CHAPTER 64 — The Long Way Around
The road Garrik chose was not a road at all.
It was a memory of one—an old caravan scar half-swallowed by roots and leaf rot, winding east instead of north, then bending south again like it was deliberately avoiding somewhere it didn't want to name. Moss-covered stones marked where wheels had once passed. Here and there, broken posts leaned at odd angles, their carvings worn smooth by time and rain.
"This path still counts?" Myra asked quietly as they followed it.
Garrik didn't look back. "It counts enough."
That was not reassuring.
The caravan moved slower now. Not from exhaustion—though that was there—but from caution. Every sound carried. Every snapped twig felt intentional. Hunters rotated positions more frequently, eyes never settling in one direction for long.
Aiden stayed near the center.
Not because Garrik ordered it.
Because everyone drifted there instinctively.
He could feel it—the way attention bent around him, the way footsteps unconsciously adjusted to keep him from falling behind. It wasn't fear, exactly. Not anymore.
It was awareness.
And that frightened him more than fear ever had.
The pup trotted ahead of him for a few steps, then circled back, repeating the pattern like a living perimeter check. Its lightning had returned—not flaring, not wild—but steady, faint arcs tracing its fur like veins of pale glass.
Every time it ranged too far, Aiden felt a tug in his chest.
Not pain.
Connection.
He didn't like how easily he'd accepted that.
By midmorning, the forest changed again.
The trees grew thinner, their trunks straighter, bark pale and smooth like bone polished by weather. Underbrush receded, replaced by low grasses and clusters of broad-leafed plants that reflected light strangely, as if dusted with mica.
Nellie slowed, frowning.
"This isn't normal growth," she whispered. "The threads here are… organized."
Myra glanced around. "Organized like 'nice place to picnic' or organized like 'we should run'?"
"Neither," Nellie said. "Organized like something shaped it on purpose."
Garrik raised a hand, halting the caravan.
The clearing ahead opened suddenly—wide, shallow, and bowl-shaped, sloping gently toward a central rise where a single stone stood upright.
Not a menhir.
Not carved.
Just… there.
Dark stone, nearly black, streaked with faint mineral lines that caught the light in dull silver. No moss touched it. No plants grew within a wide ring around its base.
Aiden felt the pressure before anyone spoke.
Not the crushing weight of the Warden.
Something narrower.
Focused.
Myra swore under her breath. "I don't like landmarks that look like they're waiting for you."
Garrik's eyes narrowed. "This wasn't on any map."
The pup stopped dead.
Its ears flattened. A low sound vibrated in its chest—not a growl, not a whine.
Recognition.
Aiden's pulse spiked.
"I think," he said slowly, "we didn't choose this path."
That got Garrik's attention.
"You saying this place is connected to you?"
"I'm saying," Aiden replied, "whatever went ahead of us didn't just go to the next settlement."
It marked the road.
Silence followed.
Then Nellie spoke, very softly. "The threads here are pulled tight. Like someone tied them in advance."
Garrik exhaled. "Ambush?"
"No," Aiden said. "Invitation."
They debated turning back.
They debated going around.
Both options died quickly.
The forest behind them had already shifted. Not visibly—but Aiden could feel it now, the way the path they'd come from no longer sat cleanly in his awareness. Like trying to remember the exact shape of a dream once you'd woken.
Forward wasn't safe.
But backward wasn't real anymore.
"We pass through," Garrik decided at last. "Slow. Quiet. No touching the stone."
Myra muttered, "That's always when someone touches the stone."
"I heard that," Garrik said.
"Good."
They advanced.
The clearing swallowed sound. Even boots on grass seemed muted, like the air itself was absorbing impact. The temperature dipped by a few degrees—not cold, but noticeable, raising gooseflesh along Aiden's arms.
The stone loomed larger with each step.
Up close, it wasn't smooth.
It was scarred.
Not with writing.
With impact.
Fine cracks spiderwebbed across its surface, some filled with faintly glowing residue—old power, long spent but not forgotten.
Nellie reached out instinctively, then froze.
"I shouldn't," she whispered.
"No," Aiden said gently. "You really shouldn't."
She drew her hand back, shaking.
The pup padded forward one step, then another, placing itself directly between Aiden and the stone.
It didn't bark.
It didn't spark.
It simply stood there, small body rigid, as if blocking something much larger than itself.
Aiden's throat tightened.
"Okay," he murmured. "Okay. We won't."
That was when the air moved.
Not wind.
Pressure.
Like the world inhaling.
The stone pulsed once.
And the clearing changed.
They weren't alone anymore.
Figures emerged—not from the forest, but from the space between perception and reality. Translucent at first, then sharpening into shape.
People.
Not monsters.
Not beasts.
Men and women in travel-worn cloaks, carrying packs and weapons from a dozen different eras. Their faces were wrong—not distorted, but unfinished, like memories recalled by someone who hadn't quite known them.
A caravan.
An old one.
Nellie gasped. "They're… echoes."
Aiden felt sick.
"How many?" Myra whispered.
"Enough," Garrik said grimly.
The echoes didn't look at them.
They walked their own path—circling the stone, pausing, arguing silently with one another. One knelt as if to bind a wound. Another raised an arm, pointing north.
Then—
They froze.
Every head turned.
Every unfinished face angled toward Aiden.
The pressure snapped into focus.
Not hunger.
Not rage.
Expectation.
A voice spoke—not aloud, but everywhere at once.
Not the Warden.
Something smaller.
Closer.
OLDER.
Storm-marked, it said.
You arrived late.
Aiden's knees nearly buckled.
Myra grabbed his arm. "Aiden—don't answer it."
He swallowed. "I don't think it asked a question."
The echoes stepped aside, parting like a curtain.
Behind them, another figure stood.
Solid.
Real.
A man—or something shaped like one—wrapped in layered ward-cloaks, colors muted and faded. His hair was bound back with metal clasps etched in symbols that made Aiden's eyes ache if he looked too long.
The man's gaze locked onto Aiden instantly.
Not surprised.
Relieved.
"Finally," the stranger said aloud.
Garrik shifted, spear rising. "Who are you?"
The man didn't look at him.
"I'm the one who stayed," he replied calmly. "When the others ran. When the echoes broke."
His eyes flicked briefly to the stone.
"And when the road learned how to wait."
Nellie's voice shook. "You're… alive?"
"Define alive," the man said dryly. "I prefer anchored."
Aiden felt the truth of that word settle like weight in his chest.
"You're the one shaping the path," he said.
"Yes," the man replied. "Because something else would have, if I hadn't."
The forest seemed to lean in.
"And you?" Aiden asked, forcing the words out. "What do you want with me?"
The man studied him—really studied him. The pup. The marks beneath Aiden's skin. The way the air trembled faintly around him even now.
"I want," the man said slowly, "to see if the storm that woke the Warden can also learn restraint."
Myra snapped, "That's not your call."
The man finally glanced at her.
A single look.
Measured. Weighed.
Then dismissed.
"Everyone thinks that," he said. "Until the forest decides otherwise."
Aiden stepped forward despite Myra's grip.
"Say your name," he demanded.
The man hesitated.
Then: "I was called Therran Vale. Once."
Nellie inhaled sharply. "Vale… that's a Wardsmith line."
Therran's mouth twitched. "What's left of one."
The echoes around them stirred restlessly.
"You're holding them here," Aiden said.
"Yes," Therran agreed. "So they don't walk again. So they don't answer the wrong call."
Aiden's chest tightened. "And if I refuse to be part of this?"
Therran met his gaze squarely.
"Then the forest releases what it's been holding," he said. "And it won't care who it takes first."
Silence fell like a dropped blade.
The pup growled—low, sharp, electric.
Aiden rested a hand on its head.
"I'm not staying," he said.
Therran nodded. "I didn't ask you to."
"Then what are you asking?"
Therran's eyes flicked north—toward the road they had avoided.
"Learn," he said simply. "Before the Warden realizes patience isn't enough anymore."
The echoes began to fade, one by one, dissolving back into the clearing like breath on cold air.
The stone dimmed.
The pressure eased.
But the warning remained.
Garrik exhaled harshly. "We move. Now."
No one argued.
As they left the clearing behind, Aiden felt the forest close ranks again—watchful, silent, alert.
Therran Vale did not follow.
He didn't need to.
Some traps didn't snap shut.
Some just made sure you kept walking with the knowledge that the long way around was never meant to let you escape.
Only to prepare you for what waited at the end.