Dawn broke like a slow-burning ember, and with it came the relentless blaze of the sun, sweeping mercilessly over the endless sea of grass. The heat thickened the air, wrapping around them like a suffocating, invisible blanket, each step more sluggish than the last. Sweat trickled down brows and soaked through shirts, turning every movement into an exercise in endurance.
The group's pace had dwindled to a near crawl, as if the sun itself were dragging them down, reluctant to let them pass so easily.
"Say, Young Clayton," Francisco's voice cut through the heavy stillness, his brow slick with perspiration as he wiped it away with the back of a hand. "How far is your home?"
Clayton, shading his eyes with a tired hand, answered, "Four more days' worth of travel. But we should come across a small community soon enough."
"A relief to hear!" Kira's voice rang from the front, carrying a rare spark of energy that flickered against the weariness.
Diomede, always the strategist, called back with a sharp glance, "Will you be able to conceal both you and Kira?"
Francisco grunted with the effort it took just to think, "Yes. I should be able to hold the spell—provided I get some proper rest beforehand. Not sure how much spell-casting one can do on an empty, sunbaked tank."
From the rear, Diomede threw another question over his shoulder, "And you, Cub? You and your men were disguised back when we first met."
Clayton wiped the sweat from his brow, squinting toward the horizon. "No, for that I'm no use. The spell was a prayer done by one of my brothers. Not something I can replicate."
The sun dragged the day onward, baking them in its relentless embrace. Diomede reached the crest of a medium-sized hill, his gaze scanning the vast expanse of dry, tall grass, now dull and brittle under the sun's tyranny. Amidst the endless sea of yellow-green, a small, shimmering dot caught his eye—a glint of water far ahead, promising respite.
The others trudged up behind him, their bodies weighed down by the heat and exhaustion, and halted at the summit.
"Just a few moments more, my good man, and we'll be right as rain," Francisco declared with theatrical flair, collapsing onto the dry earth as if the ground were the most welcoming bed.
Clayton stood next to Diomede, glancing around with a half-smile. "Speaking of rain, where's the rain you were so worried about?"
Diomede shot him a sideways look, brows raised. "It's unbecoming of a knight to speak with such pettiness behind his words."
Clayton chuckled low, "Technically, I'm not a knight anymore."
They shared a brief moment of amusement, the faint spark of camaraderie cutting through the heat-soaked fatigue.
"There's a pond further out," Diomede explained, voice steady despite the sweltering day. "Once we make it there, we should rest properly—take a full day."
Clayton nodded, grateful for the promise of relief.
Lily and Kira exchanged a knowing look before gently pushing the protesting Francisco forward. "Please," he wheezed dramatically, "my legs won't make it another step. Just leave me here to dry out and become Nesfundur jerky for the local wildlife."
Kira laughed softly, "Diomede says there's a pond further out. We plan to rest for a day when we get there."
Clayton bent to support the weary Francisco, draping his arm around the Nesfundur's shoulders. "Come on, old friend. Nesfundur jerky can wait."
The sun pressed down harder, but with the promise of water and rest ahead, their spirits, though taxed, held a fragile hope.
After hours that seemed to stretch as relentlessly as the blazing sun above, the five finally stumbled upon the pond, a shimmering oasis resting like a precious gem nestled in the golden grasses. The sun hung low on the horizon, casting long, soft shadows and bathing everything in a warm amber glow that softened the harshness of the day's heat.
"Oh, the gods bless us with this merciful body of water!" Francisco exclaimed with genuine, unrestrained relief as he collapsed just shy of the pond's edge. His limbs trembled with exhaustion, but hope and joy sparkled in his eyes as he began to crawl eagerly toward the cool promise of the water.
But before his fingers could graze the surface, a strong grip caught his tail. Diomede's steady hand held firm, halting the Nesfundur bard's desperate crawl. Francisco, his voice threadbare and weak, looked up at him and asked, "Why?"
Diomede's eyes rolled with a mix of patience and exasperation. "We need to make sure nothing has claimed this pond as its home," he replied, his tone grave.
Francisco let out a whimper, pressing his face into the dirt, the disappointment sinking into the very earth beneath him.
Diomede shed his bearskin cloak, the heat that had been trapped beneath it rose in soft waves, shimmering in the warm air. The breeze that had seemed lazy moments before suddenly teased at his sweat-slicked back, teasing his soaked shirt that clung to him like a second skin.
Stepping into the pond, the cool water enveloped Diomede's legs and soaked through his clothes, a sharp, refreshing contrast to the scorching heat that had clung to their skin all day. Even he had to admit the water was a welcome relief, like a balm to his sunburned and weary body.
With deliberate care, he drew his greatsword, its cold steel glinting faintly in the dying light. The water reached his waist as he pressed forward, each step sending ripples out across the pond's serene surface.
He sank the tip of his sword into the water before him, standing silent and vigilant. The others watched from the shore, eyes sharp, muscles tensed—ready to leap if anything lurked beneath the tranquil water or emerged from its depths.
Minutes slipped by, thick and slow, yet nothing stirred. Growing bold, Diomede began splashing about, sending waves crashing and ripples dancing across the glassy pond. Still, there was no response. No sudden rush of water, no flicker of movement. The pond remained untouched by life or threat.
At last, Diomede turned back, water cascading from his soaked figure as he strode to the shore. "I don't think anything lives in the pond," he announced with a faint grin, "not even the smallest fish."
A collective breath of relief escaped the group, the tension that had knotted their bodies slowly unwinding like the settling twilight.
"We'll set the tent on the other side of the path," Diomede added thoughtfully, shaking water from his cloak. "Better not to sleep too close to the water and risk an unwanted visitor wandering in."
The group busied themselves with their tasks, pitching the tent, arranging their belongings, and settling down for the night under the vast dome of stars that had replaced the sun's burning gaze.
Though the oppressive heat of day had finally passed, the cool night air was filled with whispered promises of rest, safety, and the unspoken bonds forged through shared hardship and survival.
The day's heat still clung stubbornly to the air, wrapping around them like an overenthusiastic blanket. Kira wiped her brow, feeling the stubborn sweat tangled in her hair and trapped beneath her gear—like an unwelcome, sticky second skin. A sudden breeze flirted with the tent's opening, delivering a cool, teasing gust that felt like a whisper against her overheated skin. She glanced over at the pond, where the wind had pulled gentle ripples across the surface, teasing pockets of chill to rise.
She nudged Lily, who was sprawled lazily at the back of the tent. "Do you wish to join me in the pond?" Kira asked, her voice carrying a playful edge.
Lily lifted her head, squinting through the tent flap as the cool air hit her face. A grin crept across her lips, and she nodded, eyes gleaming with quiet excitement.
The two slipped out, their footsteps soft but determined as they headed for the water. Francisco, noticing their stealthy exit, called out, "Hey! Where are you two off to in such a hurry?"
"We're diving in to wash off the day's grime," Kira replied with a smirk.
Francisco chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "Might want to move down the shore a bit. Avoid any… unwanted onlookers."
Kira glanced past Francisco, catching sight of Diomede and Clayton busy sharpening and cleaning their weapons. "He's right," she said, arching an eyebrow. "Don't want to blind our noble warriors with their untamed urges to ogle."
Lily let out a long, exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes. "It's not like we're prancing around like dogs in heat."
Kira blinked, and Francisco nearly choked on an invisible laugh at Lily's bluntness.
Kira grabbed Lily's arm, and the pair ambled a little further from camp, just far enough to keep the others comfortably in sight, but close enough to keep their little private moment safe from the world's prying eyes—and less blushing companions.
The pair began to undress with a quiet grace. Lily peeled off her black and red leotard, the cool air immediately grazing her sweat-warmed skin, sending a delicate shiver up her spine. Kira's gaze lingered on Lily's form—a pale, moonlit glow to her skin, smooth and almost ethereal. Lean and sculpted, Lily's body held a strength that belied its slenderness, every muscle taut yet fluid, honed from years of wielding that formidable great axe.
Intricate tribal markings snaked across her skin, like ancient inked stories etched from her shoulders down to the base of her neck, carrying the weight of her heritage in every line.
Sensing Kira's eyes, Lily turned and met her gaze, a playful glint in her own. "I thought you were worried about the others seeing our bodies. Or was that just a clever ruse so you could be the only one admiring mine?"
Kira quickly averted her eyes, cheeks flushed. "I was only admiring your markings. I've never seen anything quite like them."
With a small smile, Lily watched as Kira began to unstrap the leather bindings of her own gear, revealing a body both strong and elegantly shaped—muscular yet soft, her curves defined like the moss-clad statues of ancient temples. Every contour seemed carved by an artisan, as if her form had been kissed by the hands of some forgotten sculptor.
"I apologize for staring," Kira murmured.
"Don't," Lily said, stepping into the water. "It's just a body, after all."
Kira cast her gear aside and followed her into the pond. The water rose cool and soothing to their shoulders, washing away the heat and grime of the day. Kira let the water run over her arms, feeling sweat and dirt dissolve and float away. Lily broke the surface with a splash, undoing her ponytail, letting her hair fan out like a halo in the water.
"I hate it when my sister puts my hair back so tight," Lily said with a frustrated sigh, running her fingers through her straight, damp hair. The tension in her voice was more than mere annoyance—it was a small crack in her armor.
Kira, her fingers gently working through the tangles of her own thick, curly hair, asked softly, "Where is she now? Back with your tribe?"
Lily floated on the surface of the pond, her eyes distant as the weight of the past settled over her. "No," she whispered, voice raw and barely steady. "All of my tribe... is gone."
The ripples around her stretched outward, and Kira moved a fraction closer, steady and calm. "You mentioned your sister. I thought—"
Lily cut her off, her tone sharp, simmering with fierce pride and pain. "Thought what? That there might still be others?" Her voice rose with a bitter edge. "I am the last of my people, the last of the Half-Moon clan!"
Kira felt the waves of anger and grief beneath Lily's words—like a storm held just beneath the surface. Reaching out, she gently placed her hand on Lily's arm.
But Lily recoiled, pulling away as if afraid the touch might shatter her resolve. "Don't pity me," she snapped, voice trembling but resolute. "I am proud. Proud of my heritage. I carry my tribe inside me, in every breath, every heartbeat."
Kira's eyes softened, the surprise of Lily's strength touching her deeply. "Lily, I don't pity you. I'm here to comfort you."
Suddenly, Lily's rage broke free, a raw, guttural cry tearing through the night. "COMFORT ME!" she shouted, her voice echoing across the water. "I do NOT need it! I am the daughter of the great chief Conrad the Unbreakable. The younger sister to the Shadow Master and the great huntress Emilia."
Her voice cracked, tears spilling down like a river long dammed. Overcome, Lily let her sorrow wash over her, and Kira closed the distance, pulling her into an unwavering embrace. The comforting press of Kira's arms held Lily steady as she unleashed all her pain, muffling her cries into the night.
Kira's presence was like that of an older sister or even one of a mother.
The sound drifted back to camp, tugging at Clayton's attention. "Are they in trouble?" he asked, rising and moving toward the source of the sobs.
Diomede's steady hand gripped Clayton's arm, halting him. "No," he said quietly. "Those are not cries of danger, but of grief finally breaking free."
Francisco's eyes followed the sounds, nodding knowingly. "That is Lily."
"Yes," Diomede confirmed, voice soft but certain.
Clayton sank back onto his spot on the ground around the small fire that breathed.
Curiosity sparkled in his eyes as he asked, "Panagiot said she was a Halfead?"
"Yes, she is," Diomede confirmed with a calm nod.
Clayton leaned forward slightly. "But what exactly is that?"
Francisco cleared his throat, his voice lowering to a gentle, almost reverent tone. "The Halfead are a people who walk along the edge of both this world and the next." His words hung in the air like a whispered legend, immediately capturing Clayton's attention as if he were a child hearing tales by firelight.
"No one truly knows how or why they maintain such a close bond with the otherworld," Francisco continued softly, "but many in this world fear them. Necromancy and the foul magics used to command the dead have long cast shadows upon their kind."
Clayton's brow furrowed. "Others view the Halfead as one of the same?"
Francisco's gaze met Clayton's, serious and steady. "They can call upon the aid of their dead tribal kin."
The young knight's mind raced back to the fierce battles he had witnessed—at the tavern, and again against Ruffguard and Panagiot. "Is that what was helping her before?"
"Yes," Francisco answered. "I believe the aberration we saw was that of her father. But the Halfead do not simply summon the dead, dragging them back from the otherworld. Instead, the dead are absorbed into them, marking their bodies. This mark allows them to summon those spirits when needed…"
Before he could finish, a heavy clatter interrupted the moment—Francisco's gear tumbled loudly to the ground, drawing startled glances.
Kira and Lily stood nearby, clutching blankets tightly around their shoulders, shielding their bare skin from the evening chill. Lily's voice cut sharply through the silence, "What are you speaking of, Nesfundur?"
Clayton rose quickly, stepping protectively in front of Francisco. "He was only answering my question."
Lily's head snapped toward him, her eyes blazing with a fierce intensity as she closed the small distance between them until their faces nearly touched. "And what, pray tell, was your question?"
A heavy tension settled over the group. Everyone held their breath, wondering if this moment might erupt into conflict. But Clayton met Lily's gaze with steady calm, seeing not only her anger but the deep pain beneath it. Holding his chin high, he answered with resolve, "My question was simply… What is a Halfead?"
Francisco covered his face with a weary hand, a sheepish attempt to hide his embarrassment. Kira shot a sharp glance toward Diomede, her disappointment clear.
Diomede, however, wore a knowing smile, pride shining in his eyes. He was quietly thrilled by Clayton's honesty and the bravery it took. He settled back, eagerly awaiting the next chapter in their unfolding story.
Lily stared deeply into Clayton's eyes, searching for any trace of ill will or malice, but found none—only genuine concern and a quiet curiosity. Kira noticed a small spark of joy and pride flicker within Lily, even though her face remained carefully composed, betraying nothing. Slowly, Lily stepped back and let her shoulders relax.
"What did he tell you?" Lily asked, her gaze shifting to Francisco. "So I can correct any misinformation."
Clayton repeated everything he had heard, careful to be accurate. Lily nodded, approving each detail. "I'm surprised, bard," she said. "I thought you might be like the others—spinning tales and rumors."
Francisco puffed out his chest, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. "That would be a disservice to my profession and make me an unreliable source of information, and worse—a liar!"
Diomede erupted in a booming laugh, his voice echoing through the night. The others exchanged startled looks, not used to hearing such open amusement from their usually stoic companion.
"So it's true then?" Clayton asked, turning to Lily. "You carry your fallen within you?"
Lily gave him a slow, confirming nod.
"Does that mean your whole tribe is inside you?" Clayton's innocent question was suddenly met with a sharp strike to the back of his head from Diomede.
"What kind of question is that to ask someone?" Diomede scolded loudly.
Clayton glanced around at the disappointed faces surrounding him—everyone except Lily. She regarded him with a warm, amused look, like a sister indulgently watching her younger brother.
"Yes," she said softly. "My tribe is with me always." Her eyes drifted across the darkened field, as if she could see the shadows of her people encircling them in silent vigil.
Just then, Francisco produced two elegant red evening dresses from his bag. "Here, my fair friends. Some clothes for you to wear while your things dry, and a few brushes as well."
Kira quickly took the dresses and led Lily into the tent. As they passed Clayton, Kira gave him a sharp flick on the ear, her expression playful yet filled with mock anger. He turned, rubbing the spot in surprise.
"Well, they're finished. We best knock our bath out as well," Diomede said, heading toward the water.
Clayton and Francisco followed, Francisco buttoning up his shirt with a grin. "No peeking, you two," he called over his shoulder.