The journey to Eldenholm, which would have taken weeks by carriage, was reduced to mere days thanks to Garren's mount, a majestic magical beast known as Stormclaw. The griffon was a sight to behold, its silver-blue feathers shimmering as though woven from threads of lightning, and its leonine body radiating strength.
Michael had never seen anything like it. He had grown up hearing tales of magical beasts, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of riding one.
As Stormclaw launched into the sky with a powerful beat of its wings, Michael's grip tightened on the saddle. The ground fell away, and a gust of wind swept over him, leaving him breathless. He tried to steady himself, but his heart raced with both exhilaration and trepidation.
"You're awfully quiet back there," Garren called over his shoulder. "Don't tell me the soldier who faced down Zeranthians is afraid of heights?"
Michael managed a shaky laugh. "Not heights. Just… this is new."
His mind drifted as the vast landscape unfolded beneath them. The sight stirred a distant memory, one from a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.
When he was a boy, back in the sleepy village of Dawnfield, he had spent countless hours with his best friend, Lira. One warm summer evening, they had sprawled in the grass, gazing at the stars.
"Do you think we'll ever see Eldenholm?" Lira had asked, her voice filled with wonder.
Michael had shrugged, pretending not to care, though he'd often dreamed of it. "Maybe. If we ever leave this place."
"I'd like to see the magic there," Lira had said. "They say the roads glow and the sky is filled with flying beasts."
Now, soaring toward Eldenholm on the back of a griffon, Michael felt a pang of longing. Lira's wonder echoed in his own heart, tempered by the bittersweet knowledge that she would never see what he was seeing now.
As they approached the capital, it emerged from the horizon like a vision from a storybook. Eldenholm was alive, its grandeur defying belief.
The skies were teeming with creatures—griffons, hawks, wyverns, and even a dragonling that glided lazily through the clouds. Its scales caught the sunlight, casting prisms of color over the sprawling city below.
Michael's breath caught as they descended toward the city. The streets were paved with smooth stone that seemed to hum faintly with mana. Carts rolled effortlessly, pulled by creatures he could scarcely name: horses whose hooves glowed like embers, frost-coated oxen, and sleek lizards that darted gracefully through the bustling crowds.
"Eldenholm," Garren said, his voice tinged with both pride and weariness. "The jewel of Verdwryn."
Michael was struck speechless. The capital was more than a city—it was a living, breathing embodiment of magic. Enchanted lights hovered above the streets, casting a soft glow even in daylight. Spellcasters wove their magic openly, lifting goods with telekinetic precision or creating illusions to entertain children.
For a moment, he felt like the boy from Dawnfield again, marveling at a world far beyond his understanding.
But as his gaze lingered on the shimmering barrier encasing the city—a dome of energy that pulsed rhythmically like a heartbeat—he felt a pang of unease. Eldenholm was beautiful, yes, but its beauty masked a fortress built for war.
They landed in a designated area near the city's center, where other mounts, both mundane and magical, were tended to by skilled handlers. Stormclaw let out a low trill of satisfaction, folding its massive wings as Garren dismounted.
Michael followed, still unsteady on his feet after the flight.
The War Council's building loomed ahead, its dark stone walls rising high into the sky. Runic carvings adorned its surface, glowing faintly with protective magic. The air around it felt heavy, charged with an unseen power that made Michael's skin prickle.
At the entrance, two guards in polished armor stood at attention. Their expressions were impassive, their weapons etched with intricate runes that glowed faintly.
"Halt," one of them commanded, his voice sharp and formal. "State your name and purpose."
Garren stepped forward, his posture confident. "Captain Garren. I've come on urgent business regarding the southern border. We need to speak with Lady Seryn."
The mention of the name caused a flicker of recognition in the guards' otherwise stoic expressions.
"Lady Seryn?" one of them asked, his tone cautious.
"Yes," Garren said, his voice steady. "She's expecting us."
The guards exchanged a look before one disappeared inside the building. "Wait here," the other said curtly.
Michael leaned closer to Garren, his voice low. "Who is Lady Seryn?"
"She's… an old friend," Garren replied, his tone hesitant. "And someone who can help us. But don't mistake her kindness for weakness. She's as dangerous as they come."
When the guard returned, they were led through a labyrinth of corridors. The walls were lined with enchantments so potent that Michael could feel their weight pressing down on him with each step.
Lady Seryn awaited them in a room sparsely decorated but brimming with purpose. Maps and reports covered the walls, while a single table at the center held a collection of sealed scrolls and runic artifacts.
She was striking, her sharp features framed by raven-black hair that fell loosely over her shoulders. Her green eyes, piercing and calculating, swept over them with the precision of a blade.
"Garren," she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "It's been a long time."
"Seryn," Garren replied, his tone neutral but respectful. "You look well."
Her gaze shifted to Michael, and her expression shifted into one of mock surprise.
"Well, well," she said, her tone laced with amusement. "The poster boy himself. Still breathing, are you? How didn't I get a report from those lazy fools that you managed to crawl back alive from your mission?"
Michael blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness. He wasn't sure if she was mocking him or genuinely impressed.
"Good to see my reputation precedes me," he replied dryly, though he couldn't help the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Oh, it does," Seryn said, her smile sharp. "Though I'll admit, I had you pegged as another tragic casualty. You've surprised me, and that doesn't happen often."
"Lucky me," Michael muttered under his breath.
Her laughter was light, but her gaze remained calculating. "Don't get too comfortable. Surprises come with expectations, and I don't take kindly to being disappointed."