The Devouring Knight

Two weeks later.

Dust clung to their cloaks as Lumberling and Skitz moved from city to city, the weight of exhaustion hidden beneath their steady steps.

First came Veldran, a neutral city nestled in the crook of three old roads. Smoke curled lazily from its chimneys, and traders from every banner waved their colors in uneasy harmony. Here, they scoured old guild halls and quiet towers where hermits once whispered of arcane skill books, but found nothing. Not a single trace of the mental fortitude skill Lumberling sought.

In the next month, they arrived at Goldmere, its stone streets gleaming under the sunlight that bounced off the tranquil lake that gave it its name. The city bustled with coin and conversation, overflowing with merchant houses and black market whispers. But when they pressed for knowledge of rare skills, particularly ones that touched the mind, they found only scoffs or shrugs. Strange and magical things were hoarded behind noble names and locked doors, and they had neither crest nor coin to pry them open.

For the following month they traveled to Bramwick, a small city surrounded by golden fields and the clatter of mill wheels. There, even the booksellers looked at them with pity.

"No one’s seen a skill like that since the old imperial era," said one white-bearded clerk. "If it exists at all."

Lumberling’s jaw clenched, and he turned away before frustration overtook him.

.....

They didn’t stop. They arrived at Mistrale, the City of Wind and Stone.

Wind howled through the narrow stone alleys of Mistrale, tugging at cloaks and whispering secrets through crumbling arches. Atop the market ridge, where the banners of merchant houses flapped like restless wings, Skitz moved quietly among the crowd.

He had split from Lumberling an hour ago, tasked with chasing whispers, asking smugglers, traders, and peddlers of the strange if they had ever heard of a skill that could strengthen the mind.