Morning light filtered through the twisted boughs of the Slitherroots, casting speckled shadows upon the forest floor where two alicorns lay entwined in sleep. An odd pair they made, by any reckoning: one born of Virtusia, the other Fulmenian. Yet here they lay, nestled together beneath the ancient canopy as if the world had never warred or whispered against such unions.
Velzael stirred first. A sliver of golden sun had crept across her face like a thief in daylight, prying her from the quietude of slumber. Her eyes blinked open, slow and wary, and she found Feyn still held close, her wing wrapped around him like a mantle of warmth and warding. She had not meant to hold him so long. Or perhaps she had.
"The night passed quietly…no spirits dared approach," she murmured, more to herself than to him. Her voice was thick with sleep, and she gave her head a shake, casting off the remnants of her dreams like dew from a morning leaf. Her movement roused the younger alicorn. Feyn gave a small, reluctant growl, half protest half plea, and shifted, unwilling to greet the day.
A breath of laughter escaped Velzael, surprising even herself. It was a soft sound, foreign to her lips, but she mastered it quickly, schooling her expression before nudging her head gently against his. "Feyn," she said, her voice low and firm, "the sun is up, and so must we be. Today we cross the border into Fulmenia."
Another groan, a yawn that stretched his jaw wide, and Feyn blinked awake. His senses returned sluggishly, and for a moment, he thought a blanket had been thrown across his back in the night. Yet it was too warm, too soft. He twisted his neck and stilled as realization dawned: Velzael's wing still held him, draped like a shield.
A blush crept unbidden across his cheeks. His ears drooped, and he dared a glance at her from the corner of his eye. There she was. Calm, watchful, her strength felt in the quiet press of her body against his. She was warmer than he'd imagined her to be, and safer too, though the thought made his heart stammer in his chest.
He scrambled to his paws, ears low and angled sideways, his gaze darting anywhere but to her. "I'm up…I'm up," he muttered, as if that would erase what had passed in the night. Velzael noted the way his breath came quick, the way his eyes avoided hers. She knew the look well—embarrassment cloaked in feigned urgency—and chose not to press him.
Instead, she rose with measured grace and began gathering their things. "Let's ready ourselves. If we press hard, we can reach Aemna before nightfall. Caseneas lies on the way, and if we pass through, we can make use of their transport service. It'll hasten the journey."
Feyn hesitated, his brow furrowing with uncertainty. "Vel…? The Sleeping River lies between us and Caseneas, doesn't it? Wouldn't going around it take more than a day?"
Velzael gave a low chuckle, almost a hum. She inclined her head, her expression unreadable. "It does. And we won't be going around."
With that, she turned and stepped into the woods, her wings half-spread as she wove between the roots and shadows. Behind her, the young Fulmenian stood for a moment longer, staring after her with wary eyes. Then, without another word, he followed.
***
The murmur of the river reached them long before the sight of it. A low, constant whisper, as if the land itself was sighing. They had walked for the better part of an hour beneath the tangled limbs of the forest, neither speaking much. Only the crunch of hooves and paws on fallen leaves and the occasional rustle of wings broke the hush, along with the quiet chewing of rations consumed without joy. There was little need for words; both were wrapped in thought, especially the younger.
Feyn's mind gnawed at the same problem over and over as they moved: the river. The Sleeping River. A name whispered in old travelogues and half-remembered tales. Wide, deep, and without mercy to the careless. No crossing spanned it here. No stones jutted forth to form a path, no fallen trees offered passage. The far bank, shrouded in mist and distance, was slightly more than a smudge beyond the blue expanse. Too far to swim. Too far even to see clearly.
He doubted wings would help them, either. Flying would drain them, and they would need every bit of strength should they encounter another rogue band, as had happened before. Their reserves were not infinite. Not here. Not so near the border.
So caught up was he in his brooding that he nearly walked straight into the river itself. One of his front paw had already hovered above the water when Velzael came to a halt, her hooves breaking the surface with a soft splash. Only then did he realize how close they'd come. He blinked, startled, as if waking from a spell.
Velzael turned her head slightly, a sly curve at the edge of her mouth. "Well, Feyn," she said, voice light with mischief, "have you figured out how we'll cross this lovely stretch of water?" One wing unfolded from her side, sweeping grandly toward the river like a bard unveiling a stage. The waters glittered beneath the early sun, wide as any lake, the current lazy but strong—the place where the river was born from its mother lake. The worst place to find a ford.
Feyn stared at it, bleakness creeping into his eyes. "I don't know," he admitted, the words bitter as old ash on his tongue.
The Virtusian gave a low chuckle, warm and amused. "You're right, in part. This isn't the path most alicorns would choose. But perhaps you've forgotten who it is you're traveling with." She gave him a wink, a glint of steel behind the jest, and in the next breath, everything changed.
The world seemed to fall away as Velzael's form shimmered, not with the soft grace of illusion, but with the unmistakable weight of truth reshaping itself. Where once stood an alicorn of tempered poise, now towered a creature out of legend. Scales the color of storm-silver caught the light of the sun. Horn curled like an ancient diamond root. Wings unfurled, vast and unrelenting, and the ground itself seemed to hush in reverence.
Feyn's breath caught. His pupils widened, drinking in every inch of her draconic form. He had seen it before—or thought he had—veiled in fog, cloaked in chaos and grief. But here and now, beneath the clean morning sky with the river's light dancing behind her, she was something else entirely.
Not terrifying. Majestic.
Her scales caught the sunlight like polished silver mail, casting ripples of brilliance across the river's surface. Each movement shimmered. Not merely a reflection, but a dance of light made flesh. Feyn found himself staring again, lips parted, breath held. The beauty of it was staggering, but with it came a heat crawling across his face. His ears dipped low as the flush crept over his cheeks once more, and he averted his gaze like a child caught in the act of dreaming too openly.
"So…how do you want me to cross with you?" he asked, voice awkward and uncertain, his paws shuffling the stones beneath him as if they might offer some distraction from his own discomfort.
Velzael turned her head toward him, something amused but not unkind flickering behind her eyes. "Climb on," she said with a grin, half-serious, half-teasing. "You'll stay dry on my back while I swim. Good training for me, and better than watching you flail about in the current."
Feyn hesitated, caught between reluctance and trust, but the latter won. Slowly—and with all the careful, unsure grace of one mounting a great beast for the first time—he climbed up her scaled flank and settled just between her wings. His front paws came to rest along the strong column of her neck, and the packs remained strapped to his back, high and dry. Velzael stepped forward into the shallows, her great tail trailing behind like a living rudder, her body cutting clean lines through the still water.
The moment her claws left the riverbed, and she began to swim, Feyn could feel the difference. There was no struggle in her movement, no thrashing of limbs. She glided, sleek and strong, the way old songs spoke of river spirits, creatures too graceful to be real. The world became quieter in the middle of the river, the water lapping gently around them, sun warm upon his back.
Feyn lowered his front paws, letting the tips dip into the cool current, and a soft laugh escaped him. Not loud, not mocking, just a breath of innocent delight. He swirled the water idly, watching the ripples chase each other outward. Then Velzael, with a flick of mischief, sent a splash up toward his hind legs using her tail.
He yelped and recoiled, pulling his limbs up sharply. A puzzled grunt rumbled from Velzael.
"S-sorry," he muttered, ears folding back. "I don't know why, but I've never liked water on my hind legs."
Velzael chuckled. Not cruelly, but gently, like an old friend humoring the other's quirks. Still, she made a silent note to keep his hind legs dry.
"Feyn…" she said after a pause, her voice quieter now, tempered by thought, "once you've earned your license…do you eventually want to become a Bounty Hunter?"
She remembered too well the fervor in his eyes when he spoke of protecting others. A fire not yet fully stoked, but burning nonetheless.
The Fulmenian shifted slightly. "I…For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a Harmonizer," he said at last, voice soft with uncertainty. "A researcher. I always imagined myself at the Academy. I don't really know why…but that dream's always been there."
His gaze drifted to the horizon, the far bank slowly drawing near. The water glittered between them and the world he spoke of—a world of study, of balance, of minds rather than blades. "My mother, my sister—they're both Protectors, Weapon Masters," he added, almost to himself. "But I've always leaned toward…understanding. Toward magic."
Velzael felt the unease ripple through him like a shift in the current and turned her head ever so slightly, offering him a faint, knowing smile. "There's no need to fret over it now," she said, voice smooth as worn leather. "You still have time, Feyn. At least until you've earned the Opal rank. Only then can you speak of bounty hunting."
Feyn gave a slow nod, his gaze trailing over the endless blue ahead. "Could one be both a Harmonizer and a Bounty Hunter?" he asked, ears twitching with curiosity. "From what I've seen…you seem more like a Weapon Master."
Velzael let out a low hum, not quite a laugh. "Every Bounty Hunter begins in one of two crafts: blade or spell. Some hone their bodies, others their minds. I've met many of our kind who trained as Harmonizers before they took up the Hunter's mantle."
At that, Feyn's shoulders eased. A small smile touched his face, as if a weight had shifted. The idea that he could devote himself to his magic first, and let fate decide the rest, brought a sense of peace he hadn't expected.
The water moved gently beneath them, the river's hush blending with the rhythm of Velzael's strokes. Silence settled, but not for long. Curiosity stirred in Feyn again like a wind across still water.
"Vel…may I ask," he said slowly, his voice lowered with care, "why you became a Bounty Hunter?"
She did not answer at once. Beneath him, her body stiffened almost imperceptibly, the smooth cadence of her swimming faltering for the span of a breath. But then she exhaled and spoke, light-hearted in tone, but not in truth.
"It's a tale you've likely heard before. One told too often in taverns and training camps." A short chuckle followed, but there was iron beneath it. "Some rogue Virtusian alicorns came down on my town when I was young. They burned it. Killed my parents, others too. I swore I'd find them again…and make them answer."
She told it with the detachment of someone who'd repeated it too many times, each telling dulling the edge but never quite breaking the blade. There was a tightness to her words that belied the calm. Pain chained and buried, but never forgotten.
Feyn heard it—felt it—in every measured syllable. And though he knew she'd spoken plainly, he also knew what she hadn't said. They had not known one another long. She owed him no confessions. And he, in truth, had no right to her wounds.
Still, something moved him. He leaned forward and wrapped his front limbs gently around her neck, a quiet gesture, a kind answer to a story he could not heal. He offered nothing but presence.
Velzael blinked in surprise. She had not expected comfort. But she did not pull away. She let him hold her, let the moment pass in silence, until the river began to narrow and the scent of familiar trees stirred the air.
"We're nearly there," she said at last, the change in her voice barely perceptible but real. She nodded toward the rising green bank ahead. "Fulmenia's just minutes away."
Feyn looked up. The blue canopy of home came into view, unmistakable in its hue and shape. A surge of warmth rose in his chest. After all they'd seen, all they'd spoken, he was nearly home again.
***
An hour's walk beneath Fulmenia's towering canopy had dried the remnants of river water from their coats, though Feyn had scarcely needed it. Velzael's precise, measured swimming had kept him dry, save for a splash or two. The trees thinned gradually, replaced by the unmistakable signs of civilization: carved stone markers hidden beneath ivy, sun-warmed trails, and the faint smell of smoke and baked food carried on the breeze. They had found their way at last to Caseneas, crown-jewel of the eastern Fulmenian frontier.
Caseneas, a city of spires and storm-warded stone, rose before them with the confidence of a kingdom. It hummed with life, each street a stream of movement and purpose. Alicorns, young and old, trudged through the city's arteries, many clad in light armor or shimmering robes, slipping between Guild Inns, market stalls, and the ever-lively taverns that spilled laughter and lamplight into the morning air. Velzael had traveled far in her years. She had seen mountain cities carved into cliffs and settlements nestled in the roots of sleeping titans, but rarely had she lingered in a place so thick with voices and purpose. Rogues seldom stirred trouble where law was heavy and eyes were many.
And yet it was not the press of bodies that caught her eye. It was the city itself.
The buildings stood proud upon broad avenues paved with black-veined stone. Pillars rose from every corner, chiseled in elegant symmetry and etched at the capitals with designs both ancient and deliberate. Spirals of wind, curling clouds, and jagged bolts of lightning twisted around the columns, their artistry more than ornamental. The rooftops—some domed, others steep and triangular—were tiled in shades of fiery orange, each edge stitched with lightning motifs. From them trailed slender metal veins running down the flanks of buildings like vines turned to silver.
Feyn, seeing the look in her eyes, grinned with pride that was unmistakably Fulmenian. "They aren't just pretty, you know," he said, gesturing with a paw toward the filigreed channels. "Each one's part of a redirection system. They pull lightning from the sky, carry it down into the ground. So no one gets struck inside when a storm hits. And it happens really often in Fulmenia!"
Velzael raised an eyebrow, glancing from one rooftop to another. "You trap the sky itself. Fitting, for a folk who live in its shadow." Her eyes lingered on one of the higher columns, where a thunderhead had been carved into the capital, lightning bolts branching from its base into the ceiling's stonework like veins into flesh.
Their path took them past a rounded building that bore the scent of baked spice and damp wood. An inn, by the look of it. Its wide, circular window caught Velzael's eye, not because of the stained glass or the golden trim, but because of the symbol etched into its heart: a coiled Fulm, curled in slumber, its tail wrapped round its own nose. She chuckled under her breath, memory drawing her back to a time when she'd chased the mischievous little spirits through the wilds for the sake of a ration pouch.
They moved on, hooves and paws echoing on the wide, tiled road that cut through the city's spine. Shops flanked the street, their walls worked with polished stone, some inlaid with tiny lightning stones or Fulmenian sigils. One storefront in particular caught Feyn's attention, a crystal dealer, by the look of it. The display shelves shimmered with communication crystals, each one pulsing faintly like a heart in dreamless sleep. Even the building itself seemed shaped by them, the stonework channeling light in subtle glows around its windows and doors.
Feyn slowed, his eyes catching the glimmer of violet crystal behind the pane. It stirred a memory of something he'd glimpsed the day before.
"Vel…" Feyn's voice broke through the din of Caseneas' bustle, quieter than the market cries but weighted with thought. "Do you still have that Bounty Hunter crystal? The one you used to capture the rogue leader's mana signature?"
Velzael slowed, hooves pausing midstep on the stone road. The question struck harder than expected. She turned her head slightly, her mane catching a wisp of wind. "I do," she answered, voice even but edged with caution. "Why do you ask?" She hadn't thought he'd speak of that rogue again—not so soon, not after what it had done to him.
Feyn's eyes were narrowed with thought, the spark of curiosity alive in them again, though it flickered beneath a shadow of something deeper. "It's strange…back at the Academy, I saw a signature that mirrored his. Similar, yet opposite, like a twin born in darkness instead of light. It wasn't normal. Not even close. All my studies, even if I'm still young, the cycles I've spent unraveling spell patterns and resonance flows, I've never seen anything like it."
Velzael regarded him a moment, weighing his words, and then gave a quiet nod. "You want to study it." It wasn't a question. She had seen that hunger in his eyes before—the craving not just to know, but to understand, to dissect and master the mysteries others overlooked. "Then we go to the biggest Guild Inn," she said. "It's the heart of Caseneas. We'll split the crystal. One part for you to study, and the other I'll send to the Academy. They'll want it in the archives."
Feyn's ears lifted, the gloom breaking with the force of his excitement. "Really? Thank you!" His voice lifted with bright energy, and before she could stop him, he was bounding down the stoneway with the eagerness of an Ardenian seeing his first fireball match. He veered left at a fork in the road, toward the residential quarter lined with whitewashed homes and copper lanterns.
"Not that way," Velzael called after him, but he was already trotting deeper into the wrong path. With a sigh, she reached out and caught him by the tail, tugging gently. He stumbled back, offering her a sheepish grin that made her chuckle despite herself. "Stick close," she muttered, bemused, and led him down the correct street, one lined with banners bearing the crests of the Guilds and etched flagstones that sparked faintly underhoof.
Their destination soon rose before them, unmistakable even amidst the splendor of Caseneas: the largest Guild Inn in the city. Its façade was guarded by six towering pillars, each carved with a distinct school of magic, each one pulsing faintly as if drawing breath from the very ley-lines that ran beneath Fulmenia. Above the threshold, set into the broad arch of the roof, was the symbol of Python, the ever-watchful regent of the Primordial Pantheon. Her emblem rested at the center, surrounded by the six other symbols of the Pantheon, as though they upheld her reign and kept the heavens in their turning.
The doors before them were a masterwork of old Fulmenian craft: twin slabs of redheart wood inlaid with veins of electricity and etched in the spiraling motif of a thunderstorm, each bolt leading to a burnished handle shaped like a lightning-wreathed horn.
Inside, the warmth of the inn pressed around them like a cloak. The hum of voices, the scent of roasted roots and spiced mead, the creak of timber above—it was all alive, a living thing. Tables crowded the main hall, each one host to alicorns of every stripe and kingdom.
And yet, for all the colors and creeds gathered beneath the inn's vaulted ceiling, one thing was conspicuously absent.
Velzael's eyes narrowed slightly. "Not many Virtusians here," she murmured.
It was true. This lightning-born city had gathered the world's tribes under its banners, but her own kin were scarce. Whether it was wariness, history, or something unspoken in the Fulmenian wind, the void was not lost on her.
They crossed the threshold of the Guild Inn's main hall and made their way to the reception desk, where a white-maned Fulmenian sat behind a broad counter of polished stormwood, her horn faintly aglow with magic script. It was Velzael who stepped forward to speak, for Feyn, though of age and bearing the heart of a storm, was not yet counted among the Protectors.
Velzael's voice was low and measured, carrying the weight of duty and the tempered steel of experience. She spoke of the confrontation in the Slitherroots Woods, of rogue alicorns drawn to ruin and blood, of their fall beneath her claws and Feyn's magic. The underlings had been subdued by fellow Guild members and taken into custody already, she said, but she had come to file the report herself. One of the Rogues, likely their leader, had perished in the struggle.
The old alicorn behind the desk nodded in quiet recognition. She knew Velzael by reputation if not by face. Her name, etched into ledgers of battle and bounty, needed no introduction. Without a word, the receptionist retrieved a bundle of forms—stiff parchment bearing the seal of Fulmenia and the ink of dead storms—and passed them across the desk to the Virtusian.
Velzael took the papers in clawed hoof, and with the grace of one long-accustomed to the tedium of war's aftermath, she began to write. Her pen moved with sure strokes, yet there was a care in her script that spoke of something more. This was no mere report for coin or rank. This one would be passed to the Guild's upper circle…and from there, to the academicians of the Academy.
She wrote of the potion, the strange elixir the rogue had consumed just before his body twisted into something more spirit than alicorn. She described how the transformation defied common alchemy.
And then, carefully, she recorded what her pupil had discovered. Feyn, keen-eyed and quietly brilliant, had sensed a mana signature within the rogue that did not belong to him. It had been absorbed into the crystal upon death. An echo, perhaps, or a tethered shard of another being. Velzael ensured the detail was not overlooked.
She updated Feyn's records as well, naming herself his Examiner, stating officially what was already known between them: that he was her apprentice, and that soon he would stand within the Guild on his own merit—not as a child of Fulmenia, but as a Protector of it.
The sun lingered overhead by the time the last line was signed and sealed. No shadows yet crept across the streets when they left the Guild Inn and walked toward the great white towers of the transportation quarter, where the runed chariots of Fulmenia waited to bear travelers across the kingdoms.
The fare was a mere formality. Velzael's rank and the long string of completed contracts trailing behind her name saw to that. Cycles of silent service, of blades drawn in the dark and foes bested beneath moon and sun, now paid their quiet dues.
They boarded the vessel. Sleek, rune-bound, humming with restrained energy. As it lifted from the platform, the wind caught Feyn's mane and brought with it the scent of thunder and pine. Ahead lay Aemna, gleaming on the horizon like a promise yet unfulfilled.
And behind them, Caseneas faded into the sun's golden blaze, the storm-marked towers watching them go, silent and unblinking.