[Rowan's POV]
The guard's voice broke the still morning air, just as the wind shifted and carried the faint smell of dew-damp stone and horse dung from somewhere behind the wall.
"Morning, Rowan. Heard you're leaving town. That true?" he asked, his voice low, like he didn't want it echoing past the gate.
I didn't bother giving him much more than a nod.
"Yeah. Headed to the caravan now. Mind letting me through?" My tone was level, cold, like I'd already left in spirit. Eyes fixed on his like I could see through to the bones.
Henry. That was his name, wasn't it? Or maybe Harry. Something with an H. Didn't matter much.
"What do you say, Henry?" I said, letting a smirk touch the corner of my mouth, "parting gift? Let me through, no toll."
He hesitated. Not long, just a flicker of thought behind his eyes. Then he gave a short nod and stepped aside, trying to laugh it off.
"Sure. You're way above my pay grade to argue with, anyway."
I let a breath escape that might've passed for a chuckle and brushed past him.
As I did, I slipped a coin into his coat pocket—quiet and clean, the kind of move we'd both pretend didn't happen. My hand patted the spot twice.
"A group'll come through later," I murmured, just loud enough for him to catch.
"Old crew of mine. Let them pass. On me."
He swallowed and nodded again, this time with a little more weight to it. No more words exchanged. None needed.
And just like that, I stepped past the threshold and into Tetron.
The city looked the same as it always had—old stone walls that hadn't been cleaned in years, narrow streets clogged with vendors setting up shop, and nobles riding past in polished carriages like they didn't notice the smell.
Tetron never changed, not really.
Didn't miss it. Didn't hate it either. Just didn't matter. Power played by different rules here—rules I wasn't built for.
So I walked, boots clicking softly against uneven cobblestone, keeping to the edge of the road, eyes down, steps steady. No trouble yet. I planned to keep it that way.
My eyes drifted to the city's heart—where the stone spires of the Veyra estate clawed at the sky like they owned it.
That's where the Count lived, and where the true owner of the blade on my back was likely lounging in luxury.
I heard about the Count mainly from Talia. Greedy bastard, she'd said. Greedier than a goblin with a chest of gold and no lock. Sounded about right.
I exhaled slowly, casting my gaze over the pristine stonework of the upper district.
The houses here didn't even look like the same species as the ones in the slum—no cracks in the walls, no rotten wood, no patchwork repairs done by desperate hands.
Just clean lines, manicured gardens, polished windows. A different world entirely.
And I had the misfortune of being born behind the wrong wall.
For a second, I let myself wonder—if I'd come from this side, would I have ended up the same? Still a fighter? Still filled with this fire that never quite dies down?
Or would I be sipping wine and fencing for sport in some training yard while servants fetched my cloak?
The thought didn't linger long.
As I moved, I noticed the stares. Not the panicked, terrified expressions of the slum dwellers. No, this was subtler.
People glanced at me, did a double-take, and then frowned like they couldn't quite place what was wrong.
Like they recognized a shadow but couldn't remember when they last saw it move.
Apparently, the rumors had spread this far. Not as loud, not as wild, but still present.
I felt the shift in the air before I heard the footsteps—two guards tailing me, trying their best to look like just another pair of passersby. They failed.
Heavy boots and nervous energy aren't easy to disguise. City doesn't even trust me to walk across its streets alone.
Did they think I'd snap? Start carving my way through the market out of spite? Honestly, if half the stories being passed around about me were true, I wouldn't trust me either.
I kept moving, letting them trail. No need to stir anything up. For the next hour, I wandered—no real destination, just moving. Letting the rhythm of the city press against me.
Street hawkers shouting about fresh bread, noble brats giggling behind velvet-curtained carriages, guards leaning on spears like they'd melt if they stood up straight.
Eventually, there were three on my tail. Subtlety clearly wasn't their strong suit. I didn't confront them. Didn't need to. I just kept walking.
And then I reached the southern gate.
Slipped through quiet, unbothered. Or maybe they let me go.
And then I saw it.
The caravan.
If you could even call it a caravan.
Two battered carriages stood side by side like they'd barely survived their last journey, their wood faded to a dull gray and their wheels looking one bad bump away from collapsing.
Around fifteen teenagers had gathered near them—some leaning on packs, others chatting in low tones.
All of them glancing up whenever someone new approached, like they were half-expecting the next person to change everything.
And then I saw him.
The man.
Older, maybe in his fifties, hair streaked with silver and a face lined like cracked stone—but there was nothing soft or tired about him.
Power radiated from him in slow, heavy waves, the kind that didn't shout but whispered threats into the bones of anyone who got too close.
I'd felt something similar off Felix, but this was different—colder. Cleaner. More disciplined.
A blade honed down to its final edge.
He was Intermediate, no doubt. Probably had been for years.
I glanced around the area, my eyes trailing over the southern stretch.
Past the caravan was nothing but green—dense trees swaying lazily under the breeze, tall grass hiding whatever beasts skulked underneath.
The south was wilder, untamed, and the deeper you went, the more it wanted to chew you up and spit out your bones.
Whoever built Tetron had known what they were doing. Dump the slum in the north, where the land was calmer.
Where danger came from hunger and disease, not claws and fangs in the dark.
I walked toward the man with measured steps, my instincts kicking in and warning me not to approach like I owned the place—not here. Not with him.
"Good afternoon," I said, keeping my tone level, respectful. I knew strength when I saw it, and this guy had plenty to spare.
He looked at me with amused eyes, like he was already a few steps ahead in a game I hadn't agreed to play.
Then he grinned, sharp and wide. "You must be the new talk of town, right? The Devil of Tetron."
I froze for a breath. Just one. Devil?
What the hell kind of nonsense was that? Do I look like a devil to you? Maybe if the devil wore old boots and carried a stolen sword.
And here I thought I was at least decent-looking.
Still, I smoothed out my expression and offered a hand, letting a crooked smile tug at the corner of my mouth. "In the flesh. And you are?"
He took the hand without hesitation, his grip firm, just shy of a test. "Damian Jester. Pleasure," he said, voice wrapped in something strange.
Was that amusement? Mockery? It lingered in the air like cigar smoke, hard to name but impossible to ignore.
Then Damian leaned in, his face shifting like a blade catching light—sharp edges where there'd been charm just a moment before. His voice dropped to a whisper, gravel-soft and intimate.
"To be honest, kid," he murmured, "if I were the Count, I'd be giving you a medal. You cleaned out the rot that was choking Tetron."
I didn't answer right away—just nodded, slow and deliberate. So that's where he stood. Not exactly loyal to the Count, not exactly law-abiding either.
A man like him might be worth keeping close. Or at least worth watching. Either way, I wouldn't mind picking up a trick or two.
Around us, the low murmurs of the other recruits began to shift. The kind of noise that always follows a name when a face gets recognized.
I didn't have to look to know they were whispering about me now—probably weighing rumors against the reality of the figure standing just a few feet away.
The "Devil of Tetron," in the flesh.
It was strange, suddenly having all these eyes on me. Back then, only a few knew my name, and fewer still cared.
Now? My face was pinned up in half the bars in town, shadowed in torchlight and stained with the kind of ink that screams danger.
Infamy's a weird kind of fame. Didn't bother me, though. Not really. Hell, sometimes it came in handy—like now. No wide-eyed kid dared come up to test their luck. That was how I liked it.
I waited. The sun crawled across the sky in stubborn inches, and the wind shifted, warm and dry. About twenty minutes passed before I saw them.
Talia. Tobias. Handy. Alicia. And Elias.
They walked up in silence, a grim air hanging off them like soot. Their eyes landed on the caravan, then found mine.
There was a hesitation in their steps, like they weren't sure if they were coming to a beginning or an ending.
The moment they reached me, it was clear—whatever tension had been sitting between us back at the hideout hadn't left.
It lingered, quiet but dense, like a fog none of us could shake. But we didn't have the luxury of unpacking it now.
"So this is it?" I asked, keeping my tone level. My face didn't give away much. Couldn't afford it.
Handy gave a curt nod, his voice brisk. "Get it goin'. I got us a carriage that leaves in twenty."
The group splintered naturally, people pairing off, giving each other their own space for whatever words they needed to say.
I stepped toward Handy first.
The one man I still wasn't sure how to read. He always had this look like he knew more than he let on,
like he could see through the armor I wore—even the parts I didn't know were cracked.
I clasped his hand, our grips locking tight.
"Keep the kids safe," I said, voice steady. "And yourself too. And… thank you, William."
That was all I could say. All I needed to say. I reached into my pocket, handing a pouch full of coins to Handy with a quiet nod.
Next was Alicia. She was already watching me when I turned to her. There was something soft in her eyes—uncertain, maybe, but steady.
She'd always had a kind of quiet strength, the kind that could either save someone or destroy them if they didn't learn how to wield it.
"Keep strong, Alicia," I told her. "You've got a big heart. Don't make the same mistakes I did."
My voice cracked a little near the end. Just for a second. I caught it before it could spill out into anything real.
And then, Elias.
He stood a few feet away, arms at his sides, not moving. Not speaking. The silence around him felt heavier than anything else, like it swallowed up the noise of the camp itself.
He used to call me brother. Used to trust me more than anyone else.
Now, all I could see in his eyes was the echo of that trust—hollowed out and distant, like a burned-down house where something warm used to live.
I walked up to him, slow. Looked him in the eye. Didn't say a word at first. I didn't have the right words, not anymore.
Finally, I reached out and took his hand, not waiting for him to offer it first. My grip was firm, grounded.
"So long... brother," I said, the words quiet. Heavy.
His hand didn't tighten around mine. But he didn't pull away, either.
And that would have to be enough.
They turned without another word, boots crunching over dry grass and gravel, the weight of the moment dragging behind them like a second shadow.
No dramatic glances thrown over shoulders, no parting nods. Just backs—stiff, silent, slipping farther away with each step.
The kind of goodbye that didn't need to be said out loud because it was already echoing too loud inside my chest.
I stood there, motionless, the wind tugging gently at my cloak. Watching them go felt like watching something unravel—slow and quiet, thread by thread.
There was a finality in it, but no closure. Like a door shutting without a click.
The sun had dipped lower by now, casting long shadows across the caravan camp, painting them in warm gold and bleeding rust.
And yet, all I could see was Elias's silhouette growing smaller and smaller.
I didn't try to stop them. What would I even say? What was left to fix?
My hands hung useless at my sides, and for a long moment, the only thing I could do was keep staring.
Eyes locked on those shrinking forms, as if memorizing the shape of something I'd already lost.
And in that quiet, in that ache sitting somewhere between my ribs and spine, one thought settled in, sinking deep:
Farewell… little brother.