Inside the house, he moved like a whirlwind. Wheels clattered across the floor, latches snapped, and drawers slammed open to reveal piles of unidentifiable tools and half-labeled jars.
"Is this... a grappling hook made out of string cheese?" Willow held it up between two fingers.
"That's the prototype," Bart called from beneath a desk. "The mozzarella model has better tensile strength."
In the corner, Gus stared at the growing pile of items beside the travel cart. "How do you propose we fit all of this stuff inside?"
Bartholomew popped up from behind a crate with a cylindrical canister in each hand. "Simple. Cover it."
Willow blinked. "What a genius idea..."
Gus kicked one of the bags gently. It sloshed. "This one's full of soup."
"Emergency soup," Bart corrected.
Joren passed by with an armful of rope and travel tarps, barely reacting. "We're going to be stopped at every outpost between here and Varenthal if they inspect this cart."
Bartholomew shrugged. "We could leave a couple of things, but I can't leave home without most of this!"
Joren gave him a look. "We're on foot, Bart. Or at best, a shared carriage. No one's letting you load half a pantry and a tactical dairy lab onto a public ride."
Bartholomew huffed. "Fine, I'll prioritize the essentials only."
He turned and immediately began stuffing a second grappling hook, three jars of jam, and what looked like a cape inside a crate.
Willow narrowed her eyes. "Is that a cape made of dried seaweed?"
Bart nodded solemnly. "For stealth in coastal environments."
Gus flopped onto the bench by the door, rubbing his face. "We're going inland..."
"Then it'll serve as a conversation starter," Bart said, as if that were just as valuable.
Joren glanced at the clock. "We leave in twenty minutes. Whatever's not packed by then gets left behind."
Bartholomew froze mid-reach toward a basket labeled Emergency Crumbs, then slowly lowered his hand like it was a hostage negotiation.
"Very well," he said. "I shall make the hard choices."
Willow crossed her arms. "Start by choosing sanity."
Bart gave her a wounded look. "Sanity has never been on the menu, my dear Willow!"
The clock ticked down behind them.
Outside, the wind had shifted. It carried the scent of street food, damp leaves, and the faint tang of cheese left too long in the sun.
A cart rattled past the end of the lane, its wheels catching on the uneven stones, and a dog barked a few times in the distance before falling quiet again. The house, cluttered and chaotic just minutes ago, now felt still in a way that only came before a journey.
Joren adjusted the straps on his satchel. "Alright, let's go before Bart finds another emergency condiment."
"I heard that," Bart said, dragging his overpacked crate toward the door with the tragic dignity of a man forced to leave behind his third-favorite ladle.
Willow held the door open with a resigned sigh. "This is going to be the weirdest trip of my life."
Gus stepped out after her. "But it will definitely be the best."
Mid-Morning – Townsquare
They stepped out into the street, the cart's single squeaky wheel already protesting under the weight of Bartholomew's "essentials." The morning air carried a sticky warmth, and behind them, the cheese house stood in its usual odd splendor. This would be the last time they saw this strange little place.
As they went through town towards Varenthal, a few townsfolk paused to watch them go.
Old Miss Tander from the herbal shop shaded her eyes with a hand. "You off to cause more trouble, Bartholomew?"
"I'm off to prevent it!" he called back, giving a theatrical wave.
She snorted. "Try not to educate any more livestock."
"That goat was a natural philosopher!" Bart shouted, affronted.
Gus leaned toward Joren as they passed the bakery. "Wasn't that the one he had on a poster in his house?"
"I would think so." Joren said, shrugging.
A few steps later, a grubby child perched on a low stone wall swung his legs and pointed. "Look! It's the cheese wizard!"
Bartholomew clutched his chest like he'd been knighted. "Yes! Finally, someone sees me for what I am."
"Didn't you set your boots on fire trying to melt butter?" the kid asked.
"Artistry always walks a fine line," Bart replied solemnly, eyes misty with misplaced pride.
Willow didn't even look at him, just chuckled a little. "Keep walking, Bart."
They passed a weathered statue at the village square, its plaque missing. A bird had nested in the statue's upturned palm. No one seemed bothered by the mysterious statue.
Willow glanced sideways. "Did you ever figure out who that statue was supposed to be?"
Bartholomew raised a finger. "Statues are about symbolism, not specifics. It represents the spirit of tales from long ago."
"You told me last week it represented your great-uncle Duncan," Gus muttered.
"That too. He was very symbolic." Bart replied, laughing his cowboy laugh once again. "But don't tell the villagers that, they might get jealous that I knew someone so famous."
Elsewhere – Ruins of an Old Castle
The path to the castle had been overgrown for years.
Ferns pressed in from both sides. Stones, slick with moss and age, shifted under her boots as she climbed the slope. The fog that blanketed the valley below had thinned here, but not vanished. It lingered in the hollows of broken walls and drifted through empty archways like memory refusing to leave.
Nerithe moved without hesitation.
She carried nothing but a torch to light the way inside this near-dilapidated castle. The daylight, gray and diffused, was enough to see what little remained of the outer keep. Her coat was travel-worn, stained at the sleeves with dirt and salt, and her lavender hair swayed at her shoulders like a princess. She looked like someone who'd come far from home, searching for something particular.
This wasn't a detour she took on her adventure. She had meant to come here.
She crossed the collapsed threshold of what had once been a great hall. Birds scattered as she entered, startled from the rafters. A single feather drifted past her shoulder and landed near her as she walked through.
Stone ribs of the ceiling reached toward one another like the spine of a fallen beast. Wind traced slow fingers along the floor, stirring leaves and ash. A toppled pillar guided her into the ruined hall, once vast but now parts of it open to the sky. Rubble lay like sleeping beasts across the floor. Wind crept along the stone, tugging at her coat.
She found an entrance that led to a lower part underground. They were stone, narrow and unlit. The air turned colder with each step as she descended into a labyrinth.
At the base of the stairs, the corridor split.
Left, right, and a third passage that was obscured behind a fallen slab.
She didn't pause.
Left.
The torch crackled as it met stiller air. Her footsteps echoed too clearly, as if the stone were waiting for her all this time, welcoming her like an old friend.
The corridor curved in slow arcs as she kept walking. Doorways sealed shut emerged from the walls, though she made no effort to stop and see what was behind them. The torch cast each passing archway in amber and then vanished behind her as she proceeded on.
She descended a second set of stairs.
Then a third.
The path twisted downward like the roots of an ancient tree. At times, the ceiling dropped so low she had to crouch. Once, the torch sputtered out from the lack of good air. She stopped only long enough to breathe once through her nose, poured a little oil on it, and relit it from a backup wick.
The flame returned weaker, but steady. Its glow clung tighter to her figure now, reluctant to reach the walls. The stone seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it, as though this depth had never known day.
She pushed on.
Then, without ceremony or design, the passage ended. There was no door, no threshold, just a quiet expansion of space.
The chamber was circular and ornate, one fit for a king.
Stone tiles covered the floor in perfect concentric rings, etched with glyphs so fine they looked inked rather than carved. The walls were lined with insets and carvings, thousands of them, stacked to the ceiling in dense latticework.
Spirals, constellations, mirrored figures with hands raised skyward. Some images depicted divine beings, their faces symmetrical and perfect in every way. Others depicted tragedies spoken of in the first era —floods that drowned whole nations, cities turned to ash, and lone figures wielding chaos itself.
Above her, the dome arched with terrifying precision. It was seamless, impossibly smooth, yet across its span ran murals of something she couldn't quite put her tongue on. Maybe it was of legends from long ago, when this place still stood tall. But it was not the centerpiece of this long-lost chamber.
At the far end of the room stood a door.
It was small compared to the rest of the space, just big enough for a person to enter, but no more than that. The doors were made of what looked to be some sort of ancient metal, one that couldn't feel the effects of age so easily.
Nerithe stared at it for a long moment.
Then, slowly, she reached out.
The doors didn't swing open. They simply parted, retreating back into the next room with a grace too fluid for any ancient mechanism. A breath of cold air slipped from the room beyond, brushing her face like a memory not yet made.
Torch in hand, Nerithe stepped inside.
It was smaller than she expected. A square chamber with walls of uninterrupted stone so smooth they looked poured rather than carved. The only feature that occupied the room was it.
Not treasure.
Not an ancient weapon.
A portrait.
There was no ornamentation or inscription that surrounded it, just that smooth, square shape that jutted outwards like a canvas for the worlds biggest mural. Except it wasn't painted by man at all, not in the way murals were. It didn't seem like the word portrait could actually describe this imagery now in front of her.
This was imagery from the gods themselves.
Perfect.
Alive.
Her breath slowed. Her pupils dilated.
It didn't feel like seeing something at all. It felt like she was becoming the vessel for a god.
Her torchlight dimmed behind her, forgotten. The air around the Portrait shimmered, like reality was merging with another realm. The lines of the image deepened as she continued to stare into it. They no longer rested on the surface but spiraled outwards, impossibly far, like falling into her very soul.
Her eyes began to take a new look.
Her irises became a crimson color as if blood replaced them. Scribbled lines began to circulate through them now, coiling and erratic like divine handwriting that mortals couldn't comprehend.
Whatever she had been before, she would never be again.