Still, the more cunning part of Luscia reveled in her lack of height. As a daughter of Boreal, stealth and speed were given abilities, but her smaller frame was often smoother and quicker than her average sparring partner, even among the Najjani elite.

Out of the corner of her eye, Luscia spotted Marek approaching. He stopped a few feet away, gathering back the strands of crimson hair that had escaped their leather lacing during the journey here. Luscia busied herself with unharnessing her mare, trying to ignore the appeal of Marek’s chiseled cheekbones and strong jaw, each characteristic begrudgingly appreciated. Luscia wished he would keep his distance. Their close proximity suggested an unspoken familiarity between them, however inevitable it may be.

“You rode well today, Ana’Sere,” Marek offered as she unfastened the saddle. “We’ll set your quarters against the farthest wall. It’s the tallest and most stable. Provides the greatest security. You must have been cold last night—do you require another set of furs?”

Luscia made an effort to soften her features, knowing they could be severe. As much as she’d like to ignore his companionship, she could not allow herself to remain petulant when addressed out of duty. Insightfully, Marek had started to use her formal title, Great Sister, regularly once he realized she was more receptive to it.

“Tadöm, Captaen,” Luscia conceded, thanking him.

“Yeh’maelim, Ana’Sere.”

Finally making eye contact, she met a pair of cerulean lights in the darkness. His suggestion was earnest, she knew, by the way his fine brows lifted in concern.

Yet to endure each generation to the next, the peoples to the East reached outward. The eastern tribes strengthened in numbers and eventually established the Orynthian armies. As their Unitarian forces emerged, cultures of the Old-World were lost, and the New-World was born.

In the signing the Accords, the ruling powers of each House founded the Ethnicam, solidifying their allegiance under a unified Orynthian banner. From Bastiion were the Peerage of the nobility, from Pilar the Shoto Collective, from Darakai their tribal chieftains and from Boreal, her clan elders. This balance of power worked to ensure through domestic trade, service was paid in full for the benefit of all Orynthia, the central kingdom. As the Houses retained enough independence to govern their own territories, the Ethnicam provided accountability against partiality. Or so it proclaimed.

“You navigated well, I see,” she acknowledged. He nodded, and an awkward silence fell between them, the air growing still. Bristling, Luscia inquired, “How do you know this place? I’ve seen ruins of this size only a handful of times. On my last journey to Bastiion, my aunt’s guard kept us to the main roads.”

“Your father—the Clann Darragh, I mean….” Marek cleared his throat. “He sent us on a scouting assignment two months ago to prepare for your journey. He thought it prudent to explore alternative routes in case we needed to avoid the main roads. Declan noticed framing underneath the overgrowth and led us to find the perfect shelter.” He paused to gesture at the rotted frame. “In order to remain undetected, we haven’t made our fires as large as I’d like. Tonight, we should be able to.”

Marek fiddled with the bedroll he carried, clearly uncomfortable speaking so much. It was the longest monologue she’d heard him give in normal conversation. Luscia opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off when Declan and Noxolo stalked past, thoroughly engaged in an argument over venison seasoning. With a buck thrown over his shoulder, Declan trudged toward the fire another warrior had built. Noxolo dragged a sad-looking possum, yammering on about thissleweed and an old family recipe. Luscia controlled her smirk and braced for the thunderous explosion about to erupt from the bulkier Najjan.

“I’m grateful for your consideration, Captaen,” Luscia finally said to Marek, despite Declan and Noxolo’s brewing dispute in the background. She lowered her head a fraction, excusing herself, and turned in the opposite direction. “Oh, and tadöm, for the furs,” she added over a shoulder, “but I’m certain Aksel will be warmth enough once he returns from terrorizing the local wildlife.”

With that, Luscia headed to the farthest wall, desperate for some space.

Over the next hour, Luscia found solace in the symphony of the wildwood. She slowly picked at her second portion of venison, savoring the flavor. He could be a real nuisance, but Noxolo was onto something with the thissleweed. An odd combination, she concluded, from an even odder family.

Her gaze followed her warriors while they moved about, going through the motions of their nightly routines. Not for the first time, she recognized why Boreal’s clan elders chose each of these men to play this coveted role in her life. There was the twenty-three-year-old Marek, of course, who traversed their camp almost silently as he prepared for first watch, gliding like an extension of the mist as he searched for potential threats. His northern heritage combined with his years of training on the Isle of Viridis had honed him into a deadly warrior, and his keen mind for strategy had earned him leadership over the other four Najjan.

The musical beat of clashing metal drew her eyes to the twins as they sparred in a series of dancelike steps and arced maneuvers. The golden-haired brothers circled one another, a competitive joy radiating from both men. At twenty-one, they were the youngest members of Luscia’s quintet of warriors, though still older than her own eighteen years. Outsiders often found their abstract precision to be unnerving, but the House of Boreal commended both Böwen and Creyvan Tearlach as shining examples of its beauty and military prowess.

Beyond the crackling fire sat the eldest of the group: Declan Athdara. He had readily become Luscia’s favorite among her escort. Though he tended to erupt whenever his patience tired, she felt most at peace with his otherwise quiet disposition. A superior tracker and hunter—as evidenced by the dinner he’d provided—but Luscia felt certain there were many reasons Declan had been chosen to protect her. She studied the artistic way he sharpened and polished a set of luxiron blades laid before him, admiring the way he held each with such care, like they were precious stones instead of death-bringers.

To their communal relief, Noxolo Egon snored in a corner of the ruin. It was the most reasonable he’d been that day. Translucent skin as pale as her own was concealed beneath his fine, moonlit hair, though Luscia could still see his long nose peeking through the curtain of platinum strands. It was Nox’s speed that positioned him at her side—when engaged, Nox moved as fast as Luscia, despite being almost three heads taller.

Shadowmen, the people of Orynthia called them. Boreal’s Najjan fought in the shadows with a chilling patience, a fearsome caste of warriors who danced with blades like the whistling tempests over the Drystan Sea. Luscia found the adopted name rather appropriate, as opposed to the slew of distasteful alternatives the realm enlisted. Even in the face of Boreal’s crumbling political status within the Ethnicam, the Najjan retained their repute, and were resented for it.