[The Wanderers Journey]

  The day deepens, and the encampment slowly stirs. Murmurs return. Fires burn low. People sit close, hushed, their voices quiet as if afraid to disturb the air. No laughter. No music. No meals simmering over the flame. “Poor Emily,” they whisper among each other, arms tucked in. Obin tends to her, offering soft comforts. Others bring tea and small gifts of memory, in Amilia’s honour.

  Inside the mending tent, the scent of herbs lingers, thick and grounding. Bo ties off the last of Sorin’s bandages, her movements are practiced, efficient. But her mind is elsewhere. Silent. She knows and Sorin feels it too—the weight of past moments pressing down, the silence that follows after tragedy.

  Serine stands near the entrance, watching. Measuring. She’s been waiting for the right moment. But there is no right moment for what she must say. She knows her next words will be difficult to hear. But she steps in anyway. “Bo,” Serine starts, “You need to consider leaving this place. You all do.” Her voice is quiet, but it carries. “There are Herdsmen north of here. Hunting.”

  Bo stills, fingers hovering over the last fold of cloth. She lets out a slow breath before turning, deliberate, steady. “Yes. We know.” Her voice is even, unreadable. “This is why we don’t travel north.” She meets Serine’s gaze, “And they don’t come south.”

  Serine frowns. She shakes her head. “Bo,” she says softly. “You know that’s not how it works.” She meets Bo’s gaze, holding it. “If they know you’re here,” she stops, letting the silence fill the space. “Everyone will die.” Bo scoffs, her expression flickers—frustration. “We’re not leaving.” Serine stares at her. “Bo, I—”

  “We can’t leave.” Her voice is quiet. Absolute. Sorin shifts, wincing slightly as he adjusts his bandaged shoulder. His eyes move between the women, alert and ready despite his injuries. The words settle between them, absolute. Serine studies her, waiting for more—an explanation, a reason. But Bo only turns back to her work, gathering the scattered vials on the table. The conversation, as far as she’s concerned, is over.

  Serine steps closer, jaw tightening. “I don’t understand.” Bo stops. Listening. Serine presses on, sharper now. “What is this place worth? What could possibly be here that’s worth dying over?” A long silence stretches between them.

  Bo doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. Serine sees it in the way her shoulders hold steady but heavy. In the way, her hands never stop moving. In the way her people sit by their fires, waiting—not for an escape, but for the day to end. For a new day to begin. So they can continue.

  Serine exhales, shaking her head, her frustration twisting. She doesn’t understand. But she wants to.

  It's Sorin who breaks the silence, “Show her,” he says to Madam Bo, his tone is soft, vulnerable. Bo finally exhales—a long, quiet breath that seems to release something she's been holding tight inside. Her shoulders drop, and her eyes close for a moment. Accepting. "Come with me," she murmurs, not waiting for an answer.

  She doesn’t wait for Serine to follow as she turns, disappearing outside, leading Serine away toward the edge. Away from the campfire, from the watchful eyes of the others. The world outside is quiet, the encampment waiting in stillness.

  They stop at a wooden cellar door hidden near the camp’s edge. Serine watches as Bo kneels, reaching into her belt. A key. The lock is old but well-maintained, and with a soft click, the door swings open. She gestures for Serine to peer inside—rows upon rows of packed crates. Stacked from floor to ceiling. Bo lights a lantern, its warm glow revealing potions, dried goods, medicines, textiles—far too much for a camp this size.

  Serine steps forward. Her eyes narrow, the bigger picture falling into place. “The Empire doesn’t know you’re here,” she says slowly. “Do they?” Though it’s not a question. Bo watches her for a moment, then nods. “They don’t.” Serine moves further in, running her fingers lightly over the side of a crate. These aren’t just supplies for them—it can’t be. She turns back to Bo. “All this isn’t just for you, is it?”

  Bo folds her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “No.” Serine starts to understand. “Who else? How many?” Bo meets her gaze, unblinking. “Back home? Hundreds. Mothers. Fathers. Families. People the Empire would rather forget.” She points toward the crates. “Rare ingredients. The coin we make on the market—keeps them alive.”

  Serine eyes soften. This camp isn’t just some greedy hidden refuge for wanderers. It's essential for those who would otherwise be left with nothing. Bo watches her carefully. “If we stop, they will starve. The children will starve. Families disappear to gangs, their lives destroyed.” Her voice remains steady, “Most of them end up dead.” Serine says nothing, she sees the strain in Bo’s eyes. She can see her pain. The loved ones she's lost. The loved ones she’s saving now.

  The moment pauses.

  “This season has been tough,” Bo admits, quieter now. “We haven’t gathered enough to move. Not yet.” Serine takes a deep breath, tightening her glove. She should argue. “If you die, all those you provide for die too. It makes sense to keep one group of you alive.” Death to the Herdsmen is a nasty way to die. However, she sees Bo and already knows—it wouldn’t change a thing. Serine looks over the crates again, noticing some are empty, “It is true. They can’t leave without taking a loss. Without affecting those that they’re trying to protect.” Serine has seen enough, and they leave. Bo pushes the door closed, locking it once more.

  Serine watches in silence before lowering her head and offering a quiet apology for pressing. She understands now. Bo acknowledges but doesn’t say anything. She turns and walks back toward the mending tent to check on Sorin, her footsteps slow but sure.

  But Serine doesn’t follow, she lingers. She looks back at the locked door. The weight of the encampment’s secret. All these people. All this work. Crucial. Her gaze drifts past the tents, past the campfire, highlighting their solemn faces. They all have a personal stake in this. They’re all keeping someone they love, alive.

  She sees Mr. Yangshi sitting alone, his weathered hands cupped around a mug of something steaming. His presence reminds her of what she seeks. A new life. A renewed peace. Her hands tighten at her sides. Then, in a quiet act of surrender, they unclench.

  All these recent years spent running, fighting, surviving. But here? This place has existed in peace, though surrounded by danger. It reminds her of the peace she once had long ago. A peace that she failed to protect—a home that she lost. Her brief time here has only brought grief. Her work. Who she is does not want to destroy someone else’s peace. She exhales, the decision settling as if there is no other answer.

  “I must leave.”

  She looks toward the horizon, where the sky begins to melt into the soft blue of night. The stars are beginning to wake. “After dark, I will go. No one will notice.” She’s done it before—disappeared before they realised.

  Serine moves slowly back through the camp, back to the tent. Her breath comes slow. A chance to ease things over with Bo. A chance to speak before she leaves. To say thank you.

  But—sounds of snapping twigs catch her ears. Fast. Urgent. She hears the crunch of leaves. The noise turns her toward the entrance. She hears rushed footsteps. Voices, panting. Unsteady. Shouting. The camp's attention is drawn, people standing. Bo peeks her head through the tent flap to make sense of the sudden commotion.

  But Serine sees them first.

  Idris and Thomas stumble into the gates, ragged, breathless. Sweat clings to their faces, their eyes darting toward the treeline behind, wild, searching. Thomas’s sleeve is smeared with blood. Bo is already moving. “What happened?” she demands sharply, reaching them, her voice cutting through the air. Idris grips the wooden frame of the gate, bending over, hands on his knees. His chest heaves. “Something’s out there,” he pants, his voice raw. “Something’s in the forest.”

  Serine weaves through the gathering crowd, eyes locked on Idris and Thomas. Every nerve, sharp. Thomas wipes his mouth, shaking his head. His fingers tremble as he gestures back toward the treetops. “It got my fucking horse!” he snaps. “Dragged it squealing into the trees.”

  The words quietly unsettle those who hear it, though they don’t raise their voices.

  The wind blows. The trees whisper. Serine's stomach tightens as her gaze focuses on the darkening forest edge. Silent, she watches. She’s expecting Herdsmen, but she can’t sense them. Can’t hear them. "What was it?" she asks Idris firmly. "What did it look like?" Idris and Thomas look at each other, hesitating. “I don’t know,” Idris breathes shakily. “I never seen anything like it before. It moved like it was broken. Hiding in the shade.”

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  Thomas straightens, rolling his shoulder, still catching his breath. "I didn't get a full look at it," he stutters. He glances at Idris, sharing a brief, uneasy look before turning toward the forest again. "But it was a big fucker." Serine flicks her wrists, warming her hands and stretching her muscles. She is readying herself. Bo inhales sharply, then exhales through her nose. “Secure the gates,” she commands. “Now.”

  The camp moves immediately, silently. Their senses tuned into the stillness of the deep wood. The sense that something stares back at them. The men move fast. Latches slam, bolts slide into place. Spears near. Bodies moving toward the center, away from the outer ring of tents. A precaution, an instinct. Well practised.

  Bo turns to Thomas, eyes flicking to the blood on his sleeve. Too much blood for the woundless. “Inside,” she instructs firmly, leading him toward the mending tent. The scent of sweat, iron, and fear drifts through the air. Serine follows—there is still much she needs to understand. To prepare for.

  They step into the mending tent, Sorin sits upright, bandaged and pale but alert. The moment Thomas's gaze lands on him, anger flashes in his eyes. He points sharply at Serine as she enters. "What the fuck happened here? What di you do to him? Huh, Elf. Cunt!" Thomas demands, his voice tight with fury. He turns fully toward her, every muscle tense, every breath ragged. "This is your fucking fault, Elf. We let you in, and look what fucking happens."

  His words cut into Serine like a dagger, reinforcing every dark thought she’s been wrestling with. Her gaze falls, jaw tight, but she doesn't argue. She can't. Deep down, she believes him—she wasn’t fast enough to protect Sorin.

  From the bed, Sorin groans softly, cutting through Thomas’s rage. "Fuck off, Thomas." Thomas spins, disbelief filling his face. "Look at you! Your back. What the fuck happened, mate?" "You wouldn’t believe me if I told you," Sorin mutters, wincing as he adjusts his posture.

  "I’ll fill you in later," Bo interrupts firmly, placing herself slightly between Thomas and Sorin, her stern expression leaving no room for argument. Her eyes briefly meet Serine's—a silent apology on behalf of Thomas. But Idris steps forward, steadying himself with a deep breath, his voice calm yet filled with urgency. "Enough. We have bigger problems to deal with." Thomas crosses his arms, reluctantly quieting.

  "We went to the chapel, Bo" Idris begins slowly, weighing each word carefully. "It was... bad. Yes. Order members dead inside. Their bodies..." he pauses, swallowing hard, eyes distant as he recalls the scene. "They weren't just dead. They were torn apart. Broken. I've never seen anything like it."

  A heavy silence falls. Bo’s knuckles whiten as she grips the edge of the table, “I need a cup of tea,” she says, face turning white, swiftly moving to find a cup. Thomas banters a laugh toward Sorin, "Ha, he was nearly sick all over himself. You should’ve seen him," he mocks weakly. "Pussy."

  Serine ignores Thomas’s taunts, her focus locked on Idris. "Was it Herdsmen?" Idris meets her gaze and shakes his head solemnly. "This wasn't Herdsmen's work. Whatever did this... it didn't belong to them. It didn’t belong to anything…here."

  The words hang between them, heavy and ominous. "The Order will notice soon," Idris continues quietly, glancing around at each of them. "Two months, maybe less, before they come looking. And when they do, they are bound to find us here."

  Serine's jaw tightens further. Idris’s words confirm what she already knows: danger is coming, and coming fast.

  Bo reaches for a cup, her fingers trembling slightly. She pours herself tea, crushing Wayfarer Leaf into the steaming water, desperate to calm the tension coiled in her chest. But before she can take a sip, something moves through her. A sudden pulse, like an unseen heartbeat, ripples silently through the tent.

  Serine's hair rises, skin prickling. She stiffens first. Her breath catches, her heart pounding sharply against her ears. The air inside the tent grows thick. Heavy. It presses against them, invisible yet undeniable. The others feel it too—a deep vibration in the ground beneath them, quiet but resonant, as though the very earth itself has murmured a secret.

  Bo staggers slightly, almost dropping the cup. Idris gently steadies her, voice soft. "You alright?" Heat rises to her cheeks, embarrassment mingling with unease. She nods with a slight tremble. "I—I felt something… Nevermind. I'm sorry." But Thomas shifts uneasily. "No, I felt it too," he murmurs, glancing at Idris, then Sorin. Each man's face reflects his own confusion and uncertainty. "Like something moved right through me." "Fuck sake," Thomas breathes, his voice low, nearly exhausted. "What is it now?"

  Serine's voice cuts in sharply, calm but commanding. "Quiet." Everyone stills, ears straining against the unnatural quiet. Seconds pass. The silence is deafening, heavy, unbroken by even the faintest rustle of leaves or distant sound. "I don't hear anything," Idris whispers, breaking the quiet cautiously.

  "Exactly," Serine says firmly, her tone edged with tension. She reaches for her sword, gripping it tightly. "And that's what worries me." Without another word, she moves swiftly toward the tent's exit, stepping out into the fading sky beyond.

  Serine steps out of the tent and immediately freezes.

  The entire encampment stands as one. Frozen. Silent. Every face turned in the same direction, transfixed by something unseen. The air is thick, tense, unbreathing. Serine’s heart stutters. Behind her, Bo, Thomas, Sorin, and Idris step into the fading evening, their breaths catching as they see this strange spectacle. No words. Only silence—absolute, consuming silence.

  Serine moves first, lowering herself, pushing carefully through the gathered people. Her fingers grip tightly around the hilt of her sword, senses sharp. Ready. Expecting danger. But then she sees it—and her eyes widen, and her breath catches sharply. At the centre of the encampment stands the silver-haired woman.

  Awake.

  She balances perfectly, effortlessly, upside-down in a flawless handstand. Her long silver hair cascades gently to the ground, pooling around her head. She remains utterly still, a statue carved of perfection and silence. Impossible.

  Serine's blood runs cold, hairs stand on the back of her neck. Her muscles tense, heartbeat roaring in her ears. Every instinct in her body screams that what she sees before her, does not belong.

  No one moves. No one breathes. An invisible static fills every space outward from the woman, charging the air, sending chills rippling across Serine's skin. A quiet, humming sensation of power, crackling and alive, floods the encampment. “What is this? Why is this happening? Am I going to die? Is this what true power feels like?”

  But then—gracefully, the woman falls forward in a slow, perfect motion. She cartwheels elegantly, smoothly, as if gravity has yielded to her. Feet touch the earth softly, landing with impossible grace. Upright, she stands, eyes closed. Her slender form relaxed, untroubled. Another wave of energy radiates outward—a gentle, unexplainable ripple seeps deep within the marrow of their bones.

  Thomas exhales, shaking beside Serine. “W… Wh…What the..?” he whispers. Serine says nothing, her eyes locked onto the woman. Over centuries she’s never felt anything like this before. Lesser. The silver-haired woman slowly lifts her chin, eyes still closed, serene. A gentle breeze touches her hair, waving strands like moonlit silk. Serine’s grip tightens further, knuckles gripped tight. Prepared to die

  Then the woman's eyes open. Focused, cold, and deliberate. They shine with a soft metallic gleam. She does not glance around in confusion or aggression. Her gaze is steady and unblinking, focusing only on the horizon. Her faultless mouth is ever-so-slightly downturned, evoking a feeling of ancient sorrow. Her gaze, drowned in purpose. Her expression is grand, imposing, almost divine in its stillness. There's a heavy sense of sadness, inevitability, and control.

  Serine's breath freezes in her chest. These are no ordinary moments. This is the awakening of something new—something she… they cannot yet understand.

  The silver-haired woman slowly turns, her eyes moving deliberately over each face around her—measuring, weighing, as though she can see the hidden truths of their souls. Bo gasps sharply, her hand flying to her mouth, eyes wide in disbelief. She glances over to Obin. “What have we done?”

  Then the woman speaks. Her voice is youthful, clear, perfect in tone and resonance, carrying effortlessly across the encampment.

  "Venik Arnar."

  Words no one understands. Ancient. But the reaction is immediate and chaotic. Some villagers instantly drop to their knees, heads bowed in reverence, hands pressed into the earth. They whisper prayers, their faces filled with awe and fear. Others break, screaming in sudden panic. They abandon possessions, stumbling away blindly into the encroaching dark. Horses whinny and pull against their restraints, hooves pounding as men and women leap onto their backs, fleeing desperately into the last flickers of twilight. The sound of running footsteps fading into the distance, cries echoing through the trees.

  Bo clutches her chest, struggling for air, eyes wide in silent terror and astonishment.

  Serine stands frozen, unable to look away. She feels impossibly small beneath the weight of this presence, overwhelmed yet inexplicably drawn in. Her chest tightens. Her mind races. “Is this what true power feels like?” To be so small, yet so utterly connected to something larger than herself?

  From behind, a thin, trembling voice breaks the stillness. Mr. Yangshi moves forward through the scattering crowd, his frail figure leaning heavily upon his walking stick. Each step is slow, deliberate, shaking with effort. His eyes glisten with tears unshed, reflecting lifetimes of patience.

  “The mind does not age as the body does,” he murmurs softly, almost to himself. "I am slower now… but I have never stopped looking." He stops before the silver-haired woman, a gentle, humble smile on his lips as he lifts his gaze to meet hers.

  His voice is quiet but unwavering. "Venik Du-arah."

  She turns slowly toward him, tilting her head slightly. Her flawless expression a mask of serene, unreadable stone. Silence settles once again, heavy and profound, as the encampment watches, breathless.

  Mr. Yangshi's eyes fill with tears, spilling gently down his weathered cheeks. He does not wipe them away, letting them fall freely. A lifetime of learning, of waiting, reflected clearly in every line etched upon his aged face. Deep guilt for considering his purpose void. “All these years,” he says, his voice cracking slightly, but filled with quiet strength, “I have waited. So very long for you. I had begun to fear you would never come.”

  The woman’s silver eyes hold him, steady, inscrutable. No answer comes, but the depth in her gaze speaks volumes, resonating in the silence.

  The sun slips beneath the horizon, casting the world into shadow.

  An ending. And a beginning.

  This chapter was a massive emotional and structural moment—if you felt something shift, you’re not wrong.

  What did you think of the silver-haired woman’s awakening? And Mr. Yangshi's words?

  I read everything and always enjoy hearing what moments stood out.