What happened to us?

  The question should have been simple. But it wasn’t.

  It carried the weight of five months, which felt like an eternity.

  Five months of chasing whispers, of stepping into villages where the silence was louder than screams. Of bodies nailed to doors, of wells clogged with the dead. Of places where the air itself felt wrong, where the trees twisted like they had been listening too long.

  Five months of hearing the same words, over and over, from the lips of people who already knew they were going to die.

  "Help us."

  "Please."

  "Save my child."

  We had seen things that stuck to us, that soaked into our bones and refused to leave.

  I thought of the Selene—the girl who left Astradel, bright-eyed and unbroken.

  The one who still believed the world made sense.

  I looked at Selene now, and I knew.

  She wasn’t that child anymore.

  I turned away, staring at the dark horizon.

  "We grew up."

  For a moment, neither of us spoke.

  Then came a rustling behind us.

  Lyrik stumbled out of his tent, stretching, rubbing the back of his head. “Gods, you two are up early.” His voice was still hoarse with sleep, but his mood had shifted from the night before—less sharp, less bitter.

  I arched a brow. “You mean we’re still up.”

  Lyrik yawned, rolling his shoulders. “Same thing.” He smirked, eyes flicking between them. “What, were you whispering coos?”

  Selene leaned back on her hands, smirking back. “If we were, you just ruined it.”

  “Good,” Lyrik grinned. “Can’t have too much sentiment in the morning. Might soften you up.”

  I sighed, shaking my head. “Wake the others. We need to move.”

  Lyrik saluted lazily before making his way through camp, nudging boots, kicking over bedrolls. The moment had passed.

  Selene stretched, standing up. “Looks like that’s our cue.”

  I followed, brushing the last remnants of warmth from my mind.

  Rylas was up first, stretching with a groan. Mira followed, murmuring something about the forest’s mana flow. Aleric rubbed at his face, still caught in the edges of some half-remembered prayer.

  Ewin, of course, stayed buried under his blanket.

  Lyrik, ever the menace, crouched beside him and whispered, “Wake up, beautiful.”

  Ewin didn’t even open his eyes. “Try that again, and I’ll put an arrow through your foot.”

  Lyrik grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

  I sighed. “Hurry up. We still have somethings to deal with before leaving.”

  The camp moved with quiet efficiency. Bedrolls were rolled, tents disassembled, the fire smothered to embers. Weapons were checked with the absentminded precision of routine—movements honed by repetition, requiring no thought.

  Nell’s body had already burned atop a spire, standing beside Lugh’s. Aleric had insisted on it. The flames had long since died, leaving only drifting embers and the lingering scent of charred remains.

  But there was one last task. The last of the five knights.

  Bound at the wrists, kneeling in the dirt, head bowed. The same unnatural stillness he had since capture.

  We had left him alive the night before, out of pragmatism rather than mercy.

  But there was no point in keeping him now.

  I walked toward the knight, Selene at my side. Rylas and Vyk followed, weapons ready but unnecessary. There would be no resistance.

  The closer we got, the more wrong the air around him felt.

  His armor, still stained from the battle, sagged over his frame. His skin had the ashen tone of something long-dead, yet the faint rise and fall of his chest proved otherwise. His head remained down, loose like a puppet with cut strings.

  I stopped a few steps away, studying him.

  Then I spoke.

  “Do you hear me?”

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  The knight didn’t react.

  I tried again. “Do you remember your name?”

  Still nothing.

  Mira had been right. A puppet, not a man. Whatever will had once belonged to him had long since been swallowed whole.

  He didn’t plead. Didn’t tremble. Didn’t speak.

  Lyrik rolled his shoulders. “I’ll do it.”

  Selene frowned. “We should be quick about it.”

  Aleric exhaled, fingers twitching toward the prayer beads at his belt. “We should at least—”

  “No.” Vyk’s voice was cold, sharp. “There’s nothing left to pray for.”

  No one argued.

  Lyrik stepped forward, blade whispering free.

  A single, clean stroke.

  No fanfare. No final words.

  The body collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. Blood darkened the earth beneath it.

  Silence.

  Then—Rylas spoke.

  “We burn it.”

  Vyk nodded. “No traces.”

  The flames rose, devouring what was left of the hollow shell.

  By the time the fire died, there was nothing but ash.

  ***

  The road stretched ahead, winding like a lazy river through the landscape. Step after step, Forest of Shadows faded behind us, swallowed by the trees and the passage of time.

  And yet, it lingered.

  Not in the air, not in the scenery, but in us—woven into the silence between footfalls, in the way we carried ourselves. Even after everything, we still walked as though expecting something to crawl out of the shadows.

  But there were no shadows here.

  The world had changed.

  The trees weren’t gnarled anymore, their branches didn’t look like reaching hands. The leaves weren’t brittle corpses—they were green, fresh, shifting softly under the wind’s fingers. The air smelled clean, crisp with the scent of wildflowers peeking out from the roadside.

  I inhaled deeply, rolling my shoulders. The tension didn’t leave. But for the first time in days, it loosened.

  “Alright,” Lyric announced, stretching like a cat, “we survived another day. That deserves a celebration.”

  I huffed, already sensing where this was going. “Celebrating what, exactly?”

  Lyrik grinned. “That we’re not dead. Which, considering the last five months, is an achievement.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” Mira mused.

  Ewin sighed. “We should be worried. But instead, I’m debating whether I should drink you under the table again.”

  Lyrik gasped in mock offense. “Again? I let you win last time.”

  “You were unconscious in your own ale,” Rylas said flatly. “It wasn’t even a contest.”

  Lyrik beamed. “Exactly. I was resting, storing energy for the next round.”

  I shook my head, biting down a small smirk.

  Lyrik’s grin sharpened, eyes flicking between me and Selene. “Speaking of celebrations… I heard some soft murmurs this morning.”

  Selene groaned. “Don’t start.”

  “Come on.” Lyrik smirked; his tone downright wicked. “It was sweet, really. Moonlight, a flickering fire, two souls sharing a quiet moment—”

  I cut him off. “You’re making it sound a lot more poetic than it was.”

  “There wasn’t any moon last night.” Mira pointed out absently, adjusting the strap of her bag.

  Ewin snorted. “Damn, you’re right! What were you two whispering about, then?”

  Rylas, walking a few paces ahead, glanced over his shoulder. “Probably not what Lyrik’s thinking.”

  Lyrik gasped. “You wound me, Rylas. I am a man of class.”

  Ewin grinned. “A man of exaggeration, more like.”

  Lyrik ignored him. “I’m just saying—it felt romantic.”

  Selene huffed. “And a lot less annoying.”

  Lyrik clutched his chest dramatically. “Oh, I’m hurt! Can’t a man appreciate young love?”

  Selene and I exchanged a glance.

  Then, at the exact same time—

  I sighed. “I suppose he has a point.” She nodded. “The ambiance was there.”

  Lyrik blinked, thrown for just a second. “Wait, what?”

  I tilted my head, adopting a thoughtful expression. “The mist rolling in, the stars overhead…”

  Selene clasped her hands together. “Soft whispers, longing stares—”

  I nodded. “A shared past, a bond stronger than words.”

  Lyrik squinted, suspicious. “Hold on—”

  Mira sighed dramatically. “How tragic.”

  Ewin smirked. “How scandalous.”

  Rylas muttered under his breath, “How ridiculous.”

  Selene sighed wistfully. “Ah, what a night…” Then she clicked her tongue. “Undone by the ineptitude of a numbskull.”

  Lyrik’s face twisted. “Alright, now you’re ruining it.”

  Selene shot me a smirk, and I smirked back.

  ***

  I smelled White Creek before I saw it.

  It smelled of bread, spice, river mist. Of life.

  By the time they reached White Creek, the sun had risen high, its light spilling over a town far different from Twisted Trunk.

  Lyrik stretched, sighing. “I can actually smell civilization.”

  Then we stepped through the village gates, and the world shifted.

  Laughter. People. Voices that weren’t screaming.

  Merchants shouted from stalls stacked high with glazed pastries, skewered meats, bright fruits piled in woven baskets. A baker kneaded dough on a wooden slab, flour dusting his apron. A fisherman slung a net over his shoulder, water still dripping from his catch.

  A pair of children raced past, barefoot and laughing, weaving between carts and vendors. Their mother called after them, half-scolding, half-smiling.

  I slowed my pace, taking it in.

  It was so... normal.

  Selene’s voice was quiet beside me. “It’s strange.”

  I turned toward her. “What is?”

  She swept her gaze across the village, at the people moving without fear. “How easy it is to forget. If you didn’t know what was out there—” she nodded toward the road behind us, toward what we had left behind, “—you’d think the world was simple.”

  I looked back at the market, watching a merchant argue with his wife over the price of apples. A girl leaned over a stall, pointing excitedly at a silk scarf dyed the color of a sunset.

  I exhaled. “Maybe that’s the trick. They know what’s out there. But they also know how to keep moving.”

  Selene hummed. “Then maybe we should too.”

  The only inn in White Creek stood near the heart of the village. A sturdy, two-story building stood firm, its wooden beams weathered but unyielding. A hanging sign creaked above the entrance, painted with the image of a white trout leaping over a river rock. The Silver Catch.

  Inside—warmth.

  A fire crackled in a stone hearth, and the scent of roasted venison and mead thickened the air. Despite the early hour, the tavern half of the inn was already alive—not as a rowdy den, but as a meeting ground for locals. Fishermen, merchants, travelers, and drunkards alike.

  A few men huddled near the bar, already deep into their drinks. One was loudly insisting he could wrestle a river beast. Another was slurring his woes about a wife who had thrown him out.

  Ewin whistled, stepping inside. “Middle of the day, and they’re already at it?”

  Lyrik smirked. “White Creek’s got its priorities straight.”

  Rylas, unimpressed, shot them both a look. “Try not to make a scene.”

  Lyrik grinned. “Have I ever made a scene?”

  Rylas didn’t bother answering.

  Mira strode toward the bar, already handling logistics for our stay. She never wasted time.

  A low whistle cut through the tavern’s din.

  "Well, well, what do we have here?" The man's voice was thick, a little rougher than usual, and he leaned against the bar, a half-empty tankard clutched in his hand. His grin was wide, a touch too wide, and his eyes held a glint that wasn't entirely friendly. "Don't see a lass like you in here every day. All alone, are you, sweetie?"

  He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, and a few of his companions, already loosened by the ale, joined in with similar low noises. "How ‘bout I keep ya comp’ny, eh? Hah… betcha don’ get offers like this too often."

  I saw Mira’s smile—thin, sharp, not quite reaching her eyes. Her grip tightened around her staff, fingers curling like she was deciding which spell would send him flying the farthest.

  She didn’t get the chance.

  A tankard, still half-full of ale, whizzed through the air, impacting the man’s face with a wet, heavy thunk. He let out a surprised grunt, his eyes widening in shock before he toppled off his barstool, hitting the floor with a muffled groan.

  “You filthy swine!” The voice that ripped through the room was like a thunderclap, cutting through the haze of drunken chatter. It belonged to the woman behind the bar, her face a mask of righteous fury.

  Middle-aged, gray-haired, and stout—not in physical size, but in the sheer force of her personality—she held a wickedly sharp dagger in one hand, its point glinting menacingly in the dim light. Her eyes blazed with a fire that could make even the most hardened brawler think twice.

  “How dare you speak to a lady in such a manner?” she bellowed, her voice echoing off the rafters. “You’re a disgrace to yourself and your kin! May your tongue rot in your mouth for those words! You shame all decent folk!”

  The drunkard, his face now a mottled mix of ale and swelling, had gone a sickly pale. He scrambled backward on his hands and knees, whimpering slightly, barely managing to get to his feet. His drunken bravado had completely evaporated, replaced by a stark, sobering fear.

  “Get out before I throw you out myself!” she snapped, her voice laced with venom. “You’ll find my boot a lot less welcoming than my ale.”

  She didn’t have to tell him twice. He stumbled toward the door, clutching his bruised and rapidly swelling face, too drunk—or, more likely, too terrified—to even glance back at his stunned companions. They, too, seemed to have sobered up rapidly, their drunken amusement replaced by a nervous silence as they watched their comrade’s ignominious retreat.

  The woman turned to Mira, her scowl melting into something warmer. “Sorry, lass. It’s not usually like this. Word gets around that a place is doing well, and suddenly all kinds of filth crawl out of the woodwork.”

  Mira finally faced her, a pleasant—if slightly amused—smile now gracing her lips. “Thank you for that. I didn’t know what to do.”

  The woman snorted, eyeing the staff in Mira’s grip. “I think you had an idea.” Her gaze flicked toward our group. “I just didn’t want any blood on my floor. Swear to Luminara herself, it’s a pain to clean up after.”

  Mira chuckled, slipping onto a stool at the bar. “Does this happen often?”

  The woman turned, likely about to answer, but—

  —a sigh cut through the noise.

  Barely loud enough for the rest of the tavern to catch, but just enough for the gathered party to hear.

  Ewin.

  I blinked; my attention pulled away from Mira’s conversation. Ewin sat with his arms crossed, looking profoundly disappointed.

  “Damn shame,” he muttered, shaking his head.

  I frowned. “What is?”

  Lyrik leaned in, mirroring Ewin’s posture, his own expression one of mock sorrow. “The wasted potential, Kaelan.”

  He gestured vaguely toward the bar. “Six hours of walking, aching feet, and not even the reward of a decent tavern brawl? Truly, a cruel fate.”

  I exhaled through my nose, unimpressed.

  Selene, beside me, scoffed. “Idiots.”

  Mira was making her way back toward us, but her return barely registered against the duo’s dramatics.

  “Come on, it’s been ages since I’ve seen a good fight,” Lyrik lamented.

  “You’re telling me,” Ewin agreed. “Just a bit of chaos. Just a bit.”

  Selene rolled her eyes. “Mira doesn’t do brawls—she’d bury the whole tavern in a forest.”

  “That’s what makes it fun,” they both said at the same time.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Mira cut in, brushing past them, “but I was just going to put him to sleep—temporarily, of course.”

  “Damn shame,” Ewin repeated.