The plains stretched endlessly beneath a pale morning sky, their wide horizon broken only by scattered shrubs and the occasional crooked tree bent by years of wind. Several days of travel had smoothed the company into a steady rhythm. The early stiffness of the first marches had faded, replaced by the quiet cadence of hooves, wagon wheels, and boots against the packed earth of the southern road. Rayz rode near the front of the column, letting the breeze tug lightly at the edge of his cloak as he watched the land unfold before them.

Open country had always had a way of loosening a man’s thoughts. The long miles invited reflection whether a traveler wanted it or not, and Rayz had never been especially good at keeping his mind from wandering when the road stretched this wide. Travel did that to him. The steady motion, the endless horizon, the quiet between conversations. It gave memories room to surface, sometimes gently, sometimes with the stubborn persistence of things he would rather leave buried.

Behind him the company moved in a long, disciplined line along the road. The sound of Jorand’s booming laugh drifted faintly through the air from somewhere near the wagons, followed by a ripple of voices from the men riding beside him. Loto was likely in that group as well, enjoying the conversation as the miles passed beneath them. Titus moved constantly between the wagons and the riders, tightening straps, checking supplies, and offering help wherever he thought it might be useful. The young squire carried himself with the restless determination of someone eager to prove he belonged among seasoned soldiers.

A heavier rhythm of hooves approached from the left, steady and deliberate. Rayz did not need to look to recognize the stride of Barrett’s warhorse. The captain guided the powerful animal alongside him with practiced ease, the horse’s broad shoulders sending small puffs of dust drifting across the road as it slowed to match Rayz’s pace.

“Ride with me,” Barrett said.

Rayz shifted slightly in the saddle, adjusting the reins as Barrett’s warhorse settled into pace beside him. For a time neither man spoke. The quiet between them was not uncomfortable, the road had a way of teaching men that silence was often easier than conversation. Wind rolled across the open grasslands and tugged at their cloaks while the steady rhythm of the march carried the company forward behind them. Barrett was the one who eventually broke the silence. “Figured the ride might be easier if we passed some of the miles talking.” His tone was casual, but Rayz recognized the captain’s habit of choosing his moments carefully. Barrett rarely spoke without reason.

Rayz let out a quiet breath through his nose, somewhere between amusement and agreement. “The miles tend to pass whether we talk or not,” he said. “But conversation does make them feel shorter.”

Barrett nodded once at that. “Then I’ll ask something I’ve been wondering about since we left Varrock. You’ve spent years traveling as a Master. Where exactly have those years taken you?”

Rayz considered the question for a moment before answering. “Everywhere that doesn’t appear on most maps,” he said at last. “Border villages. Marsh settlements. Old ruins people only half remember the names of. Sometimes a town hires a Master to settle a dispute or examine something strange. Other times it’s simpler work. Sick livestock. Contaminated wells. Roads that need mapping so caravans stop disappearing. Once spent nearly a month in a mountain pass helping a trade guild chart safer routes through the cliffs. Another time I stayed in a fishing village because their drinking well kept poisoning people.”

Barrett raised an eyebrow slightly. “Poisoned well, eh? What was wrong with it?”

“Rotten stone lining. And a dead goat that got pushed in.”

“Not the kind of work people imagine when they hear the word ‘Master’.”

“No,” Rayz agreed. “Most people imagine libraries and scholars arguing over old books. The truth is usually less glamorous. Knowledge is only useful if someone is willing to carry it where it’s needed.”

Barrett studied him quietly for a moment as they rode. “You’ve covered a lot of ground for a man your age.”

Rayz shrugged lightly. “Work takes me where it takes me. Villages have problems. Roads have dangers. Sometimes people simply need someone who knows how to look at a situation without panic.” After a moment he added, “And sometimes they just need someone to get their hands dirty." The road dipped slightly ahead of them, curving through a shallow valley before climbing again toward the distant hills. Barrett followed it with his eyes, but Rayz could feel the captain’s attention still resting on him.

“You started in Varrock, though,” Barrett said eventually. His tone was casual, but there was something deliberate beneath it. “That right? What was it like growing up there? I came from outside the capital city, stationed here only a few years ago.”

Rayz let out a quiet breath, the kind that came when a man had not thought about certain memories for some time but knew they would not stay buried forever. “Poor,” he said simply. “My father was a priest of Saradyn. A good man. The kind who spent most of his days helping people who had little to give in return.” He shifted slightly in the saddle as he spoke, the old memories settling into place with a familiarity that was almost uncomfortable.

“We traveled often,” Rayz continued after a moment. “Small villages mostly. My father would perform blessings, weddings, funerals. Sometimes people simply needed someone to listen to them for a while. Priests spend a surprising amount of time doing that.”

“People talk more freely when they think the person listening won’t judge them.”

“That was his gift,” Rayz said. “Patience. I used to think it was a strange way to live. Riding from one poor village to the next with little more than a horse and a prayer book.”

“But you followed him anyway,” Barrett said.

“I did… and one of those trips didn’t end well,” Rayz said, solemnly. “A small band of goblins came out of the trees while we were traveling with a merchant caravan. Fast. Loud. Messy. The fighting was short. Caravans are not built for battles. Most people panic when steel comes out and arrows start flying. Goblins know that. There was shouting. Fire. Horses breaking loose from their harness. By the time it was over…” He let the thought trail off for a brief moment before continuing, “There was a Master traveling through the village nearby. He had stopped there the night before. I didn’t know much about him then. Just another stranger passing through, like most of the people who came and went. When the goblins attacked, he fought. When it was finished there were only two of us left standing.”

Barrett’s expression tightened slightly, though he kept his eyes on the road. “The Master took you in?”

Rayz nodded once. “He asked a few questions first. Not the kind most people ask a child who’s just survived a massacre. Then he told me I would come with him.”

Barrett glanced over. “What do you believe he saw in you?”

Rayz answered without hesitation, his voice firm.

“Survival.”

Barrett let the word sit between them for a while as they rode. He did not respond immediately, which in itself was unusual for a man who usually spoke with decisive clarity. When he finally did speak, his voice carried a quieter weight. “That’s not something most men must endure young,” he said. “I grew up in a barracks. My father was a captain before me. Discipline, formation drills, sword practice before sunrise. Everything in neat lines and clear orders.” A small breath of amusement escaped him. “If I survived anything as a boy, it was my father’s training routines.”

Rayz allowed himself a slight smile. “Sounds like a different kind of battlefield.”

“In its own way,” Barrett agreed. “But you’ve earned everything that came after that day. The training. The title. All of it.” Rayz felt something settle quietly in his chest at that. Not pride exactly, but recognition. Barrett understood the difference between survival and achievement, and he treated both with the same seriousness. Behind them came the uneven rhythm of a lighter horse trying to close the distance. Rayz recognized the sound even before he turned slightly in the saddle. Titus guided his smaller mount forward with careful determination, the young squire doing his best to approach without appearing as though he were intruding. When he finally drew close enough, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Master Rayz… may I ask you something?”

Rayz glanced over at him, already suspecting what was coming. He had seen that particular look in the boy’s eyes since the day they left Varrock.

“Go on,” Rayz said.

“I’ve heard stories about Masters since I was a boy,” he said. His tone carried a mixture of excitement and embarrassment, as though he realized the question might sound childish but couldn’t stop himself from asking it anyway. “But I don’t actually know much about what you are. Or what you do.”

Rayz watched the road ahead for a moment before answering. The question was not an uncommon one. People had a habit of turning the idea of Masters into something far stranger than it really was. “Most people don’t,” he said calmly. “The stories tend to travel farther than the truth.”

Titus nodded eagerly. “That’s exactly the problem. When I was younger I heard everything from ‘Masters can see the future’ to ‘Masters can speak with spirits’ to ‘Masters can kill a man just by saying the right word.’” He flushed slightly after saying it aloud. “I’m fairly sure none of that is real. But when you’re a kid… it’s hard to tell.”

Rayz chuckled. “I’ve heard those stories too.”

Titus leaned forward slightly in the saddle, curiosity taking over completely now. “Then what is the truth?”

Rayz took a moment before answering, choosing his words carefully. “Masters study what humanity has learned about the world,” he said. “History, numbers, languages, philosophy, the way land and water shape a place. How people behave when things go well… and how they behave when everything goes wrong The idea is simple. If enough knowledge survives, humanity survives.”

Titus absorbed that quietly, his earlier excitement shifting into something more thoughtful. “So… you’re scholars?”

“In part,” Rayz said. “But most Masters don’t stay inside libraries forever. Knowledge isn’t very useful if no one carries it out into the world.”

Titus rode in thoughtful silence for a few moments after that, the young squire clearly turning Rayz’s words over in his mind. The steady rhythm of the march continued around them, wagon wheels creaking somewhere behind the line while the wind moved softly through the tall grass. Rayz assumed the conversation had reached its natural end. Then Titus’s gaze drifted downward. Something beneath the edge of Rayz’s cloak had caught the light of the afternoon sun. Just for a moment, a faint glint of metal flashed near Rayz’s chest before the fabric settled again. Titus leaned slightly in the saddle, curiosity overcoming his earlier hesitation.

“Is that… the symbol Masters wear?” he asked.

Rayz reached beneath the cloak without ceremony and drew the necklace into view. The metal pendant rested in his palm, the ornate hand clasping a yellow gem that caught the sunlight and held it for a moment before reflecting it outward in a soft glow. Titus stared openly now. “I’ve never seen one up close.”

“It’s given when a Master finishes their training,” Rayz said. His voice carried no pride, only simple explanation. “The gem records the events of their life. Everything they learn. Everything they do.”

Titus looked from the gem to Rayz’s face, trying to understand the weight of that statement. “So it’s… proof you’re a Master?”

Rayz closed his hand gently around the pendant before letting it fall back beneath the cloak. “It’s a reminder,” he said. “Of what we carry with us. The light of humanity and its achievements.”

Titus rode quietly for a moment after Rayz tucked the necklace away. The young squire’s earlier excitement had softened into something more thoughtful now. He seemed to be measuring the idea of the gem recording a man’s life, turning it over in his mind as if trying to imagine the weight of carrying such a thing. “That’s… incredible,” Titus said at last.

Rayz shook his head slightly. “It’s responsibility more than anything else.”

Titus glanced at him again, clearly not convinced that the two were very different. “Still,” he said, “it must mean something to earn it. To finish that kind of training.”

“It means someone believed you were capable of carrying knowledge forward,” he said. “What you do with it after that is what matters.”

Titus nodded slowly, absorbing every word. For a moment he looked as though he might ask another question, but instead he straightened in the saddle and guided his horse forward again, returning toward the wagons where Barrett had assigned him earlier tasks. The eagerness in his posture had not faded, but now it carried something steadier beneath it.

Rayz watched the young man ride away for a moment before turning his attention back to the road ahead. There was a certain familiarity in that kind of curiosity. Years ago he had carried the same restless questions, chasing answers he did not yet fully understand. The wind shifted slightly as the column crested a long rise in the land. Ahead of them, far in the distance, the dark shape of Crandor’s cliffs began to rise against the sky like a jagged scar along the horizon. Rayz felt the mood of the company change almost immediately. Conversations behind him grew quieter. The men had seen the cliffs too. The journey was ending, and the real work was about to begin.

By the time the company reached the foothills, the sun had begun to sink toward the western horizon. The road they had followed for days faded into little more than a narrow trail winding between blackened stone and patches of dry grass that looked as though they had once been burned and never fully recovered. Even the wind seemed quieter here, as if the land itself were reluctant to disturb whatever slept among the cliffs ahead.

Barrett raised a hand and the column slowed to a halt. The men moved with quiet efficiency as they began preparing the camp. Horses were watered and tied off near a shallow stream that cut through the rocks. Bedrolls were laid out in a loose circle around the place where the fire would burn. Weapons were checked again, though most of the soldiers had already inspected them twice during the last few miles. Rayz dismounted and took a slow look around the camp as the men worked. The air felt heavier here than it had on the plains, carrying a faint smell of ash and something older beneath it. Dragons changed the land around them. Even when they slept, their presence left a mark.

A small fire soon flickered to life near the center of the camp, its light pushing back the growing darkness. The men gathered around it in quiet groups, speaking in lower voices now. The laughter and easy conversation of the road had disappeared. Every man in the company knew what waited beyond the ridge. Barrett stood apart from the others for a moment, studying the jagged line of cliffs that rose against the darkening sky. Then he stepped toward the fire and unrolled a weathered map across a flat slab of stone.

“Listen up,” he said.

The murmurs around the fire died almost instantly. Men leaned closer to the map, the firelight flickering across their faces as Barrett placed a gloved finger against the rough outline of the cliffs. “Tomorrow we hunt the dragon.” Barrett’s finger moved across the map, tracing the ridge line with deliberate care. “The dragon nests in a cavern beneath this ridge. The scouts confirmed the entrance earlier this week. Narrow mouth, but the clearing in front of it opens wide enough for us to hold formation.”

The men leaned closer as he spoke. Firelight flickered across the map, throwing shifting shadows over the rough ink lines that marked the terrain. “We do not chase it into the cave. That is where it has the advantage. Darkness. Tight stone. One blast of fire in there and we burn before we ever raise a shield.” He tapped the clearing with a firm knuckle. “We make our stand here.” His gaze moved to Niwa. “Archers take the ridge before dawn. Quietly. Niwa, you command them. When the dragon emerges, you fire in volleys. Aim for the wings. If we ground it, we control the fight.” Niwa gave a single calm nod.

Barrett then turned to Jorand. “Your six form the forward assault. You move fast and strike the legs when it closes the distance. Do not linger. Hit it hard, then fall back.” Jorand grinned, gripping the haft of his axe. “We’ll make it regret standing.”

“You’ll make it stumble.” Barrett corrected sharply. Barrett’s attention shifted to Loto. “Shield line forms behind them. Tight formation. No gaps. When Jorand pulls back, you advance and hold its attention. Dragons like to break a formation before they kill it. Don’t give it that chance.” Loto nodded firmly and said, “The line will hold.”

Barrett’s finger moved again across the map before settling on the side of the clearing. “Rayz and I move wide along this flank. If the dragon turns toward the archers, we pull its attention back. If it charges the shield line, we cut into its side. The moment it exposes its throat or underbelly, we strike.” The fire popped loudly as a log shifted in the flames. Barrett straightened and looked around the circle, meeting the eyes of each man in turn. “This creature has ruled this land long enough. Tomorrow, we end it.”

No one spoke. Barrett rolled the map closed and tucked it beneath his arm. “Get your rest,” he said. “At first light… we hunt.”

The fire crackled softly as the men began to rise, each returning to his gear with quiet focus. Above them the cliffs of Crandor loomed in the darkness, silent and watchful, as if the land itself already knew what the dawn would bring.

Chapter Three

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