Chương 17: The Citadel of Dawn

The hill path had grown from foot traffic and wagon wheels, not design. It wrapped around the rise in a lazy S, the packed dirt eroded here and there to show stone beneath. They kept to the scrub off the side of the road, moving quiet. Ivan kept [Mana Sense] close and tight, not wanting to flare anything big. Ren walked between them again, one hand on his dagger hilt, eyes scanning the dark like he expected a claw to reach out of every bush.

He was still scared, just not the same shaking kid Ivan had met three months ago. Halfway up, they found the campsite. Whoever had used it had tried to erase the evidence. The firepit was scattered, ash buried under fresh dirt and kicked leaves. Tent spots had been dragged to blur outlines. It would have fooled normal eyes. The Survey image in Ivan's head didn't care about footprints. It cared about the faint, structured residue where mana had clung to metal and leather, where ward‑stones had sat overnight.

He saw it like faint afterimages. Five bedroll placements, three poles with guy‑line tension patterns, and one central banner stake sat clear in the residue. The banner itself lay in the scrub nearby, broken in two. Its cloth was torn, the symbol scuffed, but enough remained to see a rising sun picked out in thread.

"I recognise that. That's Order of Dawn," Rys said, voice low.

"That's good news and bad news." Ivan knew them too. How could he not? The guild was world famous, with more than a hundred thousand members. But Ivan had a feeling this was one of their elite parties.

"Either they left in a hurry," Ivan murmured, "or someone made them leave." Tracks led down both sides of the hill. Heavy bootmarks, lighter steps, drag marks. One direction toward the town. The other, faint but unmistakable, toward the darker line of the trees and the west.

"Harbor," he said.

"Or the road to it." Rys nodded.

"We follow." They slipped into the treeline, the sounds of the town dropping away behind them. The forest here was thinner than the Thornwood, but still enough to hide far too many teeth. Ivan felt [Instinct of the Prey] shift under his skin the moment they stepped past a certain invisible line. A cold, directional pressure crawled up his spine. Not from ahead, where the tracks led. Above and to the right. He didn't think. He moved.

"Down!" he hissed, grabbing Rys by the cloak and yanking her sideways. His other hand snagged Ren's shoulder and hauled. Not even a heartbeat later, something hissed through the space their heads had been and buried itself in the trunk of a pine behind them. Wood splintered. Another thunked into the ground where Ren's feet had been. They dropped into the leaf litter as more bolts thudded into the trees, forming a rough semicircle around their previous path. Voices snapped in accented Common from the dark.

"Hands where we can see them!" a strict woman's voice.

"Order of Dawn! Identify yourselves!" This was why Rys said good news and bad news. These bastards were righteous, sure, but they acted as if they were the Police of the new world. Ivan, Rys, and Ren had no choice but to abide.

Bolts still quivered in the trees when Ivan lifted his hands.

"Do not stab anyone," he muttered toward Rys without looking at her.

"Yet." Ren's breathing shook next to him. The boy forced his hands up too, fingers spread, dagger still sheathed. Brush parted on the ridge above. Five figures stepped into view along the slope, using the trees as natural cover. Whoever placed them knew what they were doing; each angle had a line of fire, and none of them exposed more than armor and weapon hands. The woman in front looked like the one everyone else was waiting on.

She stood a little taller than Ivan, broad‑shouldered in a way that came from actual use, not decoration. Copper hair, almost orange in the faint starlight, had been braided back tight, leaving a few stubborn curls loose around a freckled face. Her eyes were a clear, pale green that flicked over them, counting weapons, injuries, and threats like she was reading a report. Her armor looked like someone had taken modern combat gear and convinced the System to accept it.

Layered plates of matte silver hugged her torso over a padded dark gambeson, shaped enough to admit she had a chest but not made to advertise it. A white tabard with a rising sun sigil fell to mid‑thigh, split for movement. A long sword rested in a scabbard at her hip, and a light shield with the same sunburst emblem sat easy on her left arm. She didn't raise it but Ivan knew it was one twitch away from ready.

"Hands higher," she called. American accent. Clean, clipped.

"Slowly." Ivan obliged. Rys did the same with a put‑upon sigh, ears flattened under her hood. To the woman's right stood a man in a lighter plate, black hair cut short in a style Ivan mentally labeled performative. Like he really wanted to fit this role. His jaw looked like it had been carved specifically to glare over it. A white surcoat with the same sun symbol hung over his gear. He had the air of someone who had never once in his life doubted that his judgment and the universe's desires lined up. Great.

A paladin. Ivan didn't even have to ask to know. Behind the pair, the rest of the squad spread out. The mage was hard to miss once Ivan actually looked at her. She was short and slim, but solid on her feet. Dark blue hair fell to the small of her back, the ends fading toward purple, and her uneven fringe looked like she'd cut it herself and then forgotten the problem existed. Her robes were reinforced midnight cloth stitched with tiny star‑shaped runes, and the metal ring atop her staff hummed faintly with mana.

Beside her was a soft‑faced man in healer whites, a wooden symbol of some dawn‑god hanging at his throat. And further back, half in shadow, the ranger who'd shot at them. He was all leathers and hood, with his bow still half‑drawn but pointed at the ground now. The lead woman raised two fingers. The ranger eased the tension off his bowstring. Nobody lowered weapons fully.

"Now," she said.

"Identify yourselves." Ivan tasted the weight of her presence with [Mana Sense]. It was like standing half a street away from Victor's Spire and feeling the Heart's hum. Not Champion‑level, but easily triple his total Levels. He tried [Inspect] anyway, on reflex. [External Inspection Failed.] [Target exceeds safe comparative Level range.] Everything came back as blurred question marks and a tasteful "data redacted" beep in his mental ear. So… all of them were at least fifty levels over him. Maybe more.

Such a fun day.

"Name's Ivan," he said.

"That's Rys and Ren. We're not slavers." The black‑haired man snorted.

"And I'm the Dawnbound Aurora herself," he muttered. Ivan felt the tickle in the back of his skull a split-second before the System confirmed it. [External Inspection Detected.] [Source: Gareth Holt – Level 107] [Allow inspection? Y/N] [Advanced Option: Edit Displayed Information] [Principle Interference] flared when Gareth tried to Inspect Ivan. Ivan's own [Inspect] had failed, but the incoming query gave him the source cleanly enough. Gareth was Level 107. He'd had maybe two seconds the first time Victor looked.

Gareth got half that. He chose Yes (Edit) on instinct. [Principle Interference] worked the rest. Ivan chose what to show and knifed the query narrow. Name: Ivan Marcellion Race: Human (G) - Level 15 Above him, Gareth's brows twitched. Unlike Victor, Gareth's Skill wasn't nearly high enough to see Ivan's Class details too, nor was it enough to display it publicly. Only Gareth saw the edited information.

"That's… odd," Gareth murmured.

"What's wrong?"

"Human, Level 15," Gareth announced, voice flat.

"Too low. He's probably a civilian class, then. There is no way he's connected to the caravan we're tracing."

"Aren't you guys being too dismissive?" Rys called up, irritation sharpening her tone.

"Just because he doesn't look like he lifts? He could be doing the slaver bastards' paperwork, you know?"

"Hey…" Gareth's gaze snapped to her. Ivan felt another Inspection brush across them and broke on the [Veil of Minor Notice]. He didn't block that one; since these were people of the Order they wouldn't be offended seeing a beastkin.

"Foxkin," Gareth said, and his expression softened just a little.

"Level 59. Slave origin likely. The child is Level 12. Strange that they're sneaking around with a human though. Something is fishy here."

"Gareth," the ginger woman said. Just his name, but with a warning threaded through it. He stepped back half a pace. He didn't put away his sword. The woman addressed them again.

"Captain Yara Ward of the Order of Dawn, Citadel of New Denver," she said. She at least still followed basic courtesy; Ivan could get around that.

"You are on the outskirts of an active investigation into Consortium activities. We've had reports of Iron Chain movement in this area, which makes strangers in the dark very unfortunate coincidences."

"You're from America?" Ren blurted. His hands were still up, but his hood had slipped enough that his eyes shone.

"Is it true your cities are taller than the mountains?"

"Ren," Rys hissed. Yara's mouth twitched toward a smile.

"Taller than this hill," she said.

"Not taller than the mountains. What is your name…?"

"Ren," he repeated, with all the calm dignity a teenage fox boy could muster while covered in leaves.

"It's strange to see a Foxkin so giddy when the news of slaves is so common. I still think they're suspicious," Gareth repeated, as if cataloging a particularly stubborn stain. Rys's shoulders went rigid. Ivan saw that, saw her nails start to lengthen under the sleeves, and decided it was time to steer. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"We're heading for Port Vallow," he said.

"Need passage east. We burned one Chain caravan inland a while back," he said, unwilling to be modest here, "and I imagine someone noticed. So we're trying to pick a path that doesn't end with us in chains or chopped up for parts." Yara's gaze sharpened.

"You attacked an Iron Chain convoy?" she asked.

"Happened to," Rys said, her voice flat.

"They had me and my nephew in a cage. And three score others. He burned their wagons, I broke their necks. Fair trade."

"You expect me to believe," Gareth said, "that a level‑fifteen Civilian Class crippled an Iron Chain strike convoy?" He put such heavy disdain on the word "civilian" that Ivan burst out laughing. What was wrong with this dude?

"That 'Civilian Class' is the reason any of those people are breathing," Rys said.

"They had artifact collars. Lucky for them, he had the right tools." The last part was a lie. Rys had been the one to remove the collars. Ivan still wasn't sure how she'd done it; probably some slaver shortcut she'd watched closely and never risked before because she didn't have mana. Either way, he appreciated the assist. Yara's eyes flicked to Ivan's hands. He'd been careful lately, but old ink scars never quite went away.

The fine black lines stained the creases of his fingers and clung to his nails, especially on his right hand.

"You work with runes? A Scribe, perhaps?" she asked.

"Yes, you can say that," he said.

"That caravan," she went on, tone even.

"Describe it." He did. Not everything. Enough.

"Three wagons with fifteen guards protecting them. The leader favored whips with a paralytic enchantment. They branded the Chain's crest on the lead cart like they were proud of it. We hit them in a ravine three months north of here."

"You neglected to mention," Rys added, "that they were preparing to sell me to some place in the Sky Reach." That was not a smart thing to say. Victor's reach was far and wide, and Ivan didn't know whether the presumed good guys of the new world had a good relationship with him. At least Rys hadn't said Victor himself had been interested in her. That helped. A little. Then Yara's knuckles tightened around her shield grip, and Ivan revised the risk down a notch.

"Sky Reach," she repeated.

"Champion Hargraves' seat is partaking in slavery?"

"Champion," Ivan echoed.

"Generous word." Her eyes cut to him at the tone.

"You've met him?"

"Spent the last decade in that city," he said.

"Hard not to cross paths eventually. We didn't get along." Gareth made a soft, unimpressed sound.

"So you set fire to a caravan, made your local tyrant angry, and now you're walking into another war zone. Wow, you're such a cool Level 15." Ivan laughed.

"Believe it or not."

"Enough," Yara said, sharper this time.

"Everyone, lower your weapons. They are not current Chain assets." Gareth hesitated, then reluctantly eased his sword down. The mage let the glow fade from her staff, and some of the earlier pressure eased with it. Ivan finally got a cleaner feel for her mana. That mage has an insane amount of Mana, what the hell? Last, the ranger straightened from his shooter's crouch and slung his bow. The healer just watched with tired, patient eyes, as if he'd sat through this same argument a hundred times in different forests.

Yara descended the slope, one careful step at a time, until she stood a few paces away. Up close, the aura of her Level pressed heavier. Not quite suffocating, but like sharing the room with a storm that hadn't decided where to strike.

"I apologize for the bolts," she said.

"There have been sightings of Chain hunts along this path. We can't risk surprises." Ivan shrugged as best he could with his hands still up.

"Given the slavers in the area, I'm not offended you shoot first," he said.

"It'd just be ironic if we died to friendly fire after spending weeks not being eaten." Her mouth almost twitched.

"You can lower your hands," she said. Rys let hers drop with a muttered insult about overexcited archers. Ren's arms sagged in relief. Yara studied them for another moment.

"We are from the Citadel of Dawn in New Denver," she said, giving them what sounded like the official line.

"Our patron, the Dawnbound Aurora, tasked us with tracing the Iron Chain's transoceanic routes. Gather names, their methods, and ports. We have a limited warrant to act. Very limited."

"Meaning?" Ivan asked. She sighed.

"It's all complicated. But in short, it means that we are allowed to observe and intervene only when local authorities are complicit in an atrocity that meets certain thresholds," she explained.

"And when action here does not provoke greater slaughter elsewhere."

"So if the Chain is just doing standard‑issue slavery," Rys said, "you watch and take notes. Wow, so this is the famous New World Police." Her jaw flexed.

"That is an unkind way to put a very complicated calculus, decided upon by Divinity of Fate and Destiny. But not entirely wrong." Rys laughed once, without humor. Ivan stepped in before this grew teeth again.

"Observation is useful," he said.

"Paper trails kill empires slower than fire, but they do kill them. Still. You now know we torched one of their caravans. That makes us either useful idiots or inconvenient allies. How do you plan to treat us?" Yara looked at him, properly this time. She looked surprised that he wasn't asking to be let go right away, and instead was proposing an alliance. Truthfully, Rys was right. Ivan agreed with her that he was a coward. He was a coward who wanted to not die.

He'd get involved regardless, but if the Order of Dawn, Citadel of Dawn, whatever it was, thought this important enough to send a high-level party… That meant the enemy wasn't weak. Ivan didn't want to waste this second chance at life by picking a fight where he'd die, not when there was a glittering second option. He loved to rely on people!

"You're not afraid?" she observed.

"Afraid of you?" he asked.

"I'm not stupid enough to attack you. That's different." A corner of her mouth twitched.

"But you're a Scribe, why should we care that you want to get involved here? No offence, you guys have your forte, but this will become a head-on battle," she said.

"Fair point. Difficult to trust a man like me to fight, given I'd spent ten years in a basement making scrolls so men with better armor could die with style." She glanced at his stained fingers again.

"... Hmm. Let me ask you this, answer properly," she said.

"You saw our camp on the hill. How much did you read?"

"A fair bit," he admitted.

"Your ward‑stones are neat. Lines are clean and there are no wasted loops. Whoever drew them knows what they're doing." She sounded bemused.

"And you saw that from walking through a half‑erased campsite in the dark?" He shrugged.

"I see patterns. I can also see your armor is badly damaged, even if one of the enchantments is making it look neat and clean." His Skills handed him enough of the shape to know that much. Her gaze sharpened. She filed that away somewhere important. Night pressed closer around the trees. Above them, the sky had deepened to a solid, star‑pricked black.

"Fine. It's too late to head back to town safely," Yara said, decision made.

"Even with our light. Especially with a child. Our perimeter wards are already set for the night. You can share the camp. My responsibility." Rys's ears twitched under her hood.

"You trust us that easily?"

"I trust," Yara said, "that if you intended to harm us, you would not bring a child to the ambush. And that if I intended to harm you, you would all be dead already." Ivan couldn't argue with that. If Gareth was Level 107, she was higher. He wouldn't be lying if he said she could kill him with an accidental sneeze. He nodded.

"Camp sounds good." Gareth muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "reckless," but if Yara heard, she chose to ignore it.

"Leo," Yara called up to the ranger.

"Guide them in. Keep your bow on your back unless they misbehave." The ranger hopped down the slope with easy grace. In the glow of a small, hooded lightstone at his belt, Ivan could see that the ranger was younger than he'd assumed, despite the short stature. Early twenties, maybe.

"Come on," he said.

"Before Gareth decides to arrest you for walking poorly." That earned him a glare from the vice‑captain. He ignored him with the ease of long practice. Ivan liked him immediately.

The Order's camp sat in a natural bowl just below the ridge line, ringed by trees. Runes etched into stones at four points hummed with quiet, steady energy, forming a perimeter that tickled his Survey Field memories. It was simple and strong in an annoyingly efficient way. And this wasn't even a permanent settlement. Ivan could only wonder how intense their headquarters could be. Ren's eyes went wide when he saw the tents.

They were actual field tents, not patched tarp lean‑tos, and the Order had even set up a small collapsible table with maps pinned under stone weights.

"This is so cool," Ren whispered, reverent.

"They have furniture."

"Don't stare too much," Rys murmured.

"You'll give them ideas." Yara moved to the little table at once, picking up a quill with the air of someone who would rather be swinging a sword but had accepted her fate. A half‑finished map of the coastline lay spread out, dotted with notes. Beside it, a leather folder held what looked like reports; tidy blocks of writing in sharp script. Her script, probably. She started adding to it immediately. Marks along the tree line. A notation about "Local trio – possible allies/risk factors," if Ivan had to guess.

She didn't stop moving. The healer, a young man with dark blond hair and a tired smile, watched this for a while before walking over and setting a hand on her shoulder.

"Captain," he said quietly.

"You've been on your feet for twenty hours."

"There's more to log," she said, without looking up.

"The Dawnbound Aurora will not revoke your Blessing if you sleep," he said.

"Your spine, however, might." She paused. Then sighed.

"You're getting bolder, Marcus," she muttered, but she set the quill down. Marcus smiled.

"I'm getting tired of patching you up because you forget you're still human." Yara shook her head.

"Tell that to her brother," she muttered, nudging her chin at the mage.

"He's the one who keeps sending her out here instead of locking her in a tower. Getting me more worried than usual…" Ivan watched that, recognizing the rhythm. Busy hands and endless lists. If I stop, everything falls apart. That type of mentality. Rys nudged his ribs lightly.

"Stop being so distracted, be vigilant. We're in stranger territory," she murmured. On the far side of the camp, Gareth cleaned his sword with slow, methodical strokes that probably had a prayer worked into them. He kept glancing over at Yara and then at Ivan. Eventually, he gave up pretending he wasn't staring and walked over.

"You," he said. Ivan looked up from the ward stone he'd been politely not analyzing.

"Sup?"

"You're awfully interested in our captain," Gareth said. He didn't bother dressing it up.

"Eyes on her every time she moves. I don't know what you're thinking, but stop. You're pissing me off." Rys lifted her head at that, ears angling like a predator hearing a rustle. Ivan considered several responses. The first few involved explaining that he'd seen men like Gareth get possessive over things that weren't theirs to own. He discarded those. Not worth the sermon.

"Relax," he said.

"I like watching competent people work. If I was planning to seduce your commander, you'd know." Gareth's jaw clenched.

"Is that a joke to you?"

"Everything's a joke to me," Ivan said.

"But that one was the truth." Rys moved before Gareth could spit something back. She flowed between them, a soft little step that put her squarely in his line of sight.

"You have a problem with my human, Sir Dawn?" she asked, sweet as poison.

"I–" Gareth started. She cut him off with a smile too sharp for a tavern.

"He's not looking at your captain the way you think," she said.

"If he wanted a woman, he has one already." Ivan choked.

"... Right." She ignored him entirely.

"For three months," Rys went on, "I have bathed in his presence. Slept next to him, and fought with him. Bled on him, too. He has not once tried anything worth gossiping about, which, frankly, offends me. If he was the kind of man whose eyes crawled up armor every time a woman moved, I would know." Gareth's ears went faintly pink.

"That's… unnecessarily descriptive," he muttered. Rys leaned in a fraction.

"So maybe," she said softly, "instead of assuming every glance is lust, you can consider that he watches what people do. He notices how they hold themselves and how they organize their camp. He notices when a captain writes reports at night until her hands cramp." Her eyes flicked toward Yara, then back.

"Because he's wondering," she finished, "whether trusting you will get our group killed. Or does your God not teach independent thinking?" For a few heartbeats, Gareth had nothing. Gareth's mouth worked, then shut. He took a step back.

"I misjudged," he said stiffly.

"My concern is our captain's safety. This mission… matters."

"It does," Ivan agreed.

"So maybe we can all agree that none of us are idiots, and go from there." Gareth nodded once, sharply, then retreated toward his own bedroll with his dignity somewhat dented. Ivan let out a breath and looked at Rys.

"Thanks for the character reference," he said.

"I think." She grinned.

"You're welcome. And you do have one already, by the way."

"One what?"

"A woman?" she suggested.

"Me. Try to keep up." He laughed, low, helpless. She was hopelessly wrong about him. He simply remembered how she'd said she wasn't supposed to get married, being a Guuji and all, and so didn't push on the many flirty openings she left for him. It wasn't as if he wasn't interested in women. But given everything that happened in the early stages of the Integration, he wasn't sure he could have a healthy relationship.

Yara, across the camp, was pretending very hard to be focused on her map while her ears turned a charming shade of red. Which surprised Ivan. So someone like her can get embarrassed? Ren had already drifted toward the ranger, Leo, like a moth to a shinier, safer flame. The young ranger didn't seem bothered. He knelt, showing Ren the compound bow up close, explaining the enchantments on the string, the little stabilizing rune carved into the grip.

"So if I pull it like this," he said, "the System takes some of the strain. Lets me hold longer. Skills are so odd, right?"

"That's cheating," Ren said, impressed.

"Of course," he said.

"Have you ever played games before? Computer games."

"Nah," Ren sighed.

"I heard a lot about it though from this friend I once made." The two of them kept talking, and a minute later Ren laughed. Ivan liked the ranger even more. The peace didn't last long. A rustle in the trees made everyone's heads turn at once. Hands went to hilts, to staves, to the nearest rock. Someone stepped into the ring of light, breathing hard. Mud streaked his boots and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead.

Ivan startled, but nobody else did, so he put the man in the "their scout" category and kept his mouth shut.

"Captain," he said, not bothering to sit, quickly observing Ivan and the new faces before turning back to Yara.

"I found it." Yara straightened.

"Report."

"Processing compound on the ridge above the West Harbor," he said.

"Palisade, watchtowers, penned holding yards. At least three dozen captives. Maybe more in the longhouse. Chain colors on the gate. I counted six mages by the glow alone. Lots of steel."

"And the ship?" she asked.

"On the horizon," he said.

"Bigger than the last report. Void‑Ship or close. Two nights out, by the look of her sails. Initial report was right. One of the Iron Chain Generals is on board."