The silence after Vane came back to life was tense, like the quiet moment between the end of a sad song and the start of a storm. The air felt heavy, thick with unsaid fears and lingering echoes of the magic that had pulled him back from the brink.
He was breathing steadily now, but still unconscious. His body lay limp in the bard's arms, like a puppet with its strings cut. Sweat slicked his skin, and every now and then, his fingers twitched, as if he was still trapped in a nightmare that hadn't quite let go. His eyelids fluttered once, briefly, before settling shut again.
"Rest," the bard whispered, her voice rough and low as she brushed the damp hair from his forehead. "You're not dying today." Her fingers lingered there for a heartbeat longer, as if willing him to hear her from wherever he was.
The knight stood up, his armor softly clinking with the movement. His face looked tired and serious in the flickering torchlight, lines of exhaustion carved deeper with every battle they survived. "We'll camp here tonight," he said firmly, scanning the chamber with a soldier's practiced eye. "Vane can't travel, and honestly, neither can we. That quake hit us hard."
The mage gave a reluctant nod, still eyeing the jagged cracks that spiderwebbed across the stone floor like scars. "This place isn't safe. And that mist earlier…" Her voice drifted off as she looked at Elowen with an unreadable expression. Was it suspicion? Or maybe curiosity? Or something else, harder to name?
They moved quickly, fatigue making their movements clumsy but determined. Bedrolls were unrolled in the safest-looking corner of the chamber, beneath a ceiling that—at least for now, showed no signs of crumbling. They kept their voices low, as if afraid to wake the stone itself. A few magic stones, nestled carefully on the ground, gave off a gentle glow, casting long shadows on the walls. No one lit a real fire.
Elowen stayed near the group, half-lost in the flickering firelight. The others had gathered closer to the warmth and each other, talking in low voices, some laughing, others silent but comforted by presence. Elowen, by contrast, remained apart, her back pressed against the chill stone wall. Her arms curled tightly around her knees, her battered cloak drawn close like armor against the cold. The fabric was damp at the hem, streaked with dirt and old blood. Her head ached, pulsing with the dull throb of exhaustion and pain. It felt as though the antidote, hurriedly made, barely enough, had wrung her dry. Every motion was effort now, every breath an echo in a body that had already given too much. She was hollow, scraped raw and empty, like a bowl poured out and left to dry in the sun.
She didn't look up when footsteps approached. They were soft, clipped march of suspicion, and gentle. Still, she braced.
The bard sank down beside her with a low sigh, her movements deliberate, as if not to startle. A satchel hung at her side, worn and patched with bits of embroidery, stars and vines stitched into faded fabric. She waited a moment before speaking, perhaps sensing that words too quickly offered would bounce off the walls Elowen had pulled up around herself.
"I'm Valeria," she said finally, her voice a soft alto that carried just enough warmth to melt the frost without demanding anything in return.
Elowen didn't answer right away. Her gaze remained fixed on the cracks in the stone beneath their feet, hair curtaining her expression. The patterns reminded her of veins, or roots, fractured paths leading nowhere. After a long moment, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Valeria let out a breath, not relief exactly, but something like it.
"You saved Vane," she said, voice quieter now, more personal.
Elowen shrugged one shoulder, barely moving. "I wasn't sure it would work," she murmured, the words heavy with unspoken consequences. She had taken a risk...a risk that could've killed him, or maybe not. But she hadn't thought. She'd just acted.
"Well... it did." There was a pause, and Valeria tilted her head slightly, her gaze flicking to Elowen's arm. "You're still bleeding."
Elowen blinked, as if pulled from some far-off place. She glanced down. The bandage on her forearm was soaked through, dark red bleeding into gray linen. The sight didn't even startle her, it simply confirmed what she already felt.
Without asking, Valeria opened her satchel and pulled out a fresh strip of cloth. "Let me," she said, not as a question but a quiet offer, steady and sure.
Elowen hesitated, but didn't protest. She let her arm fall toward Valeria, limp and unresisting. The bard's fingers were quick and practiced, surprisingly gentle. She unwrapped the old dressing and cleaned the wound with a touch that knew pain but didn't flinch from it. Her hands smelled faintly of herbs and ink, like someone who'd spent too long with scrolls and salves instead of swords.
"I don't understand," Elowen said softly, as Valeria worked. "Where the hut went. And why you're helping me."
Valeria smiled faintly, though the expression was tired around the edges. "Because you helped him. That earns you a little faith."
Elowen's throat tightened. The kindness in those words scratched at something fragile inside her. She turned her face away, not trusting herself to speak, not yet. When Valeria finished, she gave Elowen's arm a brief, reassuring pat before rising and returning to Vane's side, her shadow stretching long in the firelight.
Silence reclaimed the space around Elowen. She remained there, unmoving, long after the conversation faded into the camp's low murmur. The cold of the stone beneath her seeped through the folds of her cloak, into her bones. It felt deserved, somehow. The chill reminded her that she was still here, still real. Still accountable. She stared ahead, not seeing the stone but the faces of those she had left behind, and the face of the man she had nearly failed.
She waited, for a confrontation, for suspicion, for someone to demand answers she wasn't ready to give.
Instead, it was the sorceress who came.
The woman's approach was quiet, but not hesitant. She moved with the confidence of someone who had never needed to raise her voice to be obeyed. Her long black robes whispered as she walked, the fabric rippling with a breeze that wasn't there. The crescent hood cast half her face in shadow, leaving the other half sharp and unreadable. When she stopped in front of Elowen, the air seemed to still.
"You may stay," she said. Her voice was soft, softer than Elowen expected, but it carried, clear as glass.
Elowen blinked, confused. "Stay?"
The sorceress nodded once. "Until we leave the forest. After that, your path is your own."
Relief hit her in a wave so sudden it nearly took her breath. But she didn't show it. She'd learned long ago that showing too much could be dangerous. "That's... generous," she said carefully.
"It's practical," the sorceress replied, folding her hands. "You saved our friend. The least we can do is not throw you to the wolves." She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly. "And besides... it seems fate isn't quite finished with you."
She turned then, her robes trailing like smoke behind her, and walked away without another word. Elowen leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. Her body ached, her thoughts circled like crows above a battlefield, but for the first time in days, something in her loosened. She wasn't safe. But she wasn't alone anymore, either.
Suddenly a faint sound interrupted them. Click. Click. Click. It echoed against the dungeon's stones—sharp, steady, and unnatural. The survivors stiffened. The mage clutched her clothes tighter. Elowen's pulse spiked.
"Do you hear that?" Valeria whispered, terror widening her eyes.