<hr>


    The plains rolled endlessly beneath a burning copper sky, where wind whispered through tall grass and dust trailed like memory behind each creaking wheel. Thirty wagons moved in slow procession, each pulled by weary oxen whose hides gleamed with sweat. Faded banners clung to wooden poles, fluttering like old prayers. This was the Azure Wind—a caravan that drifted between towns like a ghost of an older world.


    They were merchants, wanderers, and survivors—living not by place, but by motion. The road was their only home, and it remembered them. Long before trains carved through mountains and engines roared across the horizon, they had moved like this: slowly, steadily, never stopping for long.


    At the lead rode Kivas, pipe clenched loosely between his teeth, reins held with a hand that had long stopped worrying. His skin carried the beige hue of endless suns, his ember eyes squinting out beneath wind-frayed lashes. Hair once deep brown now caught streaks of silver, tied at the nape and dancing with the sway of his horse.


    To his left rode Zafran. He wore a dark travel cloak, half-buttoned, and rode with practiced ease. Black hair, straight and cut short. Skin fairer than most in the caravan. Green eyes that kept track of wagons without ever seeming to. Even though he tried not to look apart, his physical features somehow betrayed the effort.


    “Town’s just over the ridge,” Kivas said, voice casual, as if pointing out a cloud.


    Zafran nodded. “Think they’ll give us water for free this time?”


    “If they don’t, I’ll drink the barkeep’s sweat,” Kivas muttered, then grimaced. “Ugh. No. Never mind.”


    Zafran gave a quiet snort.


    Kivas smirked and shook out his shoulders. “You coming along tonight? There’s a tavern by the well. Wood-framed. Bit of a lean to it. Last time we passed through, I arm-wrestled a woman twice my size and woke up with a missing boot.”


    “I’ll pass.”


    “Still not your scene?”


    Zafran gave a faint shrug. “Scene’s fine. The people, less so.”


    Kivas nodded, chewing the stem of his pipe. “Fair. But you could do with some noise now and then. Can’t let the wagons be your whole world.”


    “I’ve seen worse worlds.”


    Kivas chuckled low in his throat. “You always this charming?”


    “No,” Zafran said. “Only with you.”


    Laughter peeled out of Kivas like dry thunder. “Damn. Ten years, and you still catch me off guard.”


    Zafran tilted his head, eyebrow raised.


    Kivas waved him off. “Don’t look like that. You’ve been here a while. Long enough to stop being ‘the quiet one’ and start being ‘ours.’ Whether you like it or not.”


    Zafran didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth curled slightly.


    Behind them, a boy’s shout rang out. They glanced back to see Ysar, perched at the edge of a moving cart, juggling three green apples while arguing with someone inside the wagon.


    “Are you going in, Kivas? Zafran? Can I join?” he shouted from afar.


    Kivas groaned. “Don’t let that one near the tavern. I swear he can talk the paint off a wagon wheel.”


    “Wasn’t he banned from the last two towns?”


    “Three,” Kivas corrected. “Which is why he’ll be guarding the oxen tonight.”


    The road dipped slightly, and the first slanted rooftops of a town came into view, nestled in a shallow basin and painted in the warm glow of sundown. Smoke rose in slow spirals. A water tower leaned just a little too far west.


    The caravan pressed on, the Azure Wind curling down the slope like a living thing—slow, sprawling, and unshaken by time.


    And as always, Zafran rode with it.


    <hr>


    The Azure Wind moved like a tide—slow to stop, but swift to transform. As the town of Nelpha emerged over the ridge, the rhythm of the caravan shifted. What had been a line of wagons became a hum of intent. Conversations stirred. Tools clinked. Ropes were loosened.


    Kivas lifted his hand, and the wagons began to slow.


    “Nelpha ahead!” someone called down the line, and the energy rippled like a pulse through the caravan.


    They rolled to a stop just outside the town, settling along the worn outskirts like they had done many times before. The oxen exhaled as if in relief. Horses shook dust from their manes. Wagons groaned under shifting weight.


    Then came the familiar work.


    Canvas was unfastened. Crates were unloaded. Wheels were blocked. Within minutes, the first stalls began to rise—makeshift counters laid across wagon sides, cloth covers strung between poles, baskets of herbs and spices already being sorted by practiced hands.


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Zafran dismounted, leading his horse toward the picket line. Around him, the air buzzed with the familiar rhythm of setup: traders shouting for space, guards checking their gear, kids darting between boots and barrels with wild laughter.


    “Make sure the cattle get watered,” Kivas called out as he passed. “And don’t let Ysar anywhere near the wine cart.”


    Zafran gave a nod, not breaking stride.


    He walked through the unfolding market, his sword slung at his back—a straight-edged blade in a sea of curved ones. No one commented. No one needed to. He belonged, whether or not he matched.


    “Zafran!”


    He turned at the voice.


    Elsha approached, eyes sharp, steps swift. Twenty, lean, and striking—not in the polished way of noble courts, but in the unmistakable grace of someone who could scale a moving wagon, toss a knife, and land clean in the same breath. Her beige skin, ponytail, and angular features marked her as one of the truest children of the Azure Wind.


    “Have you seen Ysar?” she asked, crossing her arms, clearly not asking for fun.


    Zafran raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t he handling the horses?”


    “That was the idea,” she muttered. Her gaze swept the stalls—and locked on.


    “There.”


    Sure enough—Ysar stood at a vendor’s table, arms full of bread, skewers, and a bottle under one elbow. Nineteen, beige-skinned like Elsha, same wiry frame, same sharp-edged face—but with none of her focus. His grin stretched from ear to ear as he spun another wild story for a half-interested listener, clearly in his element.


    Zafran watched as Elsha stormed over, grabbed his ear mid-sentence, and yanked him away.


    “Ow—ow! Elsha! I’m contributing to morale!”


    “You’re contributing to my headache.”


    “It’s not even real wine—ow!”


    The market hardly noticed. Around them, traders set up shop, townsfolk began to wander in, and the Azure Wind unfolded itself like a living tapestry.


    And as always, Zafran moved through it—quiet, steady, familiar with the rhythm of this wandering world.


    <hr>


    By nightfall, the market had faded.


    Townsfolk trickled back to their homes, the last of the stalls were shuttered, and lanterns dimmed as the caravan turned inward—into its own little world.


    Campfires flickered across the wide encampment, dotting the plains like quiet stars fallen to earth. Around each one, small groups gathered—traders passing bottles, guards sharing old wounds, musicians plucking soft tunes on half-tuned strings. Laughter mingled with the hiss of burning logs.


    Zafran sat with a group near the edge of camp, cup in hand, leaning against a crooked tree. The drink was rough—probably barley liquor—and it burned going down, but it was warm, and the night was cold.


    Kivas lounged nearby, legs stretched out, his pipe forgotten behind one ear. He looked sour.


    “The tavern was closed,” he announced to no one in particular. “Apparently, we ‘caused trouble last time.’”


    One of the older guards snorted. “That was you.”


    Kivas raised a brow. “I remember it differently.”


    Zafran smirked, swirling the dregs of his cup. “So now we suffer through your sulking?”


    “Sulking?” Kivas scoffed. “I’m grieving. There was a woman there with arms like tree trunks and a voice like thunder. She could’ve thrown me across the table.”


    “And you call that love?”


    “I call that respect.”


    Laughter rolled around the fire.


    Someone passed a fresh bottle. Someone else tossed another log into the flames. Sparks rose into the night.


    Zafran closed his eyes for a breath, the noise and warmth settling deep in his chest. This was the best part of caravan life—after the work, after the deals—when no one had to be anything but tired and alive.


    “Zaf,” one of the guards grinned, “you ever gonna stop brooding and get yourself a girl?”


    Zafran opened one eye. “When I find one who doesn’t talk as much as you.”


    More laughter.


    Kivas raised his cup. “Here’s to that.”


    But then he paused mid-sip. His eyes shifted—fixed just beyond the firelight.


    A figure stood at the edge of the camp. Cloaked. Still. Watching.


    Zafran followed his gaze.


    A girl. Unmoving, uncertain. Not local—more like someone with a very specific reason to be here. She looked around, hesitant, unsure where to go next.


    “Well,” Kivas muttered, setting his cup aside, “looks like someone’s lost.”


    He stood with a groan and motioned for Zafran to follow.


    They approached the figure. She didn’t back away, but her hands were tight around something beneath her cloak.


    Kivas offered his usual disarming smile. “Evening, miss. Looking for something?”


    The girl pulled back her hood.


    She was pale, with crimson eyes and red hair tied low behind her neck. A lone freckle marked her cheek—strange, striking, beautiful. Not threatening. Just… out of place.


    “Ah… I heard you take on jobs. Escort jobs,” she said.


    “Sometimes,” Kivas replied. “Depends who and where.”


    “I’m Karin,” she said quickly. “I need escorts. Here.” She unrolled a map and pointed to a spot near the northern edge.


    Kivas leaned in—and frowned. “The hell? The Silent Desert? That deep in? Sand doesn’t make for pleasant company. And going there costs a lot of gold.”


    “I have money,” she said, pulling a pouch from her cloak.


    Kivas caught it mid-air, weighed it, opened it.


    He looked unimpressed. “Really? You have twenty.”


    “Um… yes. That’s all I have.”


    Kivas exhaled through his nose. “Why do you want to go there?”


    Karin hesitated.


    “It’s…” Her voice softened. “The Flame Ash. The Academia sent me to retrieve it.”


    Kivas blinked—then let out a dry laugh. “The Flame Ash? As in Aftree’s Flame Ash?”


    She nodded.


    “You’re risking your life for a children’s tale?” His tone turned sharp. “If the Academia really wanted it, why not send an army?”


    “I… it’s a secret mission.”


    Kivas narrowed his eyes. He clearly didn’t buy it.


    He shook his head. “Then I’m sorry. You’re not paying enough to get my people killed chasing stories.”


    He turned to leave.


    Then he caught sight of them—just beyond the firelight.


    Ysar, still juggling bottles for a bored guard.


    Elsha, sharpening her blade, pretending not to eavesdrop.


    Zafran, arms folded, already scowling.


    Kivas paused.


    “Alright…”


    “No.” Zafran didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely not.”


    “Yes.”


    Zafran sighed. “You can’t be serious.”


    “I am,” Kivas said, nodding to Karin. “Three escorts. Food and rest are on you. And you owe us more gold later. Got it?”


    Zafran turned to him, voice low. “You’re sending two kids and me into the worst stretch of wasteland on the continent.”


    “I’m sending you to make sure those two come back alive.”


    “And her?”


    Kivas shrugged. “She’s the client. If she dies, we still get paid.”


    Zafran pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is going to be a disaster.”


    Kivas grinned. “Maybe. But come on—real experience.”


    “Near-death experience.”


    “If you’re with them, then it’s alright.”


    Zafran sighed and turned to Karin. “Alright. Tomorrow. First light.”


    “O-okay. Thank you.”


    She nodded and slipped into the dark, away from the fire.


    The fire crackled behind them.


    Zafran stared after her a moment longer, then muttered, “You’re lucky I didn’t go to the tavern.”


    Kivas clapped him on the back. “You’re lucky I did.”


    And just like that, peace was gone.