A Pug's Journey (Cultivation Starts with Breathing)

The carriage rocked as one wheel clipped a rut in the road, and the mage across from me nearly dropped his little spell book. He caught it with the twitchy reflexes of someone who was very sure today could still get worse.

He was the only one in here with me. Which made sense.

You assign the mage inside a carriage to make sure things "go right," and the guards ride or walk outside along.

The mage coughed softly. Adjusted his gloves again. Tried not to meet my eyes.

He was the same one I met from the train. Still nervous. Still trying to look like he wasn't.

I didn't blame him. Not really.

He had to sit across from me while the wheels creaked under one ton of pug.

We were just under an hour from Fort Kessan. The air smelled different now—drier, with a faint note of iron. You could always tell when you were approaching a fortress. The land got quieter. The wind picked up. The birds knew better.

I shifted my weight slightly. The carriage groaned under the pressure.

I was still thinking about what got me here.

It wasn't long ago. Maybe two hours.

"One of the six heirs gave an order. That should be enough."

He smiled after hearing my declaration.

"Then an heir deserves to be treated as such."

He turned to his assistant.

"Prepare a transport. A mage. Light company only. I want him on the road within the hour."

I tried to protest.

"I can handle this on my own—"

"What nonsense," he said, like he was swatting a fly.

"You've committed yourself. And as such, this is the minimum etiquette required."

Etiquette.

Just the basic courtesy of treating someone of my stature what I deserved.

Then he returned to his work.

And that was the end of it.

Back in the carriage, the mage cleared his throat as he kept his eyes closed. He had explained to me that he was scouting the vicinity of any unwanted presence.

He didn't speak. Just looked at me for half a second too long, then back at the window like it owed him an explanation.

Outside, I could hear one of the soldiers call something out—probably confirming position. Hoofbeats echoed nearby. Tight formation.

They were professional.

The kind of escort you send with someone valuable.

I stayed quiet.

Let the steel creak beneath me. Let the mage sweat. Let the last bend in the road draw Fort Kessan closer.

I already knew at least one of the guards had been bought. Maybe two.

After all, Quarroth wanted to keep eyes on me.

Still.

I wasn't worried.

Fort Kessan came into view about twenty minutes later.

Reinforced watchtowers gleamed under the overcast light, and long brass panels ran along the battlements like scars too deep to polish out. No decorative banners. No gold. Just heavy stone, anchor bolts, and smoke drifting from the eastern side. Burned something recently. Probably not for morale.

As we approached the gates, one of the outer guards spotted us and gave a quick signal; no hesitation. They were already expecting me.

Lord Velin had sent word ahead.

The gates clanked a massive draw-ramp folding open with mechanical precision, metal teeth grinding against their sockets until the entire front yawed open like a wounded jaw.

Inside was worse.

Fort Kessan didn't bustle. It scrambled.

There were crates everywhere half-unloaded. Ropes fraying. Two soldiers arguing over a manifest while someone else ran by with bloodied bandages trailing behind.

We didn't pause long. The mage gave a short word to a nearby coordinator, and we were waved through like dignitaries.

I stepped down from the carriage slowly. Deliberately.

Although the ground didn't buckle, the sound made several heads turn.

And that's when the stares started.

People looked. Hard.

Not because they didn't know who I was. They did. Word spreads fast when they're supposedly expecting the sibling of someone who used to patch up half the garrison.

No. They were staring because I wasn't what they expected.

"He's the brother?"
"Looks like a bread golem."
"I thought godbeasts had more neck."

I kept walking.

If I stopped for every shocked expression, I'd never make it to the medic wing.

Speaking of which—

The medical corridor of Fort Kessan was barely holding itself together.

Noise hit first—sharp and chaotic. Clerics shouting for bandages. Nurses shouting for support for their wounded. Boots slamming across stone halls that were never meant for this many bodies.

I caught glimpses through open doors.

Rows of cots. Not enough beds. A man screaming as something got reset in his leg. A young priest pressing healing light into a wound.

It smelled like old sweat, boiled herbs, and desperation.

If Rinvara was still here—

I didn't let myself finish that thought.

"Your Reverence," a voice called, smooth and practiced.

A man stepped into view at the hall junction. Clean robes. Polished pauldrons. Very official-looking everything. He offered a bow—not too deep, not too casual.

"Welcome to Fort Kessan. I am Command-Presbyter Halden Vess, steward of this region in both structure and sanctity."

He gestured with open palms, like he was welcoming a visiting dignitary to a fancy dinner and not the brother of a missing healer.

"I trust your journey was uneventful?"

I stared at him for a beat longer than was comfortable.

I could feel it. Phase-wise, he was Middle Phase-6.

Not weak, but not what the books said he should be. Fort commanders were traditionally at least Phase-5, especially in contested areas like this.

Which meant either someone had cut corners...

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

…or something worse had happened to whoever came before him.

I didn't say any of that out loud.

He gave a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes and motioned toward the far hall. "We've arranged space for you in the high dormitory wing. When you're ready, I'll debrief you personally. But first, I implore you to visit The Mortician."

I didn't respond. Just started walking.

His footsteps followed.

The hall grew colder the deeper we went.

It was the kind of cold that sunk between the ribs and made you think of a grave.

The mortuary wasn't marked. Just a black curtain pulled to one side and the faint smell of antiseptic, boiled linen, and blood that had dried too recently.

We stepped through.

It wasn't a room, exactly. More like a large chamber repurposed from something else—maybe an old supply vault. Tables ran along the stonework walls, half-filled with tagged cloth bundles and basin trays. Names etched in charcoal were on thin strips of treated parchment pinned on the wall.

The man we stopped in front of didn't look up right away.

He was elbow-deep in a chest cavity, humming under his breath and scribbling down notes without ever setting down the scalpel. He wore a white robe and stained apron. Lenses clipped to his face like a jeweler, except they were magnifying runes. The gem mounted on his collar meant that he was licensed to perform posthumous resonance extraction.

Lovely.

Command-Presbyter Vess cleared his throat. "I'll require a moment with the Mortician."

The clerics and assistants in the room didn't argue. They took one look at me, then at the title Vess had just dropped. They moved out without a word.

The Mortician finally glanced up, but his hands didn't stop working.

Vess gestured toward me. "This is Pophet, of the Six. Son of Lady Aurelith. Brother of Rinvara."

That made him pause. Only for a moment.

His eyes flicked across my frame with curiosity. It was the kind of look you'd get from someone who catalogued people in their head. He didn't bow, didn't smile, and simply stared at me.

Then, "How curious…"

And just like that, he moved on.

He ripped another tag from a satchel. Set it aside. Reached for another cloth. "Ah, the lass? Rinvara?"

He said her name casually as if he were someone close to her.

"Shame what happened to her. I taught her quite a lot, so I found it unfortunate that they took her."

Ah, he was the person Rinvara said who taught her how to make poti—

What?

"What do you mean?"

He tapped the metal against the basin once. "Has this information not been disseminated yet?"

Vess didn't answer.

"Ah. Probably not. Might dampen morale." The mortician shrugged." The Ferrons took her. Likely for parts and materials."

Something went hot behind my eyes.

The stone under my paws cracked.

Quietly, my claws dug in and the mortar hissed as it gave. My front right paw sank an inch into the tile.

I didn't say anything yet.

Didn't need to.

We were Godbeasts.

This wasn't new.

Our fur could be ground into mana-binding thread. Our blood distilled into catalysts. Bones for handles. Organs for war rites. Claws melted into a purer metal for weapons.

We weren't just creatures.

We were currency.

But knowing that and hearing it…

My voice came out low.

"Do you know who took her?"

The Mortician tilted his head like I'd asked what day it was.

"Oh, yes. I saw the brute myself. Towering fellow. One of Ferron's champions, I believe. You'll easily pick him out from a crowd. He carries a shield the size of a wagon door strapped to his back; bald, skin like ironwood bark, and a chest like a siege ramp."

His fingers went back to work.

"She fought him, of course. You'd have been proud, maybe. She had some spark to her. But combat really wasn't her calling. She threw spells, potions she personally made for events like those, and even nearly lit up half the trench perimeter trying to stop him."

He paused, then added casually, "In the end, it didn't matter."

The scalpel tapped the basin again.

"He shrugged it all off and let her tire herself out. And when she did…"

"Knocked her down and dragged her off like luggage."

The tile was still cracked beneath me.

I hadn't moved.

The Mortician went back to work, as if describing someone's sister being dragged off like cargo was just part of a daily report. Which, for him, maybe it was.

But not for me.

My breath came in tight. Hot.

And the words were out before I could stop them.

"Why didn't you help her?"

The scalpel didn't pause this time.

He just sighed—long and dry, like the question bored him more than it hurt.

"I couldn't."

He said it plainly.

Then he looked up again. The magnification lens clicked aside, revealing one sharp, tired eye.

"I was on the second ring," he said. "She was on the forward line. Between her and me were four barricades, a collapsed supply runner, and six injured priests who needed to be stabilized before their spirits fled."

He adjusted the clamp on the body in front of him. Clean motion. No wasted effort.

"I no longer move as fast as I used to. I am no longer able to jump trenches anymore. Not with these knees."

Then he went back to stitching.

The words landed with less resistance than I expected. Which made them land harder.

I didn't say anything.

Didn't move either.

That's when Vess stepped in.

He didn't raise his voice.

He just took one step closer and lowered his tone, as if offering a quiet deal across a very polite table.

"Your Reverence… I understand what you're feeling. I do."

His eyes searched mine for something he hadn't yet seen. He wasn't scared. Not yet. Just careful.

"But if I may; please, don't let this moment set a tone we can't take back. There are enough rumors within these walls already.

"Let's not give them a new one."

He turned slightly and gestured to the curtain. An aide stepped through, head bowed.

"Please show our guest to his quarters."

The aide nodded once and led me out.

I didn't look at either of them as I passed.

The hallway had quieted since we arrived, but not completely. Somewhere behind a door, someone was praying over a wound. Somewhere else, someone was coughing into cloth.

We walked in silence for a long stretch.

Then, the aide stopped outside a door.

Wooden frame. Brass latch. Nothing written on it. Nothing marked.

He opened it.

Held it for me without a word.

I stepped inside.

The door shut behind me.

The smell hit first.

Not rot or dust or incense.

Lavender. Bitterroot. Sulfur. Dried orange peel.

Potion ingredients. A lot of them. Some bottled. Some in piles. Some fused into the fabric of a blanket that hadn't been washed in months.

And fur.

Silver strands, short and wiry, clinging to the edges of a folded cloak near the window. Too soft for a soldier's coat. Too clean for a medic's rag.

I knew the scent before I even saw the rest.

The haphazard notes she tried to write by using mana on the wall. The sketches. The equipment.

This wasn't my room.

This had been hers.

No one had cleaned it out.

No one dared.

I stood in the middle of it, silent.

Then lowered myself, slowly, to the floor. Just to be closer to the place where she had once stood.

The scent lingered.

Even after sleep took me—without asking, without warning—it remained. It was caught in the fabric, steeped into the walls, braided into the glass of half-filled vials. I hadn't meant to rest. Hadn't planned to let my eyes close, much less drift.

But my mind had its limits.

When I woke, the light was different. Narrow bands of morning sun stretched across the wooden floor, hazy at the edges, filtered through a window someone hadn't bothered to clean in weeks.

I didn't move right away.

Then I stood.

The floor underneath me bent and creaked as my claws clicked against it. I gave the room one final look, not to remember it, not to say goodbye. Just to make sure I had the shape of it in my mind. The placement of things. The unfinished notes. The silver strands clinging to the underside of a cloak she probably wore as she worked.

I wouldn't leave this final place of hers to fade.

If Rinvara was alive, I'd find her.

And if she wasn't… If she'd already been carved up and turned into the kind of components mages called "materials"—then I'd bring what was left of her home.

Either way, I'd know.

By the time I made it outside, the fort had already begun its daily ritual of noise and effort. The shift horns had sounded. Clerics were shouting about supply bottlenecks. The air stank of new armor polish and half-boiled ration gruel. Soldiers passed by in organized disarray.

I ignored them.

Command-Presbyter Vess was standing in the outer corridor near the comm-dais, hunched over a stack of field reports. He was muttering to himself while flipping pages, a faint crease between his brows.

He noticed me as I approached, straightening just enough to seem composed.

I didn't let him speak first.

"I'm going to the southern line," I said. "To the trench where she was taken. I want to see the path. The wards. All of it."

His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came at first. Whatever diplomatic phrasing he'd prepared didn't survive impact.

When he did speak, it was slower, carefully chosen.

"That area is not considered secure. Our hold there is tenuous at best. Multiple units have been withdrawn. If you proceed, and something happens to you—"

"It won't," I said.

He paused, visibly reassessing his next move.

"I must urge you to reconsider," he continued. "The southern front has already cost us too much. To risk a Godbeast, let alone another one of Aurelith's lineage, would be... deeply unwise."

"I'm going."

His jaw tensed slightly. He wasn't raising his voice. But I could feel the edge underneath.

Then, finally:

"If I am to allow this, I require certain conditions."

I didn't interrupt.

"You will be accompanied by Fort Kessan's elite combat unit. They are Phase-Six standard, and they've endured more rotations than any other surviving group. You'll retain your current escort. The mage will remain in formation. And…"

A brief hesitation.

"…The Mortician will join you."

I held his gaze.

"I agree."