Ch 29: Roads Untraveled

  Clink.

  Squelch

  Scritch

  Somewhere in the branches above, something small skittered, then stopped.

  Two shapes slipped between the trees—one leading, one trailing, like shadows half-formed in thought. As if speech might fracture the stillness, and that stillness was the last thread holding the world together.

  Neither of them spoke. Even their footfalls felt like intrusions—like noise didn’t belong here.

  The forest leaned in like it had a secret. Trunks bowed as if studying visitors, Branches cinched together overhead, weaving a canopy too dense for comfort—threads of gold light slipping through like loose stitches in a sealed coat. The trail had stopped pretending to be a path. Now it was just the idea of one—soft indentations in the soil where others had passed and vanished.

  Wind ran through the underbrush, but the leaves barely answered.

  Even the birds kept their thoughts to themselves.

  Sunlight dragged its fingers down the far side of the mountain, turning everything rust-colored and long-shadowed. The air smelled like iron and moss. The kind of smell that settles under your nails, that clings to skin like a warning. Stray quiet. Stay small.

  Whump.

  A pack hit the ground. The dull smack of leather on stone.

  Soren rolled his shoulders with a grunt, hand lifting to rub the back of his neck. The weight of the last few hours—and the last few weeks—seemed to settle in his bones all at once.

  Ayola’s bag landed beside his, lighter, but worn at the corners.

  Neither said anything right away.

  He knelt beside a low ridge of rock and began tugging loose a roll of kindling from his pack. Ayola stepped around him, pulling free a dented tin pot and setting it near the edge of the small clearing. Her motions were practiced, methodical—like her body knew what to do even if her mind was somewhere else.

  They moved like that for a while. Silent. Heavy. Setting up a fire that would burn low, controlled. Not because they needed secrecy. Simply because loud heat didn’t feel right anymore.

  Soren dropped a few strips of dried jerky into a metal bowl, splashed in water from his canteen. It wasn’t stew, but it was warm. That was enough.

  Soren exhaled like he was dying and reborn at once, slumping down with a sharp stretch and a drawn-out groan. “My dogs are barking.”

  “…Your what?”

  “Is that supposed to mean something or are you just airing out your vocabulary?”

  The swordsman cracked a tired smile. “Means my feet are killing me. Old expression.”

  She sat across from him, not too close to the fire, not too far. The clearing was small, but the mountain just below the peak opened out ahead of them—rolling tree lines and quiet valleys draped in twilight. Smoke curled upward, thin and slow, disappearing before it ever reached the stars.

  “You alright?”

  Soren leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, watching the flames like they might say something if he stared hard enough.

  “…Just wondering where Ny’Kelos is going from here.”

  Flamelight flickered across ember bright irises, but didn’t touch the hollows behind them. Merely lit the wreckage—like torchlight over ruins no one bothered to rebuild.

  Ayola didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

  “Or if they made it back—Team Taren.”

  No weight to the words—only drift. A thought that slipped past his teeth before it asked permission.

  “Kid died in my arms.”

  The fire crackled.

  “He didn’t have to come back, you know.”

  He blinked, like hearing himself say it made it real. Rubbed his knuckles against the side of his jaw.

  “I turned for half a second and—”

  He let the thought trail off.

  She was still. Not stiff—just present. Her fingers tapped once, then stopped. No questions. No comfort.

  “You’re different,” she spoke after a while. “Since then.”

  Soren nodded once.

  “Yeah.”

  “But it’s not just grief, is it.”

  She didn’t say it like an accusation. Just like someone who noticed.

  Soren looked at her, and for a moment the firelight caught in his eyes. Made the orange deeper. Sharper. Or maybe it was just what sat behind it.

  He didn’t answer.

  Ayola turned back to the fire, and for a long time neither of them said anything.

  Then, softly “Control’s a funny thing,” she murmured. “You grip everything like it’s holding the ceiling up. But sometimes, it’s just scaffolding. You stop checking for cracks. Then one day, it caves—and you’re still standing there, wondering why your hands are bleeding.”

  He’d never heard her speak like that. Not like she wanted something back. Like trust was more than leverage now.

  “I’m tired of guessing which one it is.”

  A pause. Something opened there, quietly. No flash. No spotlight.

  “Just… don’t be the kind of person who lets me find out too late.”

  She didn’t look at him when she said it. Like saying it aloud already cost more than she could afford.

  The fire popped again. Somewhere in the dark, a cricket chirped once, paused, chirped again.

  Ayola stood, cloak shifting softly around her.

  “I should get some sleep.”

  She looked over her shoulder.

  “You sure you’ve got first watch?”

  Soren leaned back just slightly, eyes still on the fire.

  “Please,” he said. “You can trust me.”

  She gave him a look—equal parts tired and amused—before turning away and disappearing into the folds of night.

  The fire whispered behind her. And for the first time all day, the silence didn’t feel like it was pressing in.

  Soren lingered after she left, gaze still fixed on the fire as it softened into a quiet glow.

  Ash cracked and settled, whispering as the last of the heat gave way to silence.

  Eventually, he leaned back and looked up.

  The moon hung low—thin and pale, like it hadn’t made up its mind whether to stay or disappear.

  Clouds drifted across its face in slow ribbons. The kind of night that looked like it should be cold, even if it wasn’t.

  He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  Then dusted himself off, rolled his shoulders once, and turned toward the trees.

  Watch never waited for anyone.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Morning

  Daylight broke like it was afraid to wake the forest. Color seeped in slow, brushing the fog with hesitant gold. Dew coated bark, stone, the fraying corners of their packs—gathering on bootlaces and the bruises they hadn’t let slow them.

  Light broke through in sharp beams, turning the mist gold where it hung above the ground.

  They moved without speaking at first. Routine settling in. Packs buckled, cloaks shaken out, boots tied tighter.

  The forest had changed overnight.

  Wider. Lower. The trees were shorter now—bent and heavy with moss that dangled from the branches like hanging cloth. The path beneath their feet had softened, too, the soil darker and wet at the edges. Where stone once lined the trails, there were now veins of thick root, gnarled and sunken deep.

  Birdcalls came infrequently—distant, muffled. As if they were farther than they should’ve been.

  Soren adjusted the strap across his chest, eyes scanning the sloping terrain ahead.

  “How much further, you think?”

  Ayola didn’t look at him, but her voice was steady.

  “Shouldn’t be much. Maybe two hours if we don’t stop.”

  He nodded, stepping over a broken branch slick with moisture.

  The wind picked up for a moment—gentle, carrying the scent of marshwater and something faintly sweet, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. Not strong. Just… present.

  They kept walking.

  Boots sank half an inch with each step, the soil sucking softly at the soles with a damp, reluctant kiss. The path didn’t guide—it tolerated them.

  The path narrowed, then widened again. Almost too perfectly. Soren stepped over another low root, his boot brushing moss that peeled away like old cloth. Branches above creaked—dry and hollow, like tired bones shifting in restless sleep, swaying with no wind.

  A pinecone found the distance. No echo. Just a dull part of it meeting soil and vanishing.

  They walked in silence for a while. Birds still silent. Sky still that same dull, veiled blue.

  A fallen tree stretched across the trail ahead—gray bark split and sagging, its inside hollowed out with rot. Soren stepped around it, boots squelching through a patch of wet moss.

  Ayola paused. Just a second. Eyes narrowing—not at the log, but at the shape of the break. The jagged arch of it. The faint curve of bark curling back from the edges.

  Her brow twitched.

  She didn’t say anything.

  The observation remained unspoken.

  Something moved beneath the mist. A ripple under moss. No threat—at least, not directly. Just the gleam of a beetle’s back. Dark, lacquered black with faint striations that caught the light like old obsidian. One shifted, then another. A soft click echoed—dry, deliberate. Then a second. Not from the same one. A faint stuttering noise, like loose pebbles tumbling down hidden wells, threaded under the must. A pattern. A chain.

  The exile stepped wide.

  He remembered sketches. Something close. Clickweavers, maybe. Colony-based. Used to live in deadwood and burrowed hollows. They clicked to warn, not to threaten. These weren’t warning. These were… talking.

  Supposedly passive…until you gave them a reason not to be. But he didn’t remember dust being part of it. Or the way the air suddenly bent sideways after they passed.

  The trees rustled. The beetles didn’t flinch.

  Another twenty paces. The path dipped, rose again. Mist hovered just above the ground now—thin, almost decorative. It curled around their ankles when they moved, muffling their steps into a dull hush, as if the mist caught sound in its teeth. Soren frowned, but kept walking.

  The mist curled like silk threads tugged by invisible fingers. Every step unraveled another layer. Yet the path ahead stayed knotted, unmoved.

  Fallen log. Split down the center. Moss-lined. Same bend. Same curl... but the moss seemed darker now, the crack slightly wider, as if the world was a painting being redrawn with each pass.

  Ayola’s steps slowed.

  She looked to the trees. Not up—around. Like something had shifted sideways in her peripheral vision and was hiding just outside the center of her eye.

  A pressure curled behind her ribs—not pain, not fear. Just the old memory of losing her footing somewhere she couldn’t name.

  A faint pulse kicked in the side of her skull. Sharp. Quick. Gone before she could name it.

  “Soren,” she said—not loud, not urgent. Just a mark in the air. A pin in a map.

  He turned his head slightly, not stopping.

  “Hm?”

  She hesitated.

  “Nothing.”

  And kept walking.

  Soren glanced to the side. A patch of mud by a tree root held a single print. Deep, rounded at the toe. Same as the one he swore he’d left half an hour ago. He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

  A few more minutes passed.

  The path sloped downward again, stones jutting through soft earth in uneven patches. Light filtered between the trees, dull and unmoving—as if the sun had decided it’d gone far enough and stopped trying.

  Ayola moved a little slower now. Not enough to call attention to it, but just enough that her steps lost their rhythm. She pressed a hand lightly to her temple, fingers curling near the edge of her braid.

  That tension was still there. Not pain. Not yet. Just… tightness. Like something was pushing in from the corners of her senses.

  They rounded a bend marked by three clustered trees and a low dip in the ground where rainwater had settled.

  Soren stepped over a long, flat root—and Ayola’s breath caught.

  That tree. The same trio. The same shape of mud-ring at their base. The same broken branch leaning into the water.

  "We passed this already." Ayola's voice didn't rise. It pierced—clean, precise, like the snap of a taut string under tension.

  The forest tolerated them, but it no longer led. It simply watched.

  Soren shrugged. "The forest's been looking the same for hours. Could just be—"

  "No," she cut him off.

  She didn’t snap—but it came out too fast.

  “I remember that curve. That crack in the bark. That’s the same split tree as before. We circled.”

  Soren turned fully now, brow furrowed. Looked back the way they came. The trees stood, silent and still, fog just brushing the undergrowth.

  He shrugged. Not dismissive—just trying to stay level.

  “Then we circle back. Adjust east. Not the first time a path looped.”

  Ayola didn’t move.

  Her eyes stayed on the trees. Something about the way they leaned felt… wrong now. Too deliberate. Too artificial.

  A drop of sweat rolled down the side of her neck, and for a second—just a second—she thought she heard the sound of a bird.

  The same call. Same pitch. Same pause.

  From earlier that morning.

  And then it was gone.

  She massaged her temple again, the pressure intensifying.

  “It’s not just a path thing.”

  Even her own shadow felt too worn. Too long, too slow to follow.

  But she moved forward anyway. Slowly.

  Soren didn’t say anything this time.

  The fog around them thickened—not a lot, just enough to blur the next turn ahead. Just enough to quiet the world.

  The haze grew heavier with each step.

  What was once a low mist around their boots now hovered at thigh height—dense and adhesive. Unnatural in how still it stayed, even when the wind picked up.

  The ground beneath them had changed again. Softer. Spongier. Footsteps sank a little deeper. Water lapped gently somewhere nearby, but it never grew louder or closer. Always in the corner of hearing.

  Her balance shifted slightly with each step—like the world tilted half a degree to the left and never corrected. Colors dulled, then flared too bright. Shadows twitched where nothing moved.

  Ayola blinked slowly.

  A weight behind her eyes throbbed into something more primal. Not pain. Not yet. Just static, humming low and steady behind her thoughts. Her depth perception wavered, like distance bent sideways. She blinked, but the edges of things didn’t align the same way when she opened her eyes again.

  Soren moved ahead, not far, maybe a dozen paces.

  He stepped over a patch of bramble—black thorns curling through cracked bark—and turned back to check on her.

  She was still.

  Not frozen. Just… off.

  Her hands were tight at her sides, fingers flexing slightly. Breathing shallow. That sharp, precise awareness he always saw in her eyes was fraying.

  “Ayola?”

  No answer.

  “Hey. We can stop for a second if you—”

  His hand reached for her arm.

  The second his fingers brushed her sleeve—

  She spun.

  Sharp. Violent.

  One palm slammed into his chest, shoving him back a full step.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  And just as quickly, the moment broke.

  Eyes wide, throat tightening like she hadn’t meant to say it. Like she’d just come back into herself.

  Her throat caught. Clicked.

  “Keep walking.”

  She turned, moving fast, her movements betraying what her rigid tone attempted to hide.

  Maybe she hadn’t shoved him at all. Maybe she shoved whatever she saw instead.

  Clamoring.

  Almost too fast. Like if she stayed in place, she’d have to explain it.

  Soren watched her go, jaw tight, but didn’t follow immediately.

  Behind them, the bramble patch was gone.

  The trees shifted again.

  The exact same fallen log appeared ahead—split and moss-draped.

  And now, even he noticed.

  He stopped walking. The stillness pressed in tighter than bark. Even the beetles had disappeared.

  The vapor curled tighter. Thicker than breath, heavier than mist. It pressed against their faces like wet cloth, muffling sound, muting motion. Even their breathing felt stolen, swallowed before it could reach the air.

  Something cut through the haze above—a shadow, brief and swift. A distant screech. Neither of them looked up. The fog had already taught them not to trust their senses.

  The lull felt oppressive, suffocating. Like the world had ducked beneath water and forgotten how to rise.

  Ayola’s steps had lost all rhythm. She stumbled once, catching herself on a tree that hadn’t been there moments ago.

  Soren was behind her, slower now. Watching her. Watching the trail repeat. Watching his own breath leave his mouth in short, sharp bursts.

  The same log.

  The same dip in the soil.

  The same birdsong.

  A sharp crack snapped the stillness. Not fire. Not quite. Something between bark and bone. Then—smoke. Bitter, acrid, but faint. It drifted through like it didn’t belong, like it had slipped in from another forest altogether. His legs felt heavier. Not tired. Slack. As if the earth had turned syrup beneath them.

  Soren stopped moving. The smoke wasn’t thick, but it clung—thin and sharp, like burnt sap. His chest tightened. Muscles twitched like they were waiting for a command that never came. It wasn’t memory. It was muscle. The way the body holds pain like a reflex. A weight he didn’t remember lifting settling back into his ribs.

  His heart kicked up, hard. Too loud.

  It wasn't memory. It was muscle.

  Ayola’s knees buckled for a second—just a second—like her body forgot how to balance. Breath caught in her throat, not from fear, but from something slipping under her skin. A pressure. A pull. She pressed a hand over her mouth, but the air still tasted wrong. Metallic. Soft at the edges. Like memory boiled into steam.

  A pressure wave rolled through the fog like a ripple of air collapsing inward. The underbrush trembled—no heat, no light, just the sudden lurch of atmosphere changing its mind. The trees shifted. Branches pulled taut like drawn wire.

  A piercing cry slashed through the haze—not flame, but pressure. The kind that made the skull throb before the ears caught up. Something passed overhead. Not seen, only felt. The air buckled around them as if something massive had punched through the fog’s shell.

  Soren’s hand reached out—grabbing Ayola’s wrist this time.

  She didn’t shove him away.

  Not because she recognized him.

  But rather because something else grabbed them both from behind.

  A hand—strong, rough, unexpected—seized them both.

  "OUT. NOW."

  A voice crashed through the silence. Brash, too loud for a forest that had learned to muffle everything.

  Grip locked under their arms, dragging, yanking them through the viscous quiet. Like breaking free of a dream that hadn't finished rather than waking properly.

  Light burst through the trees—real light.

  The fog burned away at the edges. The air cleared.

  And just like that—

  They were out.

  Stumbling onto dry, solid dirt. Grass underfoot. Real trees. Real sky.

  The figure who’d pulled them free stood between them panting like it had cost him more than he’d admit.

  A bird circled once above and dropped low, wings wide, letting out a shrill cry as if to declare their presence to the world.

  The figure smirked, brushing shoulders off.

  “Didn’t your folks ever tell you not to wander off? ’Specially in places that don’t take kindly to strangers.”

  The bird dropped beside him with a strut, wings folding slow, proud. Like it had saved them.

  “You two picked the wrong patch of wild to go sightseeing. Place is crawling with things that don’t like to be seen.”

  The man gave a low whistle. The bird answered with a flick of feathers and a glare, like the two had done this a hundred times before.

  Earlier — during the long hours of first watch

  [Journal – Entry 01]

  Near the mountain pass. Location unknown.

  Didn’t think I’d still be writing anytime soon. Personally, thought I’d be dead before I started this again.

  Still might be soon.

  Makori’s blood came off my hands, but not the smell. That’s the part that lingers. It clung to my skin, sat in my nose, got under my tongue like smoke. It smelled like that night.

  Didn’t expect the memory to come back. Not like that. Not then.

  He looked up at me. Not scared. Just… there. And then he was gone. Slipped through me like water. I turned away for a second. Just one.

  And that old thought came back: I should’ve done more.

  It’s a trap, that thought. Familiar. Easy to wear. But it never helps. Just loops you back through all the moments you didn’t see coming.

  I’ve been tired before. Tired in the body. This is different. It’s a slowness in the blood. In the space between thoughts. Like the world’s moving just a little ahead of me, and I’m dragging to catch up.

  Ayola’s been quieter than usual. We haven’t talked about it. Any of it. Makori. Ny’Kelos. The mercenary camp. The thing we both know is there. But she won’t say it. And I won’t be the one to dig. Not unless it starts to pull her under.

  There’s something in the way she moves now. Less fluid. Not uncertain—just… distant. Like her body’s present, but her focus is held somewhere she can’t name. I respect it. But I see it.

  She shoved me earlier. Just once. It wasn’t the force that stuck with me—it was the eyes. Like she didn’t recognize me for half a second. Like I was someone else. Maybe I was.

  The fire’s dying down. Coals whisper more than they crackle now. Moon’s low, white like bone. Fog’s cleared for now. We’ll reach the destination tomorrow if nothing else goes wrong.

  Not sure what we’re walking into.

  But I know I’m still walking.

  That has to count for something.

  – S.V.