Morning comes, and dulled sunlight pours into the bedroom where Atticus and Zyra are beginning to stir awake in the same positions they fell asleep in. The knight is the first open his eyes and slowly recollect his memories of the previous night. He turns his head to notice the young pyromancer still pressed up against him, and also feels the tight grip on his forearm. Without sitting up, he tries to wake her.

“Zyra.” He softly calls to her, gently shaking her shoulder. “Wake up. It's morning.”

The mage's eye flutter open as she regains consciousness. Still dazed, she rubs her eyes and checks her surroundings, looking around the room and eventually up at Atticus's face.

“It's morning already?” She asks sleepily. “I feel like I blinked and now it's daylight.”

“Same here.” The knight's lips curve into a small smile as he nods in agreement. “We should get up, it's quite bright out. We might be the last ones awake.”

“Alright.” Zyra sighs and extends her arms and legs to stretch and loosen up her body for the journey ahead.

After the two have woken up enough to be alert, they exit the room to see their comrades, who are already in the midst of eating their small breakfasts.

“Good morning, you two.” Veros greets them. “Don't waste too much time getting ready, the sun's already past the point at which we usually depart.”

“Where are we headed today?” Royd asks before taking a large bite out of a raw potato.

“I rechecked the map right after I woke up.” The veteran answers. “There's another two villages on our route for the day: Adderland, which is about thirteen miles north, and then Surling, about twenty-four miles after that. If my math is correct, once we reach Surling, we'll be only about fifty miles from Armasstadt.”

“I take it we won't try to reach it tomorrow?” Kellar asks while plucking a grape from a cluster of about a hundred or so and placing it in his mouth.

Veros shakes his head. “There's no way we'll be in Armasstadt by tomorrow night. If we try that, it'll be dark when we do, and Gods know what sort of dangers lurk there. It certainly wouldn't be the best conditions. We're better off getting as close as we can the night before, and then reaching it in the morning. At the very least, we'd have daylight on our side then.”

“Fair enough.” The rogue responds, listlessly plucking another grape and eating it.

“How are the horses this morning?” Atticus asks no one in particular.

“They're fine.” Veros answers. “I checked on them a few minutes ago. They had some hay lying around for them to eat, but I imagine they're thirsty.”

“They're not the only ones.” Royd comments before fitting the last bit of potato into his cheeks, but also can't help but lick his dry, slightly cracked lips.

“There's actually a stream after Adderland.” The leader responds, alleviating any worries pertaining to the group's water supply. “I've heard the mist doesn't affect water, so we can collect some there and boil it clean when we stop at Surling, as a precaution.” He stands up and walks over to Royd. “Here, lean forward. I should check up on your wound.”

The woodcutter complies. “It still feels quite tender, particularly when I bring my shoulder forward.” He comments as Veros pulls the head hole of Royd's shirt down enough to catch a glimpse of the stitched injury.

“It still looks a bit red, but I don't see any sign of infection.” The veteran remarks, satisfied at the treatment of the wound. “You'll be alright soon enough. Think you can still hold your shield up?”

The brawny warrior nods with confidence. “I believe I can. It might be a tad troublesome in some cases, but for the most part I think it'll be alright.”

“Good. Now, let's all hurry and get ready to leave. We still have to saddle the horses before we go.” Veros dutifully reminds his allies and encourages a hasty morning procedure.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Later, once the six Mistwalkers have eaten their fill, donned their armor and weapons, and saddled their horses yet again, they continue their journey by riding back to the main road cutting through Kildare, carefully examining the foggy boundary around them for hostiles.

“I don't see any undead.” Royd comments. “I guess they really did give up on following us. I suppose it's safe to stop worrying about enemies that might be behind us and go back to worrying about ones that might be ahead.”

“This far north, we might still need to do both.” Veros responds, still remembering the fact that the horde successfully snuck up on them yesterday. He isn't looking forward to the group accidentally placing themselves in the same compromising position. They almost certainly would've met their end if Atticus hadn't caught on to their plan before they initiated the ambush.

“How's your head feeling?” Veros asks Atticus as they exit Kildare.

“It's better.” The knight answers firmly. “I had a good night's sleep, so the throbbing pain is gone. Though it might show up once more if I have to use fire breath again so soon.” He explains, hesitant of casting more high-level magic for an extended period of time, but ultimately, he'd still do it when it's necessary.

Kellar and Royd are riding at the rear of the group like usual, but the musclebound woodcutter keeps his left arm tucked against his stomach and on his lap to help minimize any sort of force on his shoulder.

“So, Kellar,” Royd begins speaking, “you said yesterday that you've stitched up wounds several times before. Were they your own?”

“Yeah.” The ex-mercenary answers plainly. “I stitched my own scrapes up a few times. It took a few attempts before I could do it cleanly, though.”

“So you have scars to show for your time as a mercenary, eh?” The bulky man inquires, as his comrade's clothes and armor don't allow any room to show even the slightest bit of skin aside from his hands, head, and neck.

Kellar nods. “Yup. The biggest one is along the side of my thigh. Needed over thirty stitches for that one.”

“How in the world did you get that?”

“Not in a fight, if that's what you're wonderin'.” The rogue reluctantly admits before pushing out a sigh.

“What do you mean?” Royd pushes for details.

Kellar twists his face into a mild scowl before he concedes and tells the tale. “We were tryin' to climb over the iron fence of some noble's estate to grab his son, who was avoidin' a trial. It was more of a bounty hunt job than a normal mercenary gig. So, while trying to make my way over the fence, I lost balance and fell over. The skin of my thigh caught a sharp edge on the fence and tore it open. I had to climb back over and get fixed.”

“Ha ha! Are you serious?” Royd lets out a belly laugh in amusement at his companion's humiliating retelling of his injury. “You got your biggest scar because you couldn't climb over a fence properly? Ha ha ha!” He slaps his thigh in delight.

“Hey, shut your fuckin' yap, will you?” Kellar snaps at him. “It's embarrassin', you big goon. The only other people who know of that are my wife and the people who were on my team at the time. I got enough shit from them about it to last a damned lifetime.”

“Alright, alright.” The woodcutter concedes while wiping away his tears of laughter between muffled giggles. “I expected someone who looked as roguish as you to have a reputation of having more... finesse.”

“It was just one accident.” Kellar retorts in an irate tone. “It wasn't something that happened all the damn time.”

“Tell me, friend.” Royd finally straightens his face to segue into a different topic. “Were your days in your mercenary band the days when you decided heroism is dumb?” He asks, calling back to the conversation they had last night. “Or was that a viewpoint you've always had?”

Kellar lifts an eyebrow, unsure of why his teammate was asking such a question, but humors him anyway. “Well, when I joined, it was just beaten into my head that the life of the individual isn't as important as the life of the group. We were told over and over again to never play hero if we found ourself in a dangerous situation.”

“Meaning what, exactly? Never running into danger to save a teammate?”

“Pretty much.” The ex-mercenary answers candidly with a nod. “Those are the breaks in the sword-for-hire world. Every time someone in the team runs into a life-threatenin' situation to save someone else, they're now riskin' two people instead of one. The group I was with can't survive on sentiment like that. You always cut your losses so long as doing so doesn't directly stop the mission's success. Some of the best groups need to keep their numbers high to ensure regular employment.”

“Huh.” A sullen expression washes over Royd's face. “I can see why such rules would enforce a more... self-reliant attitude.”

“It was fuckin' miserable.” Kellar immediately remarks. “It was supposed to make sure we don't take unnecessary risks, but it just gave everyone an excuse to be shitheads to each other. There was no use in playin' nice outside of the mission, because anyone could be left to die at any day. It turned everyone selfish – made us all look out for ourselves.”

“I can understand why you would be so eager to leave such a lifestyle behind.”

“I sure as hell don't miss it.” Kellar continues his griping with clear disgust in his voice. “It's why I'm desperate to find something valuable here to loot and sell. I really don't want to back to that sort of work, but I might need to if I leave here empty-handed.”

Royd silently sympathizes, realizing that Kellar's constant apprehensiveness of fighting or taking risks during the journey must have been born from the habits he had developed during his mercenary days that made self-preservation paramount.