Chapter 88: Wyvern Hills

The journey to The Wyvern Hills was anything but uneventful. The rolling hills stretched out like an endless sea of green and gray, dappled with patches of thorny azure lilies that swayed in the wind like sentinels guarding the valley. It was a stunning sight—picturesque, even—but the heavy winds that roared across the slopes were far from welcoming.

Alaric held the reins tightly with one hand, the other wrapped possessively around Rosalind’s waist as they rode atop their single horse. The wind whipped against their faces, carrying with it a biting chill that made it feel as though they were riding through a storm rather than a serene valley.

“By the gods, these winds are relentless!” Rosalind shouted over the howling gusts, her crimson hair flowing wildly behind her. She pressed back against Alaric for warmth, though the movement only widened the mischievous smirk on his face.

“You sound like you’re complaining, Rosie,” Alaric teased, his voice light despite the effort it took to keep the horse steady on the uneven ground. His hand slid lower as if for balance, settling on her hip and squeezing gently. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you from flying off.”

Rosalind shot him a look over her shoulder, her purple eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, please. I think you’re enjoying this a little too much, Alaric.”

“Who, me?” Alaric grinned, his red eyes gleaming mischievously as his fingers “adjusted” again. “It’s just a coincidence the wind makes me hold you tighter.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes, though she didn’t pull away—in fact, she leaned back into him a little more. “Well, if you’re going to keep grabbing me, you might as well do it properly,” she murmured over the wind, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

Alaric blinked, momentarily thrown off before his grin widened. “Oh, I can do properly,” he said in a low tone, letting his hand wander further, earning a small laugh from her despite the harsh weather.

The horse continued its steady climb up the hills, though progress was slow. The winds grew stronger the higher they went, buffeting them with an almost unnatural force. It was clear why the area was considered perilous—not just because of the winds, but because of the wyverns that prowled the valley.

Alaric spotted the first one before Rosalind did, its massive shadow gliding across the hillside. “Heads up,” he said quietly, nodding toward the skies.

Rosalind followed his gaze, her breath hitching at the sight of the creature circling above. The wyvern’s wingspan was enormous—easily double the size of their horse—and its scales shimmered like dark, polished steel. “They’re even bigger than I thought,” she muttered, a hint of unease in her voice.

“Stay quiet and stay low,” Alaric instructed, his tone unusually serious. “We can’t afford to draw their attention.”

For the first time since entering the valley, Rosalind didn’t argue. She could feel the pressure of the beasts’ presence in the air, a primal weight that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Even as an Expert Mage, she knew better than to underestimate a wyvern.

They had come to the Wyvern Hills to gather three rare herbs—each one located at dangerously high elevations and tucked away in places no ordinary adventurer could reach. The first was Azure Thornleaf, a sharp, spiked plant said to grow near wyvern nests. The second was Stormroot, which thrived only on the highest ridges, where the winds were most violent. The third, and most elusive, was Lunarsap Moss, a silver-blue herb that clung to rocks in the shadow of the tallest cliffs.

It was no small task, especially with wyverns prowling the skies.

The hours dragged on as Alaric and Rosalind navigated the treacherous hills. They had dismounted to move more stealthily, leading the horse carefully through the wind-battered terrain. Every now and then, a wyvern’s screech echoed through the valley, sending a shiver down Rosalind’s spine.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” she whispered, ducking behind a jagged rock as another shadow passed overhead.

Alaric glanced at the rough map they had pieced together from old texts and traveler accounts. “As sure as I can be. The first herb should be somewhere around those cliffs,” he said, pointing toward a jagged outcrop in the distance.

Getting there wasn’t easy. The winds were so strong that Rosalind had to cast a series of Wind Shields to protect them from being blown off their feet, and even then, it was slow going. When they finally reached the outcrop, Alaric spotted the Azure Thornleaf—its spiky blue leaves glowing faintly amid the rocks.

“Stay here,” he told Rosalind, raising a hand as she opened her mouth to protest. “I’ll go get it. No sense in both of us risking a broken neck.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not exactly graceful yourself, you know.”

“I’ll take that as encouragement,” he said with a grin before summoning Wind Steps—a spell that created magical platforms of air beneath his feet. He ascended carefully, the wind tearing at his clothes as he reached the herb and plucked it from its rocky perch.

As he descended, the shriek of a wyvern ripped through the air. Rosalind’s eyes widened. “Alaric! Move!”

Alaric barely had time to leap off the platform before the wyvern swooped down, its claws raking the spot where he had stood moments before. He hit the ground hard, rolling to his feet and summoning a Flame Burst to ward the creature off.

The wyvern roared, its scales deflecting most of the flames. Alaric frowned. Even at Master Mage rank, it’s this tough?

Rosalind launched a barrage of Wind Spears, but they shattered uselessly against the wyvern’s armored hide. “It’s no good!” she yelled. “Even my strongest spells aren’t hurting it!”

Alaric grit his teeth, his red eyes narrowing. “Then we need to fight smarter.”

He cast Ice Shackles, the spell forming crystalline chains that lashed out and wrapped around the wyvern’s wings. The beast roared, struggling to free itself as Alaric conjured a second spell—Frost Lance. A massive spike of ice formed in the air before hurtling toward the wyvern’s chest. The impact sent the creature crashing to the ground with an earth-shaking thud, where it lay still.

Alaric exhaled sharply, his breath misting in the cold air. “That was harder than it should’ve been,” he muttered.

Rosalind stared at him, wide-eyed. “You actually killed it.”

“Barely,” he said, brushing himself off. “Let’s not do that again.”

They moved cautiously after that, knowing that even Alaric couldn’t take on too many wyverns at once. They stayed low, sticking to the shadows and using spells like Mist Veil to obscure their presence. Along the way, Alaric continued to find excuses to “steady” Rosalind, his hands wandering a little more than necessary.

“You’re incorrigible, you know that?” Rosalind murmured as he grabbed her waist for the third time in ten minutes.

“I’m thorough,” Alaric replied, smirking. “You don’t want me tripping and falling, do you?”

She snorted softly. “You’d survive. I can’t say the same for me.”

“Exactly why I’m holding on so carefully.”

To her surprise, she didn’t mind as much as she thought she would. There was something comforting about the way his arms wrapped around her in the chaos of the wind and the looming danger. She leaned back against him slightly, and Alaric grinned like a man who’d won a jackpot.

As they searched for the second herb, Stormroot, Alaric noticed movement in the distance. A group of figures, cloaked in dark robes, were making their way toward the upper ridges. Rosalind noticed them too, her brow furrowing. “Who are they?”

Alaric’s expression darkened. “Dark cultivators.”

They crept closer, hiding behind rocks and observing the group. The robed figures were gathered in a circle, speaking in hushed tones as they stared toward a massive wyvern perched on a cliff—a wyvern larger than any Alaric had seen yet. Its scales were a gleaming silver, its eyes like molten gold.

“The Wyvern Lord,” Rosalind whispered, awe and fear in her voice.

Alaric’s jaw tightened. “What are they doing?”

The cultivators began chanting, dark energy swirling around them. Alaric’s eyes widened as realization dawned. “They’re trying to attack it.”

Rosalind looked at him sharply. “Why? What could they want with a wyvern lord?”

Alaric didn’t answer immediately. He thought back to the Golden Pelt Dungeon and the Azure Spirit Lion, the mythical beast that the Phantom Assembly had targeted before. ’First the Spirit Lion, and now this? What are they planning? Why are they going after powerful creatures?’

He clenched his fists, his mind racing. ’I need to talk to my superior about this. There’s something bigger happening here.’

Rosalind touched his arm, grounding him. “What now?”

Alaric exhaled slowly, his gaze fixed on the robed figures. “We watch. We can’t stop them on our own—not yet. But we need to find out what they’re up to.”

Rosalind nodded, her expression grim. “Then let’s be careful.”

~~

While the wind tore mercilessly across the ridge, carrying with it faint traces of the dark cultivators’ eerie chanting. Alaric and Rosalind remained crouched behind a rocky outcrop, peering at the robed figures gathered in the distance. The Wyvern Lord—a majestic silver-scaled beast with molten gold eyes—remained perched on a cliff edge, its chest rising and falling like a living mountain. Its sheer size was enough to make any sane mage reconsider their next move.

But sanity had never been Alaric’s strongest suit.

“Alright, what’s the plan?” Rosalind whispered, her breath misting in the cool air. Her voice was calm, but there was tension in her purple eyes as she watched the dark cultivators’ movements carefully.

Alaric rubbed his chin, pretending to focus on the scene before them. In truth, his mind was spinning. He didn’t like this. Not at all. It wasn’t just the presence of the dark cultivators that unnerved him—it was their connection to the Phantom Assembly.

Or more accurately, his connection to the Phantom Assembly.

Damn it, he thought, grinding his teeth. I didn’t sign up for this nonsense.

Sure, he had his reasons for being a part of the Assembly—reasons Rosalind would never know about if he could help it. But even Alaric had no idea what these cultists were up to. They weren’t supposed to be here in the Wyvern Hills, let alone targeting a creature as powerful as the Wyvern Lord.

“What’s wrong?” Rosalind’s voice broke through his thoughts, soft but firm. “You’re scowling like you’ve swallowed a wyvern egg.”

Alaric blinked and quickly masked his expression with a smirk. “Just thinking about how much fun it’s going to be when we ruin their day.”

Rosalind gave him a skeptical look. “I hope you’re not planning something stupid.”

“Define stupid,” Alaric teased, though his mind was already working.

The dark cultivators were situated at the base of the cliff where the Wyvern Lord perched. Their chanting seemed to grow louder, and swirling tendrils of black energy began to pulse outward, seeping into the ground. The Wyvern Lord twitched uneasily, its molten eyes narrowing as if it sensed the disturbance. If it attacked, the entire ridge could collapse—taking Alaric, Rosalind, and probably half the hillside with it.

“Alright,” Alaric said after a moment, leaning closer to Rosalind. “Here’s the deal. We can’t let them finish… whatever it is they’re doing. But we can’t take them on directly, either.”

Rosalind nodded. “Too risky. Even for us.”

“Exactly. So we’ll hit them without showing ourselves.” He pointed down the slope where the cultists’ camp had been hastily set up—tents, supplies, and various magical devices were scattered around. “First, we mess with their equipment. Without their tools, their little ritual should fall apart.”

Rosalind raised an eyebrow. “And then what?”

Alaric’s grin was pure mischief. “We watch them panic and run for their lives.”

She snorted softly. “You really think it’ll be that easy?”

“Depends on how much fun we want to have.”

Rosalind rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Fine. Let’s do it. But I swear, Alaric, if we end up fighting the Wyvern Lord because of this—”

“Trust me,” Alaric cut in smoothly. “We won’t.”

Probably.

The two of them crept silently through the wind-battered terrain, sticking to the shadows cast by jagged rock formations. Alaric led the way, his movements unnaturally graceful despite the uneven ground—something Rosalind noted with mild irritation.

“You know, you’re suspiciously good at sneaking around,” she muttered under her breath as they ducked behind a low boulder.

“Natural talent,” Alaric replied with a grin, though his mind wandered briefly to the Azure Spirit Lion’s blood essence he had absorbed. His body had changed since then—he was stronger, faster, and his vision in the dark had become unnervingly sharp. Even now, he could see the dark cultivators perfectly despite the dim twilight.

Rosalind, however, wasn’t so lucky. She conjured a small Flame Orb in her palm to light the way, though she kept it low and flickering. The warm glow cast faint shadows across her features, and Alaric couldn’t help but appreciate the sight. Her crimson hair framed her face like liquid fire, and her expression—focused yet faintly irritated—was nothing short of adorable.

“You’re staring,” she muttered without looking at him.

“Can’t help it,” he whispered back with a grin. “You light up the dark, Rosie.”

She shot him a sharp look, but her cheeks flushed slightly, which only encouraged him.

“Focus, Alaric.”

“Right. Focus.”

Reaching the cultists’ camp was easier than they expected. Most of the dark-robed figures were still gathered at the cliff’s base, their attention entirely on the ritual. A few guards patrolled the perimeter, but they were sloppy—distracted, as if confident no one would dare approach the Wyvern Lord’s territory.

Amateurs, Alaric thought, shaking his head.

“Okay,” Rosalind whispered as they crouched behind a supply tent. “What now?”

“Simple.” Alaric raised a hand, summoning a small, nearly invisible stream of wind magic. With a flick of his fingers, the air snaked through the camp, upending bags of supplies and overturning magical tools. A soft clatter echoed as a row of glowing crystals tumbled to the ground and shattered, their light flickering out.

Rosalind’s eyes widened. “You’re using Silent Gale?”

“Impressed?” Alaric whispered smugly.

“More like surprised you remembered it,” she shot back. “I thought you only liked flashy spells.”

“I’m a man of many talents,” he replied with mock modesty.

They continued their sabotage quietly, dismantling the cultists’ ritual supplies one by one. Rosalind used small Flame Wisps to burn holes in tents and ruin scrolls, while Alaric’s wind magic sent items scattering into the wind. It didn’t take long for chaos to unfold.

“What’s happening?!” one of the robed figures yelled as he stumbled over a fallen bag.

“Someone sabotaged the tools!” another shouted.

The chanting faltered, and the swirling black energy began to flicker and dissipate. The Wyvern Lord shifted restlessly on its perch, letting out a low, rumbling growl that echoed through the valley.

Alaric and Rosalind ducked behind a nearby rock, watching as the cultists scurried around like headless chickens.

“This is almost too easy,” Rosalind whispered, her lips curving into a small smile.

Alaric grinned back. “Told you. Amateurs.”

But just as the last of the dark energy sputtered out, the cultists’ leader—a tall figure with a deep crimson robe—stepped forward and slammed his staff into the ground. The earth trembled beneath their feet as a wave of darkness rippled outward.

“Enough!” the leader roared, his voice amplified by magic. “Who dares to interfere with the Phantom Assembly?!”

Rosalind stiffened beside Alaric. “They’re Phantom Assembly?” she whispered, her voice sharp.

Alaric forced himself to look just as shocked as she did. “Apparently.”

’Why the hell are they being so open about it?’ he thought to himself. The Phantom Assembly was many things, but reckless wasn’t usually one of them.

The robed leader’s golden eyes scanned the area, his gaze unnervingly sharp. “Find them,” he snarled. “Whoever they are, they will pay for their insolence.”

Rosalind tensed. “We need to move.”

“Agreed,” Alaric whispered, already leading her away from the camp. They crept silently through the shadows, staying low as the cultists spread out to search the area. Alaric’s enhanced senses made it easier for him to spot patrols before they got too close, and he guided Rosalind carefully through the rocky terrain.

“Over here!” a voice shouted suddenly, far too close for comfort.

“Run,” Alaric muttered, grabbing Rosalind’s hand and pulling her into a sprint. The two of them bolted down the hillside, their cloaks flapping behind them as shouts erupted in the distance.

“They’re following us!” Rosalind hissed, glancing over her shoulder.

“I noticed!” Alaric replied dryly.

The terrain worked in their favor. The heavy winds masked their footsteps, and the uneven ground forced the cultists to slow down. After several minutes of running, Alaric led Rosalind into a narrow crevice between two massive rocks.

“Stay quiet,” he whispered, pressing his back against the cold stone.

Rosalind nodded, her breathing ragged as she leaned beside him. They stood there for what felt like an eternity, listening to the distant shouts and footsteps fade away.

Finally, Rosalind exhaled softly. “I think we lost them.”

Alaric nodded, though his mind was still racing. The Phantom Assembly is up to something big. First the Azure Spirit Lion, and now the Wyvern Lord. It didn’t add up.

’What are they planning?’

Rosalind touched his arm, grounding him in the moment. “We need to tell someone about this.”

Alaric hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. You’re right.”

He gave her a lopsided smile to mask his thoughts. “But first, let’s find those herbs, shall we? I’m not leaving this valley empty-handed.”

Rosalind smiled faintly. “Fine. But you’re explaining all this to the guild later.”

“Deal.”

As they emerged from their hiding spot, Alaric glanced up at the Wyvern Lord’s perch one last time. The massive beast remained there, watching silently as the valley settled back into uneasy stillness.

’Whatever’s happening,’ Alaric thought grimly, ’it’s only just beginning.’