The following morning, Arasha stood beneath the vaulted entrance of Saint Virelle's Abbey, the sun still low and golden as it spilled over the aged stonework.
Her armor had been cleaned and re-oiled, her dark surcoat brushed free of dust, and the Scion Order glinted over her heart.
As she gave final farewells to the abbey staff and gathered knights, Alvin approached with hesitant steps. In his hands was a small wrapped bundle tied with a blue ribbon.
"Hm?" Arasha turned as he approached, her posture straight and composed despite the fatigue in her eyes.
Alvin's hands trembled slightly as he held out the bundle. "It's… um… it's a salve. For soreness. I made it. Just something simple, I mean. For muscles, after—after fights."
Arasha blinked, glanced down at the bundle, then took it with a nod.
"Thank you. That's thoughtful." She inspected it briefly before slipping it into her satchel with quiet efficiency, already turning toward her mount.
Alvin bowed stiffly, unsure if she'd already forgotten him or if her thanks meant more than her words revealed.
Then, with a whistle, Arasha rallied her knights, mounted her horse, and departed down the abbey path.
The banner of the Scion Order fluttered behind them, stark against the rising sun.
They had only been traveling two hours when smoke and noise met them on the forest-wound road south of the Gallowen Hills.
The sharp clash of steel, the screams of startled horses, and the desperate calls of men surrounded a small merchant caravan under heavy assault.
The wagons were overturned. Goods scattered. Blood stained the soil. And the mercenaries hired to protect the convoy had already been struck down in the initial ambush.
The bandits were too well-armed for common roadside thieves. Camouflaged positions, staggered formations—they had planned this. Waited.
But they hadn't planned for Arasha.
"Shield up! Forward!" she commanded without hesitation.
The Scion knights snapped into formation, flanking the caravan with practiced ease.
Arasha's sword flashed in her hand, her voice a blade of command through the din.
One bandit lunged at a fleeing merchant—only to be struck down by Garran's shield as the veteran knight followed her lead.
Another tried to break through the wagons, but Arasha met him mid-lunge, her blade cutting cleanly through the haft of his axe before delivering a swift hilt strike to his temple.
Within moments, the tide turned.
Their defense became an offense, and the bandits—seeing the Scion banner—began to falter.
Arasha left no chance for retreat. With cold precision, she disabled the last of them—slashing tendons, knocking them unconscious. She gave the order not to kill unless forced.
When silence finally fell, the only sound left was the labored breathing of the rescued merchants.
One older merchant, silver-haired and wrapped in a blood-smeared shawl, stepped forward and bowed low. "Commander Arasha. You saved our lives—and our livelihoods. We owe you more than coin can repay."
Arasha sheathed her sword.
"Then repay me by staying alive," she said, voice even. "Prepare your wagons. We'll escort you to the nearest safe road."
Turning to her knights, she issued orders swiftly. "Take the bandits. Deliver them to the magistrate in Arrowhold. Use the stronghold as temporary housing if needed. I'll continue with the caravan to ensure they reach the southern crossing unharmed."
Garran frowned. "Alone?"
"I'm more than enough," she said simply. "They need you back. We've lingered long."
Garran hesitated but eventually nodded. "As you command, Commander Arasha."
One by one, her knights saluted, trusting her beyond question. The bandits were bound, the wounded mercenaries treated, and the Scion knights departed northward with the prisoners in tow.
As the dust settled, Arasha remained—riding quietly beside the grateful merchants as they slowly began to restore their shattered caravan.
She moved among them with a word here, a lifted crate there, helping where she could without drawing attention to herself.
The sun climbed higher. The road stretched endlessly ahead. But her silhouette at the head of the caravan gave the weary travelers courage.
None of them noticed the faint scent of Alvin's salve that lingered on her gloves—cool, clean, comforting—as her muscles quietly burned from the weight of every life she still carried.
And she would carry them all forward.
One step, one breath, one swordstroke at a time.
****
The road was eerily silent under the velvet veil of dusk, shadows lengthening into crooked arms along the rutted path. The caravan moved cautiously—each wheel creak and horse snort felt louder than thunder.
Arasha rode ahead, her senses drawn tight as bowstring.
She had felt it for miles now.
The way birds stopped singing.
The unnatural hush of trees that should've whispered with life. The soft prints beside the road masked as animal trails.
She reined in and gave a low whistle.
Immediately, the lead merchant caught her signal and raised his hand. The caravan halted. Men and women readied what they could: cudgels, hunting knives, even cooking pans.
The air trembled with the tension of prey sensing the predator.
Then the silence snapped.
A rain of arrows came from the treeline, but they struck only earth and wagon—Arasha had ordered the caravan to cover themselves moments earlier. She'd seen the faint glint of steel—ambushers hidden in the trees.
They rushed out—twice as many as before, organized and cloaked in chainmail and padded armor. These were no starving bandits.
Arasha moved like a drawn blade. Her sword sang silver, cutting through the assailants with precise, merciful efficiency.
She danced through the fray, targeting leaders, crippling, disarming—not killing unless necessary.
Behind her, the merchants held as best they could. Two were grazed by arrows, another took a blow to the head but would survive.
When the last attacker fell to the ground—alive, groaning—Arasha stood in the crimson twilight, panting lightly, her blade slick and her eyes cold.
She immediately strode to the injured. "Stay still," she said, kneeling to bind a leg wound. "It'll scar, but you'll walk."
The merchants stared at her, in awe and disbelief.
"We… we owe you again," the merchant head whispered.
Arasha shook her head. "No. You need to move now."
She turned her eyes to the darkening woods.
"They won't stop. Ride through the night. I'll scout ahead. Keep lanterns low."
They obeyed.
Through moonless hours, Arasha rode the path ahead, weaving through trees, eyes sharp, ears open. Then she would circle back, riding the caravan's tail, shielding them in silence, like a pale ghost in the gloom.
When dawn broke, and the spires of Tamil rose from the mists like guardians, the caravan broke into soft cheers, tears glistening in exhausted eyes.
At the gate, Arasha approached the stunned city guards, handing them a folded missive stamped with the Scion insignia.
"Two ambushes on this route. Well-armed. Coordinated. Not common bandits. The roads aren't safe," she said. "Send word to the city lord. Have scouts secure the area immediately. Or you'll be seeing more blood than trade."
The guards saluted, faces pale, then hurried to follow orders.
Arasha turned to mount her horse.
But the merchant head—the silver-haired man with a warm, sand-brushed voice—called out.
"Commander! Please. At least share a meal with us. A humble dinner, from those you saved. My hearth is yours."
She paused. Her mission was complete. Her knights awaited her return. But something in the merchant's voice—earnest, proud—made her nod.
"…Very well. But briefly."
The merchant's home sat in the bustling heart of Tamil, a wide stone building with carved beams, a small herb garden, and windows lit warmly from within.
The dinner table was simple but bountiful. Steamed root vegetables, roasted game hen, honey-glazed pears, and amber wine brewed from desert blossoms.
Arasha sat tall, polished and quiet, exchanging words politely.
But then came the thud of rushed feet.
And a voice.
"Grandfather, you said someone brave was here!"
Arasha turned her head, just as a boy of perhaps the same age as her skidded to a halt at the threshold.
Cassian.
Hazel eyes, hair tousled from running, cheeks flushed.
He stared at her as though seeing a knight from a tale come to life.
"You're The Commander of the Scion Knight Order?" he whispered, awed.
She tilted her head, then gave a small nod. "I am."
Cassian took two stiff steps forward, then bowed awkwardly. "I… I read about the Scion Order. And knights. And you fought bandits—twice. Grandfather said you saved him."
Arasha glanced at the merchant, who chuckled gently. "Cassian reads too many war ballads."
Arasha, for the first time that day, let a faint smile tug at her lips.
"Then perhaps you'll write your own someday," she said, rising. "But for now… write down what you've learned tonight. About defending others. About staying alert."
Cassian nodded rapidly, awe shining in his gaze.
As Arasha stepped away from the table, her cloak caught the soft light, she looked at the night sky outside.
Then she stepped into the dawn-soaked streets once more.
She then rode through the night.
****
The sun hung low behind wisps of cloud, casting golden light over the sloping hills as Arasha rode alone. Her cloak fluttered behind her, her pace measured but unhurried.
She had chosen a lesser-known road that cut the journey in half, an old trade path no longer used—overgrown in parts, but still passable if one knew where to look.
Birdsong trailed her path like a hushed chorus, and the wind teased the strands of her dark hair peeking out from beneath her riding hood.
After an hour more of riding through dappled shade and wildflowers, a clearing opened like a secret whispered to the earth—a wide meadow, cradling a lake of crystalline water.
Arasha reined in her horse, exhaling softly.
She dismounted and let the reins hang loose. Her steed, well-trained, immediately lowered its head to graze in the lush grass.
Arasha walked quietly to the lake's edge, removed her boots and gloves, and sat with her legs stretched out into the water. The lake was cool, gentle ripples lapping against her skin, soothing the long ache of travel.
She leaned back, resting on her elbows, and gazed upward.
Above, the sky was a vast sea of blue, clear and bright, streaked with cotton-white clouds.
Around her, wildflowers bloomed with defiant joy—cornflowers, clover, tiny white bells. The scent of new life and summer air surrounded her like an embrace.
Something about the place stirred a fragile warmth deep inside her.
A memory, faint and distant, surfaced like a dream rising from the bottom of a forgotten well.
A meadow not unlike this one—smaller, tucked near a village whose name she could no longer recall.
And in that meadow: a man laughing, tall and broad-shouldered, lifting a tiny girl high into the air. A woman kneeling nearby, gathering flowers into a crown.
Her mother. Her father. And her.
Arasha blinked slowly, the smile curling at her lips tinged with melancholy.
She had almost forgotten how it felt—safety, uncomplicated joy, warmth unearned but freely given.
She drew her knees up slowly, hugging them for a moment.
Then her stomach growled, sharp and demanding, breaking the reverie.
Arasha blinked, then let out a quiet, genuine chuckle. "Right," she murmured. "It's been a while since breakfast."
She reached into her pouch and pulled out a strip of tough venison jerky. Tearing a piece off, she chewed thoughtfully, the earthy flavor grounding her as the soft wind rustled the grass around her.
She watched a dragonfly skim across the surface of the lake. Then another joined it. And for that short moment, she allowed herself to just be—not a commander, not a warrior, not a name whispered in song.
Just Arasha.
When the jerky was gone and the sun had dipped a little lower, she stood, boots in hand. She took one last look at the peaceful meadow and the still water—a hidden kindness in a hard world.
"Thank you," she whispered to no one and everyone.
Then she pulled her boots back on, mounted her horse once more, and rode on—the wind at her back, the path forward waiting.
She did not know that the flowers she'd sat beside would bloom stronger that season, nor that others would someday follow her path and feel peace in that same meadow.
But the road called, and Arasha answered—as she always had.