We heard them before we saw them.
"—I'm telling you, Montaron, the road has a feeling today."
"Oh, it has a feeling, does it?" came the reply, sharp and irritated. "Does it whisper secrets too, or just waste my time?"
Imoen slowed. I stopped entirely.
The voices came from just ahead, around a bend in the road where the trees crowded close enough to make eavesdropping unavoidable.
"I don't like this," Imoen murmured.
Neither did I.
Two figures emerged mid-argument, so engrossed in their disagreement they didn't notice us at first.
The taller one moved like he was performing for an audience that might materialize at any moment. His robes were dark and loose, chosen less for travel than for effect, and his hands never stopped moving—fingers twitching, flexing, sketching shapes in the air.
But it was his face that locked my attention.
Sharp features pulled into a perpetual, unsettling grin. Eyes wide and intense, ringed with dark shadows that made it hard to tell whether he was exhausted or simply delighted by everything. His smile didn't reach his eyes—if anything, it widened them, stretching his expression into something eager and unbalanced, like he was always one sentence away from laughing at the wrong moment.
Xzar.
Behind him walked the second figure, slower and heavier, like every step had been considered before it was taken.
Short. Broad-shouldered. Built for endurance rather than speed. Leather armor worn but cared for, not decorative. His face was set in a permanent scowl, one side pulled slightly tighter than the other by an old scar that ran down his cheek—pale and ugly, the kind left by something that had nearly killed him and failed.
His eyes never stopped moving.
Even while arguing, he scanned the trees, the road, the shadows at the edge of sight, like survival was a habit he couldn't turn off.
Montaron.
Xzar swept an arm toward the road. "The forest knows things," he insisted. "It watches. It waits. It judges us for our sins!"
Montaron snorted. "The forest's full of wolves and idiots. Guess which one ye sound like."
Xzar gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. "Such cruelty! From one who hides behind blades and shadows like a frightened rodent."
Montaron stopped walking.
That alone was enough to make Xzar pause.
"You call me that again," Montaron said calmly, one scarred cheek twitching, "and I'll show ye how brave ye are against a sword."
Xzar's grin widened.
It was not reassuring.
"Ah," he said, eyes gleaming. "Threats! See? The road does have a feeling."
Imoen leaned toward me. "Are they… friends?"
"No," I said. "They're a long-term mistake."
That's when Montaron finally noticed us.
His gaze snapped to me first, then Imoen, then back to me again—quick, efficient, already measuring distances and options.
Xzar followed his line of sight a heartbeat later and lit up, his expression brightening as if he'd just been handed a gift.
"Oh good," he said. "Living witnesses!"
Montaron groaned. "Don't start."
Xzar ignored him completely, stepping forward with theatrical enthusiasm. "You there!" he called. "Tell me—do you feel it? The tension? The promise of violence hanging in the air like a—"
"Like a waste of time," Montaron cut in. He eyed me again. "Ye traveling?"
"Yes," I said immediately.
"Armed?"
"Yes."
"Competent?"
I hesitated.
Montaron's scarred cheek tightened. "That long, huh."
Xzar leaned in close to him, whispering loudly. "I told you! Uncertainty follows him like a curse!"
Montaron elbowed him aside. "Quiet."
He looked back at me, eyes narrowing.
"You look jumpy," he said. "Something chasing ye?"
I thought of the bear.
Of the fog.
Of the music that hadn't played.
"Yes," I said. "Possibly."
Montaron nodded, satisfied.
Xzar clapped his hands together. "Marvelous! We love a shared sense of impending doom."
Imoen cleared her throat.
It was the specific kind of throat-clearing that meant she'd been holding onto something and had finally decided it was relevant.
"Before we decide anything," she said, looking pointedly at me, "we're supposed to stop at the Friendly Arm Inn."
Montaron's eyes flicked to her immediately.
Xzar tilted his head.
"The what?" I asked.
"The Friendly Arm," she repeated. "Gorion said it was important. He was going to introduce you to some friends there. Jaheira and Khalid."
The names landed with weight.
Not surprise—recognition.
I knew them.
Too well.
Jaheira and Khalid weren't just "friends." They were stability. Plot anchors. The kind of people the story expected you to meet.
Xzar leaned forward slightly, eyes brightening.
"Gorion?" he repeated, tasting the name. "Ohhh. That sounds important."
"I don't know any Gorion," Montaron said flatly. "And I don't care."
Imoen hesitated. "He was your guardian," she said to me. "He wanted to make sure you'd have help. People watching your back."
"Was?" Xzar repeated lightly.
Montaron stiffened. "Don't."
Imoen frowned. "He was killed," she said. "On the road."
There it was.
Xzar inhaled slowly, like someone appreciating a rare scent.
"Ohhh," he said. "That explains so much."
Montaron swore under his breath. "I told you not to—"
"How?" Xzar asked eagerly. "Ambush? Betrayal? A clean strike, or something messier?"
"Enough," Montaron snapped. "He's dead. That's all ye need to know."
Xzar pouted. "You always ruin the interesting parts."
He turned back to me, head tilted, studying my face like a puzzle he'd just been handed.
"And you," he said softly. "Left behind. Unfinished. Oh yes… I can feel it."
I said nothing.
Xzar clapped his hands together again, delighted.
"Traveling!" he declared. "Yes, yes—traveling together. Companions upon the road! Bound by fate, fear, and the gentle possibility of sudden death!"
"That is not what we agreed to say," Montaron muttered.
Xzar waved him off. "Details."
"We're heading south," Montaron said.
"For reasons," Xzar added brightly. "Entirely normal reasons."
"The Nashkel Mines?" Imoen asked.
Xzar froze.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then his smile widened again. "Precisely! Fate wants us to talk about it."
"That's suspicious," Imoen said.
I watched them carefully.
This wasn't how I remembered it.
They weren't recruiting.
They were auditioning.
"So," Xzar said, leaning toward me, "shall we travel together and see what horrors await us?"
Montaron stared at me, scarred cheek unmoving.
"Well?" he said. "You walking, or just thinking about it?"
I took a breath.
"Alright," I said. "We'll travel together."
Xzar beamed. "Splendid!"
"Terms," Montaron said.
"Simple ones," I replied. "We stop at the Friendly Arm Inn first. Briefly. Then we head south. Nashkel."
"No delays," Montaron said.
"No delays."
"Ye pull yer weight," he added. "No freezing. No running."
"I won't be in front," I said.
Montaron snorted. "Good."
This was supposed to be temporary.
Xzar would provoke someone.
Montaron would get tired of him.
Jaheira and Khalid would intervene.
Combat would happen.
The problem would resolve itself.
That's how it always went.
"Then we're agreed," I said.
Montaron nodded once.
Xzar clapped his hands. "Together, then! Toward inns, iron, and inevitable calamity!"
We started walking.
I stayed just behind them, exactly where I wanted to be.
And as the road stretched out ahead of us, I told myself—quietly, reasonably—that I didn't need to worry about how this ended.
The game would take care of that part.