Chapter 40: Under the Old Tree
By the time Ethan and Lirael stepped out of the warren's yawning mouth, the sky had already deepened into a bruised shade of evening. The dying light spilled gold and purple across the horizon, catching on the jagged rocks and the trampled grass outside.
Scattered around the entrance were groups of adventurers who had long since retreated—those who'd been injured, or whose abilities hadn't let them push deeper into the twisting tunnels. Some were wrapped in makeshift bandages, others hunched around small campfires with their weapons laid across their knees.
Ethan's gaze swept over the crowd and caught sight of familiar faces—Max and Alex. They stood near a low boulder, packs slung over their shoulders. Their armor was scraped, their cloaks dusty, and their potion belts hung empty.
They had clearly been waiting… or perhaps simply lingering.
When they noticed Ethan and Lirael emerging side-by-side, their expressions tightened. Max's lips pressed into a hard line, while Alex's eyes flickered away almost instantly. Then, in perfect unspoken agreement, they turned their backs.
Whether it was anger, wounded pride, or plain fear, Ethan couldn't tell.
A low murmur rippled through the adventurers as the returning groups reported their status. Someone suggested making camp right here at the entrance of the warren—where the open air and a bit of distance from the tunnels could at least give the illusion of safety.
No one disagreed.
Ethan and Lirael wandered a little ways from the main clusters and found a broad old tree whose roots jutted up like ribs from the earth. Lirael led the way, lightly guiding him by the elbow toward the sheltered spot beneath its branches. The bark was cool under his palm as he leaned back, the rustling leaves above catching the faint evening breeze.
Thankfully, Aina wasn't around to pounce on them with teasing remarks.
For a few precious minutes, there was only the quiet chorus of distant conversations and the slow crackle of campfires. But then a familiar pair approached—Aina herself, with Maya in tow, both still dusted from the expedition.
"Well, look who's hiding under a tree," Aina said, smirking as she dropped into a crouch. "You two planning to set up a secret base or something?"
Lirael only rolled her eyes, patting the spot beside her. "Sit down before you fall over. You look like you fought a brick wall."
"It felt like one," Maya muttered, settling down with a groan. "Half the tunnels past the first fork were caved in. Had to waste two hours backtracking."
"What about you?" Aina asked, turning to Ethan. "You went deeper than us. Any sign of that second chamber people keep talking about?"
Ethan shrugged, leaning his longblade against the tree. "If it's there, it's hiding well. All we found was more trouble."
That earned a low chuckle from Aina. "Figures. This place is one big coin sink."
They traded scraps of information—how certain passages reeked of old blood, how some traps had clearly been scavenged by others before them, how a group had run into a horned troll and barely escaped. The casual talk helped, even if none of it promised safety or reward.
Then, as twilight thickened, a loud, somber voice cut across the camp.
"Final count is in! Out of ninety-eight who entered the warren… thirty-seven have fallen."
The words seemed to strip away all other sound for a moment.
The messenger's tone didn't soften the numbers—seventeen dead before even reaching the entrance, the rest swallowed by the dark tunnels inside.
Silence settled like a heavy cloak. In the dim glow of the fires, some lowered their heads, others stared into the distance. A few whispered the names of friends they wouldn't see again. But the grief was… muted. Parties here were built for convenience, not for bonds.
For many, mourning lasted only as long as the ache in their chest. By the time the fires were stoked again, voices began to rise—plans for tomorrow, talk of loot, idle jokes meant to distract from the weight in the air.
Ethan stayed quiet, eyes drifting to Lirael. She was laughing softly at something Aina said, her hair catching the firelight like pale silk. The sound of her voice, warm and unguarded, made something in his chest tighten.
A thought came, unbidden: What kind of relationship do I want with her?
Not the kind forged merely for survival's sake, he knew that much. Not the cold, temporary convenience of a party formed for expedience.
Something… more.
Aina's voice jolted him back. "Oi, Ethan, you spacing out on us?"
He blinked, smirking faintly. "Just wondering how much richer we're going to be after this whole mess is over."
Lirael gave him a side glance, pretending to scold. "Money on the brain even now?"
"Hey," he said, leaning back with a lazy grin, "someone's got to think about our retirement plan."
For a moment, the laughter around the tree drowned out the weight of the death count. The night air was cool, the campfires warm, and for now—that was enough.
---
When the conversation under the tree finally lulled, Ethan leaned back against the trunk and pulled up his stat panel.
57,702 SP.
Hmm… enough for her seal removal.
But he couldn't rush it. The bloodline awakening potion still wasn't ready, and she'd need time to adjust once her strength was unbound. No point throwing her into chaos too soon.
His mind shifted to the day's spoils.
Let's see… ten gold, give or take. Three from the Goblin King's drops, four from those ogres, and the rest from hobgoblins, goblins, and whatever junk we picked up. His lips curved faintly. That magic crystal will probably net me another three gold.
But his real anticipation was for the system reward—the Duskfang, Shadowforged Longblade.
The SP payout for the kill had been a measly four thousand, but the stat points were solid. Still, for the trouble of slaying that moss brute, the sword had better be worth it.
He glanced down at the weapon lying beside him. His current longsword looked pitiful in the flicker of the fire—edge chipped, steel dulled, a deep crack running along the fuller. Even the little wolf insignia near the hilt seemed… tired.
"…You did your job well," he murmured under his breath, fingertips brushing the battered guard. "I owe that old blacksmith a drink."
By the time night properly fell, the campfires glowed like little islands in the dark, and the restless shuffle of people settling in replaced the earlier chatter. Ethan and Lirael set up a modest tent beneath the tree's protective boughs. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of ash from nearby fires and the earthy tang of crushed grass under their bedrolls.
They agreed to take turns on watch—one resting, one patrolling the perimeter—but the hours passed quietly.
When it was her turn to rest, Lirael found herself half-sitting, half-lying, her gaze inevitably wandering to where Ethan sat with his back against the trunk, head tilted as if he might drift off. His features were calm in the low light, but there was a subtle hardness there too, like a man used to keeping his guard even in his sleep.
Without meaning to, she stared a little too long.
He really doesn't look like someone who belongs in my world… or maybe I'm the one who doesn't belong in his.
Her thoughts skittered to something he'd once mentioned—a "problematic child." The words had been casual at the time, but now they prodded at her curiosity.
Is he married? …Why does that matter? I'm not—No, no, no!
She slapped her cheeks softly with both hands, earning a puzzled glance from Maya across the tent.
"Mosquito," Lirael muttered, pulling her blanket up to her chin.
When morning came, it arrived with a pale silver light spilling over the horizon. Dew clung to the grass, glittering faintly, and the camp stirred with the rustle of armor being buckled and gear being packed. The sharp scent of boiled oats and salted jerky drifted in the air as they shared a quick breakfast.
Ethan stretched, the joints in his shoulders popping audibly. "Alright," he said, slinging his gear over his back. "Time to head back to the village before someone decides to start another suicide run into that warren."
Lirael fell into step beside him, her eyes a little softer than the night before, though her words were brisk. "Try not to attract any more goblin kings on the way back."
"Heh. No promises," Ethan replied with a faint smirk.
The path ahead was quiet, but somewhere deep in both their minds, questions—about loot, about strength, about each other—lingered unanswered.