The morning before departure, Oryth made one final visit to Gorin's forge with Davan.
The blacksmith had sent word that he'd completed the first test piece—one of the water tower components—and wanted approval before proceeding with full production. When they arrived, Gorin presented the part with obvious pride.
Oryth examined it carefully, turning it over in his hands like a child fascinated by an interesting piece of metal. He checked the dimensions against the sketch, studied the copper work, ran his fingers along the edges. Then he looked up at Davan and gave a small nod.
That was the signal. Davan stepped forward to handle the business discussion, negotiating the cost for the first major production run. They settled on a price that seemed fair to both parties, and Davan produced another leather satchel—this one significantly heavier than the first payment.
"One thing," Davan added as they concluded. "There's no rush on production. It's better to take your time and produce these parts as well as you can rather than hurrying and compromising quality."
Gorin nodded appreciatively. "Understood. I'll maintain the same standard as this sample."
As they left the forge, Oryth walked alongside Davan with the sample piece in hand.
"It would be nice to stay up to date on how things are going," Oryth said casually. "Could you keep me posted about the progress? Send letters to the academy once you hear from Gorin?"
"Of course," Davan replied. "I'll let you know when the water tower components are completed."
The clothing business barely required his attention anymore. Both his parents oversaw it now, though Elara still handled most of the day-to-day decisions. The operation had grown to the point where it essentially ran itself, with experienced workers managing production and established merchants handling distribution. They'd already begun implementing plans to raise their own sheep, investing in the long-term vertical integration he'd proposed.
Everything was in order. Everything was ready.
And then, too soon, it was time to leave.
The departure was elaborate in a way that made Oryth slightly uncomfortable. His parents had arranged a full guard detail—Davan plus eight other knights, all experienced fighters Marcus trusted personally. They'd also commissioned a proper carriage rather than having Oryth travel on horseback, citing comfort and safety.
Marcus was pragmatic about the reasoning. "Bandits operate on the roads between here and the capital. You're the son of an increasingly wealthy family, traveling with obvious resources. You're a target. The guards aren't optional."
Elara's worry was more emotional but no less genuine. She fussed over his travel provisions, made him promise to write regularly, extracted assurances that he'd eat properly and not neglect his health in pursuit of studies.
The goodbyes were harder than Oryth had expected. Elara cried openly, holding him tight enough that it was difficult to breathe. Marcus maintained composure but gripped his shoulder with unmistakable emotion.
"Make us proud," his father said quietly.
"I will."
And then he was climbing into the carriage, Davan settling in across from him, and they were moving. Rolling out through the estate gates, down the road toward the capital, leaving everything familiar behind.
Oryth watched through the window as the landscape changed. For the first hour or so, they traveled through Morvhal territory—his parents' lands, the region he'd grown up in. The villages they passed looked prosperous by medieval standards. Well-maintained buildings, children playing in the streets, people in decent clothing going about their work. Not wealthy, but comfortable. Cared for.
Then they crossed into the neighboring territory, and the contrast was stark.
The buildings here were in worse shape—roofs that needed repair, walls with visible damage, an overall sense of neglect. There were fewer children visible, and those he saw looked thinner, less energetic. Workers in the fields appeared malnourished, their clothes torn and poorly maintained. The entire atmosphere was different—harder, grimmer, more desperate.
Were his parents the only nobles in the region who actually looked after their people? The question bothered him more than he'd expected. He'd known intellectually that not all nobility were good stewards, but seeing the evidence so starkly displayed was different from abstract knowledge.
"It's not all like this," Davan said, noticing his attention. "Some lords care. Some don't. Your parents are better than most."
Oryth nodded but didn't respond. What was there to say?
The day wore on. They stopped briefly for a midday meal, then continued. The plan was to reach a small town by evening, spend the night at an inn there, then complete the journey to the capital the following day.
As the sun began setting, painting the sky in oranges and reds, Oryth could just make out structures on the horizon—the town they were aiming for. Not much farther now. Another hour, maybe less.
Then the carriage stopped abruptly.
Not a gradual slowing but a sudden halt that threw Oryth forward against the seat. He caught himself, confused, and heard shouting from outside. Then a heavy thud—something large hitting the ground hard.
"We're under attack!"
Davan's face transformed instantly, all casual friendliness replaced by grim professional focus. He was out of the carriage in seconds, sword already drawn, moving to assess the situation.
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Oryth alone.
The sounds from outside were chaotic—steel on steel, men shouting, horses screaming. Fighting. Real fighting, not the controlled sparring he'd practiced with Davan but actual combat where people were trying to kill each other.
Panic hit him like a physical blow.
His heart started racing, slamming against his ribs so hard it hurt. Cold sweat broke out across his skin. Every sound made his body jerk—a cry of pain, the clash of weapons, something heavy hitting the carriage. The ringing in his ears grew louder with each frantic heartbeat until it was almost overwhelming.
He'd never experienced anything like this. All his training, all his preparation, all his confidence—none of it had prepared him for the visceral terror of knowing people were dying just outside, that he might be next, that this was real and happening and he couldn't stop it.
The door burst open and Davan was there, already showing signs of fighting—blood on his armor, a cut on his arm—grabbing Oryth's hand and pulling him out of the carriage with urgent force.
Oryth stumbled out and immediately wished he hadn't. Bodies on the ground—knights his father had trusted, men who'd traveled with them all day, now dead or dying. Blood everywhere, more than he'd imagined could come from human bodies. The remaining knights were still fighting, desperately trying to hold back attackers he couldn't count.
Davan didn't give him time to process. He dragged Oryth toward the tree line, moving fast, pulling him along when his legs didn't want to cooperate.
They ran.
Into the forest, away from the road, Davan's grip on his hand unbreakable. Oryth's lungs burned, his legs screamed protest, but he kept moving because Davan kept pulling and stopping meant dying.
His mind was chaos. Pure survival instinct warring with coherent thought. They had to escape. Had to get away. Had to survive.
But what about the knights? The men still fighting back there, buying time with their lives? They had families. People who loved them. People who'd wake up tomorrow and learn they'd died protecting a twelve-year-old boy.
The thought made something tighten in his chest, made breathing even harder. Shouldn't he protect them instead? Shouldn't he fight alongside them rather than running? What had he been training for if not moments like this? All those hours with Davan, all that combat practice, all the magic he'd mastered in secret—and he was running like a coward while people died for him.
The internal conflict was torture, guilt and fear and shame all tangling together with the animal panic of pursuit.
Then something struck Davan—a sound like thunder crack. Their grip broke apart as the force of the impact threw him sideways. He rolled across the ground, tumbling hard, his body going limp. When he finally stopped, he lay still. Blood ran down his face from where his head had struck something during the fall. Unconscious. Maybe worse.
Oryth stared, his mind unable to process what he was seeing. Davan. Down. Not moving. Blood.
Footsteps approaching. Multiple people. Voices.
"Easy now, boy. No need to be scared. Just come with us, follow our instructions, and we won't hurt you."
The words meant nothing. Oryth couldn't hear them over the roaring in his ears, over his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest. His eyes stayed locked on Davan, on the blood, on the stillness.
The men were getting closer. Saying something. Waiting for a response he couldn't give.
His heartbeat accelerated further, impossibly fast, and he felt something inside him snap—some final restraint breaking under the weight of terror and rage and guilt.
Control slipped away.
Oryth vanished from where he stood. A small crater appeared in the ground where his feet had been.
One of the men suddenly lost his head. The body flipped backward, blood spraying in an arc that painted the trees red.
Another man flew backward into a tree with a wet crunch. A hole the size of a fist gaped in his chest where ribs and organs had been.
A third disappeared between the trees, launched with such force that the sound of breaking bones was audible. The impact could be heard in the next moment when the body hit something solid a hundred feet away.
They died one by one. Fast. Brutally. None of them able to see what killed them, only small craters appearing where the bandits had just been standing moments before as something moved too quickly for human eyes to track.
The last man standing—the one who'd spoken, who looked like their leader—barely had time to realize he was alone before Oryth appeared directly in front of him.
The man's eyes went wide with terror at what he saw. Blood-red eyes in a child's face, expression twisted into something inhuman.
"Wait! It was His—"
Oryth didn't let him finish. He lunged forward, grabbed the man by the throat, and slammed him into the ground with enough force that the earth shattered beneath them. The sound of the impact was like thunder. Bones broke. Cracks spider-webbed through the dirt.
Oryth didn't move. Just knelt there, hand around the man's crushed throat, watching his eyes as the life left them. Watching until there was nothing left but an empty stare.
Then he screamed.
The sound tore out of him raw and primal, echoing through the forest. He looked at his hands—covered in blood, shaking violently. Looked at the corpses scattered around him, the devastation he'd caused.
His stomach heaved. He vomited, retching until there was nothing left but dry heaves that shook his entire body. Then he was crying, great wracking sobs that made it impossible to breathe properly.
The blood. The bodies. What he'd done.
He knelt there in the crater he'd created, surrounded by death, and couldn't stop screaming.