The forest was alive, but not in a comforting way. Crickets chirped and leaves rustled with the wind, but an eerie sense of unease hung in the air like a storm cloud. Vaidya marched alone through the dense woodland, boots crunching the fallen twigs and old leaves underfoot. His brows were furrowed, eyes darting through the shadows cast by towering trees.
He kicked a rock in frustration, sending it skittering across the dry leaves and roots. "Ugh! Unbelievable," he muttered. "I can't believe I lost my satchel... again!"
His fingers curled into fists at his sides as he stared off into the trees, jaw tight with more than just irritation. That satchel—it wasn't just any bag. It had been with him since childhood. A gift from his father before the man had gone off to a distant region on a diplomatic mission... and never returned. The fabric, though worn, was sturdy. Hand-stitched in places where Vaidya had mended it himself over the years. Its strap had been frayed twice, and the left buckle had a tiny notch where it had once snagged on a rusted gate during his first assignment as a trainee.
He remembered the way his father had crouched down to his level, brushing back Vaidya's too-long bangs and placing the satchel in his arms like it was a treasure. "For your books, your tools, and your ideas," his father had said with a half-smile. "May it always carry what you need, and never what you don't."
Since then, Vaidya had carried it everywhere. Through training halls, libraries, and patrol missions. It had survived rainstorms, harsh winters, and even a run-in with a kleptomaniac raccoon at a border town. Losing it now—to some frail kid who barely spoke—felt like more than a theft. It felt like losing a piece of himself. A memory.
He kicked another rock, this one cracking in two. "And everyone just cares about poor little Phill," he grumbled, teeth clenched. "Solis didn't even hesitate to take his side. What about what I've lost?"
He paused, clenching his fists as the image of Phill flashed in his mind. That frail, nervous kid. That thief.
"Why is he supporting that creep?" he snapped aloud, voice laced with anger. "He stole my satchel. Maren the chef's ladle too! And yet Solis acts like Phill's the one who needs saving!"
Vaidya shook his head and let out a dry chuckle. "Unbelievable. If it was any of us, people would've scolded us into the ground. But no—because it's 'poor little Phill' everyone's suddenly a saint."
He pressed forward, the wind picking up and rustling the trees more aggressively now. His hand hovered over his waist where his spell crystal lay secured. He was far from the mines, and though part of him wanted to believe Solis could handle it alone, another part screamed that they shouldn't have split up at all.
It was then, as he pushed aside a branch, that he spotted them.
Three figures, cloaked in deep purple, stood in a clearing up ahead. They didn't move, didn't speak, just stood there like statues carved out of night. Their presence felt wrong, out of place in the forest's natural rhythm.
Vaidya narrowed his eyes, stepping forward cautiously. "Hey," he called out. "Have any of you seen a boy—frail, long messy hair, probably scared of his own shadow?"
No answer. Just a tense silence.
He took another step. "Look, I'm not here to fight. I'm looking for someone. His name's Phill. He ran off with something that belongs to me."
Still silence. Then, one of the cloaked figures slowly raised their head.
"Postknight," the figure hissed.
Vaidya blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're a Postknight," the second one repeated. "You serve the kingdom."
The third raised a hand—and flames danced around his palm.
Vaidya barely had time to react before a fireball blazed through the air toward him. He ducked, rolling to the side as the ground where he stood exploded into embers.
"Alright," he muttered, rising to his feet and drawing in a sharp breath. "So much for a peaceful talk."
The cultists moved with eerie coordination, casting fiery whips and molten projectiles. Vaidya raised his hand and called upon his ice magic, launching a barrage of sharp icicles at them.
But the moment the ice touched their flames, it melted into nothing.
"Tch!" he spat. "Fire magic users, huh? You picked the wrong day."
He pivoted, shifting his stance. His mana flared, and the air around him began to stir.
"Wind magic—let's go."
In a blur, he launched forward, carried by a burst of wind. He weaved between two blasts of fire and struck the nearest cultist with a slicing gust. The purple cloak tore as the figure staggered back, clutching his chest.
Another flame shot toward him—this time from behind—but Vaidya spun, creating a whirlwind that deflected it just in time. The wind magic moved more freely, unimpeded by the heat.
He grinned. "Now we're talking."
The second cultist summoned a fiery construct—a sword made of flames. He charged. Vaidya ducked under the slash and sent a focused wind spear straight into his chest. The man collapsed, his flame dying out instantly.
The third cultist roared, unleashing a stream of fire from his hands. Vaidya raised a barrier of swirling wind in front of him. The flames bent and scattered in the torrent.
With a flick of his wrist, Vaidya summoned a series of slicing wind blades. They struck true, cutting through the cultist's robes and knocking him backward.
Moments later, silence returned to the forest. Smoke drifted lazily from the scorched grass. The cultists lay unconscious, defeated.
Vaidya exhaled heavily and let the wind around him dissipate.
A slow clap echoed through the trees.
He turned sharply, and there stood Ada, leaning against a tree with her arms crossed and an amused look on her face.
"It seems you've done quite a good job by yourself, Vaidya," she said.
Vaidya furrowed his brows. "How long have you been here?"
Ada tapped her chin playfully. "Hmm... maybe ten minutes?"
"Ten minutes!?" he repeated, exasperated. "You could've helped me out!"
"Oh come on," Ada shrugged, stepping closer. "You're not a damsel in distress. Besides, being the youngest Postknight, you hold your ground pretty well."
Vaidya groaned, shaking his head. "You know I'm not in the mood for joking."
Ada gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. But you did great. Honestly."
He sighed. "This whole search is a mess. I didn't even find Phill. Just more crazy robed weirdos trying to burn me alive."
"I finished combing my area," Ada said. "And judging by your lovely battle here, I'd say you're done too, right?"
Vaidya looked around, his frustration cooling slightly. "Yeah... I guess so."
"Then let's head back," she said. "We need to regroup with Solis. Something tells me things aren't going smoothly for him either."
Vaidya nodded, glancing once more at the unconscious cultists.
"I hope that idiot didn't get himself into something worse than this."
Together, they walked back through the forest, the wind whispering through the trees, carrying with it the smoke of battle and the sense that darker things still lurked ahead.