CHAPTER 62 — What Waits at the River's Edge
The river did not care.
It flowed with the same steady patience it always had—around stones worn smooth by centuries of pressure, over roots clawing blindly from the banks, past the place where fear had recently knotted itself into something sharp and alive. The water carried leaves stripped from their branches. It carried ash from distant fires. It carried nothing of the weight sitting behind Aiden's ribs.
He stood at the edge with his boots half-submerged, letting the cold bite his ankles, letting the current tug just enough to remind him where down still was. The chill crept up through leather and cloth, sharp and grounding.
Good.
He needed grounding.
Behind him, the caravan breathed.
Not easily. Not evenly. But alive.
Canvas tents had been raised low beneath the trees, their outlines broken by branches and shadow. Fires were small, hidden behind stones and ward-screens, their light muted to dull embers. People slept in curled clusters, exhaustion finally outweighing fear. Others sat awake on watch, eyes too bright, hands never straying far from weapons.
Alive mattered.
The pup padded up beside him, favoring one hind leg just slightly. Its fur still sparked when it moved, but the crackle was uneven now—like lightning that had learned restraint the hard way and didn't like it. It sniffed the river, sneezed violently, then looked up at Aiden as if deeply offended by water's general existence.
"Yeah," Aiden murmured, voice rough. "Same."
He crouched and dipped his hands into the current, scrubbing dried blood, stone dust, and grime from his fingers. The water clouded for a moment, then cleared again, carrying the mess away downstream as if it had never mattered.
Clear was good.
Simple was good.
Behind him, Garrik's voice carried in a low murmur as he assigned watches. No shouting. No speeches. Just quiet competence shaped by too many roads like this one.
"Two hours each. Rotate clockwise. No wandering. If you hear anything that doesn't belong to the river or the wind, wake me."
Aiden straightened slowly.
Every movement still hurt—but it was the honest kind of pain now. Muscle ache. Bruised bone. Fatigue earned the hard way. Not the screaming overload of lightning forced where it didn't belong.
Progress.
Footsteps crunched softly over gravel.
Runa stopped a respectful distance away, arms folded, gaze locked on the treeline across the river. Her armor was cleaned but not polished—ready, not ceremonial.
"Scouts report no movement," she said. "Nothing large. Nothing stalking."
"For now," Aiden replied.
She inclined her head. "For now."
They stood together, watching the river slide past stones older than memory, listening to the sound of water breaking itself again and again without complaint.
After a moment, Runa spoke again. "You did not break."
Aiden let out a slow breath. "Low bar."
"Incorrect," she said evenly. "You were pressured into choosing collapse or control. Many choose collapse."
He glanced at her. "You're saying I should be proud?"
"I am saying," Runa replied, "that if you had failed, I would already be planning how to carry your body back."
That… was Runa's version of reassurance.
Aiden huffed a quiet laugh. "Comforting."
She allowed herself the faintest ghost of a smirk.
Nellie joined them next, hugging her satchel to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes tracked the river—but not the water.
The space around it.
"The threads are calmer here," she said softly. "They don't like crossings. Too many directions. Too many possible futures."
"That sounds ominous," Aiden said.
She huffed a tiny laugh. "That's the good version."
Myra arrived last, dropping onto a nearby rock with a dramatic groan. "I swear, if the next thing that hunts us has more than four legs or more than one ancient prophecy attached, I'm unionizing."
"You are not employed," Runa said.
"I feel employed," Myra shot back. "Hazard pay when?"
The pup chose that moment to stumble, overbalance, and faceplant into the pebbles. It immediately popped back up, deeply offended, and barked at the ground as if it had been betrayed.
Nellie gasped and hurried forward, but the pup was already trotting back to Aiden, head high, dignity fully restored.
Myra snorted. "I love it. World-ending bloodline mystery. Coordination of a sack of potatoes."
Aiden crouched and checked the pup's leg gently. It tolerated this for exactly three seconds before gnawing on his sleeve in protest.
"You're fine," he murmured. "Just… rest."
The System flickered faintly at the edge of his vision.
No alarms.
No warnings.
No catastrophic declarations.
Just a single, quiet line:
[Bond Stability: Improving]
[External Pressure: Deferred]
Deferred.
Aiden didn't like that word.
Night settled in layers.
The forest cooled. Mist crept low along the ground. The river caught starlight and broke it into fractured silver. Fires dwindled to coals. The caravan slipped into uneasy sleep, exhaustion winning one person at a time.
Aiden lay back against a tree and stared upward.
He could sleep.
That was the problem.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again—that sense of something learning. Not the Warden. Not the hunter that had tested them.
Something farther away.
Something patient.
He sat up quietly and moved away from camp, stopping just before the wards' edge. Close enough to feel their presence. Far enough not to disturb anyone else.
The boundary hummed against his skin—thin, stretched, but holding.
Good.
He faced the river again and breathed.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Storm: contained.
Fear: present.
Attention: distant.
Then—
A pressure brushed his awareness.
Not forceful.
Not invasive.
A question.
His spine stiffened, but he did not reach for lightning.
Kethel's voice echoed in his memory.
Name yourself.
"I'm here," Aiden said quietly. "But I'm not answering."
The pressure lingered.
Curious.
Testing the edges of his restraint.
Aiden held his ground, fingers digging lightly into his palms.
"I know what you are," he continued, voice low. "Or at least what you're trying to do. You don't get to decide who I become."
The night did not answer.
But the pressure eased.
Not retreating.
Acknowledging.
Aiden released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Behind him, fabric shifted.
He turned.
Garrik stood a few paces back, arms crossed, expression unreadable in the starlight. "You talk to the dark often?" he asked.
Aiden winced. "Only when it starts first."
Garrik grunted. "Fair."
They stood together for a moment.
"You planning on leaving us at first light?" Garrik asked.
"No," Aiden said immediately. "Not unless you ask me to."
"I might," Garrik said bluntly. "Not because I don't trust you. Because the world is cruel to people it doesn't understand—and it understands caravans better than storms."
Aiden nodded. "If that happens, I'll go."
Garrik studied him. "You're not afraid of being alone."
"I am," Aiden said. "I just don't let it drive."
That earned him a long look.
Then, unexpectedly, Garrik smiled—thin, tired, real. "You'll make it," he said. "Whatever it is that's circling you."
Aiden watched the river again. "So will you."
Garrik turned back toward camp.
Just before dawn, Nellie woke with a sharp intake of breath.
Threads snapped taut in her mind—not breaking, but aligning.
She sat up, heart racing, sweat cold on her skin.
Something had shifted.
Not closer.
Clearer.
She turned her head toward the river's edge.
Toward Aiden.
And whispered, "Oh no."
The pup lifted its head at the same moment, ears pricking, a low, uncertain sound rumbling in its chest.
Far away—farther than the marsh, farther than the forest—something adjusted its course.
Not rushing.
Not waiting.
Preparing.
The river flowed on.
Dawn crept over the trees, pale and indifferent.
And whatever came next would not be an accident.