After Ira's "eventful" pep talk with the map's entity sleep would not come. Ira lay on his back, staring up at the black tangle of branches overhead, the map's weight a brand against his chest. The fire had burned down to a scatter of embers, and the night pressed close, thick with the scent of pine and the distant, restless hush of the mountain.
He turned away from the others, curling tighter into himself. Zadie's breathing was slow and even, her hand resting on the hilt of her blade even in sleep. Rust lay with his back to the fire, but Ira could not tell if he slept or simply watched the darkness, waiting for something to stir.
The words of the map echoed in Ira's mind, relentless as the tide:
The unmapped path is the one you fear most. Walk it, Ira. Let it change you.
He clenched his jaw, trying to force the thought away. He had always been the one to find the path, to draw the lines, to make sense of chaos. To surrender that—to become something undefined—felt like death. He remembered the faces in the mirrors, the ache of regret, the hollow ache where trust should be. He remembered the map's cryptic wisdom, the way it had pressed him to let go, to yield to the unknown.
But what was left if he did? Who was he, if not the one who mapped the world?
He sat up, breath ragged, and pressed his fists to his temples. The fire's glow caught the edge of the map, and for a moment, the lines seemed to shift, forming words he could almost read. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the message burned behind his eyelids:
Many times we must lose the version of us we hold as truth to allow for the version of us that is meant to be the truth to take root.
The words struck something deep and raw. Ira's breath came faster, anger rising to drown the fear. He pushed to his feet, boots crunching softly on the pine needles. The world felt too small, the air too thin. He needed space, needed to move, needed to break something.
He stalked away from the camp, deeper into the trees, the cold biting at his skin. He found a pine, thick and ancient, its bark rough beneath his palm. He pressed his forehead to the trunk, trying to steady himself, but the storm inside only grew.
With a guttural cry, he drew back his fist and drove it into the tree. The impact shuddered up his arm, bark and sap spraying, wood splintering beneath his knuckles. He hit it again, and again, until his breath came in ragged gasps and the pain in his hand was sharp enough to cut through the confusion.
He stared at the fist-shaped crater, halfway through the trunk of a tree that had stood for centuries. His hand throbbed, blood welling between his fingers, but he barely felt it. The anger drained away, leaving only exhaustion and a hollow ache.
He looked back toward the camp, the faint glow of the fire barely visible through the trees. For a moment, he hesitated—torn between the comfort of the familiar and the pull of the unknown. Then, with a final, bitter glance at the ruined tree, he turned and slipped away into the darkness.
He did not look back.
Long minutes passed. The camp was silent, save for the crackle of dying embers and the soft sigh of wind through the pines.
Then Rust stirred. He sat up, eyes sharp in the gloom, and glanced toward the place where Ira had vanished. He rose without a word, moving with the silent certainty of someone who had been waiting for this moment.
He walked to the tree, crouched beside the splintered trunk, and ran his fingers over the fist-shaped hollow. His expression was unreadable—something between concern and grim understanding.
He straightened, gaze lingering on the path Ira had taken, then melted back into the shadows, leaving the tree to stand sentinel over the secrets of the night.