The flatlands of the central regions stretched endlessly before them, a sea of verdant grass rippling under the gentle breeze. It was a stark contrast to the harsh northern wilderness they had left behind, the air here warmer, the horizon wide and open, dotted with travelers much like themselves. The quiet hum of life moving forward without fanfare enveloped them, lending their journey a sense of unremarkable normalcy.
Nathanael had initially suggested they break every few hours to let the horse rest, but his suggestion was met with a sharp, disapproving look from Amara, who seemed to take his practicality as a personal affront.
"That's a waste of time and resources," she said bluntly, her tone edging on the condescension of someone imparting a lesson to an unteachable pupil. Her gaze lingered on him with a faint smirk, as though he'd committed some unforgivable faux pas.
"And here I thought rest was crucial," Nathanael replied dryly, though his curiosity outweighed his irritation.
"Not for a horse at this pace," she retorted, gesturing toward the steady gait of their mount. "Horses are made for endurance. They can gallop for miles without breaks, and we're hardly pushing this one. If you're so worried, we can switch off when one of us is tired."
Her confidence was irksome but not unwarranted. Begrudgingly, Nathanael agreed, and they settled into a rhythm. For hours they alternated, one walking alongside while the other rode, their conversations sparse but not unwelcome. The sheer monotony of the flatlands encouraged a sort of meditative quiet, broken only by the sound of hooves meeting earth and the occasional exchange of trivial observations.
By midday, the sight of a town in the distance came as a relief. It wasn't large—just a modest cluster of stone and timber buildings with narrow streets winding toward a central square—but it carried the air of safety. No walls fortified its borders, no guards patrolled its perimeter. Nathanael assumed the absence of such defenses meant trouble seldom came this way.
As they entered, the hum of life became more tangible: vendors hawking wares from open stalls, the chatter of locals exchanging gossip, the clatter of wheels over cobblestone. It was an unremarkable town, the kind that blended seamlessly into the vastness of the central regions, but it was precisely its ordinariness that made it a suitable place to rest.
Nathanael pulled the reins gently and stopped near a shaded spot by a well. "We'll restock supplies here," he said, dismounting and turning to Amara. "I'll need you to handle that while I… take care of something."
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Something? What kind of 'something'?"
"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," he replied curtly, not meeting her gaze.
Amara rolled her eyes but didn't press further. "Fine. But don't get lost, Nathan." Her tone carried a teasing lilt, but she turned quickly and made her way toward the market stalls, leaving him to his own devices.
Nathanael adjusted his cloak and made his way to a squat, unassuming building near the center of town—a government office of some kind, by its placard and its plain, official exterior. The interior was just as nondescript, with simple wooden furnishings and a small counter behind which sat a bored-looking clerk.
He approached, placing a few gold coins on the counter along with a neatly folded slip of parchment bearing his family's crest. "I need to send a message," he said, his voice low and steady.
The clerk barely looked up as Nathanael began dictating. "To the House of Greinthsion: I'm going off. Do not search for me. I will report only if necessary. Consider the last task abandoned. If it must be done, rely on the first son."
The words felt heavy as he spoke them, their finality settling over him like a tangible weight. He pushed the crest—his badge of lineage—across the counter with a deliberate motion, sealing the message's authenticity.
The clerk raised an eyebrow but said nothing, taking the gold and the badge before nodding briskly. "It'll be sent."
As Nathanael stepped back out into the sunlight, a strange sense of lightness washed over him. The burden of obligation—the unspoken demands of his bloodline, the expectations that had loomed over him since birth—seemed to dissipate, leaving him with a quiet, unfamiliar freedom.
He allowed himself a moment to breathe before heading back into the market to find Amara. He spotted her in the distance, standing amid a group of armed men. Their laughter carried faintly on the breeze, and though Amara didn't seem particularly distressed, there was something about the casual way they loomed near her, hands brushing her shoulder, that set his teeth on edge. He hesitated, lingering in the shadow of a nearby building, his instincts warring against one another.
They weren't soldiers—that much was clear from their mismatched attire and disheveled appearance. Bandits, or at best mercenaries of dubious loyalty, and judging by their lack of discipline, unlikely to pose much of a threat in a fight. Yet, there she stood, unconcerned, even smiling faintly, as though she knew them well. Nathanael clenched a fist, then released it. Perhaps this wasn't what it seemed.
Still, his gut told him otherwise. He bent down, his fingers curling around a loose rock, testing its weight as he watched for any sign of distress. If they so much as tightened their grip on her, he'd act, no matter the consequences. He steadied his breathing, waiting for the moment she might glance his way, call for help, or give him some signal that this wasn't as harmless as it appeared.
But the moment never came. Instead, after a few more exchanges with the men, she turned abruptly and began walking away, her step unhurried, her demeanor calm. The men remained where they were, muttering to one another and gesturing as though they still spoke to someone who wasn't there. Nathanael frowned, lowering the rock but not releasing it entirely.
Amara spotted him a few paces ahead, tucked into the corner of an alleyway, his expression taut with unspoken questions. "What are you doing skulking over there?" she asked, her tone carrying equal parts curiosity and amusement.
"I thought you were in trouble," he admitted, stepping forward and casting a glance over his shoulder at the men. They still hadn't moved, still chattering at empty air. "What did you do to them?"
She smirked, the faintest edge of mischief curling at the corner of her lips. "Underestimate me again, will you? You really are a noble."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"They're fine," she said breezily. "Well, maybe a little... confused. It's just a little talent of mine. Or, as some might call it, a curse."
He raised an eyebrow. "A curse?"
She hesitated, her expression darkening slightly before she waved it off. "Call it what you like. The church certainly did. Apparently, it's bad enough that I had to hide it for most of my life. I figured it might hurt someone I care about if I wasn't careful."
He studied her carefully, his thoughts turning over this revelation. "So... your talent is what? Deception?"
Her eyes flashed, her smirk returning with sharp defiance. "If I'd deceived you, don't you think I'd have kept all of this to myself? Honestly, are all nobles this dense? I thought you lot were supposed to be educated."
Her words struck with unexpected force, and Nathanael took a step back, lifting his hands in a gesture of apology. "I didn't mean to offend. I'm... sorry."
Amara crossed her arms, huffing. "Good. And here I was worried you might actually have half a brain. Though, if I did deceive you, you'd never know."
He couldn't suppress a faint chuckle, though the tension lingered. "Fair enough. But do you always leave people like that?" He nodded toward the bandits, who still seemed utterly oblivious to their surroundings, gesticulating wildly at no one in particular.
She shrugged. "They'll come out of it eventually. Probably."
"And your mark? I assume you have one."
"Of course I do. What else do you think brands me as cursed?"
He paused, considering her for a moment. "Where is it?"
She leaned closer with a playful glint in her eyes. "Want to see it? It's on my chest."
He straightened immediately, his expression firm. "Absolutely not."
Amara burst into laughter, shaking her head. "You're no fun. But yes, I have a mark. I'm assuming you do too?"
He nodded slowly. "I do. I just don't know what it does." His voice dropped to a mumble, almost to himself. "A one-in-a-thousand chance of meeting another Marked... and here we are."
She tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. "So what's yours, nobleman? Got a fancy noble talent to match your fancy noble title?"
"None that I know of."
The conversation carried them well into the afternoon, the flatlands stretching endlessly before them. As the sun dipped low, painting the horizon in muted golds and violets, they stopped to set up camp as the night passed uneventfully.