[The Wanderers Journey]

  The night is deep. Firelight flickers behind the encampment's sharpened walls. Serine stands just beyond its reach, body still, presence quiet. She has long mastered how to exist like this—just outside. Unnoticed. Unassuming. Unthreatening…

  But she is none of those things.

  Madam Bo whispers between the mercenaries as they quietly decide. Serine peers into the encampment, cataloguing everything.

  “No more than thirty live here. No other races, only men. Mostly elderly… craftsmen. Only one entrance—one way in, one way out.” She notices uncommon smells drift through the air. The sharpness of rare rock, the earthiness of dried roots, the delicate touch of uncommon flowers, weeds and herbs. Animal skins.

  Only three men guard this place. Each are hardened, but different in nature. Serine studies these men, their danger. Assessing them for weaknesses. Details, to seek advantage.

  Her elven eyes study Sorin. “I’ve lived among fighters my whole life. He is one. Look at him… no wasted movement, that unblinking stare. Shaved sides, neat top knot. Loose clothing, no weapon. His hands are the weapon.” He stands next to Madam Bo, his frame solid. Iron knuckles rest against his belt—an extension of his warrior. His feet are planted evenly, his posture unreadable, but there’s a stillness in him like a coiled snake waiting to snap forward. Controlled power. Sharp. Precise.

  She turns to the second—Idris. “A man of patience. Still in his nature.” He leans against the gate, arms loose, fingers inspecting the red holy beads around his neck. His face carries a weight. A man who’s seen more than he speaks of. “A hunter... From the Summer Isles,” his dark complexion differs from those near the Divide. She notices his bracelet, “A father. He’s not like the other two. His interest in me seems to be curiosity. A man who listens more than he speaks. Smart.”

  And then there’s Thomas.

  “This fucking Thomas.” She doesn’t need to look at him twice. Serine knowns men like him—foul-mouthed, confident, quick to anger, quicker to draw that hidden blade. “That smirk of his. I’d love to break his fucking face.” She judges the scars across his knuckles, thick beard, and rare trinkets dangling around his neck and wrists. “A bounty hunter, no doubt. Maybe worse.” He looks at her the way men like him always do—with hatred. Not because of who she is. Because of what she is.

  The encampment's unease at her presence thickens. Serine can feel it. They aren’t used to strangers, and she is more than just a stranger. She knows the others don’t recognise her race, only the elderly woman. Madam Bo. Serine studies her. “No fear towards me. No hesitation in her voice. There’s wisdom in the way she watches. I can see her studying me. A mother's look.” Serine’s gaze notices something. “Her fingertips stained purple, an Alchemimicrist.” A maker of potions. And poisons. Her robe is simple, but her purple scarf, rich in colour, speaks of someone who values warmth. Bo is not a warrior. But she has built warriors. Fed them. Cared for them. Guided them.

  Movement breaks her thoughts. Idris steps forward, his confidence quiet but certain, his head tilting, studying her, “You travel alone? Or are we expecting company?” Serine exhales through her nose, almost amused. “No, I’m alone.” She glances toward the dark road behind her, patting her horse. “Don’t think there'll be anyone out here for miles.”

  Madam Bo raises her chin, but her eyes stay locked on her, ensuring she is heard, “We don’t do charity here. You’ll work.” Her words are final. There's no room for discussion. “Is that a problem?” Serine steps forward, allowing the firelight to fully illuminate her features—a show of respect. "That's no problem." Her voice is genuine, and her expression innocent. But her blue eyes continue their assessment. "What would you have me do?" “You any good with your hands?” Sorin speaks now, already assessing her for labour. “We don’t need dead weight.”

  Serine measures the physical condition of the gathered camp members before speaking, "I think I'll manage." The words are polite but confident. Sorin watches her a moment longer, then nods. He seems satisfied. But Madam Bo isn’t done. She folds her arms, purple-stained fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of her robe. “Tell me...” Her gaze sharpens. “What is it you need more, Elf? Rest or purpose?”

  The question catches Serine slightly off guard. She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she contemplates it. Her sharp gaze softening, as she looks again at the gathered members of the encampment. Their weathered faces, all their stories. The firelight, the stary night. Her body so badly craves rest. But her soul craves purpose. Only one will keep her alive, and she knows it. “Purpose.”

  Bo takes a moment, but nods approvingly. “You must earn it, " she says, gesturing to Sorin, who moves to open the gate. Thomas scoffs, turning his back; his dissatisfaction is evident. Serine steps in softly, slowly, her black boots making no sound. She still feels the tension. They are all weary of her. She doesn't look like what they're used to seeing.

  Thomas turns again, offering words for Serine, “You start any shit, Elf, and I’ll be the one to answer.” His fingers press in at his sides, hungry for conflict. “You hearing me, knife-ears?” Serine meets his stare. Holds it. Then—she smiles. A slow, easy grin. Hands raised in a polite gesture. Not for him but more for the others watching.

  Bo walks alongside Serine with a sense of subtle awe, guiding her near the central fire. She looks at Serine as if she is the answer to her troubles. “Sorin will show the way to your tent for the night. Your horse will have space to rest there, too.” Serine doesn’t say anything. But she feels Madam Bo watching when she lowers her head—a silent thank you. One that needs no words. Serine walks with Sorin, moving between the tents and disappearing into the night. Serine can’t help her heart and mind wandering together. A life no longer defined by bloodshed. A new start? Perhaps not. But it is a beginning. And for now, that is enough.

  The night passes. A new day rises.

  The wind stirs Serine's tent as the morning wakes her, the fabric rustling softly. Thin slivers of light pierce through the gaps, warm against her skin. The morning hum has begun—birds chattering, footsteps crunching against dirt, the quiet murmur of early risers.

  Serine rises, sitting at the bed's edge, hands clutching the wooden frame. She tilts her head, stretching her neck. The rest was good. It was what she needed. But something is off. There’s a… feeling. A presence here in this camp. Something she can’t shake. She felt it the moment she stepped through the gates last night. Unseen. Hiding. Something that doesn’t belong here. The only comparison she can make of it is… terror.

  She glaces over, looking at her weapons. They are within reach. Always. But she seeks to leave her old world behind, placing her head in her hands, rubbing her eyes. She exhales, forcing herself to dismiss the thought. “No need for paranoia.” Not now. She stands, stretching, and gets dressed.

  But before she steps outside, she pauses, looking around. Listening… but there's nothing, just stillness.

  Something that's sadly become unfamiliar. It is not the same stillness before a fight. Not the kind that means danger is near. This is something else, something harmless. Something she thought, she was ready to never feel again. “Like the world isn't chasing me anymore.” Her gaze drops at the thought. But she doesn't allow herself to linger in this comfort. If peace becomes familiar, losing it is worse.

  She’s grateful for the moment but abandons it as she steps out. A cool breeze greets her, waving her black hair with its current. The clang of a hammer against an anvil rings through the camp, marking the start of the day. People move, readying themselves for work, for trade.

  She ties her hair, seeing Thomas and Idris preparing their gear, Madam Bo nearby, already issuing orders. Serine makes her way toward the center where someone is relighting the communal fire. Its members, eager for the warmth. Thomas spots her, his gaze lingers as he fastens his saddle—wordless, pointed. A warning. Serine meets it with nothing. “Let him stew in whatever thoughts he has.”

  She moves toward the rekindled fire, finding a place on a low bench, taking out a small pouch of dried food. The heat of the flames warm her skin as she watches the encampment move. She observes the people around her—skilled craftsmen. Leatherworkers, herbalists, dye makers and textile artisans. Rare spice and tea merchants. Honest work.

  But something is missing. No Imperial insignias. No banners, no markings. Odd, considering Bo had claimed this place was under Imperial protection. Serine takes another slow bite of food, gaze trailing over the settlement, trying to figure out its purpose.

  "Ah." It clicks. "I see it now. The people here are from the Empire, but the Empire doesn’t know they’re here.” She exhales through her nose, nodding to herself. “Of course. If the Empire knew, it wouldn’t be protection they would offer—They’d tax it. Seize it. Drain this place dry. They’d ask for their cut. They’d ask how much had been stolen.” Serine leans back slightly, rolling the dried food between her fingers. “So why risk it? They don't seem the type in it for the coin.”

  The thought lingers. But that feeling of horror returns. Serine lifts her head, scanning the camp with slow, careful precision. She studies the faces of its members, watching them go about their morning. “They don’t feel it? How could they not know something lingers near? Something terrible.”

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  Her ears tune in, sifting through the mundane sounds—crackling fire, idle chatter, the chirping of morning birds. Nothing to hear. She draws in a slow breath, catching scents of breakfast, spiced teas, distilled oils. It’s not in the air either. Not in the people. The members here are innocent. But something among them grows. Dark.

  Her gaze sharpens…

  “Did you sleep well?” Serine snaps out of her thoughts, turning as Madam Bo approaches. Her instincts press the unease away, forcing a warm smile. She can’t explain it. Not yet. “I did.” She nods, standing and tucking away her food. “Thanks again.” “Good.” Bo studies her a moment before gesturing forward. “Come with me.”

  Serine follows as Bo leads through the camp, but her senses remain tuned, eyes still assessing, searching. They arrive at Bo’s workstation. A large wooden table sits outside her tent, meticulously arranged—vials of rich-coloured liquids, rare petals, dried herbs, ground powders, a coal-lit fire warming small pots. The surface of the table shimmers with deep blues, striking golds, rich greens, and blood reds. Colours that are hardly seen in the wild. Bo’s alchemy is confirmed.

  Serine takes in Bo’s table, reading a label on one of the green vials. Noctis Gloamroot. Bo notices her interest as she arranges her instruments for the day's work. Serine reaches out, carefully lifting the vial, testing its weight in her palm. "That'll help you see in the dark," Bo explains, preparing her station. "But I'm sure you don't need any help with that," she adds smiling, already assessing its usefulness to someone of Serine's kind.

  "Impressive," Serine remarks quietly, feeling its strange lightness—more like air than liquid. "Odd," she whispers, balancing it in her palm.

  "It took me three months to gather that amount. And three more to perfect its potency," Bo says with a subtle sigh. "It will also leave you with a nasty headache for an hour or two after its effects wear off." She chuckles, speaking from experience. "But hunters love the stuff." Her smile reveals pride in her craft.

  Serine places the vial back, reaching for another—a luminescent yellow, corked tightly. Sable Lux. "Oh, please be careful with that," Bo says sharply, taking the vial from Serine's hand with swift, protective motions. She cradles it gently, then looks at Serine. "Apologies," she says, softening. "Wild pheasant pheromone can be quite challenging to remove. And that mixture is particularly potent."

  She holds it out, allowing Serine to examine its contents from a safe distance. "The sweet pheromone makes the man wearing it become… irresistible." She rolls her eyes, a shiver crawling up her spine. She meets Serine's eyes with a knowing look. "You can put it on women, too." Her smile turns cheeky. “If that’s your thing? I don’t judge.” Bo places the vile back. "A lot of lonely men would pay a high price for that. Plus, it makes it nearly impossible to focus on work if it's spilt." She straightens her shoulders, regaining her composure.

  She sets her equipment on the table, the soft grinding of herbs filling the space between them. The scent of crushed leaves and something bitter moves through the air. “A medicine?” Serine watches as Bo carefully measures out portions, hands steady and practised. “What is it you’re preparing?”

  "It’s for a little girl," Bo says, not looking up.

  Serine lifts an eyebrow. “A child is sick? I didn’t notice any children last night.” She glances around as if she might spot the girl somewhere among the tents. “She’s young,” Bo continues, “Only nine,” sensing the question before it comes. “Her condition doesn’t seem to be improving. So, I’ve been making something to help.” Serine nods, dismissing the thought. “I’m sure she’s in good hands,” Serine says, offering a smile.

  Bo doesn’t return the smile. Instead, she lifts a vial to eye level, watching as the fine powder within settles before pouring it into a stone bowl. “Tell me, you had a profession before all this?” She asks, voice casual, but Serine hears the underlying curiosity. Serine exhales slowly, picking a stray flowered stem from the table. “I did.”

  Bo tilts her head, waiting. Serine holds the stem, thumb feeling its rough texture. She answers without looking up. “I was personal guard to my King.” Bo pauses for a second. Letting the moment weigh in on her. Royal Guard, from unknown lands. The moment expands around Bo, her breath catching for a moment.

  Bo exhales through her nose, stirring the mixture again. “Well… That’s a hell of a title,” she says, voice measured. “I imagine your life looked very different compared to where you are now.” Serine lets out a small, breathy chuckle, but it holds no amusement. “Very.” She says simply, inspecting the stem between her fingers.

  Bo studies her. “So what happened? What brings you to paths untravelled in the dark?” Serine knew the question was coming. She swallows, her gaze focusing on the flower, deep with memory. She takes in its beauty before placing it back where she found it. Hands idly resting against the edge of the table. “He died,” she says finally. Softly. Bo watches her carefully, feeling the weight of her words, briefly seeing Serine’s pain. She doesn’t say anything further; she just simply nods. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  Serine says nothing, but moves the conversation forward before silence sits for too long. “So, where do you need me?” Serine looks among the camp, trying to find where she would be most useful. Bo exhales, stretching her shoulders as she considers. “That depends. What are you good at?”

  Serine tilts her head slightly, considering her words. “I can hunt,” she answers. A skill, not a confession. “If you need fresh game, I can track.” She turns to Bo, “I can prepare the meat for the fire. Save the skins.” But Bo shakes her head. “We already have a hunter. Idris is quite talented.” “Sure. When what do you have in mind?” Serine says as Bo studies her, weighing something.

  “Well…” Bo starts as if waiting for that question. “The encampment could use someone like you. Your talents.” A pause. Serine raises her brow. “I grew up reading old stories of Elves. My father loved history. He said that a single Shadow Elf was once worth ten men in battle. That true?” Serine’s jaw tightens, anticipating the offer. “No.” The word is sharp. Immediate. Bo doesn’t react—not visibly. She leans against the table, hands resting over her pestle. "I’m not asking you to fight," she says evenly. “Just to help guard the walls. We’re a man down for this season. Arthur didn’t join us—off busy competing in the Imperial Games,” she scoffs.

  Serine exhales slowly. Silence grows. “I’ve left that world behind me, Bo.” The words come quiet but firm. Bo watches her. Serine’s words carry a long history. The silence between them stretches. “I’m trying to start a new, not pick up from where I left off.”

  Bo pauses, looking at Serine from the corner of her eye. “Fine.” She says, pushing off the table, moving past Serine as if it’s settled. She reaches for a steel flask, uncorking it. “Then we’ll put those hands to work building something,” a pause, “instead of breaking it.” Serine looks at Bo, gaze soft. “And you’ll forge something new.” Bo finishes.

  “The blacksmith could use help.” Her purple-stained fingertips point across the camp toward the sounds of the gentle clang. A flicker of something in Serine’s chest. Working with steel. Iron. Fire. But without the blood. For the first time in a long while, a new path lies ahead. A warm feeling fills Serine as she nods once. “Sure.”

  Bo half-smiles. “The work is tough, but all things worth doing are.” Serine smiles but doesn’t respond. She feels it again—that feeling. A shadow pressing at the edge of her mind. Watching. Circling. “Something is wrong.” She lifts her gaze, scanning the encampment. The wind shifts. It’s slight, but Serine feels it. Like something’s approaching—movement catches her eye. Old man Obin. He moves toward them with a hurried step. An urgent step. His breath is short.

  Serine notices him first, but it’s Bo who reacts. “Obin?” Her voice is surprised, but Serine hears the shift in her tone. Concerned. “What has happened?” He stops just before them, catching his breath. There’s worry in his face. Deep, unsettled. A weight that makes him look older. Worn. Haunted. “It’s Emily’s little girl,” he says, swallowing thickly. “Bo… it’s getting worse.”

  Bo stills.

  Serine watches the way her shoulders drop—like a quiet defeat. She masks it quickly. “How bad?” Bo asks, but she already knows the answer. Obin exhales slowly, shaking his head. His fingers tighten around the cuffs of his robe. “I’ve seen fevers before, Bo. Infections. But this—” He hesitates, and Serine connects the dots. “This isn’t normal.” His voice drops lower, as if afraid to say the words aloud. “I swear to you, it’s like… it’s like something’s… in her. Something dark.”

  Serine studies Obin, his worried look. She is no stranger to looks like this. He has seen things, things that frighten him, things that he doesn’t understand. But as Serine stands there and looks at him. She sees it now. The same horror she has felt since stepping through these gates. But now, it has taken shape. The source. Her skin runs cold, hairs stand. The realisation settles deep within her. “It’s the girl.”

  A beat of silence. The air around them becomes mute. No one speaks. Serine’s jaw tightens. Obin continues, voice hoarse, “Emily’s losing hope. And I—I don’t know what to tell her anymore. The medicines aren’t working. And the way she…” He trails off, shaking his head again. “I don’t know what this is, Bo.”

  Bo's face betrays nothing, but Serine doesn’t miss the slight tremor in her frame as she folds her arms. A tiny crack in the practised mask of a leader. “This is not good. She needs better care,” Bo says, but it’s almost to herself. She looks toward the distant path leading to the outside world. “Backwater is the closest place where she might find help. But I know their medicine. I’ve shared recipes with their healers.”

  A decision neither of them wants to make.

  She looks at Bo, at Obin. “They don’t feel it.” They don’t sense what’s truly wrong. But Serine does. She’s certain now, and it’s enough to make her skin prickle. “I want to see her,” she says suddenly. Bo blinks, caught off guard. “You—” She stops. Watching her now. Seeing Serine nature unfold. “Why?”

  Serine looks at Bo. She doesn’t know how to put it into words. The air moves between them, thick with something unseen. She shouldn’t pursue this. She knows it. She knows where this road leads. And she’s trying—truly trying—to walk a new path.

  But she can’t ignore it.

  She meets Bo’s gaze, steady. “A feeling.” Bo watches her for a long moment, searching. Then, finally, she nods. “Alright,” she says, standing, her hands clasping together. “Come with me.”

  They move quickly through the camp, weaving between tents, past the low murmurs of men preparing for the day ahead. The closer they get, the worse it feels. By the time they reach the girl’s tent, Serine can feel the sickness hanging in the air like a thick, suffocating fog. It’s not the smell—not decay, not fever, sweat, not rot. It’s something… wrong.

  Bo steps forward first, pulling back the entrance flap and revealing the dark interior. The darkness inside doesn’t move. It waits. A lonely lantern flickers as though the air itself is trying to deny its light. The scent of medicinal herbs clings to the heavy canvas walls, but it does nothing to mask the other thing that lingers. Serine steps in behind her, her body tensing. She knows this feeling. She’s felt it before. But not like this.

  Then she sees her.

  The child is strapped to the bedframe, thick leather bands across her wrists and ankles. Serine stops cold. The girl doesn’t move. Her chest rises and falls with shallow, deep, ragged breaths. A low croaking sound vibrates the air in the tent. Her skin is pale, unnaturally so, like a body drained of blood.

  Emily, the child’s mother, kneels near the corner of the bed. Her hands clutch a holy necklace, fingers trembling. She whispers under her breath—prayers too quiet to hear, too desperate to work.

  But it’s the child’s eyes that send a chill through Serine’s bones.

  Even in sleep, they move beneath their lids. Fast. Darting. Seeing something else. Serine doesn’t breathe. A chill claims her body. In all her long years, she has never seen anything like this. She exhales, quietly breaking the stillness. The girl's eyes suddenly stop. The space goes uncomfortably still, silent. Then, slowly… painfully… she opens them. Looking straight at Serine.