The first hint of dawn was little more than a gray smudge on the horizon when Damon rose from his straw bed. He took a moment to steady his thoughts, recalling the events of the previous day: the bandit raid, the desperate clash of steel, the choice to spare a beaten foe. His shoulders still ached from the exertion, yet something deeper inside him buzzed with anticipation. Today—earlier than planned—he would finally leave Fallbrook with Kelwick's merchant caravan.
Soft lamplight illuminated the sparse interior of the cottage he called home. He gathered his few belongings: a spare linen shirt, a wool cloak for colder nights, and the battered coin pouch that contained his modest savings. With a pang of regret, he realized how little he truly owned. Yet that same pang kindled a sense of resolve. I have everything I need to begin.
Outside, the world was damp and quiet from an overnight drizzle, the earth exhaling a scent of wet grass. Damon glanced around, noting the faint glow coming from a few neighboring houses where farmers and tradesfolk were starting their day. Dark clouds lingered overhead, promising a dreary morning. Better to travel under clouds than under threat of another raid, he told himself.
He made his way to Grogan's home, where the old master had said he would meet him for a final send-off. Damon found the door ajar, warm firelight flickering within. He stepped inside hesitantly and saw Grogan seated at a small wooden table, sipping a steaming cup of tea. The older man looked up, lines of worry etched into his brow.
"You're up early," Grogan said, pushing a second cup across the table.
Damon took it gratefully, wrapping his hands around its comforting warmth. "I couldn't sleep much. Too much on my mind."
"That's no surprise, given all that's happened." Grogan gestured for Damon to sit. "After yesterday's fight, the villagers are on high alert. They'll stand guard for a while, but I think we gave those bandits enough of a scare to keep them away—at least for now."
Damon sipped his tea in silence, reflecting on how quickly his village had transformed from a peaceful haven into a potential target for brigands. "I hate leaving them vulnerable," he admitted, voice soft. "But I can't ignore this feeling that I have to go, that the Crimson Crown—and maybe my destiny—awaits me beyond Fallbrook."
Grogan's eyes softened with understanding. "No one here will resent you for following your path. You've done more to protect this village in a single day than many would in a lifetime."
A series of hoofbeats outside cut their conversation short. Damon and Grogan exchanged glances, then rose, finishing the last of their tea in hurried gulps. Stepping out into the pale light, they saw Kelwick's caravan assembling in the open space near the blacksmith's forge. The wagons were modest—a few flatbeds carrying crates of goods and barrels of supplies, along with a covered wagon for Thormund's more delicate merchandise. Kelwick himself sat astride a stocky mare, calling out orders to a pair of assistants checking the harnesses.
"Morning, Damon! Grogan!" Kelwick hailed, tipping his wide-brimmed hat. "We're set to depart soon, so if you're coming, best load up quickly. We'd like to get a good head start before any more trouble shows its ugly face."
Damon nodded, a surge of adrenaline rushing through him. This was it. He turned to Grogan, who clasped his arm in a firm handshake. "Travel well, lad," the old swordsman said, voice catching slightly. "Come back and visit us when you can—and keep practicing."
"I promise, Master," Damon said, emotion tugging at him. He could not find more words, so he gave a brief nod of thanks. Then, with a last lingering look at his mentor, he moved to join the caravan.
A few curious villagers had gathered to witness the departure. Among them, Jonar the blacksmith gave Damon a salute, while others offered quiet smiles or nods of encouragement. A hush settled over the group as Kelwick spurred his horse into motion, leading the first wagon away. Damon fell in behind, walking with measured steps alongside the wagons. The wheels creaked, horses snorted, and the caravan rolled onto the winding road that led out of Fallbrook. Just like that, Damon's old life receded behind him, replaced by the uncertain promise of adventure.
The road was thick with mud from the recent rains. Damon's boots sank uncomfortably into the sludge, slowing his pace. Nonetheless, he kept his senses alert. Memories of the previous day's ambush set him on edge, imagining threats behind every cluster of trees. Beside him strode one of Kelwick's armed escorts—a tall, rangy man named Rivan, who carried a short spear and wore a dagger at his waist.
"Don't fret too much," Rivan said with a casual shrug. "Bandits usually won't try to strike the same spot twice so soon. We gave them a licking, and that should buy us time."
Damon nodded, feeling a pang of relief. "You've been doing this a while, right?"
"Long enough," Rivan answered. "Seen plenty of raids, but also plenty of empty threats. Most brigands prefer easy prey, and we don't look too easy now that you and your friends made an example of them."
Damon tried to let that reassurance sink in, though his hand still hovered near the hilt of his new sword. Hours passed. The caravan rattled on at a steady but unhurried pace. They traveled through low, rolling hills, where the morning light remained dim, thanks to the overcast skies. Occasionally, a flash of color appeared—wildflowers edging the roadside, or a distant copse of autumn-tinted trees. The world felt vast to Damon, stretching out in all directions beyond the horizon. He realized how much he'd yearned for this sense of openness.
By midday, Kelwick called for a brief halt near a small stream. The horses needed watering, and the men and women needed a moment to rest cramped legs. Damon gratefully accepted a piece of bread and dried fruit from Thormund, who was in surprisingly good spirits given the events back in Fallbrook.
"Looks like we outran any trouble," Thormund mused, chewing noisily. "I've traveled these roads for years, and I can't recall the last time we had bandit problems this close to the village. Times must be changing."
Damon recalled the bandit leader's ominous words about the kingdom being "ripe for plunder." A sense of unease gnawed at him. "I wonder if there's more happening in the realm—something stirring conflict everywhere."
Kelwick, who had come over to refill his waterskin, gave a knowing nod. "You're not wrong, lad. Word is that up north there's a warlord named Morath the Black on the rise, while to the west, a string of smaller skirmishes has unsettled the border towns. Could be that these bandit crews are capitalizing on the general chaos."
Damon felt a flicker of concern, but also a swelling curiosity. "And what about the rumors of an artifact called the Crimson Crown?" he ventured, eyeing Thormund. "Have you heard anything new since we left Fallbrook?"
Thormund raised an eyebrow. "Still fascinated with that, are you? I've not heard more than the usual whispers. But I wouldn't be surprised if it's tied to all this unrest. Power like that—if it really exists—tends to draw out the worst in people."
Before Damon could press further, a sudden hush fell over the small group. At the far edge of the campsite, the horses stomped and whinnied nervously. Damon's hand went instinctively to his sword, heart hammering. Bandits again? He scanned the surrounding trees, searching for movement.
Then he saw her: a lone figure emerging from the dense foliage on the opposite side of the stream. She wore a dark green cloak with the hood drawn low, revealing only a glimpse of a delicate chin and a few wisps of auburn hair. In one gloved hand, she held the reins of a tired-looking mare. Her posture was tense but composed, as though she sensed the group's alarm.
Kelwick, always cautious, stepped forward. "Who goes there?"
The stranger lifted her head, revealing striking features and keen, alert eyes. "My name is Seraphina," she called back, voice clear yet tinged with fatigue. "I mean you no harm. My horse needs rest, and so do I."
Rivan and another guard leveled their spears, though not with immediate aggression. Kelwick eyed her warily, but Damon noticed something else in the caravan leader's expression—recognition, perhaps? Then again, maybe Kelwick was simply appraising the risk of letting a stranger too close.
Thormund, never one to shy away from conversation, piped up. "Are you alone, miss? These roads haven't been safe of late."
Seraphina guided her mare forward, careful not to make any sudden moves. "I travel alone, yes. But I've heard the dangers, and I'm well able to defend myself." She nodded at the men. "I can pay for any food or water you can spare."
Rivan glanced at Kelwick, who shrugged in a gesture of acquiescence. "We're no inn, but we've got enough supplies to share a little," Kelwick said. "Help yourself to the stream and a spot by the fire."
Seraphina murmured her thanks. As the tension eased, Damon realized he was staring. Something about her presence captivated him, though he couldn't place why. Maybe it was the faint aura of confidence that radiated from her every movement, or the glimmer of intensity in her eyes.
While Seraphina watered her horse at the stream, Damon caught Kelwick's elbow gently. "Do you know her?" he asked under his breath.
Kelwick shook his head. "Never seen her before. But travelers with coin in their purse aren't uncommon on this route. Best keep an eye on her anyway."
Damon nodded, recalling how Jareth—another mysterious wanderer—had appeared out of nowhere in his village. Could it be another twist of fate that placed Seraphina on his path now?
After tending to her mare, Seraphina approached the fire where Thormund was heating a small kettle. She handed him a few copper coins, enough to cover a modest share of rations. "Thank you," she said softly.
Curiosity gnawed at Damon until he found an excuse to edge closer. He stood on the opposite side of the fire, fiddling with a piece of straw. "You're traveling alone out here?" he asked, trying not to sound too intrusive.
A brief smile curved across her lips. "I've managed so far. But I heard rumors that a merchant caravan was heading to Silverhold. Perhaps traveling with you would be safer—for all of us."
"You're heading to the capital too?" Damon's pulse quickened. Another traveler bound for Silverhold, he thought. And another one crossing my path right after I left Fallbrook?
"Indeed," Seraphina replied, taking a sip of the warm drink Thormund offered. "There's…someone I need to meet there. Urgently."
Her voice hinted at secrets she wasn't ready to share. Damon understood that well enough—he was keeping plenty of his own. Before he could question her further, a gust of wind rattled the branches overhead, and a slight chill passed through the clearing. Seraphina pulled her cloak tighter, eyes drifting to the sword at Damon's hip.
"You've seen battle recently," she observed, noting the fresh nicks and scratches along the blade's steel. "I sense it wasn't just a passing scuffle."
Damon nodded, his jaw tightening. "Bandits attacked my village. We drove them off, but it was close."
Seraphina's brow furrowed. "Bandits growing bold so near the settlements… That's not a good sign." She paused, measuring her words. Then, lower, she added, "This kingdom is stirring. People speak of impending shadows—of something old awakening."
A sudden thrill coursed through Damon. "You speak as if you know more about it."
She hesitated, glancing around. Most of the caravan workers had wandered off to tend the horses or check the wagons, leaving only Thormund and Damon by the fire. Even Thormund, sipping his tea, seemed distracted.
With a cautious look, Seraphina leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "I've heard whispers of a relic—one linked to draconic power. They call it the Crimson Crown."
Damon's heart thudded so loudly he was sure she could hear it. "You…you know about the Crown?"
Her eyes met his, and he saw surprise flicker there. "You've heard of it too? Then you realize how dangerous knowledge of it can be." She exhaled. "I have reason to believe the Crown is not just a rumor. And you should tread carefully if you seek it."
He swallowed, trying to maintain his composure. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I sense you're already involved," she said, voice firm but not unkind. "I know how these roads work, how travelers talk. You likely heard the same scattered tales, but the truth is far more potent than the rumors." She lowered her voice further. "And there are forces—powerful forces—hunting for anyone who even so much as mentions the Crown."
A swirl of conflicting emotions swept through Damon: excitement, caution, curiosity. So it truly is more than a whispered legend. He recalled the old wanderer, Jareth, testing his sword skill in Fallbrook. Did Jareth know about Seraphina? About the Crown? The pieces felt tangled, but Damon's instincts told him they were part of the same larger puzzle.
Before he could press for more, Kelwick strode up. "We'll be moving on in ten minutes," he announced. "The day won't wait for us."
Seraphina straightened, slipping back behind her veil of guarded composure. "Then I'd like to travel with you—if you'll have me."
Kelwick glanced between Damon and Seraphina, weighing his options. Finally, he grunted, "Fine by me, so long as you follow the rules and don't cause trouble. We move fast, we share watch at night, and we don't hold up for stragglers."
Seraphina inclined her head. "I'll abide by that."
Damon felt tension ease in his chest, as though some unseen test had just been passed. He couldn't say why, but he was relieved she would be joining them, perhaps because her presence promised answers about the Crimson Crown—or perhaps because, deep down, he sensed an ally on this uncertain journey.
Soon, the caravan was on the move again. Damon found himself walking side-by-side with Seraphina, who guided her horse on foot rather than ride. They spoke in hushed tones, well out of earshot of the others. She revealed little of her personal background but did warn him that others sought the Crown for dark purposes. At times, Damon could sense her wariness, as though even naming the Crown aloud might summon peril.
Throughout the rest of the afternoon, Damon noticed small acts that reinforced his impression of Seraphina's capability: the calm way she soothed a spooked horse, her practiced vigilance scanning the tree line, the quick reflex when she caught a slipping crate for Thormund. She might have been solitary, but she was no novice to the dangers of traveling.
As dusk approached, Kelwick led them off the main road to make camp in a sheltered grove. The caravan circled, creating a rudimentary perimeter. Tents rose, fires crackled, and fatigue settled over everyone. Seraphina chose a quiet spot near the tree line to pitch her small, weathered tent. Damon helped gather firewood, replaying her cryptic words in his mind: The Crown is real. Dark forces search for it. Tread carefully.
Later, sitting by the communal fire, Damon caught Seraphina's eye from across the ring of flickering light. She gave him a brief nod—an unspoken promise that their conversation was far from over. Damon's pulse quickened, torn between excitement and apprehension. I've stepped onto a larger stage now, he thought. And I have no idea where it leads.
Yet he couldn't deny the pull, the sense that every step took him closer to answers about the Crimson Crown—and about the strange fate he felt stirring in his blood. The day ended with a hush over the camp, flames casting dancing shadows on the travelers' weary faces. Damon unrolled his bedding near one of the wagons, sword at his side, and stared at the stars hidden behind the cloudy night sky. The events of the day—Seraphina's arrival, her veiled warnings—whirled in his thoughts.
Before sleep claimed him, he felt a small spark of reassurance: he was no longer alone in his quest. Seraphina's presence, however mysterious, seemed to confirm that the Crown was more than a rumor. And if she was truly there to guide or warn him, Damon intended to seize the chance. Perhaps, with her help, he would learn the truth behind his own destiny—and discover just how close the Crimson Crown truly was.
Uncertainty settled like a mantle over the camp, but Damon drifted into uneasy slumber with a renewed sense of purpose. Tomorrow, the road to Silverhold would continue, winding through unknown perils. Yet with a newfound companion at his side, Damon felt better prepared to face whatever shadows lurked in the kingdom—and to uncover the secrets that might shape not only his future, but the fate of all Elandris.