Southward

The fire had burned low to a soft orange glow, its embers stretching long shadows through the still air. Morning mist clung low to the ground, mixing with the residual steam rising from the cauldron where Karlach had soaked the night before. Camp was quiet. But not silent. Lae’zel’s ritual had ended late. Her tent flap still hung open, and I’d seen her sitting inside moments ago, rewrapping her gear with a tension that didn’t come from battle.

I moved through camp, brushing soot off my hands as I packed the last of my bedroll. The scent of ash and sweat still clung to everything. Karlach caught me first. She stood near the now-empty cauldron, arms folded beneath her chest, that familiar mix of bashfulness and boldness flickering behind her smile.

"Hey," she said, voice low. "About last night. Thanks. And... sorry. For the hand. I got a little carried away."

I flexed my fingers. The skin was smooth now thanks to Shadowheart’s healing, but I still remembered the sting. "Honestly? In the moment, I barely noticed."

Karlach grinned, relieved. Then her expression softened. “Still… kinda jealous. The other girls gets a more hands-on treatment.”

Shadowheart, passing close by, didn’t miss a beat. Her voice was quiet, but her words laced with wry amusement. “It’s not entirely unpleasant.” She didn’t elaborate, just gave me a look—half-knowing, half-daring—as she bent to fold her bedroll.

I turned to Lae’zel’s tent. “Lae’zel?”

She didn’t rise immediately. When she did, it was with rigid posture curtly said. “Not now.”

Shadowheart sourly commented, intentionally loud enough to be heard, “A little appreciation wouldn’t kill her.”

Lae’zel’s eyes flicked to her with a glare, but the retort died on her tongue. Her gaze shifted to me instead. Her mouth tightened. And then she blinked, lowered her head slightly, and gave a brief, almost **** nod.

Shadowheart raised a brow and opened her mouth to comment—“See? That’s bett—”

“Don’t,” I cut in with a raised hand. "The last thing we need today is you two fighting."
Though in the back of my mind, the thought lingered. One day, I’d have to find a way to make them friends... or maybe something more?

I crouched beside my pack and pulled up my interface—still faintly shimmering in the corner of my vision. Supplies were bleak: a pouch of dried meat and a few edible roots. We wouldn’t last another full march at this rate.

“We’re low,” I said aloud. “We need to resupply before we even think about heading back.”

“There’s a coast to the south,” I added. “Might be some wreckage washed up, old cargo or something salvageable."

Karlach, adjusting her axe strap, glanced up with a cheeky grin. “We could always drop by Auntie Ethel’s. See if she’s feeling generous?”

Shadowheart stopped, gave her a flat look. “I'd rather starve. Thanks.”

“South it is” I said.

That wasn’t the whole truth. What I hadn’t said—what I couldn’t—was that I knew what lay there. A certain note, half-buried in the roots of a trunk. Signed by Kagha herself. It detailed her plans to ally with the Shadow Druids—an extremist sect aiming to turn the Emerald Grove into a closed, rotting enclave. If I could get it, I’d hopefully have leverage. Somehow I doubt that she would free up a cave in the grove for Auntie if I just asked nicely.

We hiked for around an hour, the terrain gradually shifting from soft swamp to firmer, cracked stone. The brush grew taller, wilder, hiding the ruined remains of campsites from long ago. Broken barrels, collapsed tents, blackened fire pits.

We fanned out and looted what we could, satchels still held several old rations, a broken crate had plenty of untouched apples rolling inside, and beneath a collapsed tent, Shadowheart found a stash of dried herbs and jerky.

Beyond the campsite, across the clearing, the massive hollowed trunk loomed. Easily visible from a long distance, its gnarled shape towered like a wound in the earth, daring anyone to approach.

We slowed as we approached the clearing.

At the edge of the overgrowth, I raised a hand and dropped into a crouch. The others followed suit.

Ahead of us was a wide, muddy circle, the earth still dark with old rain and old blood. In the center stood the tree stump—massive, hollowed, gnarled.

I whispered, “There has to be something there.”

The girls nodded. No questions. Not yet. We moved in slowly.