I jolt awake—not to the gentle kiss of dawn, but to the violent percussion of fists hammering our door. The sound reverberates through the cramped inn room, rattling the warped shutters. Arael's unmistakable, gravelly voice slices through the thick, muddled haze of sleep.
"Oi! Up, you two lovebirds! Unless you want to miss the caravan, that is! He'll be gone before the morning mist even thinks of clearing!" she calls, voice muffled but urgent.
The pale morning light seeps through the dusty, warped window, painting the room in a washed-out gray. The air is chill, a stark contrast to the cozy warmth we'd shared through the night.
Beside me, Alta stirs, her lashes fluttering as she blinks back sleep. She draws the thin blanket tighter around her shoulders, eyes wide with the confusion of waking in a place that isn't home. There's a flicker of uncertainty on her face—a fragile mix of exhaustion and the dawning realization of everything that's changed.
"Caravan?" My voice comes out rough, thick with sleep, as I rub at my eyes.
Heavy boots thump outside the door. "Yeah, I hired one," Arael shouts, her tone both proud and impatient. "You really think I'd walk all that way north? I'm not sleeping on cold ground or foraging for scraps when we've got coin to spare. Let someone else do the hard work."
Arael's footsteps retreat, the floorboards creaking beneath her weight as she stomps down the narrow stairs. For a moment, silence settles in the room—awkward, expectant.
Alta slowly sits up, hair a tangled halo around her face. She hugs her knees to her chest, staring at the sunlight creeping across the floor. Her eyes are still cloudy, shadows of the void lingering in their depths, but there's a glimmer of resolve as she straightens her back.
I turn to Alta, placing a gentle, reassuring hand on her trembling arm. "Be resolute. Be strong. It's the unknown that deserves our courage, not what's familiar," I say, offering a lopsided wink to lighten the mood. "Today, we set out on the first steps toward whatever fight awaits us." Alta's lips twitch with the barest hint of a smile—a shadow of her old warmth flickering through the exhaustion. Her knuckles are white as she clings to her robe, the choker she once wore now conspicuously absent. She nods, silent but determined, meeting my gaze with a new resolve.
I tease gently, "Maybe it's time we find you something a little less... churchly. Something that lets you move—and maybe even breathe." I exaggerate a wink. Alta's cheeks bloom with color, a startled laugh escaping before she catches herself. She smooths her tangled hair, half-smiling. "Perhaps that wouldn't be so terrible," she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, eyes flickering with shyness and a hint of anticipation. She nods, a small gesture of agreement, her composure returning.
Together, we make our way down the narrow, creaking stairs—the wood groaning under each step. The air in the hallway is tinged with the smell of old ale and wood smoke. At the bottom, Arael is already waiting near the door, arms folded tight across her chest, one boot tapping a staccato rhythm against the floorboards, her brow furrowed in impatient anticipation.
"Took you two long enough!" she grumbles, but there's a spark of relief in her eyes as she sees us. Her lips twitch upward, betraying her attempt at irritation.
The village outside begins to hum with the sounds of early morning activity.Not far from the inn, a broad-shouldered man with a tangled beard and hands rough as old leather stands beside a sturdy ox-drawn wagon, barking instructions to a pair of boys hefting crates. This must be our caravan.
I stride up to the wagon, boots crunching on gravel, and raise my voice above the morning din. "Good day, sir!" I call, grinning as the man looks up, squinting in the sunlight, attention shifting from his cargo to our group.
The man straightens, towering over me, broad and solid as the ox tethered beside him. His salt-and-pepper beard bristles as he sizes me up, then a slow, thoughtful smile tugs at the corners of his lips, deepening the lines etched by years of travel and sun.
He lets out a low, rumbling laugh. "So, you're the rest of Arael's lot, eh?" He crosses his thick arms, gaze shifting between us. "You ready to move? Once we hit the northern passes, the mountains get mean. Sun drops, the cold'll bite right through you."
Alta steps quietly up beside me. The man's eyes widen, recognition flickering as he takes in her altered presence—no longer the serene priestess he once knew. He lets out a soft whistle, not of shock but of genuine curiosity, rubbing his jaw as he studies her. For a moment, he seems to measure the weight of our journey with a slow, thoughtful exhale.
"Priestess Alta?" he asks, voice gentler now. "You're bound north too? Visiting the church?"
Alta's reply is quiet, steady—the same calm she'd always shown, but now carrying a trace of sadness. She shakes her head. "No. I'm no longer part of the church."
He glances at her simple robes, concern creasing his brow. "No longer? And what'll this village do without its healer?"
"They'll manage," Alta answers softly, her voice steady. "It's not my concern anymore."
"So be it," he says, hands raised in mock surrender. "If you need a change, I've got spare clothes—leather pants and a simple tunic. Could let you have 'em, for a bit of coin."
I interject, grinning at the offer. "We'll take them—thank you."
Arael steps forward, eyes gleaming. "And I could use a new blade, if you've got a spare." The man just gives a curt nod, as if he'd expected nothing less.
The man disappears around the wagon, rummaging through his supplies. I lean toward Alta, lowering my voice. "You two seem familiar."
"Gruzon—he's a caravaner," Alta explains softly. "He hauls goods north for the farmers, always braving the mountain routes. I treated him for injuries more than once. The roads out there can be cruel."
I watch Gruzon, noting the steady way he moves, the confidence in his stride. He looks capable—someone we might be glad to have with us. Only time will tell.
Gruzon's voice booms out, calling us to load up. Together, we clamber onto the caravan, the wagon creaking under our weight, and set off down the winding road toward the distant church outpost.
We begin our journey at the ox's steady, unhurried pace, the wagon rocking softly as the village fades from view. The scenery transforms—neat rows of farmland give way to untamed meadows, dew sparkling in the growing light. Sunbeams spill across the landscape, bathing it in warm gold.
On our first night traveling by caravan, Gruzon leaned back in his seat and announced, "The city with the grand church is called 'Zreles'." His voice carried easily over the crackling fire, drawing our attention.
Gruzon described Zreles as a sprawling city, its towers rising above the river, bustling with merchants and pilgrims. Alta's eyes brightened as she chimed in, "That's where I learned to heal—it's where the church taught me everything." Arael shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Never been there," she admitted, stretching her legs. "Goldenleaf was as far as I ever needed to go. No reason for me to chase holy places."
Even with the caravan's sturdy wheels and Gruzon's steady ox, we faced weeks of winding roads and changing skies; walking would have stretched into months. Thankfully, Arael's quick thinking meant we traveled with tents, provisions, and enough bread to last—a small mercy against the long journey ahead.
Every night, we steered the wagon off the main road and pitched our tents in grassy clearings—one for me, another for Alta and Arael. Gruzon always chose his familiar seat atop the wagon, gazing up at the stars. Sometimes, I caught the sound of his low voice drifting through the dusk, murmuring to himself or perhaps to his patient ox. Traveling alone breeds a special kind of loneliness; faces come and go, but few linger long enough to become friends.
By the third night, our routine settled in: we shared stories and simple meals around the fire, laughter mixing with the night breeze, then wandered off to our tents. Now, I lie alone in my cramped shelter, fabric barely a foot from my shoulders on either side, the close space amplifying my solitude.
The past few days blurred together, the busyness of travel nearly enough to keep me from thinking about the void. The last time I attempted to touch it was with Alta, back in Goldenleaf—a memory that still feels electric.
I still marvel at what happened that day—how I managed to link myself and Alta, drawing her into the void alongside me. Looking back, I remember the pressure it put on my mind, not my body. Keeping my own connection is a struggle, but bringing another soul nearly shattered me, made my thoughts splinter.
Pushing aside lingering fear, I extend my skeletal hand toward the tent's canvas ceiling. I close my eyes, steady my breath, and summon the void, feeling its pull even through the fabric and darkness.
As the world dissolves around my outstretched hand, the familiar sensation sweeps over me. I recall explaining to Arael that mastering arcane power is like strengthening a muscle—the more you work, the greater your reward. I suspect the void works the same way, and tonight, the theory proves true. I find myself drifting among countless souls, but unlike them, I'm not drawn toward the center of this vast, swirling galaxy.
Tonight, I focus on the sounds instead of the shifting lights. The souls whisper as they float past, their voices blending in an endless, powerful hum—the song of the void. Then, unexpectedly, I hear a woman's voice beside me, cutting through the silence like a ripple on still water.