Asher dropped his heavy gear pack onto the soft bed of needles at the base of a tall cedar tree. He let out a long breath as the cool evening air settled around his shoulders. All around them the deep forest canopy blocked out most of the sky. Only tiny pinpricks of starlight showed through the dark green branches high above. The only sound in the clearing was the steady crackle of the small campfire Jaren had started with dry twigs and a spark striker. Orange light danced against the thick bark of the trees. Jaren knelt beside the fire and rubbed his hands over the flames. He pulled a strip of dried meat from his pocket and tossed it into his mouth. His eyes stayed on the darkening woods. “If anyone tells me we are sleeping under the open stars tonight, I am going to point at that massive bank of black clouds rolling in over the ridge,” Jaren said. He chewed and kept watching the sky. “Because that sky looks like it is about to dump a bucket of cold mountain water right on our

Asher pushed open the heavy wooden door of the Anchor and Gulling. He stepped out of the bright coastal glare and straight into the warm, noisy heart of Oakhaven’s most famous seaside tavern. The low ceilinged room was packed tight with sunburned fishermen, weathered dock hands, and traveling merchants. They shouted stories over the loud strumming of a corner lute player. Thick clouds of wood smoke and steam from massive iron cooking pots hung heavy in the air. The smell of boiling garlic, butter, and fresh seafood wrapped around everything. Heavy oak tables sat scarred by decades of spilled ale and hard fought dice games. There were no political debates. No maps of ruined cities. No armed guards shaking people down at the door. It was just a living, breathing room full of ordinary people enjoying a Tuesday night. Jaren ducked his head under a low ceiling beam and elbowed his way toward a vacant corner table before anyone else could claim it. He dropped into a wooden bench with a

Asher tossed his empty leather pack into the passenger seat of the parked van. The heavy metal door slammed shut with a solid, final thud that echoed across the empty coastal overlook. Below them the vast blue expanse of the western ocean stretched out forever toward a burning horizon. The afternoon sun was slowly melting into the waves in a bright blaze of gold and crimson. They had walked through fire, dismantled alien towers, and crossed endless mountain ridges. But right here at the literal edge of the continent, the path simply stopped. There were no more maps to follow. No more secret councils to overthrow. No more looming threats waiting around the bend. Jaren walked up to the stone ledge and leaned his forearms against the weathered rock barrier. He squinted out across the sun drenched water and watched a lone seabird glide on the ocean breeze. “Well, that is officially the end of the line,” Jaren announced. He took a long breath of the salt air. “Unless someone brought

Asher pushed open the heavy wooden shutters of their second floor hotel room. The damp, chilled morning air swept across the rustic wooden floorboards. Down below on the quiet cobblestone street, the early morning silence was broken only by the distant rhythmic creak of wooden moorings and the soft clip clop of a lone delivery cart rolling toward the fish market. There were no urgent messages to answer. No tactical maps to review over stale coffee. No impending doom waiting on the other side of the ridge. It was just an untouched morning hanging in the balance, offering a completely blank slate before the rest of the town woke up. Jaren’s voice came from the rumpled bed across the room. He had pulled a woolen blanket tightly over his head to block out the creeping chill. “If you are staring out that window hoping the fog is going to spell out our next destination using magic smoke letters, you are going to be standing there until lunchtime,” Jaren muttered. “Some of us are trying t

Asher dropped his heavy pack onto the dry, sun warmed earth beneath a massive limestone alcove. He let out a long breath as a sudden gust of high altitude wind swept through the canyon. All around them tall, jagged rock pillars carved by centuries of erosion caught the rushing air. The steady breeze turned into a haunting, musical whistle that echoed softly against the stone walls. There were no sirens. No enemy patrols. No mechanical alerts to shatter the peace. It was just an open valley, a sky turning shades of deep indigo, and four travelers enjoying a quiet evening at the end of a long day of walking. Jaren knelt beside a pile of dry twigs and struck his flint until a bright orange spark caught the tinder. He blew gently on the flame until a cozy campfire crackled to life. Dancing shadows moved against the pale limestone wall. “If the rocks are going to serenade us every time the wind blows, I am expecting a full orchestral performance by midnight,” Jaren joked. He held his