It's been several hours after the Legarthat incident, and the day's journey has been quite peaceful since – as peaceful as what could be allowed on this side of the barrier, almost 150 miles deep into the misted region. The group has yet to run into anymore undead, and are simply making their way to the next checkpoint, one step at a time. At the front of the traveling team are Veros and Erik, with the others trailing behind in pairs about twenty feet apart.

“I've been wondering ever since Legarthat.” Veros suddenly speaks in a low volume, leaning a bit towards Erik. “You said it was a sacrificial ritual that caused the mess we saw, right?”

“Yes.” Erik responds, equally quietly, with a nod. “Aldrua.”

“And as a sacrificial ritual, it was religious in nature, right?”

“Of course.”

“So which god are the sacrifices for?”

“Zerruth.” Erik says after a sharp, long inhale. “The old god of death. The king and clergy back then had to denounce him in order to get the people to stop doing sacrificial rituals.”

“Hmm.” Veros only grunts, both interested, but just as confused as he was before he started talking.

“What are you thinking about?” Erik inquires. “Do you have an idea about those sacrificed undead we saw?”

“Not necessarily.” The team leader admits with a slight shake of his head. “I'm trying to piece together whether or not the ritual in Legarthat is related to the dead monks we saw yesterday.”

“I can see your train of thought on that.” Erik agrees with the idea initially, but a tinge of doubt seeps onto his expression. “But it's highly unlikely monks from Evatica today have any sort of connection with Zerruth.” Erik furrows his brow and narrows his eyes for a moment before another important thought crosses his mind. “Although, monks would be the only other ones who would know what Aldrua is, outside of educated nobles who read history books. There aren't many of the latter, honestly.”

“The other problem is the fact that those monks were likely dead for months; since immediately after the mist appeared, I'm sure. It's doubtful that those ritual victims were that old.”

“Whether they're related to each other or not, they're certainly strange, and could hint at another danger to be aware of here.”

“I know we're not out here to solve riddles.” Veros continues with a sigh. “But it's just too strange for me to ignore. Yet it's also too dangerous to get sidetracked just to find answers for these things that aren't even related to our mission.”

“Stuck between a rock and a hard place.” Erik expresses his sympathies for Veros's internal problems.

“Indeed.” Veros silently lets himself be pulled into a hole of endless speculation.

Behind them, Royd and Kellar are following. The brawny warrior is in the middle of taking a gigantic, juicy bite out of his third consecutive apple, and showing little signs of passing up a fourth when he's done with it. The loud, crunchy chewing eventually gets the better of his comrade.

“Don't you know how to chew with your damn mouth closed?” The bald rogue gripes.

“My bites are too big sometimes.” Royd answers after an audible gulp.

“Well then take smaller bites.” Kellar changes his complaint into a lecture. “It'd be really pathetic if a fella as big as you died from chokin' on an apple out here instead of in a fight.”

“You have a point there.” The big man admits, but that doesn't stop him from taking another, equally large bite anyway. Halfway through his chewing, when there's enough room in his mouth to push out words that are intelligible, he speaks again. “I've got a question for ya.”

“Oh? And what's that?” Kellar replies with an aggressive snap to his tone.

“Why do you need to loot so badly?” Royd asks with his mouth momentarily food-free.

“Asking that again?” Kellar is resistant to give a straight answer, but his tone is a bit more docile than it was a second ago. “Do I need a reason to want money?”

“Well, yes.” Royd, taking the question quite literally, responds while tossing the apple core to the side of the road. “Wanting money means you have something you intend to spend it on, does it not?”

“Look, buddy.” Kellar begins to retort with a wag of his finger directed at his teammate. “My finances aren't important, alright?”

“I should also mention that the word you used back in Legarthat was 'need', not 'want'.” Royd continues to egg his comrade on while simultaneously reaching for a fourth apple in his bag, as expected. “I'm not going to judge you. I'm only curious.”

“Well, you're fuckin' perceptive when you want to be.” Kellar gripes under his breath. “Let's just say it's property-related, alright?”

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“You're gonna lose your house or some such?” Royd asks with yet another mouthful of apple.

Kellar sighs. “Somethin' like that.” He closes off the conversation with another vague comment.

“Fair enough.” The big woodcutter accepts the half-hearted answer between bites.

Before long, the sun is beginning to set, and due to the nature of the mist becoming thicker as they progress, it's slightly darker now than it was yesterday at the same time. Luckily, before visibility becomes dangerously low, they reach the third checkpoint on their route: Checkpoint Tenumbur. Despite the dangerous fight in Legarthat earlier in the day, the group was fortunate to not come across any undead wandering the roads afterward.

As they enter Tenumbur, they follow the usual procedure they've already grown used to when staying at checkpoints: showing cards to the soldiers guarding the gate and getting said cards stamped at headquarters after hitching the horses. In a mission as dangerous as wandering into the unknown fog that covers a massive area of the country, it's this short but tedious routine that allows them to feel as ease. However, a pattern has been noticed as they finish their errands: that not only does the mist become thicker and visibility becomes worse as they delve further into the grey abyss, but checkpoints also seem emptier than the ones before. Not only are there fewer Mistwalkers at Tenumbur compared to Eowerth and Aethen, but there's also fewer Legion soldiers either on guard or out patrolling.

The most welcome part of their daily checkpoint procedure is eating dinner in the dining hall. Sadly, the variety and quantity of food available to them follows the same pattern of degradation as the number of checkpoint inhabitants do, much to their annoyance – especially Royd's. Though that isn't to say there isn't enough to fill them up or not adequately prepare them for the next day. They pick their meal and sit together at the end of a table near the center of the room.

“Such a damn shame there's no sirloin here.” Royd voices his complaints and poutfully slumps his shoulders despite an obviously full plate.

“Just count your blessin's and eat.” Kellar remarks.

There's a short pause among them as they quietly eat their meals, but Veros has a troubled expression on his face, and consumes his food at only a fraction of the pace as the others. He looks around the dining hall to the other people inside: only four soldiers at one table, and two Mistwalkers at another.

“When we're done eating, you all can go set up your tents.” Veros speaks. “I want to ask some of the other people around about the area – specifically if they've seen other dead monks around or those burnt undead.”

“The monk thing could be a coincidence, couldn't it?” Kellar asks. “Don't members of the monastery in Evatica travel up to Armasstadt on the regular? Maybe they went at a bad time.”

“Every couple years, yes.” Veros answers, but still isn't certain of the nature of the monks' presence in the mist. “Something just doesn't sit right with me. And in the case of those charred undead, it'd be nice to know if they're common or not.”

“I suppose.” Kellar gives a non-committal shrug, agreeing with the team leader, though he doesn't seem nearly as invested in the idea.

Not long after, their meal is complete and the second half of their daily checkpoint procedure begins: setting up tents and laying out bedrolls. The five of them set up camp for the night in the usual cluster, making sure no one is too far from anyone else. The men also shed their armor and change into their more relaxing cotton clothes. At the behest of Zyra, she and Atticus wander to the far side of the checkpoint border in order to practice her pyromancy without disturbing anyone around them.

“Combustra!” The pyromancer shouts with confidence and gusto, and as expected, a large, near-blinding flame emerges from her fingertip for a second before vanishing as quickly as it came.

“You've cut your casting time down a lot in only a day.” Atticus gives praise to her improvement. “By about half, I'd say. You're doing good.”

“Thanks.” Zyra says with an embarrassed half-smile. “You were really right about how one's state of mind affects their casting. The university puts more emphasis on the incantation and hand form. It's not really enough for someone who has a mental block like I do.”

“That's the polar opposite of what we're taught in Threcia.” Atticus reminisces of his days studying pyromancy. “We're told that first and foremost, your state mind has the most influence on your ability to cast and is the thing we should master before anything else.”

“So...” The mage suddenly sounds mischievous as she caresses her bracelet. “Does that mean that if I give you my bracelet, you'd be able to cast just fine?”

“It's been several years...” The knight, surprised at the invitation, shows some reluctance, but still considers it. “But I might.”

“Here.” Zyra promptly unlocks her bracelet, where a visible print on the skin of her right wrist is left in its place, and hands it to Atticus. “I want to see you cast.”

“Alright.” The de facto pyromancy teacher concedes after a sigh, and slips the bracelet onto his left wrist. “I can't guarantee anything.”

Zyra smiles with unbridled anticipation as the out-of-practice former pyromancer prepares himself for his first cast in years. At first, he simply collects himself, calmly standing still, eyes closed, ignoring all of his surroundings. He slowly picks up his left hand, palm facing down, extending his index finger and thumb forward; intending to cast Combustion, just as Zyra has been doing.

He stares at his hand with intense, narrowed eyes. His breaths are deep and heavy, and jaw is clenched. The moment stretches out longer than the hopeful Zyra expected, and now her eyes slowly start to show worry instead of expectancy. She considers opening her mouth to rescind her request, but suddenly, an intense flame finally pours from Atticus's fingertip, just as hot and large as the one Zyra was able to conjure, if not hotter and larger. In that instant, her growing regret quickly transforms into awe. As the spell is designed to do, the flame disperses after only a second of existing. The knight lets go of a long, exhausted sigh.

“Sorry.” He says while removing the bracelet. “It took longer than I wanted to cast. Guess I should learn from my own lessons.”

“No...” Zyra shakes her head timidly while accepting the bracelet back. “That was great. You even did a silent incantation, which I wasn't expecting. I know you said it's been years, but you really could've fooled me.”

“I wasn't exaggerating when I said state of mind was the first thing we learned to master in Threcia. It was more or less beaten into our heads. Sometimes literally.” Atticus says while wiping the dampness away from his forehead that had collected while he was attempting to cast.

“Sounds like I need to move to Threcia.” The pyromancer says with a smile as she reequips her bracelet. “Maybe after all of this is over, I'll go there. I'm sure I'll learn something.”

There's a pause between them after she says that, as if she expects a specific reply. Atticus is aware of it, but he struggles at the thought of giving her a response she probably wants to hear, as it probably isn't an honest one on his part.