Silence filled the carriage as the implications of the message settled over them.

Outside, the cheerful sounds of the countryside—birds singing, wind rustling through grain fields, the distant lowing of cattle—seemed to mock the gravity of what they had just learned.

"Two days," Baren said finally.

"If we push hard, change horses at every way station..."

"We can make it," Baren finished.

Jaenor and Odessa both looked at each other, thinking.

Baren leaned out the window and called to the driver. "Old man! Can these horses make double-time to Hanompetra?"

"Aye, if you don't mind paying for the privilege," came the reply. "And if you're willing to switch to fresh teams at every post house between here and there."

Baren turned to Jaenor and waited for him to tell the old man, but Jaenor remained silent.

"Tell me, Jaenor. I don't have any coin on me."

Jaenor looked at Odessa, and she could tell that he wanted to go with him; she nodded, telling him to go.

Jaenor nodded to the old man.

As the carriage lurched forward with increased speed, his bird took flight again, circling overhead before disappearing into the distance—returning to Morgana with news of their coming.

But one thing was certain: the reunion that awaited them in Hanompetra would be far from the joyous celebration they had originally envisioned.

Odessa had this disapproving look on her face about going to the fortress. She didn't think it was a good idea for Jaenor to be with the witches.

But she didn't say no, as he seemed eager to meet his friends.

-

Two days of hard travel through increasingly treacherous terrain brought Morgana's group to the edge of the known world, where civilization made its final stand against the encroaching shadows that plagued the Empire's north eastern borders.

The Darekania Hills rose before them like the spine of some slumbering giant, their peaks arranged in a great curved pattern that stretched across the horizon before extending eastward and westward in long, protective ridges.

The hills themselves told a story of ancient conflicts written in stone and soil.

They act as a natural wall between the humans and dark legions.

Dark volcanic rock jutted through patches of hardy grass that somehow managed to thrive in soil tainted by generations of ghastly conflict. Twisted trees grew in impossible formations, their branches reaching toward a sky that seemed perpetually overcast in this region, as if the very heavens recoiled from what lay beyond the mountains.

At the center of this natural fortress, perched upon a flattened hilltop that commanded views in all directions, stood Berdhshire Fortress.

The structure rose from the living rock like an extension of the mountain itself, its black stone walls seamlessly blending with the volcanic foundations beneath. Four massive towers marked the cardinal directions, each one crowned with enhanced ballistae capable of striking targets miles away.

Between the towers, battlements stretched in perfect geometric precision, their surfaces inscribed with protective wards.

The fortress served as the Empire's primary bulwark against the Dark Lands creatures that lay beyond the north eastern peaks—a realm where corrupted Origin-energy had spawned horrors that defied natural law.

For several centuries, Berdhshire had stood as an impregnable barrier, its walls never breached, its garrison never defeated.

Yet now, as Morgana gazed upon its imposing silhouette, she couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed.

The group looked like ants standing in front of an elephant as they stood before the hills.

Before the fortress, nestled in the valley between protective hills, lay Berdhshire Town—a settlement that existed purely to support the military installation above.

Though not large by the standards of the Empire's great cities, it bustled with the constant activity of a strategic crossroads. The streets teemed with soldiers on leave, merchants selling supplies, craftsmen maintaining weapons and armor, and the countless support personnel required to keep a frontier garrison operational.

The town's architecture reflected its military purpose—buildings constructed from the same dark stone as the fortress, with thick walls, narrow windows, and reinforced doors that could serve as impromptu defensive positions if needed.

Every structure was positioned to support interlocking fields of fire, every street was designed to funnel potential attackers into carefully prepared kill zones.

This was a place built not for comfort, but for survival. It was designed to stop the enemy's charge forward. Even few of the houses with high altitude had the sentry towers on top of them.

Despite its relatively modest size, Berdhshire commanded respect throughout the Empire.

The garrison typically numbered in the thousands—elite troops drawn from the best regiments, supported by Origin-wielders specializing in combat applications of the Profound arts.

Companies from other designations rotated through on a regular basis, using the fortress as a training ground where they could hone their skills against real threats rather than practice dummies.

The arrival of Morgana's small group caused quite a stir among the townspeople.

Word spread quickly that a witch from the Council, sent on the orders of Mother Supreme herself, had come to Berdhshire, and curious faces appeared at windows and doorways as their horses made their way through the winding streets toward the fortress gates.

They were met at the town's edge by Harukel Normsen, the appointed leader of the civilian population.

A man in his fifties whose weathered face bore the permanent squint of someone who had spent decades scanning distant horizons for signs of threat, he possessed the practical demeanor of a career administrator who had learned to balance military necessity with civilian needs.

"Lady Morgana," he said, offering a respectful bow that managed to convey deference without subservience.

"Word of your coming reached us yesterday. The entire town is honored by your presence, though I confess we're curious about what brings representatives of the Silverspire to our remote corner of the Empire."

The name Arkwright carried great weight across the empire, renowned for producing some of the strongest Origin users. While the men of the family were widely despised, its female Origin users were revered for their unwavering service to humanity. Yet, despite their legendary reputation, not even they could save the men of their bloodline. It was such a tragic fate of the Arkwright bloodline.