Jasmine's Log, Supplemental
Verdant, over Albion
Rothgard Fall plus 15 days (estimated)
Wings cut the sky.
Castle towers fall behind.
A direct line for speed.
The fleet waits.
Uncle's halls call.
Verdant launched from the castle courtyard with a powerful surge of wings, the rush of air whipping Jasmine's cloak as Ebonridge fell away beneath them. She settled deeper into the reinforced saddle, one hand resting on the dragon's scaled neck while the other held the map Sebastian had prepared for her before she departed the ironclad. The parchment showed the western coast of Albion in careful detail. Her uncle's keep, Roth Keep, lay well south of the Black Spine mountain range, nestled in the fertile Roth Vale. For speed and directness, she chose a straight southwest course that cut across open countryside, well clear of the jagged peaks and any northern roads.
"Southwest, my friend," she murmured close to Verdant's ear. "Stay high and clear of the roads. We go straight to my uncle." The dragon rumbled in acknowledgment, adjusting his course with a subtle shift of his wings. Below them, the countryside unfolded in a tapestry of rolling hills and patchwork fields, golden wheat swaying in the late afternoon breeze alongside meadows dotted with grazing livestock. Narrow rivers wound through the valleys like silver threads, their banks lined with small villages where steam-powered mills turned steadily beside rune-lit watchtowers that glowed faintly even in daylight. The land was rich and well-tended, a testament to Albion's long history of careful stewardship, yet it felt fragile under the shadow of distant threats.
Jasmine's thoughts turned to her people as the wind streamed past her face. Hundreds of refugees waited at anchor outside Ebonridge Harbor—families who had lost everything when Rothgard fell, wounded soldiers who had fought to the last, children who had seen too much. They had placed their trust in her, following her across the sea in search of safety. She could not fail them. Every beat of Verdant's wings brought her closer to the one man who could open the way for them.
Her uncle, Count Reginald Roth, was a pragmatic man, loyal to family above all, but cautious in his dealings with the realm's greater powers. He had long stood against the Imperia, maintaining his inland territory as a bastion of independence. Jasmine hoped he would see the refugees as allies rather than burdens, offering the assurance Lord Blackthorn demanded. She knew his support would come at a price—perhaps resources or political favors—but she was prepared to negotiate. For her people, she would bend pride if
necessary.
As they flew, thin white trails appeared high in the sky, streaking across the blue like scars left by some unseen blade. Faint, muffled booms rolled on the wind, distant and rhythmic, like thunder without storm clouds. Jasmine glanced upward for a moment, brow furrowing at the strange phenomenon, but she quickly looked away. Whatever they were, they did not concern her now. Her mind was fixed on her uncle's keep and the fleet that depended on her. She would not risk delay or distraction. The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold. Far ahead, the first hints of Roth Vale appeared on the horizon—green fields and the distant silhouette of towers that marked her uncle's domain.
The fleet waited at anchor.
The Lord's price had been set.
And Jasmine flew on, carrying the hopes of her people on dragon wings.