They made good time along the river.
The ground was flatter here, not quite a road, but mostly level, making travel easier. The river wound its way nearby, glinting in the morning light and lending a soft glow to their path. They could hear it flowing over rocks, the noise a rhythmic comfort in a world of inconsistencies. The scent of wet reeds mingled with the earthy smell of early morning dew, anchoring them in the tranquility of their surroundings. The column stretched comfortably: Prime Century forward, wagons centered, rear guard of Centurion Varo’s century loose but attentive. Birds lifted from the reeds as they passed, their wings creating gentle rustles in the quiet air.
Harold walked alongside the wagons, one hand resting on the rail as Bethel sat bundled nearby, cane across her lap.
“It’s quieter here,” she observed.
“It is…give it time, though,” Harold replied. “We haven't walked this route yet; I’m sure something will make itself known.”
She smiled faintly, her eyes roaming the forest, pausing on details. She was a contradiction; pain didn't rule her. She bore her burdens without dulling her curiosity, leaning in to better see the water move. Near her, his thoughts were clearer than they'd been in a long time; the pressure eased enough to notice its absence.
Ahead, Hale was mid-conversation with Varo, one hand gesturing as he spoke about something, when the air changed. The sound stopped, there were no birds chirping, and even the water seemed to be still. Hale slowed, eyes narrowing, shield hand tightening just enough to notice. A subtle snap echoed through the underbrush, causing both men to exchange a tense glance. Just as quickly as the silence settled in, Hale's instincts flared, but before he could shout a warning, the first javelin appeared without warning.
It emerged from the treeline at chest height already cocked to throw. Then another.
Then dozens.
Forty-six shapes stepped from concealment in practiced silence. They spread across the rise thirty paces right of the road and into the river’s brush on the left, forming a crescent around the column. Legionaries wore matching armor. Shields were slung; javelins were braced and ready. Each had a clear lane into formation.
No one in the Prime Century moved or spoke; everyone froze, waiting to see what would happen.
Centurion Parker stepped forward from the center of the ambushers, helm tucked under his arm. His eyes glinted with mischief, and his fingers tapped lightly on the helm's rim, as if ready to unleash a wave of laughter.
“Looks like we got the drop on you, Captain Hale.”
More than a few of the knights began to laugh, one more than anyone else, as if it were the funniest thing he had ever done. Someone in the Prime muttered something uncomplimentary under their breath while one shouted revenge against their comrades in the woodline.
Hale exhaled slowly, tilting his head back to the treeline, counting missed angles.
“Well,” he said evenly, “this is humiliating.”
Harold had already approached him angrily. He looked from the bristling javelins to Parker, then back to Hale.
“We have got to get proper scouts,” Harold said flatly. “This is insane, Hale. The adventurers aren’t cutting it until they get more perception perks.”
“No disagreement,” he replied. “If they’d wanted us dead, they’d be able to put the hurt on us pretty good.”
Parker laughed and lifted his hand. “Easy,” he called. “Sarah sends her regards.”
At the signal, javelins lowered in unison. The tension bled out of the air like a held breath finally released.
The Prime relaxed by degrees, discipline keeping the release controlled. A few legionaries shot their friends looks that promised future conversations.
Sarah emerged last, stepping down from the rise with the knights falling in behind her. They had been assigned to find and extract her on her way back. It had taken some work, but Parker was able to find where they escaped from the cave system and track them to where they had been hiding.
“You walk like you own the road,” she said pleasantly. “Thought we’d remind you that you don’t.”
Harold shook his head, rubbing at his temple in exasperation.
“We’re alive,” he said. “I suppose that’s the important part.”
Bethel watched the knights quietly with interest, while Anselm studied them in his own intensely thoughtful way.
“They’re very good,” she noted.
Hale snorted. “Unfortunately.”
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The camp settled in layers.
Fires burned low along the riverbank, giving more glow than flame. Wagons formed a loose crescent, and shields were stacked nearby. The legionaries lacked tents, but the nights were warm enough that they didn’t mind. The small fires provided enough warmth, so instead of building shelters, they focused on making comfortable places to sleep. The Prime Century took turns on watch in silent discipline, while Parker’s knights slipped back into the perimeter, blending in as if they had always been there.
Harold stood at the fire’s edge, watching the river slide past—black and reflective under the stars. The woodline obscured it, but the moon made for a beautiful night.
Sarah approached without announcement.
She carried her helm under one arm, hair loose, armor stripped down for comfort. She paused beside him—close enough for warmth, but still leaving space.
“You’ve been terse with me,” she said.
The moment settled into Harold like a stone finding the bottom of a river. He’d dreaded this conversation, but there was relief in knowing it had finally arrived.
He looked at her properly. Blonde hair fell messily; her posture confident—almost arrogant. Parker’s account of the Thresher King and the centaurs filled in the rest. She’d escaped by luck as much as skill, and luck ran thin.
“I’m glad you’re okay, Saratops,” he murmured, pulling her into a brief hug. The old nickname made her stiff; he hadn’t used it in years. “I’m sorry I sent you into something that dangerous. I should have known the Thresher King wouldn’t be that easy to track.”
She blinked, unsettled.
"I forget there are big gaps in my knowledge. I was a traveling alchemist; that's where my expertise lies—not knowing about region bosses or centaur nobles. I keep needing this reminder I don’t know everything."
He sighed and sat down on a crate by his small fire. Across the fire by the wagon, Harold saw Margaret approach, but when she noticed Sarah near him, she paused and turned away, recognizing it was not the right time to interrupt.
Sarah hesitated, then sat next to him on the crate. She pushed her hair aside and shifted her sword, visibly trying to relax.
“I know you’re upset about the refugees,” she said quickly. “But how could I not act? And look what happened, I was there when you needed me.”
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Harold shook his head, exhaustion cutting through him. “Sarah, please, I need you to listen to me and not argue, and I need you to actually understand it.”
“Adventurers will die if they are not on a quest. You will die if you are not on a quest. By all accounts, your friend Theo very nearly did, if not for some quick thinking from you, but there will be threats that only you and your friends can effectively fight.”
She opened her mouth anyway.
He raised a hand, his commanding tone halting her words. "Let me finish," he said—more firmly than ever before. The seriousness in his voice made her realize how important this was for him.
"Imagine wyvern riders swooping down with deafening roars as their wings beat like thunder, adventurers rising to meet them amidst the chaos. Visualize the sea serpent smashing a ship, spraying salt-laden mist into the air, only to be stopped by an adventurer's force-rebounding perk that echoes with the crack of bending wood. Picture delving underground for rare materials in oppressive heat and darkness, spotting a giant spider whose presence is sensed with dark vision and foreboding warnings." He sighed as memories surfaced. "Imagine a dragon incinerating a city, its sulfurous breath scorching the air and singeing cloth, and one of you confronting it. Or dueling a besieging general, each strike ringing with the sound of clashing steel. These things will happen." "Only you can face certain threats. Yes, I can brew potions, but they're limited—not as strong as your perks. You need time to grow, and that won't happen if you all die recklessly. Worse, humanity has very few adventurers. Most born here won't reach your strength, and we won't have enough. What if the centaurs had caught you with nowhere to run?"
Sarah grudgingly sat there listening to him, trying to understand what he was saying.
“I don't understand,” she said as she spoke up, and this time Harold let her. “I did something good, didn’t I? Theo almost died, but we did what you asked of us…of me!” She exclaimed. “I thought you would have been proud of me! I can’t just sit still while people are being hunted! At this point, she was almost shouting, and Mira and Theo could be seen watching across the fire. Held back by Margaret and Hale.
As Sarah spoke, Harold closed his eyes, disappointed the conversation wasn’t going as planned. He turned to face her, fully aware of the hurt and anger in her expression. As she grew more upset, he felt a brief, proud surge—she was strong-willed—but he knew he needed to finish what he had started.
Suddenly, an almost invisible figure emerged from the shadows, the faint outline of Bethel's form briefly visible as she stepped into the circle of firelight. In that flicker of anticipation, her cane cracked and sang across the silence against Sarah's shin, shocking her into an exclamation of pain.
“Ouch! The hell!”
Another crack of the cane into her shins, “Don’t use that word around me, child,” Bethel said as she strode into the circle of firelight. Bethel pointed her cane at her threateningly as Sarah looked at her, shocked. “Yes, I know who you are, Sarah Elizabeth Calder. Now those fine young men over there are tired, and you and your outburst are waking some of them up. More importantly,” she pointed her cane at her again. “You are disturbing my tea time.”
“Now sit there and listen to your brother, and you are going to listen with your mind and not your heart.”
“Sit", she threatened with her cane again, as finally her words got through to Sarah and she stubbornly sat by the fire. Her back against the crate.
Harold looked at her gratefully as Bethel settled back onto her cane and nodded to Harold.
“Continue.” She said, pointing her cane at Harold.
Behind her, Anselm, always her shadow, was smiling fondly at her. The first real emotion Harold had seen from the stoic man.
He looked back down at Sarah as she begrudgingly sat there.
“Sarah…who am I?”
She petulantly looked up at him and went to say something when Bethel raised her cane again, and Sarah quickly corrected her language.
“You are the Lord of the Landing, and you are my brother,” she said quickly. Bethel lowered her cane, but she knew it would rise again if her attitude got away from her.
Harold smiled at her, gently understanding the difficult position she was in but also knowing this needed to be said clearly to her.
"Yes, he said gently, but I am the Lord of the Landing before I am your brother. Your freedom shapes the fates of thousands. And your actions reflect on me. When others see you doing your own thing with no consequences, they are going to want to do the same thing. And I can't afford that. People will die, and I will lose protection for our crafters and villages. Resources will fail to return, and, worst of all, I will lose assets that could become pillars if I properly nurture them ten years from now."
"Can you honestly say that you think most of the other teams out here could have done what you did? Even worse, you and your team have a set of world-first perks that will make you extremely powerful if given time to develop them.”
"As callous as it is... think about it, if you had helped save those 400 lives now but lost your lives doing so. That would be the extent of your legacy.”
“But imagine, ten years from now, each sacrifice preventing a calamity that swallows entire cities, each life saved building a tapestry of safety spanning generations. Consider the villages that won't vanish in a firestorm, the schools that won't collapse in despair, and the hopes that won't be dashed against unyielding forces. These 40,000 lives are not just numbers; they are stories yet to unfold. I am not planning a short game here; I am playing to win, and I need you on my side.”
As Harold spoke, Sarah grew quieter, her replies thinning until she stopped answering altogether. She stared into the fire, tearing a pair of broad leaves into careful strips between her fingers. As her frustration built, the movements became more frenetic. The leaves tore into smaller and smaller pieces, her fingers moving quicker, sending fragments fluttering to the ground like restless shadows. Eventually, her hands stilled, resting atop the disarrayed remains of what was once whole.
Harold noticed and eased down beside her.
A few steps away, Bethel paused, took in the scene, then nodded to herself. Apparently satisfied, she turned and began to walk off.
Sarah glanced up as she passed and muttered something under her breath, low enough that Harold missed it entirely.
Bethel did not.
She pivoted with the smooth precision of a dancer and brought her cane down across Sarah’s hands with a sharp crack.
“I may be an old woman,” Bethel snapped, “but I’ve raised you a thousand times before this.”
Sarah yelped and jerked back, stunned.
Bethel didn’t stop.
She spun again and slashed the cane into a patch of darkness just beyond the firelight.
A figure collapsed out of it with a sharp cry.
“Ow! What the f—!”
The cane snapped out again, faster this time.
“Do not use that language around me, Jace Halden Taylor!”
Harold stared, helpless and vaguely impressed, as Bethel launched into a full verbal assault that didn’t require volume to carry authority.
Jace tried to scramble backward, failed, and settled for shielding his head as he apologized rapidly.
Mira stepped forward at last, hands raised, voice cautious.
“Um… ma’am?” she said gently. “Can I rescue my friend, please? I think he gets the point and probably won’t speak like that around you ever again.”
Bethel paused, cane hovering.
She looked at Mira. Looked back at Jace.
“Hmph,” she said, lowering the cane. “Ok, dear, he’d better.”
She turned, dignified once more, and walked away as if she hadn’t just dismantled an ambush with a walking stick.
Sarah blinked, then looked at Harold.
“…I was going to say...”
Harold, still with a large smile on his face, looked at Sarah with a laugh from Bethal’s antics and sheer presence. Pulled her into him. “I know what you were gonna say.”
“You are, without a doubt, an adventurer in the truest sense of the word… and a good person. You see danger and throw yourself at it. You see injustice, and you move to strike it.”
“I need that, but I need you to see how your actions reflect on me if you want me to support your actions.”
Harold paused before he spoke again, and Sarah dug herself deeper into him under his arm. Harold reveled in the closeness and warmth she provided. It was a feeling he wished for so many times after she died. It wasn't something he would ever take for granted again, and it hurt him that he had to give her two options to choose from here.
“From here, I can give you two options.” He paused, licking his lips as he distanced himself from her a little as he looked at her face.
“One, take your punishment from your adventurer's leadership, and you’ll be placed with Garrick's scouts program so that you can learn to operate effectively on your own. A couple of months doing that instead of our adventuring and earning perks ought to be a pretty effective punishment for you. I’ll have to disown your actions while also highlighting the service you did for me. As far as things go, I think it’s pretty light.”
“Or..I will discreetly load you up with every potion and piece of equipment I can give you. To the detriment of the Landing and what I am building. If you feel so strongly that you belong out there, adventuring and exploring, doing what you think is best. Then I will support you to the best of my ability and send you on your way.”
Sarah looked at him, shock and hurt crossed her face in equal quantities as Harold stood up. Pulling Sarah woodenly up next to him. “I love you, Sarah, and I’ll support you as best I can, but I need you to understand that going off on your own like that was selfish.. And don't use the Thresher King as an excuse. The knights could have handled that." She stood there still for a long moment before storming away from the firelight, away from him.
Harold watched her go, feeling the madness creep back in some, and for a moment, he reveled in the familiar sensation. It was senseless and comforting in its insanity. As the feeling rushed through him, he became aware of the gentle hush of the river in the distance, its quiet presence a stabilizing motif amidst his inner turmoil. He exhaled slowly, as though breathing in the calm rhythm of the river’s flow, forcefully pushing the madness back.
Harold watched where Sarah had walked off for a moment, hoping she would come back and knowing she wouldn't. Their family had called her Saratops for a reason; she was as stubborn as ever, but she would understand why he did what he did...eventually. The river's constant whisper lingered in his mind, anchoring him as he stood alone.
Harold took a seat by the fire again and began to pulse his mana through him, running through the familiar exercise.
