[The Wanderers Journey]

  The day's peak is ending. It fades across the sky, gold deepening to orange. A faint wind stirs, but it carries no relief, only the weight of something unresolved. The fire burns, its crackling the only sound filling the silence. No meals cook. No stories are shared. The people wait—some standing, others seated near the embers, hands curled around their knees. Watching. Wondering.

  Then, from the trees, they emerge.

  Serine strides forward first, unwavering, her elven eyes scanning the perimeter, always aware. Sorin follows, staggering. His breath is uneven, his limbs heavy. Bo’s potion turns to punishment. His mouth is sand, his skull throbs with headache, but worst of all—his heart palpitates, fast, uneven, ruthless.

  At the gate, Bo paces—wearing a path in the dirt. Emily stands beside her, silent. Her knuckles press against her lips, eyes flickering with the last remaining embers of hope. But when her eyes land on them—on who isn’t there—her expression shatters.

  Tears slip free, silent, uncontrolled. Sorin approaches her, slow and careful. His gaze drops to the ground between them, weighed by exhaustion and something deeper—guilt. He doesn’t speak. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small. Delicate. Bloodstained. Amilia’s necklace.

  Emily gasps softly, her hands rising to meet his. When her fingers close around the charm, she stares at it as though it might still hold her child’s warmth, as though she could will her daughter back into existence. She breaks into sobs.

  The camp moves. Women, men—those who had known Amilia, who had shared smiles, laughter, and simple moments with her—step forward. They surround Emily, guiding her toward the fire, arms wrapping around her trembling frame. She clutches the necklace to her chest, grief swallowing her whole. Her mourning begins.

  Bo exhales softly, her shoulders dipping, relief and sorrow battling behind her eyes. They came back. But the ease quickly vanishes beneath worry. She doesn’t want to think it, but a sense that this is only the beginning—that more tragedy lies ahead.

  Serine stands apart, watching the scene unfold, watching Emily being led away. Her heart feels heavy, but not for the child alone. She sees the aftermath of her profession, the result of her work. The grief it brings. The sound of Emily's sorrow echoes within her, “Will I ever be more than this?” Her gaze falls to the earth beneath her feet. The weight of another name lost to her past. “More than just a weapon?” Serine allows these thoughts their moment. She's becoming used to them.

  But a grunt of pain breaks her reflection. Sorin clutches his shoulder, pain twisting him. Bo snaps from her stillness, rushing to his side. “Sorin, you’re hurt,” She circles behind him, inspecting the wounds. Her hands hover near the gashes. "These are deep." Her fingers brush gently against his torn shirt, blood seeping through the fabric. Her face darkens slightly. She doesn’t ask if Amilia did this. The answer is already in the way Sorin doesn’t meet her eyes. This memory will stay with them both—no matter how many days they have left.

  "Come on," Bo says, gently pulling his arm across her shoulders. "Let's get you cleaned up." He glances back once, meeting Serine’s elven eyes. A quiet understanding passes between them—they know this isn’t over.

  Bo leads them toward the mending tent, her steps steady and purposeful. As they walk, she notices the slight tremor in Sorin's hands, the way his eyes drift, unfocused. She's seen this before—and recognises what it means. "The potion I gave you," Bo asks, her voice quiet but curious, always searching for ways to improve her craft. "It worked well?" Sorin exhales a short chuckle, but there's no humour in it. "Worked well on me. Not so well on... it." His smile fades. They both know the only reason he's still breathing is because of her work.

  They step inside the tent. Warm air greets them, thick with the scent of remedies, oils, and dried roots. Jars line the shelves, carefully arranged by purpose—powders for pain, tinctures for fevers, salves for wounds. A space of healing.

  Across the room, an old man sits at a wooden table, studying a cluster of delicate white flowers. His fingers trace their fragile petals as if reading something only he can understand. He doesn't startle at their arrival. Instead, he smiles—not the polite acknowledgement of a stranger, but rather the warm, knowing expression of an old friend who's been waiting.

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  He lifts his gaze, turning toward them—toward her. His deeply lined face remains calm, white beard neatly combed, bald head reflecting the soft lantern glow. His eyes find Serine, lingering there. Still. Studying. Suspicious. Just a second too long. Then, he chuckles softly to himself, shaking his head. "How rare... to see a piece of history walking among the living." His voice is light, almost amused—but the weight in his words lingers. He sets down the flower, his shaky hand trembling as he reaches for his walking stick.

  Bo kneels beside Sorin, pressing a damp cloth against his wound, the alcohol burning into torn back. Sorin exhales through his nose, barely flinching. This pain is familiar—the endless days recovering from fights, the blades that misjudged their mark, the hidden weapons that left their scars. Every wound a lesson. Every scar, a teacher. "Easy," Madam Bo murmurs to him, working with steady hands. "Your heart will slow soon."

  The old man leaves his chair, moving across the tent. Slow, deliberate. The soft tapping of his walking stick sends a rhythmic hush through the space. He approaches Serine, pulling a crude pair of spectacles from his pocket, balancing them on the bridge of his nose. He studies her. Closer. Too close. Serine stiffens but doesn't step back—yet. His frail fingers twitch slightly, hovering near her jaw—but he hesitates. Just for a breath. Then, with the care of an artist studying his canvas, he tilts her head to the side. Examining. Seeing. Knowing.

  Bo watches, her lips curling into a smirk—small but understanding. She has seen this before. The way he latches onto curiosity, the way he studies people like old books, waiting for them to tell him something the world has forgotten. She exhales, shaking her head before turning back to Sorin’s wounds.

  The old man's eyes focus, narrowing slightly as he takes in the length of her ears. The blue of her eyes. The black of her hair. A relic of a bloodline nearly forgotten. His voice comes out soft, spoken as if only for himself... but for Serine too. "The wind has carried many whispers to me... but none as rare as yours.”

  Mr. Yangshi smiles, shaking his head, his excitement contained beneath steady breaths. He turns to Sorin, briefly inspecting the wounds before reaching for a nearby jar—a simple clay container filled with fine white powder. He hands it to Bo without a word. “The unfortunate workings of a warrior’s path,” he muses, tapping his walking stick softly against Sorin’s leg as Bo works. Sorin winces but doesn’t flinch away. “You’re tough, child.” A warm chuckle. “May these lessons build you strong.”

  Serine watches as he moves slowly back to the table, returning to the delicate white flowers he had been tending. His fingers brush across their petals, thoughtful. “I heard whispers of an unexpected guest joining us last night,” he says, gently sifting through the blossoms. “A guest I am grateful to have the chance to meet.” He turns to her, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. Another smile.

  Bo listens, finishing the last of Sorin’s bandages. “This is Mr. Yangshi,” she says, glancing up. “Our camp’s oldest member.” A flicker of amusement touches her face, barely hidden beneath her focus. “And this is Serine—” But Mr. Yangshi lifts a hand, silencing her with a knowing look. “I know exactly who this is.”

  His gaze returns to Serine, slow and steady. “I’m sure you know what the stories say of your people,” he murmurs. Serine tenses, but says nothing. “The Shadow Elves. Creatures of war. Assassins born from the dark.” His voice is rhythmic, almost melodic, carrying the weight of centuries of misunderstanding. Sorin listens. Bo does too.

  “But I know the truth is far older than their fear.” Serine watches him carefully, wary. Mr. Yangshi approaches, lifting his cane and tracing the air as if drawing invisible constellations. “They call your people warriors, yes.” A pause. A gentle nod. “But their greatest weapon was never the blade.” His gaze finds Serine’s and holds it. “It was silence.”

  Serine doesn't move, doesn't betray the sudden quickening of her pulse. “Your kind walked unseen not to harm, but to protect. To preserve the delicate balance that exists in all things.” He extends his frail hand toward her, palm open. Resting within it—a single rare blossom, one of which she has never seen before. Pale and delicate, its petals touched with the softest shade of blue.

  “Their war was not against enemies, but against the unbalancing of life. They were its true hidden guardians.” Serine stares at the flower in his hand. She hesitates, then takes it. Her chest tightens with a strange longing, a knowing she has not felt in many years. It twists inside her like a forgotten melody.

  “I’ve never known peace,” Serine's words emerge as a whisper. A confession meant for herself... and for him. Yangshi nods, sadness deepening in his old eyes. “Then perhaps this is why you have come.” He smiles, his frail fingers close hers around the blossom. “To remember.”

  Serine swallows, fingers tightening around the delicate petals. Yangshi leans in slightly, voice dropping to a hush. “It might surprise you to hear that your ancestors were not assassins. They were the strongest of things.” Serine looks up sharply, as if hearing words long forgotten by her. “Then it would seem that I’ve already failed them.”

  Yangshi exhales softly, shaking his head. “You misunderstand, child.” His gaze drifts toward the open flap of the tent, where the last light of day spills through. “The strongest things in this world are not made of iron, nor forged in war.” He pauses, gaze fixed on the light beyond the tent.

  “The strongest things… are those that break.” He looks back at her—one last time. “Hope. Kindness. Peace.” Serine watches him move toward the tent’s exit, her grip tightening around the blossom. The petals feel impossibly soft against her fingers—too fragile for the hands of a weapon. Yangshi steps outside into the golden dusk. The soft tapping of his walking stick fades.

  “I hope you find yours soon.”

  And then—he is gone.