The Journey, Book 3: Chapter 1 - Previous Chapter
Chapter Two: South
Nekira stood alone on the quiet road, the last echoes of dragon wings long faded. The wind had shifted — colder now, carrying the faint scent of smoke from far away. He turned toward the sea, back down the dunes, and made his way to the beach where his things still lay scattered like remnants of another life.
His shirt was half-buried in sand. He shook it out and pulled it on, the fabric rough against his skin. The saddle lay near the grass line where Myrtle had first wandered off; he lifted it, checking the straps and buckles, each motion deliberate, grounding. With a short, sharp whistle, he called her.
A few heartbeats later, Myrtle came galloping over the dunes, mane whipping in the wind, eyes bright with recognition. Nekira smiled faintly. “Good girl,” he murmured, patting her neck. He fastened the saddle securely, slid Tondro back into its scabbard, and tucked it between the bedroll and the rear strap.
Santaya and Kristolia padded up beside him — one on each flank, silent shadows in the fading light. He climbed into the saddle, adjusted his cloak, and took one last look at the horizon where the refugees had vanished.
Amira’s voice brushed his thoughts like a warm ember. 'What about Caa Alora?'
He was quiet for a moment, the reins loose in his hands, eyes fixed on the long road stretching ahead. Then, softly, he said, “That can wait…”
He nudged Myrtle forward, and the small company began to move. The wolves loped silently on either side as the horse’s hooves struck the stone rhythmically, carrying Nekira north toward Knebworth — the burned village that refused to leave his mind.
The road stretched on, winding through the deepening dusk, and above them, the first stars blinked awake — silent witnesses to another journey beginning.
“Did they make it to Edena — the refugees?” Nekira asked, his voice low, though the words formed more in thought than sound.
'Yes,' came Amira’s gentle reply, her tone like a slow, warm flame in the back of his mind. 'They made it. Elvina wanted to send soldiers to find you, but I convinced her not to. Reluctantly, she withheld.'
Nekira exhaled, the tension in his chest easing only slightly. “Thank you,” he murmured aloud.
The road stretched ahead, silent and empty except for the soft clop of Myrtle’s hooves and the occasional rustle of the wolves brushing through dry grass. Nekira kept his hood low, skirting wide around the edges of small villages and scattered farmsteads. He didn’t want questions. Not about who he was, or what he carried behind his eyes.
He could sense Amira’s presence still — distant, like thunder beyond the mountains — but neither spoke again for hours.
The lands near Edena were still safe, for now. But beyond them lay the truth of what Thomaz had done — and Knebworth waited in silence, a wound on the map that Nekira meant to see for himself.
Amira’s thoughts pressed softly into his mind. Is it wise to keep Gabija waiting?
Nekira chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes scanning the roadside. “Probably not,” he said after a moment, “but she already knows I’m not heading to Caa Alora.”
He tugged the reins, slowing Myrtle to a stop. Up ahead, an old man sat hunched beside the road, a bundle of sticks piled beside him. Nekira dismounted, brushing the dust from his hands as he approached.
“Are you all right, old one?” he asked.
The man looked up through thick, overgrown brows. “Selling what I can find,” he croaked. “Need coin for grain.”
Nekira’s gaze fell to the sticks. Among the bundle was a long, sturdy branch, weathered but straight. “How much for that one?” he asked, nodding toward it.
Amira’s voice murmured in his head, amused. Why are you buying a twig?
The old man blinked. “That? Hmm… a silver piece, maybe.”
Nekira smiled, shaking his head. “No. For that magnificent branch, I’ll pay you four gold pieces.”
The old man’s mouth dropped open. “Four—? That’s robbery in reverse!”
“Then let me be guilty of kindness,” Nekira said softly, pressing the coins into the man’s palm and closing his hand around them. “Buy yourself grain, and meat too, if you can find it.”
The man’s eyes shone as he nodded his thanks. Nekira picked up the branch — heavier than it looked — and tucked it under his arm as he walked back to Myrtle.
Still seems like a twig to me, Amira teased.
“Maybe,” Nekira said with a faint grin. “But it’s a good one.”
Santaya snorted softly, Kristolia tilting her head in that curious way of hers. Nekira mounted up again, and the small company continued down the road, the branch resting across his saddle — no more than wood for now, yet somehow fitting in his hand.
Nekira reached into the saddlebag and pulled out a small knife, its handle worn smooth from years of use. He rested the long branch across his knee and began to carve, slow and methodical, the shavings falling away like curled feathers. Myrtle plodded along the road at her own easy pace, the rhythmic thud of her hooves blending with the steady scrape of the blade.
Santaya and Kristolia trotted alongside, sometimes darting ahead to sniff at the underbrush, sometimes circling back to check on him. The sun slid lazily across the sky, and hours passed in comfortable silence broken only by the sound of the wind and distant birds.
When the road curved, a blackened patch caught Nekira’s eye — the remains of an old campfire, nothing more than ash and half-burned wood. He slowed Myrtle and frowned, recognising the spot.
A small clearing sat just beyond the road, framed by a weathered oak whose bark bore faint scars. He dismounted, sliding the knife back into his belt, and walked toward it.
As he approached, memory tugged at him — flashes of snarling teeth, blood on leaves, and the terrified cries of two small wolves. Santaya and Kristolia had stopped too, watching him closely, their ears pinned back as if they too remembered.
Near the base of the oak lay the bleached bones of a bear, its ribs half-buried beneath moss and fallen leaves. Nekira crouched beside the remains, tracing a finger along the skull’s curve.
“This is where I found you,” he murmured, glancing at the wolves.
Kristolia padded closer, pressing her head gently against his shoulder. Santaya gave a quiet whine.
Nekira gave a small, sad smile and brushed the dirt from his hands. “Guess we’ve all come a long way since then.”
The wolves stayed close as he stood, and for a moment, the air felt thick with old echoes — the ghost of fear, the sharp scent of youth, and the strange thread of fate that had bound them all together from that day onward.
Then he climbed back into Myrtle’s saddle, the unfinished carving resting across his lap, and they continued down the road toward whatever waited next.
Nekira gave Myrtle a light tap on her flank, and the mare started forward again, her hooves crunching softly over the road. The forest thickened as they went, shadows deepening under the trees until a tangle of brambles gave way to what looked like an overgrown trail — faint, but still there. He reined her in and peered down. The earth was disturbed: wagon ruts, horse prints, and the muddled tracks of many feet. A few drag marks scarred the dirt, old but distinct.
“This is the path the refugees took…” he muttered. He leaned forward and patted Myrtle’s neck. “Follow it, girl.”
The mare obeyed, picking her way carefully through the brush. Santaya and Kristolia padded ahead, alert but eager, their noses twitching as they caught the scents of old passage. The air grew stiller, cooler, filled with the hush of leaves whispering above.
Then a familiar fragrance hit him — faint at first, then unmistakable. A mix of honey and dew and sun-warmed petals. He straightened in the saddle, his heart suddenly pounding.
“No way,” he whispered.
The trees thinned abruptly, and before him stretched a vast expanse of wildflowers — a sea of colour swaying in the breeze, rolling in waves of violet, gold, and white clear to the horizon.
“Floresith,” he breathed, the word almost reverent.
Santaya and Kristolia bounded forward, yipping and darting through the blossoms, their joy contagious. Nekira couldn’t help but laugh, the sound breaking something heavy inside him. He tugged the reins gently, steering Myrtle to the right. “Go on, girls,” he called, “go re-explore.”
The wolves vanished into the flowers, their fur blending with the shifting hues. A few minutes later, as Myrtle crested a small rise, the remnants of a cottage appeared — or what was left of one. Only one gable end still stood, half-covered in ivy. The rest had been crushed beneath a fallen tree, its trunk silvered with age and moss.
“Stop, Myrtle…” Nekira murmured. The mare halted, and he sat there in silence, eyes tracing the outline of what had once been home.
“This is where I ran to,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “After I woke from the coma… no memory, no past. Just this place, the girls, and Loki.”
He reached out through the link and sent Amira what he saw — the meadow in its golden haze, the shattered cottage, and, overlaid on it, the fragments of memory from years before: the laughter, the firelight, the sense of peace that had once lived here.
In his mind, Amira’s presence warmed. Floresith… she murmured. 'Even in ruin, it’s beautiful.'
Nekira smiled faintly, his gaze distant. “Yeah,” he whispered. “It always was.”
Nekira’s knife moved in steady, patient strokes, the edge whispering against the branch as he shaped it. A small cottage took form under his hands — rough, uneven, but recognisable. A piece of memory carved into wood.
Kristolia’s bark shattered the calm. Sharp. Urgent.
Nekira’s head snapped up. “Kristi?”
No answer, just another bark, distant this time — followed by Santaya’s, higher, strained. He looked toward the sound and spotted her standing on her hind legs, front paws braced against a fallen log, ears rigid.
Something in his gut twisted.
He slid the knife into his belt, took up the branch and reins, and nudged Myrtle forward. The mare obeyed, her steps slow, deliberate, as if she too sensed unease in the air.
As the flowers parted, the scene came into view — and his chest tightened. Santaya and Kristolia sat beside two still forms sprawled in the tall grass. A man and a woman, travel-worn, the same kind of rough clothes the refugees had worn.
Nekira dismounted, the flowers brushing against his knees as he knelt. The air smelled faintly of iron. He turned the man over gently — a deep wound to the back, clean, efficient. Killed while running.
His throat ached as realization struck. “These were the ones left behind,” he murmured. “The stragglers from Knebworth…”
Santaya gave a low whine, her muzzle brushing the woman’s sleeve. Kristolia circled once before lying beside the bodies, silent.
Nekira bowed his head for a moment, then rested the carved branch across his lap. The carved cottage stared up at him, mocking in its small perfection — a symbol of safety in a world that offered none.
Amira’s voice reached him gently through the link. Nekira… What do you see?
He swallowed hard. “Proof,” he said softly. “Refugees, slain from behind as they fled. He doesn’t even let the slow ones live.”
The wolves stayed by the fallen while Nekira stood, his face shadowed with grief and something colder beneath it.
“Let’s bury them,” he said finally. “If we can’t save everyone, we can at least give them peace.”
And together, under the swaying wildflowers of Floresith, they began to dig — a small act of defiance against a king who saw lives as dust.
A few hours later, the graves were done — two mounds of freshly turned earth beneath the wide, gentle sway of wildflowers. Nekira brushed the dirt from his hands and straightened slowly, stretching the stiffness from his back. The sun had dipped lower, spilling gold across the field, and the scent of crushed blossoms hung thick in the air.
He stood there for a moment, silent, eyes tracing the line of broken flowers that marked the refugees’ desperate flight north. Every crushed stem was a footprint in time — a record of fear, struggle, and fleeting hope.
With a quiet exhale, he turned and walked back to Myrtle. The mare waited patiently, tail flicking, her dark eyes soft as if she understood. Nekira mounted up, the leather creaking beneath him, and gathered the reins loosely in one hand.
“Let’s go,” he said, voice low. “Time to follow these tracks.”
Santaya and Kristolia were already ahead, noses to the ground, moving with the purpose of hunters who knew the scent of death all too well.
Before nudging Myrtle forward, Nekira glanced back once more — to the shattered remains of the old cottage, the jagged skeleton of a life once lived in peace. The wind stirred the wildflowers around it, whispering like ghosts.
Then he turned away, eyes narrowing toward the horizon. “No more running,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone.
Myrtle started forward, steady and sure, following the deepening trail that wound north — toward the truth waiting in the ashes of Knebworth.
The forest was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that settled when the creatures of the wood decided something dangerous was passing through. Even the breeze seemed to hesitate between the trees.
Myrtle’s hooves thudded softly against the damp earth, and Nekira’s knife worked rhythmically, carving patterns into the thick staff balanced across his lap. The shape of two wolves was beginning to emerge beneath his blade, their forms rough but alive in the wood.
Ahead, Santaya froze mid-step, ears pricked and body tense.
Nekira looked up. “What’s up, Santi?”
The wolf’s growl rumbled low in her throat, her fangs bared toward the shadows ahead. Kristolia crouched beside her, hackles raised, a snarl vibrating from her chest.
From between the trees, several shapes emerged—wolves, wild and lean, their fur bristling and eyes glinting in the half-light. The pack moved cautiously, testing the air.
Nekira hushed Myrtle, patting her neck until she stilled. He swung down from the saddle, landing lightly on his feet, and crouched between his companions. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice calm. “They won’t attack unless you do. We’ve just wandered into their territory.”
Straightening slightly, he raised his voice and spoke clearly toward the pack. “We are neither friend nor foe,” he called. “Only passing through—and through again we may come.”
The lead wolf—a massive gray with scarred shoulders—snarled, froth flying from its mouth. Then, with a violent burst of motion, it lunged.
Nekira barely had time to react before something even larger slammed into the alpha mid-leap. The impact sent both wolves tumbling through the underbrush in a crash of snapping branches.
From the shadows stepped a beast unlike any Nekira had ever seen. A dire-wolf, easily four times the size of Santaya, its fur white with streaks of deep brown and its eyes glowing unmistakably purple.
It turned to him briefly, massive chest heaving, and for a heartbeat, its gaze met his. Recognition sparked in both.
Nekira’s breath caught. “Tunstall?” he whispered.
The great wolf’s head tilted. “You know my name, human?” Its voice was deep, resonant—half growl, half speech, echoing directly in Nekira’s mind.
A slow smile spread across Nekira’s face. He stood, lowering his knife hand in peace. “Yes,” he said quietly. Then, switching to the ancient tongue, he addressed the stunned wild pack. The words rolled through the clearing like a warm breeze, soft and commanding, telling them they were among friends.
The wolves hesitated, ears flicking uncertainly, before Tunstall growled once—low, warning. They broke instantly, scattering into the forest’s depths.
Silence returned, thick but less hostile.
Nekira stepped closer, lowering his hood. “Yes, I know your name. You’re the son of Chief Convel and Auburn. I was there the day you were born.”
Tunstall approached slowly, towering over him. His nose brushed Nekira’s shoulder, testing his scent. “You’re the one they called No-Name,” the dire-wolf said at last, voice heavy with recognition.
Nekira nodded faintly, a small, wry smile playing at his lips. “I suppose I still am, to some.”
The great wolf’s eyes softened, a rare warmth flickering in their violet depths. The forest, once tense and watching, seemed to breathe again.
Nekira brushed the wood shavings from his hands and rose to his feet, still half-smiling at the enormous creature before him. “You’re a long way from home, Tunstall. What brings you here?”
The dire-wolf’s ears flicked forward, his massive tail swaying once behind him. “When we come of age,” he rumbled, “we must travel the lands to seek a mate. To win her, we must prove ourselves worthy.”
Nekira nodded, understanding the ancient ways of wolves and their pride. “So you’ve come far and found no such luck yet?”
Tunstall huffed through his nose, a sound somewhere between a snort and a growl, then gave a slow, heavy shake of his head. The gesture was strangely human. “Not yet,” he said, turning his gaze toward the west. “But the world is wide.”
He stepped back, the muscles in his shoulders rippling like drawn ropes beneath his fur. “Until next time, No-Name.”
Before Nekira could reply, the great wolf bounded away, vanishing into the forest shadows with thunderous grace.
Nekira exhaled, a chuckle escaping him as he turned back toward Myrtle. “A wolf of few words,” he said softly.
Nekira reached for the stirrup, then hesitated, his hand resting on the worn leather. He glanced over his shoulder at Santaya and Kristolia, their fur catching dappled light through the trees. “You know,” he said quietly, “you can both go and search for a mate if you want to. It’s not something I’d ever hold against either of you.”
The wolves exchanged a look, one of those silent conversations that seemed to carry whole paragraphs of thought. Then they barked in unison—short, sharp, and unmistakably defiant. Nekira couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking his head as he swung into the saddle.
“All right then,” he murmured, adjusting his grip on the reins. “Your choice.”
Santaya and Kristolia took their places in front of him, moving with that easy, predatory grace, their tails swaying in rhythm as Myrtle followed behind. The forest closed around them again—branches whispering overhead, the hush of unseen life folding back into its secret patterns—as they continued down the long, shadowed trail.
They’d been on the road for days, moving like ghosts through the forest—silent, purposeful, never lingering longer than a few hours. When the air finally cooled into that deep evening calm, Nekira decided enough was enough. Time to rest properly.
He dismounted, letting Myrtle graze freely. No need to tether her; she’d never wander far. He gathered a small bundle of dry twigs and brush, coaxing a modest flame to life. The crackle of fire was a welcome sound—civilised, familiar—cutting through the wilderness hush. Santaya and Kristolia slipped away into the trees, their shapes vanishing like smoke as they went to hunt.
Nekira stretched out on his bedroll, leaning against the rough bark of a tree, staff in hand. It was no longer just a branch—it had become a story in wood. Tiny carvings wound along its length: the cottage at Floresith, the two wolves, Amira in flight, Vivi and Tivor, Tara’s quiet smile, Elqiana’s sweeping wings. Even Meera the swallow and Timtur the squirrel perched there, forever frozen mid-motion. Each mark a memory, each line a name he refused to forget.
The firelight danced across the carvings, and for the first time in days, Nekira allowed himself to breathe without purpose.
The fire crackled quietly, painting flickers of amber across Nekira’s face as he whispered, “Gabija.”
The water in the bronze bowl shivered, then steadied—shifting like liquid glass until the familiar, elegant features of the Elven Queen came into focus. Her silver hair shimmered faintly, eyes like pale moonlight catching the fire’s reflection. For a heartbeat, she said nothing—just looked at him.
“Nekira,” she said at last, her voice softer than he’d ever heard it. “You’re alive.” Relief and something else—something deeper—moved behind her words. “By the stars, I thought Thomaz’s reach had found you.”
He tilted his head, trying to read her expression. “Not yet. Though he’s never far.”
The Queen exhaled, her shoulders easing. “You have a habit of standing too close to the flame.” Her gaze darted to the trees behind him, scanning the shadows as though expecting someone—or something—to be listening.
“I tried to reach you in Caa Alora,” she continued, hesitating on his name. “When you didn’t come, I feared…” She stopped herself, catching her breath. For a moment, the distance between them—miles of earth and air—felt paper-thin.
“You feared what?” Nekira asked quietly.
Her eyes flicked away. “Nothing that can be safely said through open air.” Her tone changed suddenly, lighter, a queen regaining her composure. “Tell me instead—what are you doing wandering so far from the north roads? Amira tells me little, and when dragons grow secretive, I know trouble brews.”
He smiled faintly, though his eyes stayed tired. “Following the trail from Knebworth. The refugees made it to Edena, but I need to see the village for myself. There are truths buried there I can’t ignore.”
Gabija’s jaw tightened. “Truths, or ghosts?”
“Sometimes they’re the same,” Nekira said.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The Queen’s face softened again—regal still, but fragile in a way only someone deeply burdened could be. “You’ve seen too much death for one lifetime,” she said quietly. “And still you chase after more.”
He looked down at the bowl, watching the faint shimmer of her magic ripple across the water. “If I stop, Gabija, the dead will be all that’s left.”
Something in her expression flickered—admiration, sorrow, and a whisper of guilt. She opened her mouth to speak again, but then froze. Her head turned slightly, as if someone unseen had entered the room on her side of the vision. Her next words were hurried, low. “You are not safe where you are. Keep moving. The King’s eyes have grown long.”
The image wavered, and she leaned forward, her tone dropping to a near whisper. “Nekira—Tara—”
The water snapped into stillness, her image gone as if it had never been.
The fire crackled. Myro tilted her head. “Seems our Queen doesn’t like being cut off mid-sentence.”
The were-cat smiled faintly, her tail curling around her feet. “Either way, you’ve stirred the waters again. Tara will be pleased to know you’re still making trouble.”
Myro’s golden eyes glinted in the firelight, her black fur blending with the shadows. She stretched slowly, claws clicking faintly against the ground.
Nekira’s gaze met hers. “What of Tara?” he asked cautiously.
Myro’s tail coiled once, sharp and deliberate. “Don’t ask me about her,” she said, every word measured. “If you want to know how Tara fares, you speak to her. You reach out. You call her name yourself.”
She gave a faint flick of her paw toward the copper bowl, its surface still faintly glimmering. “Not through me. She is her own, and I… I am not a messenger.”
Nekira’s fingers hovered over the bowl, hesitating. The temptation to reach out, to see her face again… was there, but he slowly set it down beside him, letting the flicker of firelight dance across the bronze surface instead.
When he looked up again, Myro was gone. No trace of movement, no rustle in the grass—only the faint scent of smoke and rain lingering in the night air.
Nekira exhaled slowly. Her warning was clear, even in absence: questions of Tara were his to ask, and his alone.
Chapter Two: South
Nekira stood alone on the quiet road, the last echoes of dragon wings long faded. The wind had shifted — colder now, carrying the faint scent of smoke from far away. He turned toward the sea, back down the dunes, and made his way to the beach where his things still lay scattered like remnants of another life.
His shirt was half-buried in sand. He shook it out and pulled it on, the fabric rough against his skin. The saddle lay near the grass line where Myrtle had first wandered off; he lifted it, checking the straps and buckles, each motion deliberate, grounding. With a short, sharp whistle, he called her.
A few heartbeats later, Myrtle came galloping over the dunes, mane whipping in the wind, eyes bright with recognition. Nekira smiled faintly. “Good girl,” he murmured, patting her neck. He fastened the saddle securely, slid Tondro back into its scabbard, and tucked it between the bedroll and the rear strap.
Santaya and Kristolia padded up beside him — one on each flank, silent shadows in the fading light. He climbed into the saddle, adjusted his cloak, and took one last look at the horizon where the refugees had vanished.
Amira’s voice brushed his thoughts like a warm ember. 'What about Caa Alora?'
He was quiet for a moment, the reins loose in his hands, eyes fixed on the long road stretching ahead. Then, softly, he said, “That can wait…”
He nudged Myrtle forward, and the small company began to move. The wolves loped silently on either side as the horse’s hooves struck the stone rhythmically, carrying Nekira north toward Knebworth — the burned village that refused to leave his mind.
The road stretched on, winding through the deepening dusk, and above them, the first stars blinked awake — silent witnesses to another journey beginning.
“Did they make it to Edena — the refugees?” Nekira asked, his voice low, though the words formed more in thought than sound.
'Yes,' came Amira’s gentle reply, her tone like a slow, warm flame in the back of his mind. 'They made it. Elvina wanted to send soldiers to find you, but I convinced her not to. Reluctantly, she withheld.'
Nekira exhaled, the tension in his chest easing only slightly. “Thank you,” he murmured aloud.
The road stretched ahead, silent and empty except for the soft clop of Myrtle’s hooves and the occasional rustle of the wolves brushing through dry grass. Nekira kept his hood low, skirting wide around the edges of small villages and scattered farmsteads. He didn’t want questions. Not about who he was, or what he carried behind his eyes.
He could sense Amira’s presence still — distant, like thunder beyond the mountains — but neither spoke again for hours.
The lands near Edena were still safe, for now. But beyond them lay the truth of what Thomaz had done — and Knebworth waited in silence, a wound on the map that Nekira meant to see for himself.
Amira’s thoughts pressed softly into his mind. Is it wise to keep Gabija waiting?
Nekira chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes scanning the roadside. “Probably not,” he said after a moment, “but she already knows I’m not heading to Caa Alora.”
He tugged the reins, slowing Myrtle to a stop. Up ahead, an old man sat hunched beside the road, a bundle of sticks piled beside him. Nekira dismounted, brushing the dust from his hands as he approached.
“Are you all right, old one?” he asked.
The man looked up through thick, overgrown brows. “Selling what I can find,” he croaked. “Need coin for grain.”
Nekira’s gaze fell to the sticks. Among the bundle was a long, sturdy branch, weathered but straight. “How much for that one?” he asked, nodding toward it.
Amira’s voice murmured in his head, amused. Why are you buying a twig?
The old man blinked. “That? Hmm… a silver piece, maybe.”
Nekira smiled, shaking his head. “No. For that magnificent branch, I’ll pay you four gold pieces.”
The old man’s mouth dropped open. “Four—? That’s robbery in reverse!”
“Then let me be guilty of kindness,” Nekira said softly, pressing the coins into the man’s palm and closing his hand around them. “Buy yourself grain, and meat too, if you can find it.”
The man’s eyes shone as he nodded his thanks. Nekira picked up the branch — heavier than it looked — and tucked it under his arm as he walked back to Myrtle.
Still seems like a twig to me, Amira teased.
“Maybe,” Nekira said with a faint grin. “But it’s a good one.”
Santaya snorted softly, Kristolia tilting her head in that curious way of hers. Nekira mounted up again, and the small company continued down the road, the branch resting across his saddle — no more than wood for now, yet somehow fitting in his hand.
Nekira reached into the saddlebag and pulled out a small knife, its handle worn smooth from years of use. He rested the long branch across his knee and began to carve, slow and methodical, the shavings falling away like curled feathers. Myrtle plodded along the road at her own easy pace, the rhythmic thud of her hooves blending with the steady scrape of the blade.
Santaya and Kristolia trotted alongside, sometimes darting ahead to sniff at the underbrush, sometimes circling back to check on him. The sun slid lazily across the sky, and hours passed in comfortable silence broken only by the sound of the wind and distant birds.
When the road curved, a blackened patch caught Nekira’s eye — the remains of an old campfire, nothing more than ash and half-burned wood. He slowed Myrtle and frowned, recognising the spot.
A small clearing sat just beyond the road, framed by a weathered oak whose bark bore faint scars. He dismounted, sliding the knife back into his belt, and walked toward it.
As he approached, memory tugged at him — flashes of snarling teeth, blood on leaves, and the terrified cries of two small wolves. Santaya and Kristolia had stopped too, watching him closely, their ears pinned back as if they too remembered.
Near the base of the oak lay the bleached bones of a bear, its ribs half-buried beneath moss and fallen leaves. Nekira crouched beside the remains, tracing a finger along the skull’s curve.
“This is where I found you,” he murmured, glancing at the wolves.
Kristolia padded closer, pressing her head gently against his shoulder. Santaya gave a quiet whine.
Nekira gave a small, sad smile and brushed the dirt from his hands. “Guess we’ve all come a long way since then.”
The wolves stayed close as he stood, and for a moment, the air felt thick with old echoes — the ghost of fear, the sharp scent of youth, and the strange thread of fate that had bound them all together from that day onward.
Then he climbed back into Myrtle’s saddle, the unfinished carving resting across his lap, and they continued down the road toward whatever waited next.
Nekira gave Myrtle a light tap on her flank, and the mare started forward again, her hooves crunching softly over the road. The forest thickened as they went, shadows deepening under the trees until a tangle of brambles gave way to what looked like an overgrown trail — faint, but still there. He reined her in and peered down. The earth was disturbed: wagon ruts, horse prints, and the muddled tracks of many feet. A few drag marks scarred the dirt, old but distinct.
“This is the path the refugees took…” he muttered. He leaned forward and patted Myrtle’s neck. “Follow it, girl.”
The mare obeyed, picking her way carefully through the brush. Santaya and Kristolia padded ahead, alert but eager, their noses twitching as they caught the scents of old passage. The air grew stiller, cooler, filled with the hush of leaves whispering above.
Then a familiar fragrance hit him — faint at first, then unmistakable. A mix of honey and dew and sun-warmed petals. He straightened in the saddle, his heart suddenly pounding.
“No way,” he whispered.
The trees thinned abruptly, and before him stretched a vast expanse of wildflowers — a sea of colour swaying in the breeze, rolling in waves of violet, gold, and white clear to the horizon.
“Floresith,” he breathed, the word almost reverent.
Santaya and Kristolia bounded forward, yipping and darting through the blossoms, their joy contagious. Nekira couldn’t help but laugh, the sound breaking something heavy inside him. He tugged the reins gently, steering Myrtle to the right. “Go on, girls,” he called, “go re-explore.”
The wolves vanished into the flowers, their fur blending with the shifting hues. A few minutes later, as Myrtle crested a small rise, the remnants of a cottage appeared — or what was left of one. Only one gable end still stood, half-covered in ivy. The rest had been crushed beneath a fallen tree, its trunk silvered with age and moss.
“Stop, Myrtle…” Nekira murmured. The mare halted, and he sat there in silence, eyes tracing the outline of what had once been home.
“This is where I ran to,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “After I woke from the coma… no memory, no past. Just this place, the girls, and Loki.”
He reached out through the link and sent Amira what he saw — the meadow in its golden haze, the shattered cottage, and, overlaid on it, the fragments of memory from years before: the laughter, the firelight, the sense of peace that had once lived here.
In his mind, Amira’s presence warmed. Floresith… she murmured. 'Even in ruin, it’s beautiful.'
Nekira smiled faintly, his gaze distant. “Yeah,” he whispered. “It always was.”
Nekira’s knife moved in steady, patient strokes, the edge whispering against the branch as he shaped it. A small cottage took form under his hands — rough, uneven, but recognisable. A piece of memory carved into wood.
Kristolia’s bark shattered the calm. Sharp. Urgent.
Nekira’s head snapped up. “Kristi?”
No answer, just another bark, distant this time — followed by Santaya’s, higher, strained. He looked toward the sound and spotted her standing on her hind legs, front paws braced against a fallen log, ears rigid.
Something in his gut twisted.
He slid the knife into his belt, took up the branch and reins, and nudged Myrtle forward. The mare obeyed, her steps slow, deliberate, as if she too sensed unease in the air.
As the flowers parted, the scene came into view — and his chest tightened. Santaya and Kristolia sat beside two still forms sprawled in the tall grass. A man and a woman, travel-worn, the same kind of rough clothes the refugees had worn.
Nekira dismounted, the flowers brushing against his knees as he knelt. The air smelled faintly of iron. He turned the man over gently — a deep wound to the back, clean, efficient. Killed while running.
His throat ached as realization struck. “These were the ones left behind,” he murmured. “The stragglers from Knebworth…”
Santaya gave a low whine, her muzzle brushing the woman’s sleeve. Kristolia circled once before lying beside the bodies, silent.
Nekira bowed his head for a moment, then rested the carved branch across his lap. The carved cottage stared up at him, mocking in its small perfection — a symbol of safety in a world that offered none.
Amira’s voice reached him gently through the link. Nekira… What do you see?
He swallowed hard. “Proof,” he said softly. “Refugees, slain from behind as they fled. He doesn’t even let the slow ones live.”
The wolves stayed by the fallen while Nekira stood, his face shadowed with grief and something colder beneath it.
“Let’s bury them,” he said finally. “If we can’t save everyone, we can at least give them peace.”
And together, under the swaying wildflowers of Floresith, they began to dig — a small act of defiance against a king who saw lives as dust.
A few hours later, the graves were done — two mounds of freshly turned earth beneath the wide, gentle sway of wildflowers. Nekira brushed the dirt from his hands and straightened slowly, stretching the stiffness from his back. The sun had dipped lower, spilling gold across the field, and the scent of crushed blossoms hung thick in the air.
He stood there for a moment, silent, eyes tracing the line of broken flowers that marked the refugees’ desperate flight north. Every crushed stem was a footprint in time — a record of fear, struggle, and fleeting hope.
With a quiet exhale, he turned and walked back to Myrtle. The mare waited patiently, tail flicking, her dark eyes soft as if she understood. Nekira mounted up, the leather creaking beneath him, and gathered the reins loosely in one hand.
“Let’s go,” he said, voice low. “Time to follow these tracks.”
Santaya and Kristolia were already ahead, noses to the ground, moving with the purpose of hunters who knew the scent of death all too well.
Before nudging Myrtle forward, Nekira glanced back once more — to the shattered remains of the old cottage, the jagged skeleton of a life once lived in peace. The wind stirred the wildflowers around it, whispering like ghosts.
Then he turned away, eyes narrowing toward the horizon. “No more running,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone.
Myrtle started forward, steady and sure, following the deepening trail that wound north — toward the truth waiting in the ashes of Knebworth.
The forest was quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that settled when the creatures of the wood decided something dangerous was passing through. Even the breeze seemed to hesitate between the trees.
Myrtle’s hooves thudded softly against the damp earth, and Nekira’s knife worked rhythmically, carving patterns into the thick staff balanced across his lap. The shape of two wolves was beginning to emerge beneath his blade, their forms rough but alive in the wood.
Ahead, Santaya froze mid-step, ears pricked and body tense.
Nekira looked up. “What’s up, Santi?”
The wolf’s growl rumbled low in her throat, her fangs bared toward the shadows ahead. Kristolia crouched beside her, hackles raised, a snarl vibrating from her chest.
From between the trees, several shapes emerged—wolves, wild and lean, their fur bristling and eyes glinting in the half-light. The pack moved cautiously, testing the air.
Nekira hushed Myrtle, patting her neck until she stilled. He swung down from the saddle, landing lightly on his feet, and crouched between his companions. “Easy,” he murmured, his voice calm. “They won’t attack unless you do. We’ve just wandered into their territory.”
Straightening slightly, he raised his voice and spoke clearly toward the pack. “We are neither friend nor foe,” he called. “Only passing through—and through again we may come.”
The lead wolf—a massive gray with scarred shoulders—snarled, froth flying from its mouth. Then, with a violent burst of motion, it lunged.
Nekira barely had time to react before something even larger slammed into the alpha mid-leap. The impact sent both wolves tumbling through the underbrush in a crash of snapping branches.
From the shadows stepped a beast unlike any Nekira had ever seen. A dire-wolf, easily four times the size of Santaya, its fur white with streaks of deep brown and its eyes glowing unmistakably purple.
It turned to him briefly, massive chest heaving, and for a heartbeat, its gaze met his. Recognition sparked in both.
Nekira’s breath caught. “Tunstall?” he whispered.
The great wolf’s head tilted. “You know my name, human?” Its voice was deep, resonant—half growl, half speech, echoing directly in Nekira’s mind.
A slow smile spread across Nekira’s face. He stood, lowering his knife hand in peace. “Yes,” he said quietly. Then, switching to the ancient tongue, he addressed the stunned wild pack. The words rolled through the clearing like a warm breeze, soft and commanding, telling them they were among friends.
The wolves hesitated, ears flicking uncertainly, before Tunstall growled once—low, warning. They broke instantly, scattering into the forest’s depths.
Silence returned, thick but less hostile.
Nekira stepped closer, lowering his hood. “Yes, I know your name. You’re the son of Chief Convel and Auburn. I was there the day you were born.”
Tunstall approached slowly, towering over him. His nose brushed Nekira’s shoulder, testing his scent. “You’re the one they called No-Name,” the dire-wolf said at last, voice heavy with recognition.
Nekira nodded faintly, a small, wry smile playing at his lips. “I suppose I still am, to some.”
The great wolf’s eyes softened, a rare warmth flickering in their violet depths. The forest, once tense and watching, seemed to breathe again.
Nekira brushed the wood shavings from his hands and rose to his feet, still half-smiling at the enormous creature before him. “You’re a long way from home, Tunstall. What brings you here?”
The dire-wolf’s ears flicked forward, his massive tail swaying once behind him. “When we come of age,” he rumbled, “we must travel the lands to seek a mate. To win her, we must prove ourselves worthy.”
Nekira nodded, understanding the ancient ways of wolves and their pride. “So you’ve come far and found no such luck yet?”
Tunstall huffed through his nose, a sound somewhere between a snort and a growl, then gave a slow, heavy shake of his head. The gesture was strangely human. “Not yet,” he said, turning his gaze toward the west. “But the world is wide.”
He stepped back, the muscles in his shoulders rippling like drawn ropes beneath his fur. “Until next time, No-Name.”
Before Nekira could reply, the great wolf bounded away, vanishing into the forest shadows with thunderous grace.
Nekira exhaled, a chuckle escaping him as he turned back toward Myrtle. “A wolf of few words,” he said softly.
Nekira reached for the stirrup, then hesitated, his hand resting on the worn leather. He glanced over his shoulder at Santaya and Kristolia, their fur catching dappled light through the trees. “You know,” he said quietly, “you can both go and search for a mate if you want to. It’s not something I’d ever hold against either of you.”
The wolves exchanged a look, one of those silent conversations that seemed to carry whole paragraphs of thought. Then they barked in unison—short, sharp, and unmistakably defiant. Nekira couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking his head as he swung into the saddle.
“All right then,” he murmured, adjusting his grip on the reins. “Your choice.”
Santaya and Kristolia took their places in front of him, moving with that easy, predatory grace, their tails swaying in rhythm as Myrtle followed behind. The forest closed around them again—branches whispering overhead, the hush of unseen life folding back into its secret patterns—as they continued down the long, shadowed trail.
They’d been on the road for days, moving like ghosts through the forest—silent, purposeful, never lingering longer than a few hours. When the air finally cooled into that deep evening calm, Nekira decided enough was enough. Time to rest properly.
He dismounted, letting Myrtle graze freely. No need to tether her; she’d never wander far. He gathered a small bundle of dry twigs and brush, coaxing a modest flame to life. The crackle of fire was a welcome sound—civilised, familiar—cutting through the wilderness hush. Santaya and Kristolia slipped away into the trees, their shapes vanishing like smoke as they went to hunt.
Nekira stretched out on his bedroll, leaning against the rough bark of a tree, staff in hand. It was no longer just a branch—it had become a story in wood. Tiny carvings wound along its length: the cottage at Floresith, the two wolves, Amira in flight, Vivi and Tivor, Tara’s quiet smile, Elqiana’s sweeping wings. Even Meera the swallow and Timtur the squirrel perched there, forever frozen mid-motion. Each mark a memory, each line a name he refused to forget.
The firelight danced across the carvings, and for the first time in days, Nekira allowed himself to breathe without purpose.
The fire crackled quietly, painting flickers of amber across Nekira’s face as he whispered, “Gabija.”
The water in the bronze bowl shivered, then steadied—shifting like liquid glass until the familiar, elegant features of the Elven Queen came into focus. Her silver hair shimmered faintly, eyes like pale moonlight catching the fire’s reflection. For a heartbeat, she said nothing—just looked at him.
“Nekira,” she said at last, her voice softer than he’d ever heard it. “You’re alive.” Relief and something else—something deeper—moved behind her words. “By the stars, I thought Thomaz’s reach had found you.”
He tilted his head, trying to read her expression. “Not yet. Though he’s never far.”
The Queen exhaled, her shoulders easing. “You have a habit of standing too close to the flame.” Her gaze darted to the trees behind him, scanning the shadows as though expecting someone—or something—to be listening.
“I tried to reach you in Caa Alora,” she continued, hesitating on his name. “When you didn’t come, I feared…” She stopped herself, catching her breath. For a moment, the distance between them—miles of earth and air—felt paper-thin.
“You feared what?” Nekira asked quietly.
Her eyes flicked away. “Nothing that can be safely said through open air.” Her tone changed suddenly, lighter, a queen regaining her composure. “Tell me instead—what are you doing wandering so far from the north roads? Amira tells me little, and when dragons grow secretive, I know trouble brews.”
He smiled faintly, though his eyes stayed tired. “Following the trail from Knebworth. The refugees made it to Edena, but I need to see the village for myself. There are truths buried there I can’t ignore.”
Gabija’s jaw tightened. “Truths, or ghosts?”
“Sometimes they’re the same,” Nekira said.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The Queen’s face softened again—regal still, but fragile in a way only someone deeply burdened could be. “You’ve seen too much death for one lifetime,” she said quietly. “And still you chase after more.”
He looked down at the bowl, watching the faint shimmer of her magic ripple across the water. “If I stop, Gabija, the dead will be all that’s left.”
Something in her expression flickered—admiration, sorrow, and a whisper of guilt. She opened her mouth to speak again, but then froze. Her head turned slightly, as if someone unseen had entered the room on her side of the vision. Her next words were hurried, low. “You are not safe where you are. Keep moving. The King’s eyes have grown long.”
The image wavered, and she leaned forward, her tone dropping to a near whisper. “Nekira—Tara—”
The water snapped into stillness, her image gone as if it had never been.
The fire crackled. Myro tilted her head. “Seems our Queen doesn’t like being cut off mid-sentence.”
The were-cat smiled faintly, her tail curling around her feet. “Either way, you’ve stirred the waters again. Tara will be pleased to know you’re still making trouble.”
Myro’s golden eyes glinted in the firelight, her black fur blending with the shadows. She stretched slowly, claws clicking faintly against the ground.
Nekira’s gaze met hers. “What of Tara?” he asked cautiously.
Myro’s tail coiled once, sharp and deliberate. “Don’t ask me about her,” she said, every word measured. “If you want to know how Tara fares, you speak to her. You reach out. You call her name yourself.”
She gave a faint flick of her paw toward the copper bowl, its surface still faintly glimmering. “Not through me. She is her own, and I… I am not a messenger.”
Nekira’s fingers hovered over the bowl, hesitating. The temptation to reach out, to see her face again… was there, but he slowly set it down beside him, letting the flicker of firelight dance across the bronze surface instead.
When he looked up again, Myro was gone. No trace of movement, no rustle in the grass—only the faint scent of smoke and rain lingering in the night air.
Nekira exhaled slowly. Her warning was clear, even in absence: questions of Tara were his to ask, and his alone.
The Journey, Book 3: Chapter 3
Chapter 3: Carrots. Tara sat in the saddle on Elqiana’s back, watching the world roll by beneath them. The opal-white dragon’s wings beat slow and steady as they made their way toward the Buradoth Mountains—the home of the Dwarves. 'Is it bad that I love Neks?' Tara’s voice was small against...
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