Morning came slow and bitter.
The sky was the color of ash, and the mist clung low over the clearing like it didn't want to leave. It was one of those mornings where the silence wasn't peace — it was pressure. Everyone felt it. Even Borgu wasn't humming while sharpening his axe.
Sylvara was the first to break it.
She slammed down a half-finished bundle of arrows beside the fire. "He's hiding something."
No one looked surprised.
Lorian glanced between us, nervous. "W-We don't know that for sure. Gareth's been—"
"Too polite," Sylvara cut in. "Too watchful. His eyes move before his hands. A soldier's eyes. He measures exits every time he walks through the camp."
Borgu grunted. "Elf not wrong. Orc see same thing. He smell like coin and death. Like human camp before raid."
I kept silent, busying my hands with the cooking pot, though the stew had long gone cold.
They were right — and worse, I knew why.
Because last night, Gareth had shown me that cursed medallion.Because I had told him to keep it secret.
And now that lie was already bleeding through the cracks.
Lorian spoke softly, trying to soothe the tension. "He's just trying to fit in—"
"He doesn't belong," Sylvara said flatly. "You can't just drag someone from the wilds and expect trust overnight. We've built this place from nothing, Kael. From trust and sweat and nights spent wondering if we'd live till dawn. And you bring in a man who reeks of war and secrets."
Her voice hit harder than her words. She wasn't angry — she was afraid.
I set the spoon down. "Sylvara—"
Before I could finish, Borgu stood up, axe in hand. "No need talk. Orc solve this. Ask human direct."
"Borgu—wait—"
Too late.
The orc stomped off toward Gareth's tent. Sylvara followed close, tension in her shoulders like a bowstring about to snap.
I cursed under my breath and went after them.
Gareth was crouched near his tent, strapping on his gear like he'd been ready for this. His expression didn't change when Borgu and Sylvara closed in.
He simply looked up and said, "Morning."
Borgu's answer was a growl. "Morning for truth. You hide something."
Sylvara's eyes narrowed. "Let's see what you've been keeping so close."
"I told Kael where I came from," Gareth said calmly, not even reaching for his sword. "I've got nothing to hide."
"Then you won't mind us looking," Sylvara replied, stepping closer.
I reached them just as Borgu kicked over Gareth's pack. Supplies spilled across the dirt — rations, spare straps, a dagger, and the small bundle of cloth.
The medallion.
It rolled free and landed with a dull metallic clink.
The sound was enough to silence the world.
The thing pulsed faintly, a faint black sheen crawling along its surface like oil under sunlight.
Sylvara froze, eyes wide. Lorian gasped. Borgu took a step back and hissed, "Dark mark."
Gareth stood slowly, his hands raised. "It's not what it looks like."
"Then what is it?" Sylvara spat.
"I found it," he said, voice sharp now, defensive. "Off a cultist corpse near the southern ridge. Thought maybe it could tell us something. Didn't mean to hide it."
"Didn't mean to?" she repeated, fury lacing her words. "You carried that cursed thing into our home and thought that was fine?"
Gareth's jaw clenched. "Kael told me to keep it quiet until we understood what it was."
Every eye turned to me.
The silence that followed was heavier than any sword.
Sylvara's voice dropped to a whisper. "You knew?"
I met her gaze. "I did."
She stepped closer. "Why, Kael?"
"Because I needed to be sure," I said quietly. "Because if it really was what I thought, I didn't want panic. And because I trusted him enough to believe he wasn't our enemy."
"That's not your choice to make alone," she snapped.
"I didn't have time to ask for a vote," I shot back. "You think leadership is comfort? It's choosing between bad and worse and hoping no one dies from it."
The words cut both ways — into her and into me.
Borgu broke the silence with a deep snarl. "Orc say we burn it. Now."
Gareth stepped forward instinctively. "Don't touch it!"
"Why not?" Borgu barked.
"Because it's not just metal," Gareth said, breathing hard now. "I tried to toss it once. The air turned cold, and the ground shuddered. It's bound somehow. To what, I don't know."
Lorian's voice trembled. "Then what if it's bound to you?"
Gareth froze.
Sylvara's bow came up. "Step back, Gareth."
He didn't move. "If I meant harm, you'd all be dead already."
"That's not helping your case," I muttered, drawing my sword.
"Good," he said bitterly. "Maybe it's time you decided whether you trust me or not."
Borgu bared his teeth. "Orc decide easy."
He swung his axe.
The blade slammed into the ground inches from Gareth's foot, sending dirt flying.
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Then the medallion pulsed — harder this time.
A low hum filled the air, like a thousand whispers pressed against the inside of our skulls. The campfire flared blue.
Sylvara stumbled back. "What—"
The medallion cracked. A thin vein of dark light split it open, and from within, something like black smoke began to rise — swirling, shaping itself into vague forms. Faces. Screaming.
Gareth shouted, "Don't let it touch you!"
I lunged forward, grabbing the medallion by the cloth and hurling it toward the stream. The instant it hit the water, the smoke hissed like boiling tar and vanished.
Silence crashed down again, broken only by the harsh sound of our breathing.
Borgu's knuckles were white around his axe handle. Sylvara's bow was still trembling in her hands. Lorian had sunk to his knees, pale and shaking.
Gareth looked like a man halfway between guilt and relief.
"It's done," I said quietly. "Whatever it was—it's gone."
Sylvara shot me a glare sharp enough to cut. "You should've told us."
"I know."
"Next time," she said, voice cold, "you won't get the chance to keep it from us."
She turned and walked off toward the trees, bow still in hand.
Borgu spat into the dirt. "Orc go hunt. Need smash something that not talk too much." He followed her, muttering in his guttural tongue.
Lorian lingered only a moment before retreating, clearly wanting to be anywhere else.
That left just me and Gareth.
He gave a hollow laugh. "That went well."
I didn't answer.
He looked at me, eyes tired. "You think I wanted this? To be the curse in your little peace?"
"No," I said. "But that doesn't matter now. What matters is you stay. You help fix this. You prove them wrong."
Gareth's jaw tightened. "And if I can't?"
"Then I'll be the one to end it," I said.
We stared at each other — soldier to soldier, exile to exile.
Then he nodded once. "Fair enough."
That night, no one spoke much.
Sylvara kept her distance, perched on a log at the edge of the camp, polishing her arrows in silence. Borgu sat near the fire, pretending to cook but really just staring into the flames. Lorian stayed inside his tent, whispering prayers under his breath.
And I sat alone, listening to the forest.
The medallion was gone, but its presence lingered. Like something unseen was still watching.
When Gareth passed by to take his watch, he paused beside me.
"They'll never trust me now," he said quietly.
"Maybe not," I said. "But they'll trust my word that you're worth keeping alive."
He gave me a faint, humorless smile. "You always this generous with your faith?"
"Only with fools who remind me of myself."
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "Then we're both doomed."
"Probably."
He went to his post, and the night settled again — not peaceful, but real. The kind of quiet that follows after everything breaks and somehow still stands.
I leaned back, eyes tracing the stars through the gaps in the mist.
The camp would heal. Or it wouldn't.But one thing was certain — the cult hadn't forgotten us.And whatever power had been trapped in that medallion… it had found us now.