Almost two hours had passed since they set out for Gravenmoor Hold. None of it felt real. The steps, the motions, the choice.
Cal didn't even know he started measuring time that way. No clock or watch to hear the tick from. Yet, he just knew it had been that long.
Vincent continued to lead the way, pointing left, then walking in long, uninterrupted stretches before suddenly turning right. Twists and turns strewn about here and there.
"Left," Vincent said at one point, lifting a hand without looking back.
Cal followed.
As they continued, the street seemed to bend inward, the stonework older here — cracked cobbles pressed together unevenly, as though the city itself had grown tired of standing straight. This wasn't surprising. Vireldawn was always like this — let alone Lamnor — the worst part of it.
Gas lamps lined the walls at irregular intervals, their glass fogged with soot, their flames wavering weakly despite the still air. Above them, antique balconies jutted outward like misplaced tiles and bricks, wooden beams creaking faintly as if they whispered to one another.
As they continued to walk, Cal's thoughts continued to drift away. Back — not to the forge, not the clang of steel and blades — but to the stillness he had left behind. The kind that only existed in places where nothing challenged one's departure.
"Right," Vincent said soon after, slowing to gesture toward a descending street.
This road sloped downward, funneling them into a district where the buildings crowded closer together. Stone gave way to brick here, dark and damp, patched unevenly over older foundations. Narrow alleys branched off like veins, some choked by refuse, others swallowed entirely by shadow.
Vincent's pace never wavered.
Cal's jaw tightened. The decision he had made — so clear in the moment — now pressed against him from all sides. Leaving hadn't been the hard part. It was understanding what exactly he had abandoned that unsettled him. Familiar routes. Familiar shadows. A life measured in routines rather than uncertainty.
Vincent slowed as the street ahead widened. The city seemed to draw a breath.
Before them rose the arch.
This was it. This was the junction.
It stood where Gravenmoor Hold separated itself from the rest of Vireldawn. It was an immense structure of blackened stone reinforced with iron bands thick enough to stop almost anything. Cal had heard about it, of course. Darius would tell him about Vireldawn and its landmarks for hours on end when Cal was younger, so this arch was something he had heard of multiple times. Enough times to bore any man to death.
It dwarfed the surrounding structures, its scale out of place in a nation so often overlooked. A relic from an era when Vireldawn had mattered. When it had possessed enough authority — or fear — to mark its boundaries so decisively.
For all of Vireldawn's decay, this arch loomed as something absolute. Proof that even a backwater nation stood under something greater. That borders here were not merely lines on a map but enforced truths.
Up close, the inside of the arch revealed so much, yet so little.
Though lifeless, the structure reduced him all the same.
This was his first time seeing it, and the realization struck him with unexpected force. All these years, and he'd never had reason to come this far. Never needed to cross this threshold. His world had been smaller then. Contained.
Now, this arch was nothing but a verdict. Looming over him, was the finality of everything he once knew.
And much like the rest of Lamnor, not many people were found here either. But that didn't matter. None of it mattered in the face of the decision Cal made hours ago.
Normally, this arch was a boundary. A reminder that Vireldawn was always closed off from the power that flowed through the viscera of the outside world.
Cal exhaled deeply and stepped forward. Lamnor receded — not vanished but diminished. Ahead lay Gravenmoor Hold, and beyond that, roads he had never walked before.
For the first time in many years, the barrier between Vireldawn and what lay beyond began to break.
The streets beyond the arch widened, then tightened again, forming deliberate channels rather than organic sprawl. Stone dominated here — darker, denser, cut with purpose rather than age. The buildings rose taller than those in Lamnor. And although this place wasn't of much grandeur, there was a small hint of opulence here that Lamnor had lacked entirely.
All of it felt measured.
And that notion made Cal slow in his steps.
This place didn't welcome wandering.
Yet Vincent walked in with familiarity. Cal noticed him walk by with almost no perturbations, his eyebrows knitting in confusion.
"You don't seem to mind this much," Cal said.
Vincent let out a soft scoff before turning back to him. "You get used to it when you spend majority of your life here. But this place isn't much once you see it for what it is."
Cal nodded slowly, trying to piece it all together. How someone lived in such a place for all their life without any issues.
Cal didn't ask.
They continued deeper, the city's silhouette shifting subtly — chimneys replacing spires, iron bridges spanning narrow canals of black water, the distant thrum of unseen machinery echoing through the stone. The lamps burned brighter here, their flames steady and unforgiving, casting sharp-edged shadows that refused to soften.
After a time, Vincent broke the silence, his voice rising in anticipation.
"What'll you do if you win?" he asked a bit too quickly.
The question hung there, premature and exposed.
Cal didn't answer right away.
"It's too soon to ask that," he said at last. "You're rushing ahead."
Vincent slowed. His gaze dropped.
"Sorry," Vincent said. "I... I'm just a little excited for you, I guess."
Cal glanced at him for a moment, his eyes widening a bit before he turned away. "No, it's fine."
But those words lingered.
Excited for me, huh? What aren't you happy about?
Such a question seemingly had no answer to Cal. When Cal saved Vincent from those scavengers, Vincent found no repulsion in the deaths of those men but rather smiled in the face of Cal's skill and act of help. When learning skills in the workshop, he smiled at all the mistakes, and was in awe of Cal's expertise. When the messengers from the Empire came, Vincent smiled like no other.
And now, in the face of being left behind, Vincent still didn't pay any mind to such a decision. He was happy.
Would I want to go... if he wasn't so excited for me?
The question pricked at Cal's mind like an itch that desperately needed scratching but couldn't be reached. No possible answer to it.
Cal only knew him for one week. And yet that week felt as if it spanned many years.
The runecarriage terminals emerged from the fog ahead — a vast iron complex anchored into the stone like a grafted limb. Tall spires rose above it, each crowned with dimly glowing runes that pulsed in slow, mechanical rhythm. Tracks ran into the structure's depths, vanishing into darkness, while iron platforms stretched outward like ribs.
Officials in dark coats stood stationed at brass gates, their faces obscured by high collars and shadowed visors. Cal knew that behind that ambiguity, their faces held nothing but laziness.
It was how everyone in Lamnor operated — everyone except Darius and himself.
The brass gates stood partially ajar, just wide enough to allow passage. Vincent slowed near them, his steps finally hesitating for the first time since they had entered Gravenmoor.
An official stepped forward.
His coat was long and dark, tailored with rigid precision, the fabric worn smooth by years of repetition. A high collar obscured most of his face, though Cal could still see the dullness in his eyes — not hostility, not curiosity, but something closer to practiced indifference. One gloved hand rested on a metal ledger affixed to his belt; the other held a narrow stamp etched with runic markings.
"Destination," the official said.
No introductions. No greetings.
Cal met the man's gaze. "Nareth."
The stamp paused midair.
The official straightened slightly, his posture tightening by a fraction so small it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. His eyes sharpened, the laze peeling back just enough to reveal something alert beneath it.
"The purpose of your travel?"
Cal didn't hesitate. "The Merlin Trials?"
For a moment, the official studied him.
Not in the way of a man sizing up another — but like one examining an object that had suddenly deviated from expectation. His stance shifted, boots aligning more carefully on the stone. The runes etched into the stamp glimmered faintly, reacting to something unseen.
Then, just as quickly, the tension dissolved.
The official exhaled, shoulders sagging back into their former slouch. His expression dulled once more, interest evaporating as if it had never been there.
"Three silver crescents," he said flatly.
Cal wasted no time, fishing into his pouch and pulling out what the man had requested.
"Here," Cal said.
As Cal handed them over, Vincent stepped back instinctively, already preparing himself for what came next.
"Well," Vincent said, forcing a lightness into his voice. "Guess this is where-"
"Come with me."
The words left Cal before Vincent could even finish.
He froze.
Cal didn't turn back when he said it. His eyes remained on the official, on the ledger, on anything but Vincent's face, as if this was something that they both should've known since the beginning. However, the words had slipped out awkwardly, unpolished, as though they'd bypassed whatever internal filter usually kept him measured.
Vincent blinked twice.
"W-What?" he asked incredulously.
Cal finally glanced at him, brows knitting faintly. "To Nareth," he clarified. "Come with me."
Vincent continued to stare, genuinely baffled. "But... I can't participate in the trials!"
"I know," Cal replied.
"Isn't that the whole point of going?" Vincent asked weakly.
Cal shifted his weight, the coins clinking softly in his palm. "You don't have to."
Vincent's confusion deepened. "Then why would I-"
Cal hesitated before sighing deeply. The pause stretched just long enough to be uncomfortable.
"It'd be..." he started, trying to articulate the mess of emotions and oddity of his words. "It'd be nice. To have someone there, supporting me."
The admission felt unbearably awkward when they reached Cal's ears. He felt his insides squirm in discomfort, knowing his request came out as something lacking polish or confidence.
Vincent didn't speak for a while.
His mouth opened slightly, then closed. His eyes searched Cal's face, as if waiting for the punchline — for the moment where Cal would scoff and retract the offer.
It never came.
"A-Are you sure?" he asked, trying to gather his thoughts. "Having me there with you? I... I don't want to be in your way."
Cal scoffed under his breath. "You won't. It's not like you were before."
Vincent hesitated even more. "It's just-"
"Vincent," Cal said, cutting him off. "Are we friends?"
The question came out rough, like a foreign phrase forced into use. Cal's expression remained guarded, but there was no dismissal in his eyes — only uncertainty.
Vincent's breath caught.
Friends.
The word struck him harder than he expected.
"I..." he swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, then smiled. A smile that was small and unguarded. Not that of mockery or humor.
Vincent nodded slowly before replying. "Y-Yeah, I think we are."
Cal nodded once, as though confirming something to himself. "Then is coming with me really that bad?"
For a moment, Vincent said nothing.
Then the smile widened, warmth blooming across his face — an expression of innocent, unfiltered joy that he made no effort to hide.
"Are you sure?" he asked once again, almost as if this entire conversation was just a dream that had no right to become real.
Cal paused for a moment before nodding again.
Vincent laughed under his breath; disbelief laced through it. "Then… yeah. I'll come."
At those words, something in Cal shifted. A subtle loosening around the eyes, a release of tension he hadn't realized he was carrying. And for the first time in what felt like forever, a smile crossed his face. Unpracticed. Real.
The official cleared his throat.
Cal turned back, placing the three silver crescents onto the ledger's surface. The official swept them away without comment.
"Additional passenger," Cal added, setting down three more coins.
The official stamped the ledger once, the sound sharp and final. "Carriage twelve. Platform East."
With that, he stepped aside.
They passed through the gates together.
The runecarriage waited beyond — a massive iron construct resting atop runed rails, its body segmented and reinforced, windows narrow and dimly lit from within. Steam hissed softly from vents along its sides, and the low hum of embedded sigils thrummed beneath Cal's boots as they approached.
They boarded without ceremony.
Inside, the carriage was sparse. Rows of iron-framed seats lined the interior, upholstered in dark leather worn smooth by countless travelers. The air smelled faintly of oil and old magic.
Vincent took a seat near the window, still wearing that stunned smile.
Cal sat beside him.
The doors shut with a heavy clang, the carriage lurching forward at the same time. The station began to slide away, iron and stone swallowed by fog.
Gravenmoor Hold — and by extension, Vireldawn — began to vanish behind them, and Cal knew that something was coming up ahead.
Nareth. The Trials. Everything unknown.
These were things he secretly wished to know and venture into, and they were always tied down by reservations in solitude.
But for the first time, Cal wasn't facing it alone. And that was more than enough.