Rise of Tyrus

The next three days blurred together in a rhythm of travel, combat, and uneasy rest. Their route took them northwest across the rocky terrain of the High Plateau, following paths carved by countless caravans before them and smoothed only slightly by time. The cart wheels creaked incessantly over the uneven ground, a sound that had become so constant it almost faded into white noise.

The land rose and fell in harsh rhythms—high hills they climbed in silence, valleys they avoided for the beasts that lurked in shadowed gullies. The sky remained vast above them, clouds skimming like white banners across a ceiling of blue, the Northern Mountains etched faintly in the horizon.

Each day brought battle. On the first day, stonemasons swooped in when the sun was bright, their great wings casting brief eclipses over the road as they tried to crack skulls with diving strikes. The first time they encountered a flock of six, Tyrus had been caught off guard by their coordinated tactics. These beasts didn't simply dive randomly—they worked together, some creating distractions while others went for killing strikes.

Of course, Blue Dawn dispatched them all with a few cuts here and there.

Stone-backed beetles proved even more troublesome, emerging from crevices in the ground with no warning other than the subtle vibration their movement created in the stone. Their armored shells clicked together as they swarmed toward the cart in waves, sometimes numbering in the dozens. These creatures were less intelligent than the stonemasons but made up for it with sheer persistence and numbers.

The worst encounter came when a massive colony of beetles erupted from what had appeared to be solid rock. Dozens upon dozens of the creatures poured forth like a living tide, their shells creating a sound like rainfall on stone as they scuttled forward with single-minded determination. That battle had lasted nearly an hour, leaving them all exhausted and covered in the acidic green blood that served as the beetles' life fluid. The substance had a corrosive quality that ate through leather and left painful burns on exposed skin, requiring immediate treatment from Fiona's water magic to prevent lasting damage.

At night, it was no better. Shardcrowns stalked them through the darkness, testing the camp's defenses repeatedly while they probed for weaknesses with small feints and retreats. For some reason, they wouldn't commit to invading the camp and testing their mettle against the group, which confused the group briefly until a howl pierced the night.

Packs of lesser hounds with gray coats would coordinate with the shardcrowns, using them as distractions while they attempted to flank the camp. The hounds' yellow eyes gleamed like lanterns in the darkness, and their howls created an unnerving chorus that seemed to come from every direction at once.

The attacks had become so frequent that Fiona made the decision to forgo their usual campfires except in emergencies. The decision came after a particularly vicious assault by a pack of twelve hounds that had been drawn to their light. Too much light drew predators from far and wide, converging with uncanny timing.

This meant depending primarily on moonlight and Tyrus's vision at night, which had proven invaluable in spotting approaching threats before they could close to striking distance. His demi-human heritage, usually a source of social difficulty, became their lifeline in the darkness. He could make out details far out in conditions that left his companions nearly blind, detecting movement and identifying threats while others were still squinting at shadows.

The responsibility weighed heavily on him. Every night, he knew that a moment's inattention could mean death for his friends. Sleep became a luxury he could barely afford at night, so he slept mostly during the day while others kept watch.

Apostle Alaran never lifted a hand to intervene. He sat like a carved figure, his robes immaculate even when dust settled on everyone else. Fiona forbade him from acting, her pride unwilling to lean on a diamond explorer's strength when Blue Dawn needed the blood and experience themselves. Alaran didn't object to her wishes, so he and Sir Wayne watched in silence while the group fought.

The knight, for his part, maintained his usual stoic silence during combat, though Tyrus noticed his hand never strayed far from his sword hilt. There was something almost predatory in the way Sir Wayne watched the battles, as if he were evaluating each participant's performance by some internal standard that only he understood.

What bothered Tyrus most was Sir Wayne's behavior after each battle. Without fail, the knight's gaze would linger on Tyrus and Fiona with particular disdain before moving to tend to Igneal's needs. It was as if their very existence offended him on some fundamental level.

The pattern was so consistent that Tyrus found himself dwelling on it during the long hours of travel. He would replay interactions in his mind, searching for clues about the source of the knight's hostility. He racked his mind trying to remember any favorable interaction with Sir Wayne like a compliment, a smile, even a neutral acknowledgment, but came up empty.

From their very first meeting in front of Erza's magical shop, Sir Wayne had looked at him as if he were examining an unpleasant piece of waste. Even before Tyrus had spoken a word or taken any action, the knight's expression conveyed complete contempt. The memory of that initial glare still stung, perhaps because it had been so unexpected. Tyrus had done nothing to earn such contempt, offered no provocation or insult. Yet the knight's hatred seemed as natural and inevitable as sunrise, rooted in something deeper than personal grievance.

Sometimes Tyrus considered asking Igneal about his guardian's behavior, but the words never came. How could he broach such a topic without sounding needy or desperate for validation? "Why does your knight hate me?" seemed like exactly the kind of question that would make him appear frail.

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Besides, what if Igneal simply confirmed that Sir Wayne had good reason for his contempt? That possibility was somehow worse than remaining ignorant.

His very first memory of the knight stoked a cold fire in him. Not the hot hate of wishing death or ruin, but a low simmer. A thought that if Sir Wayne vanished tomorrow, he wouldn't care. No mourning. No regret.

Dark thoughts. They had been coming more often since Alaran's probing words about his blood the other day. Tyrus shook them off when they rose, but each time, the effort grew heavier. He caught himself frowning more, caught the weight in his chest. Whatever the cause, he made a conscious decision to redirect his mental energy away from the knight's inexplicable hostility and toward more productive concerns. Dwelling on such negativity served no purpose beyond poisoning his own peace of mind.

Their daily routine became a reliable constant amid the chaos of constant threat. They would wake before dawn, muscles stiff from sleeping on bedrolls spread over unforgiving stone. A quick meal of travel rations and water from their seemingly endless supplies would provide energy for the day ahead.

Then came the luxury that made everything else bearable: Fiona's makeshift bathing chamber. Using her earth magic, she would raise a small, private enclosure with walls tall enough to provide modesty and thick enough to muffle sound. Water magic provided a steady stream of clean, if cold, water that felt like paradise after hours of accumulating grime and beast blood.

By the second day, the land itself changed. What had once been a barren wasteland of stone and dust now showed patches of hardy grass and even the occasional wildflower. These small splashes of color seemed almost miraculous after days of monotonous gray rock.

Indeed, small streams appeared with increasing frequency, cutting through the rock to create oases of green life. These water sources were a godsend, allowing them to refill their supplies and providing relief from the endless dust that seemed to coat everything.

During his travels, Tyrus noticed the lack of settlements. Hour after hour, not a single farmstead, not a smoke-trail of a village. At first, it felt strange, but when he thought harder, it made sense.

Who would build here? There was little water to drink, only cracked stone and stingy grass. Beasts prowled daily; without walls and numbers, any settlement would vanish in weeks. The basin town had been an anomaly, clinging to life in its hollow. Perhaps the first who dared the attempt… or the last.

On the third day, their journey brought them to a sight that made even the grumpy Sir Wayne sigh with relief. Before them stretched a long, steep slope that clearly marked the boundary between the upper and lower regions of the High Plateau.

Grasslands rolled like waves, and red bison dotted in the distance, grazing in herds. Farther yet, glimmering like a shard of the sky fallen to earth, was a lake. The contrast was so dramatic it seemed like looking at two different worlds that happened to share the same sky.

An outpost stood near the edge of the slope, and it was manned by two guards who watched their approach with interest. The structure was well-built and clearly maintained, with stone walls thick enough to withstand both weather and potential attacks. A small stable suggested that this was a regular stop for travelers, though Tyrus couldn't imagine many people making this journey voluntarily nowadays.

Behind the outpost, a contraption of ropes, pulleys, and wooden platforms provided safe passage down the treacherous slope. Tyrus remembered his amazement at the construction, how he had stared wide-eyed at the complex arrangement of cables and wheels, having never seen anything like it in all his travels. Even Valis, the great capital, had no such mechanical marvels. He had peppered Reo about how it worked until the scouts' ears bled from the volley of questions.

Now, the platform still impressed him but no longer held the same wonder. Experience had a way of diminishing amazement, he reflected.

As they approached the outpost, the guards straightened to attention. Their uniforms marked them as local militia rather than guild members. Both men were armed with quality weapons and moved with the alertness of professional guardsmen.

The senior guard, a weathered man with graying temples and scars, stepped forward with a book and quill.

"Explorer badges, please," he said politely but firmly. "Just a routine check before we authorize anyone to descend. Safety regulations, you understand."

Blue Dawn complied readily, producing their bronze tags for inspection. The guard examined each one carefully, comparing the magical signatures against reference materials in his ledger and making notes as he verified their authenticity and current status.

"Everything appears to be in order," he said, returning the badges with a respectful nod. "Welcome back, Blue Dawn. I trust your contract was successful?"

"It was," Fiona replied. "After witnessing it firsthand, it's safe to say beast activity has all but catapulted out there. On our way back, we probably killed about half the stonemason population, and a quarter of the beetles."

Then the guard's gaze fell on Igneal, and his entire demeanor shifted. His back straightened further, and his voice took on the formal tone reserved for nobility.

"Lord Igneal," he said, offering a deep bow. "It's an honor to have you return through our humble outpost."

Igneal just shrugged. "Carry on with your duties."

The guard nodded but maintained his respectful demeanor, clearly unwilling to risk offending someone of such high birth regardless of their personal preferences.

It was then that his attention was drawn to Alaran, who had been observing the proceedings with a straight face. The moment the guard's eyes registered the distinctive white and blue robes with their golden trim, his face went pale as fallen snow.

"A-Apostle," he stammered, immediately dropping to one knee with such haste that his book tumbled to the stone ground. "Forgive me, I didn't realize an esteemed figure was arriving. Please accept my deepest apologies for not recognizing you immediately."

His companion quickly followed suit, both men clearly overwhelmed by the unexpected presence of such an august figure.

"Please, rise," Alaran said quietly. "There is no need for such ceremony. We seek only passage to the town below, nothing more."

"Of course, Apostle!" the senior guard said, rising to his feet and retrieving his fallen book with shaking hands. "Please, step onto the platform whenever you're ready. We'll have you down safely in no time."

The speed with which they were ushered onto the lifting platform was almost comical. The guards worked the pulley system with desperate efficiency, clearly eager not to delay such distinguished passengers any longer than absolutely necessary.

Watching this display, Tyrus gained new insight into Alaran's position. He had seen similar deference shown only to members of the Great Lineages or high-ranking officials. The power of religious authority, when backed by divine appointment, clearly commanded respect on the same level as Igneal's, or perhaps the family head himself.

As the platform began its descent, Tyrus experienced the familiar sensation in his stomac, that being a floating feeling whenever he used a teleportation gate. The town below grew larger as they descended, revealing more details of its layout and construction with each passing moment.