Chapter 8

Aaand we run into our first mage. Yay.

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(Erik POV)

The day of departure finally came.

There were tears, though neither Erik nor Arne were crying. Lily's eyes were red, but she didn't cry either—not surprising, considering she'd cried all week. Erik supposed she'd used up all her tears.

Grace and her family cried the most. It was in this kind of atmosphere where they had their first kiss. Her lips were trembling, wet and tasting of salt. Erik didn't know whether Grace was afraid for him or afraid for herself and her family—maybe a bit of both.

Some humor, like a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, helped alleviate the mood—related to Arne and Millie, one of Grace's younger sisters. The curly, mousey-haired girl suddenly separated from her family, running toward Arne.

Erik found it incredibly funny, seeing his little brother dumbstruck by the girl tearfully throwing her arms around his shoulders. He couldn't help laughing at Arne's growing discomfort and realization about what was happening.

Arne managed to separate from Millie who clung to him like a limpet, but it was difficult. Erik actually felt sorry for the poor girl, mustering up her courage only to be rejected.

In the end, the caravan leader, a man named Westley, threatened to leave without them if they didn't finish their 'hugging and smooching'.

Both he and Arne hurriedly said their last farewells.

Though the parting was painful, Erik consoled himself knowing it was only temporary, at least his talks with father John suggested this. Because his blessings were so... powerful, the Abbey would treat him well. Once Erik established himself, he wouldn't forget his parents, nor Grace and her family.

Wearing a determined expression, he waved farewell to everyone, doing his best not to cry.

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(Arne POV)

Unexpectedly, as the caravan distanced itself from Westbrook, its members' gloomy moods didn't improve, but degraded further.

At first, everyone was visibly relieved. It would be easy to call them cowardly, but if I did, I'd be a hypocrite—I was just as frightened of the trolls, and glad I didn't have to deal with them.

The reason for our growing depression were the refugees we encountered on the road. Dirty, wearing tattered clothes and with hollow cheeks—there was no other way to describe them.

Struggling to make sense of the situation, my ignorance once again reared its ugly head. I couldn't remember what the continent of the Eastern Kingdoms looked like.

In this day and age, maps weren't easy to come by. If you got your hands on one, it would be a depiction of the local country while being either incorrect or incomplete.

Call me stupid, but for some reason, I assumed the west would be hit first. However, thinking about it, I remembered stories of Westfall being a coastal land.

However, there was the matter of the caravan, and that fellow, Sam from Eastvale. He hadn't brought any news about monsters, and he lived on the opposite side of Elwynn Forest.

Then again, he probably hadn't seen his hometown in a year, so his information was hardly up-to-date.

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We were a week into our journey and hadn't stopped running into stragglers. However, most of these people were like startled deer, hurrying to the side of the road at our approach.

Now and then, caravan master Westley tempted one or two with something to eat and drink, quietly bringing them into his tent to discuss. I could guess the topic of their conversations, and it was inevitable for some information to leak.

Unfortunately, aside from vague stories about monster attacks, I didn't hear anything valuable. Even the monster descriptions were untrustworthy, changing with every retelling. It was impossible to distinguish true from false.

Currently, we were trudging through mud, the dirt roads having turned to mush after days of unceasing rain. Erik and I were soaked and miserable. Not having horses or mules, we could only follow on foot.

The clouds were such that it was difficult to tell the time of day—the dense treetops obscuring daylight didn't help either.

Estimating the time roughly, we arrived near the outskirts of an unassuming town around midday. It was called Marley, a name I hadn't heard before.

"You okay?"

Erik cast a sideways glance at me, seeing the look of suffering on my face. Being a few years older and having hit his growth spurt, he was having a far easier time than me.

I looked regretfully at my own short legs, then back at him. Adulthood couldn't come fast enough.

"Huff, huff… I'm hanging on..."

The combination of flat, wet shoes and uneven terrain was a terrible one. My feet were sore and blistered—fortunately, Erik shared some of his salve, given by Lily.

Just as I felt about ready to faint, the caravan master's voice sounded from ahead.

"Easy now, we'll break for lunch."

His shout revealed a hint of exhaustion, not surprising given the difficult terrain.

Grabbing Erik's shoulder, I steadied myself. My brother didn't make things difficult for me, leading us to a patch of dirt under some trees.

He left me there for a minute or two, running to grab a pair of wooden stools from under a tarp-covered wagon.

"Sit down, eat this. When the fire's up, I'll boil some water."

I nodded gratefully, accepting the jerky handed to me.

There was a companionable silence as we rested and ate some road-rations.

However, a few tall figures suddenly approached the two of us, interrupting our brooding. One of them was familiar—Sam, the scoundrel from Eastvale.

"Hey Erik, you thirsty? Hans, this guy, he actually traded for some spiced wine the day before yesterday. He wanted to hide it, but fortunately I caught him, haha!"

Wearing a dumb smirk, Sam slapped 'Hans' on the back, a plain-faced man with some stubble on his chin.

I glanced at my brother, seeing a glimmer of interest in his eyes. Alcohol was actually not that common here, contrary to expectations. At least, thinking back, I remembered something about people being heavy drinkers during the medieval time-period.

"Uh…"

Though Erik looked eager, he didn't agree immediately, meeting my eyes briefly. Over the past week-and-a-half, he'd forged relationships with some of the other caravanners. He was a mild, likable fellow, but honestly people were just sucking up to him because he was an up-and-coming cleric.

I gave him a casual wave.

"Don't worry about me. I'm so tired, I think I'll take a short nap under a tree."

Erik nodded, still somewhat concerned but with a hint of relief. It was understandable—as someone who'd once been an older sibling, I sympathized with having to constantly babysit.

Sam's expression turned mocking.

"See? 'Young lord' Arne already gave his permission, so let's drink!"

Next to him, Hans and his other nameless friend chuckled.

I felt my eyebrow twitch, but I didn't say anything, picking up my stool and sitting down with my back against a trunk.

I never liked Sam, though I didn't make it obvious. However, as a merchant, he did possess some skill when it came to reading people. That isn't to say he was smart—he certainly wasn't, but as a life-long haggler, it was inevitable for him to learn a few things.

When the four of them left, drinking and hanging out with the other caravanners, I closed my eyes to get some rest.

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When I woke up, it was already dark.

Wet and ice-cold, I stood and stretched, trying to massage some blood back into my limbs. Before nodding off, I draped a coarse cloth over my head and shoulders, shielding me from most of the wind and rain.

Rubbing my eyes, I looked around in confusion. A few small campfires were scattered around me, but Erik was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, a burst of cheers and laughter attracted my attention—a bonfire raged in the center of four drawn caravans, with people making merry around it.

My lips quirked upward. I didn't begrudge my brother his fun—God knows we had little, growing up.

I sighed, a burst of steam exited my nose and mouth. We'd be roughing it tonight as well, so I'd better start a fire. Fortunately, I was confident in my ability, and we'd bundled some dry wood ahead of time.

At some point, Erik had dug a pit, covering the wet soil with stones. Before long, I had a flame there, and it just took a little care and attention for it to grow. Though, even if it went out or I didn't succeed, I'd just borrow a few smoldering logs from one of my neighbors.

Drawing close, I sat there silently, warming my hands and staring into the flames. I had no idea how much time passed, but the ruckus behind me didn't show any signs of dying down.

In a state of torpor, it was a wonder I heard it—footsteps, trudging through the mud, cracking twigs and dislodging stones. Then again, the new arrival probably alerted me on purpose, not wanting to be misunderstood.

However, because of their origin – sounding from the nighttime forest's dense, dark depths – I was instantly on alert, my mouth open and ready to shout.

Suddenly, a shadowy, cloaked figure appeared near the edge of my firelight, his eyes glinting strangely in his cowl.

Our gazes locked, and I abruptly felt a sense of drowsiness, like a thick fog blanketing my thoughts. I grabbed my head involuntarily, my lips moving but no sound coming out. What was I just doing? Where was I, and who was this man?

In my confusion, I saw him grinning, flashing a perfect set of straight, white teeth—unusual enough in this day and age.

"Calm down, kid. We're not bandits, just a pair of travelers looking for a warm fire, and something to eat and drink."

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