if they're willing to put in the effort."
Merlin returned her smile, understanding the unspoken challenge. He didn't press further, letting the silence between them settle as he continued to observe.
As days passed, Merlin's questions became more pointed but always respectful. He asked about the narrow passes they navigated, the flora and fauna unique to the region, and even the peculiarities of Highlander combat techniques. Each answer added to his growing understanding of the Highlanders and their ways, deepening his appreciation for their culture.
Though Cairine kept most clan secrets close to her chest, her responses revealed a begrudging respect for the young mage who clearly wasn't just idly curious but genuinely interested in learning. By the time they reached the foothills of the Western Highlands, Merlin had pieced together an intricate mosaic of Highlander survival, culture, and tactics—knowledge that he knew would serve him well in the future.
As the caravan continued its trek, Merlin couldn't help but analyze the Highlander warriors through the lens of Myrddin's memories. In those ancient recollections, the Highlanders were always depicted as formidable warriors, their prowess in combat matched only by their unyielding spirit. Yet, they were rarely renowned for producing mages. Watching Cairine's group now, Merlin could see the truth of it.
Almost all twelve Highlanders were Augmenters, their strength and speed enhanced by mana channeled through their bodies. Their techniques emphasized raw physicality, precision, and synergy with the rugged terrain. Merlin noted their preference for short bursts of mana to fuel devastating strikes or swift maneuvers. The efficiency of their movements left no wasted energy, no flair—only brutal effectiveness honed through years of practice.
Cairine herself embodied this efficiency. Her longsword was a blur when she practiced, each swing imbued with mana that enhanced its cutting power but didn't waste a drop of her reserves. Her strikes carried the weight of experience, and Merlin could see why she commanded such respect.
Merlin thought back to Myrddin's memories of Highlander battles. In every account, the Highlanders had overwhelmed their foes with sheer tenacity and skill, compensating for their lack of mages with cunning and teamwork. While they lacked numbers in spellcasters, their Augmenters were second to none.
It was clear to Merlin that the Highlanders didn't view mana as a tool for shaping the world like mages did; instead, they saw it as a means to enhance their natural abilities and conquer their environment. It was a philosophy that fascinated Merlin, particularly given his own experiences blending body refinement with spellcasting.
As he observed the group more closely, a question lingered in his mind. Why so few mages?
He decided to broach the subject one evening as the caravan made camp. Cairine and her warriors were gathered near a fire, sharpening their weapons and discussing the next leg of the journey. Merlin approached cautiously, waiting for a lull in their conversation before speaking.
"Captain Cairine," he began, addressing her formally. "I've been observing your warriors and their techniques. It's clear that the Highlanders excel as Augmenters, but I've noticed that mages seem less common among your people. Is there a reason for that?"
The group fell silent, their sharp eyes turning toward Merlin. Cairine studied him for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "It's no secret," she finally said. "The Highlands don't favor mages. The mana here—it's wild, untamed. It's not like the cultivated mana you're used to in the Lowlands or the Central Plains. It resists control, and only the strongest-willed mages can handle it without burning themselves out."
Another warrior, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, chimed in. "And besides, mages sit in towers and read books. Highlanders don't have time for that." His tone was teasing, but there was a hint of truth beneath it.
Cairine gave the man a sharp look before continuing. "We focus on what we're best at. Augmentation works with the land, not against it. Those few among us who have the gift for magic usually leave for the Lowlands to train. Most don't return."
Merlin nodded, the answer aligning with what he'd gleaned from Myrddin's memories. "That explains why your warriors are so disciplined in mana use. You've honed a skillset that complements your environment."
Cairine's lips quirked into a small smile. "Aye, Disciple. We may not have many mages, but we don't need them to protect what's ours."
Merlin smiled back, impressed. The Highlanders had carved their own path, one that respected their land and traditions. It was a lesson Merlin tucked away, one that he knew would shape his understanding of mana and its many uses.
Cairine leaned back against a boulder, her sharp eyes glinting in the firelight as she regarded Merlin. The warriors around her resumed their tasks, but their ears were clearly still tuned to the conversation. She smirked slightly, as though deciding whether to share something significant. Then, with a deliberate tone, she spoke, her words carrying a weight Merlin hadn't anticipated.
"There's a story," Cairine began, "that only those born to these lands truly know. It's an open secret, passed down among Highlanders and those Disciples who've stayed long enough to earn our trust."
Merlin tilted his head, intrigued. "What story?"
Cairine's expression grew somber as she continued. "The Dawnsedge Sword Sect—the most famous sect of Augmenters in the empire—was founded by a Highlander. The First Augmenter, the man who shaped the very art you see in every warrior trained in augmentation, was born in the Western Highlands."
Merlin's eyes widened. This revelation shook the foundational understanding of the sect he had grown up admiring. The Dawnsedge Sword Sect was legendary, its teachings revered across the continent. That its founder hailed from these rugged lands was a fact conspicuously absent from its official histories.
"But," Cairine added, her voice dipping, "he didn't found the sect here. He left in his youth, after his entire clan was destroyed."
The crackling fire filled the silence as Merlin digested this revelation. "Destroyed?" he echoed.
"Aye," Cairine nodded. "Long before the Highlands were united, they were warring lands. His clan—one of the strongest in these mountains—was betrayed by another, their warriors ambushed, their villages razed. The boy, barely more than a child, survived only because he was hidden in a mountain cave by his mother. He watched his home burn from a distance."
Merlin felt a pang of sympathy. "And he left after that?"
Cairine nodded again, her gaze distant. "With nothing left, he wandered south. His talent for mana and augmentation caught the attention of a traveling swordsman. The rest is history. He became the First Augmenter, a master beyond compare, and founded the Dawnsedge Sword Sect to pass on his teachings. But he never returned to the Highlands."
"Why not?" Merlin asked.
Cairine's gaze sharpened as she met his eyes. "Because some wounds don't heal, Disciple. Not even with time."
The firelight flickered as her words hung in the air. Merlin pondered the story, the weight of legacy and loss behind it. It gave him new insight into the Highlanders' resilience and pride. The First Augmenter's absence from his homeland was a wound they carried, one that explained their fierce independence and quiet disdain for outsiders.
"Does the Dawnsedge Sect acknowledge this?" Merlin asked.
Cairine let out a low chuckle. "In their halls, they'll call it a myth. But every Highlander knows the truth. His blood runs through these lands, even if he does not."
Merlin nodded, filing the story away. It was more than just a tale—it was a reminder of how deeply the past could shape the present, and how much history was written not in records, but in the hearts of the people who lived it.