My prediction about 'adventure being just romanticised discomfort' proved to be of a prophetic accuracy worthy of a blind, grumpy oracle. Three days on the road, and I had already compiled a detailed mental list of grievances, categorised by level of indignity and ready to be presented at some future cosmic tribunal against the very idea of 'epic journeys'.
Grievance number one, subsection A: Mud. It has the remarkable ability to be precisely where you intend to step, with a consistency ranging from 'sad pudding' to 'industrial adhesive with malicious intent'. Subsection B: Dust. It gets in your eyes, in your food, and, I suspect, in your very thoughts, making everything just a bit greyer, duller, and more tasteless.
Grievance number two: The Absence of Civilised Facilities. The concept of a 'toilet', one of the few truly genius inventions of most sentient civilisations, had apparently not reached this part of the continent. Nature was our only option, which meant a constant war of nerves with overly inquisitive squirrels and suspiciously shaped leaves that always looked a bit too much like stinging nettles.
Grievance number three: The Nocturnal Fauna. Specifically, mosquitos. Tiny, demonic creatures, clearly designed by some Void entity with a particularly cruel sense of humour. They buzzed in my ears with the melody of impending insanity, each one seeming to whisper, "You will never sleep peacefully again, you insignificant mortal."
And the final grievance, the most serious of all: the silence. Not the peaceful, living silence of our clearing, which was filled with the sound of our own lives unfolding, the clucking of chickens, the clinking of chains. This was the empty silence of a road that doesn't care if you live or die, a silence that echoed the vastness of my own ancient loneliness, a feeling I thought I had buried under layers of routine and chamomile tea.
On the first night, the harsh reality of our undertaking hit me like a muddy boot. Morgana gathered the kindling and dry wood with a silent efficiency. With a low murmur and a subtle gesture, a small violet flame danced on her fingertip before she transferred it to the tinder. The fire was born, obedient and controlled. She fed it, creating a perfectly functional campfire that gave off a steady heat and very little smoke. It was a master's work. A dreadfully boring work.
I watched, sitting on a cold rock, hugging my knees. "Functional," I said, and the word came out like a verdict of disapproval.
She raised an eyebrow at me over the flames, the light dancing in her eyes. "It's keeping us warm and it will cook our food. What more do you want from a campfire, professional critic of hearths?"
"Efficiency," I retorted, getting up and grabbing a long stick to poke at the arrangement. "And a bit of passion. You used magic to light it, but the structure… it has no proper airflow. You're suffocating the fire. It's burning out of sheer stubbornness, not intelligent design. It's a depressingly Demacian flame, all restrained and afraid to express itself."
She crossed her arms, a glint of genuine amusement on her face. "Then enlighten me, O great fire master. What's the Noxian approach to a campfire? Threaten it with conquest and annexation?"
"No. It's logical," I replied, ignoring the jibe. I began to rearrange the logs, creating a small pyramid with a hollow centre, an inverted cone. "Fire is a creature of appetite, not of manners. It needs to breathe. If you give it a path, a tunnel for the cool air to enter from below and feed its heart, it will do the job with half the effort and twice the heat."
She watched in silence as I adjusted the last log. "And where did a girl who grew up isolated in a cottage learn the theory of optimised combustion?"
"I read your books," I replied without batting an eyelid, an excuse that had become standard. "And I pay attention. It's logical. Everything needs a path to flow. Water, magic, air... even your occasional complaints about the chickens' stubbornness."
She huffed, a sound that was almost a laugh. "You're annoyingly observant."
"I prefer the term 'optimiser'," I corrected, stepping back to admire my work. The fire roared to life with a satisfied whoosh, the flames dancing higher and hotter, pushing the darkness further back.
She nodded slowly, a sign of reluctant respect. "A fair point. But next time, the 'optimiser' can go and fetch the wood from the dark forest."
On the fifth day, we spotted the town. Uwendale. A name as inspiring as its appearance. It was a border town, wedged between the forest and the rocky hills like a broken tooth. The walls were grey stone, practical and unadorned, and the flags of Demacia hung from the gates, looking a bit weary, as if fed up with so much imposed righteousness.
Before we got too close, Morgana stopped under the shade of a large tree. "Stay here."
She closed her eyes. I felt the shift in the air before I saw it. A layer of magic, subtle and complex as a web, enveloped her. The prominence of her wings vanished beneath her cloak, her pointed ears rounded subtly, and the sound of her chains was completely silenced. In seconds, she became a mortal woman, ordinary, anonymous. Pretty, but in a way that wouldn't catch a patrol's eye. She then turned to me and touched my forehead. "Your eyes. They're too… bright. This will make them more common. And your hair… a little less silver."
I felt a tingle, like a cool mask being placed over me. "You're good at this. Very convincing."
She looked at me, and a small, sad smile touched her lips. "When you live in the shadows for so long, you learn to wear them like a second skin."
[Analysis: this is an advanced form of illusion magic, focused on perception manipulation rather than light projection. Subtle, low energy consumption, and extremely difficult to detect without high-level Qi perception. Skill level: master.]
Morgana noticed my look of technical admiration. "What is it?"
"It's just… at the cottage, you're the Morgana who fixes roofs and argues with goats. Here, you're… someone else. More… human. It's odd."
"It's necessary," she said, her voice a little tighter.
"I know. But… you do it well. The transition is seamless. It's a form of control that I… respect."
She paused, caught off guard by the genuine compliment. Then she smiled and, in a quick gesture, ruffled my now less-silver hair.
"Don't get used to being nice. It ruins your image," she said, and we started walking.
We entered the town. Uwendale stank of coal, damp livestock, and repressed fear. People hurried past, their heads down. The guards, in armour that shone brighter than their personalities, gave us an automatic suspicious glance before dismissing us as insignificant and harmless.
[Analysis: Correct. Citizens display high levels of social conformity and avoid prolonged eye contact. It is a survival strategy in an environment of high state surveillance.]
We found a tavern called 'The Drowsy Griffin'. The name was the most exciting thing about the place. Morgana negotiated for a room and a meal with the innkeeper, a man with a moustache so large it looked as though he had swallowed a squirrel.
We sat at a table in the corner. The stew arrived. It looked… brown. In a very committed way.
"This stew has the consistency of a political promise," I remarked, prodding a suspicious chunk of meat. "It looks substantial from a distance, but falls apart into nothing when you get close."
"Eat," Morgana said, her voice low and firm. "It's energy. The road doesn't care if the food is flavourful."
In the room, privacy returned like a warm blanket. The place was small, with two straw beds that smelt of dust and regret. Morgana released the illusion with a visible sigh, and her presence, heavier and more real, seemed to fill the room again. She sat on the bed, the weight of her wings making the frame creak, and began her nightly ritual of tending to her chains.
I sat on the other bed, looking out of the grimy window at the grey rooftops.
"Why do they live like this, Morgana?" I asked, breaking the silence. "So afraid of a spark that they'd rather live in the dark?"
She didn't stop her work, the cloth moving rhythmically over the metal. "Because the dark is predictable, Azra'il. It's safe. A spark… it can light the way, or it can burn the house down with everyone inside. Most people prefer the safety of not having to risk the choice." She glanced at me over her shoulder. "It's not courage they lack. It's hope."
We were quiet for a while, the sound of the cloth on metal the only constant.
"You look tired," I said, noting the lines of exhaustion around her eyes.
She paused and gave me a small, tired smile. "The road, and the need to hide on it, takes its toll."
"Then rest," I said, and the seriousness in my own voice surprised me. "I'll keep watch tonight."
For an instant, she looked as though she was about to argue, to treat me like the child I appeared to be. But then she looked into my eyes and saw something more. She just nodded. She lay down on her side, facing the door, and within minutes, her breathing deepened.
I didn't sleep. I sat on my bed in the lotus position, my wooden jian beside me, and I watched.
[Observation: the transfer of responsibility indicates a level of mutual trust in an advanced state of development. From a group efficiency standpoint, it is a logical optimisation of vigilance resources.]