“This is it, huh?” The rogue remarks before turning back towards the fire. “Tomorrow night, we make our way to Armasstadt. We're about to do what thousands have failed at – assuming they truly attempted to make it this far – but...” He narrows his eyes as he tries to quietly grab at the right words to couple with his feelings. “But it doesn't feel like we're any closer to success. Why is that, you think?”

“Perhaps it's because of a lack of festivity.” Royd answers. “No one besides us knows that we're out this far to begin with. As far anyone else knows, we might have died days ago.”

“Honestly, we still might.” Veros remarks. “Just because we're closer to our destination than we've ever been doesn't mean that we're safe. If anything, this last stretch of our journey could be the most dangerous part. We don't know.”

“If we are the ones who destroy the source of the mist,” Zyra asks, “do you think it's because we were destined to do it? Could it have happened if it were anyone else?”

“That's...” The veteran shakes his head, unsure of how to even approach that train of thought. “I don't think that's something we could ever truly know. Maybe it could've been all luck. Maybe another group of six equally competent people could've indeed done it if they had just traveled at the times we did, and took the same roads, stopped at the same checkpoints – all of that. Maybe we narrowly escaped certain death in some ways that we aren't aware of. Who knows what sort of small decision could've been made to prevent us from getting as far as we did?”

“If there is a specific person or group of people who are 'destined' to get rid of the mist,” Kellar speaks up, “and we're not them, then wouldn't that suggest we're walkin' directly into unavoidable failure? But if we are them, then we're walkin' into guaranteed success.”

“I don't know if such a thought would make me feel better or not.” Atticus interjects. “The idea that quelling the mist is a destined act meant for a specific person means success or failure is a fifty-fifty chance. But would a fifty percent chance at success be higher or lower than whatever the chances are if it's not a destined act?”

“Maybe we'll know when we get there.” Veros responds pragmatically.

“One thing's for sure,” Kellar adds, “if I were to find that we are somehow 'destined' to remove the mist, then I'd be fuckin' pissed that we didn't do it sooner.”

“But maybe we're fated to only do it this specific amount of time after it appeared.” Royd remarks. “If we had done it earlier, maybe we'd fail.”

The ex-mercenary heaves a drawn-out sigh. “Destiny or fate or whatever is such a load of shite.” He stands up and arches his back and extends his arms to stretch. “We'll fuckin' go up there tomorrow and do what we want, anyway. But as for right this moment, I want to sleep.”

“What are the rooms like, anyway?” Royd asks.

“They're all pretty much the same.” Veros answers. “Same size, same beds. You can just pick one.”

“That's a relief.” The woodcutter stands and stretches, as well. “I've grown too used to that bedroll. I'm glad the final night of our journey can be spent in real beds. Good night!” Royd and Kellar retire for the night and head to the second floor to pick out their rooms and sleep.

“Sleep does sound like a good idea at the moment.” Atticus comments. “Drinking ale after a somewhat significant amount of blood loss was probably not a very smart idea.” He admits as he stands up with a noticeable lack of balance and sturdiness.

Zyra uses her hand to help him stand straight. “Are you okay? I'll go with you.” She stands as well, ready to accompany him upstairs.

“Thanks.” The knight utters. He and the mage are the next to call it a night and proceed to bed, with Zyra propping him up as they ascend the steps. Veros and Erik are the last two sitting around the fire.

“You know,” the veteran speaks up, “when we first came together, before meeting Atticus, I had assumed you'd probably try and move in on Zyra – take advantage of your noble status.”

“Did you think I was quiet to try and look suave or something?” Erik asks as a self-deprecating smile crosses his face. “Hate to break it to you, but I'm not charismatic in the slightest. My silence in the first couple days of our journey was half my usual introversion, and half anxiety.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“Sorry for making assumptions.”

The archer shakes his head. “It's alright. I don't blame you. Anyone would expect a young man from old money to be more outgoing.”

“Well, at least you're not at the age where you're beating yourself up over not having children yet.” Veros replies with a defeated sigh. “It's truly an odd predicament I've found myself in.”

“How's your relationship with your woman? Other than any quarrels about children, I mean.”

“Perfectly fine, really.” The veteran answers with a small shrug. “As I mentioned, I have no problem with a idea of marriage, and for a while, I've been seriously considering taking that step.”

“And you're not now?”

“The topic of children is a very important one for us. If I can't find a way to remedy our current issues, then...” Veros pauses to somberly shake his head at the fading flame in the pit. “We might have to go our separate ways.”

“That's unfortunate, but it's a disagreement that can't be taken lightly and just ignored, I suppose.” Erik gives an honest comment as delicately as he can.

“Indeed. Perhaps I'll come around to the idea sooner than later. I do like children. I just never really entertained the thought of having my own. I wouldn't want us to split up over this.”

“There's a lot of reasons for relationships to end, and there's not many that can be clearly defined as 'good' or 'bad' reasons. I would know.” The noble laments, referring to the short-lived relationship he discussed earlier. With that comment, he stands up and stretches his arms. “I think I'll call it here, as well.”

“I'll stay up for a little while longer – watch the fire fade a bit.” Veros replies, staring at the dimming flame that dances at the tiniest disturbance in the air.

“Alright. Good night.” Erik starts to approach the staircase, but stops at the first step to turn and make a final statement. “By the way, while she's a very pretty young woman, I didn't have any intention of chatting up Zyra. Ironically, Atticus is more my type.”

Veros smiles. “You said you're still interested in women, but I'm starting to think that was a fib.”

“It's not a fib. I just happen to be more picky about women than I am with men.”

“Fair enough. Have a good night.”

Erik continues to the second floor, where he looks for a room to stay in. From the top of the stairs, he sees two closed doors to the left – rooms 1 and 2 – and one to the right – room 5 – across the hall, suggesting three rooms are occupied despite four people walking upstairs before him. Thinking nothing of it, he claims one of the vacant ones.

In room 5, Atticus and Zyra are lying next to each other, with the mage pressed up against the knight's left side. His eyes are closed, but he isn't yet asleep. Zyra can't help but stare at the reddened skin on his neck, barely visible under the limited moonlight coming from the window above the head of the bed.

“Does your cut still hurt?” She asks, gently and slowly brushing the tip of her finger against the slightly tender area.

“Not really.” Atticus answers without opening his eyes. “The ale probably dimmed my senses though. Just don't reopen it and get covered in my blood.”

“You're not a heavy drinker, are you?”

“Not particularly. But I'm not a very rowdy drunk to begin with. If anything, I'm a sleepy one.” He admits, following up with a small sigh.

“Sorry.” Zyra apologizes and retracts her hand.

“You're not keeping me awake or anything like that. I'm just little preoccupied about what we'll be doing tomorrow – what we might find in Armasstadt.”

“Yeah. I'm a bit worried, too.” The young pyromancer becomes quiet for a moment, still staring at Atticus's stoic, expressionless face. “...Was Isabelle really the king of Threcia's niece?”

The knight finally opens his eyes and turns his head. “She was.” He answers with a slight nod. “I know it probably came as a surprise – I didn't really think to mention it. I didn't want to seem like I was gloating; that's the last way I'd ever want to convey my time with her.”

“No, I understand. You weren't obligated to mention it. But...” She tucks her chin in, appearing uncertain and insecure. “I can't help but feel a bit... intimidated.”

“What do you mean? Because you've entered my life after a woman of royalty?”

Zyra nods. “Yes. I'm a commoner girl who can only afford to attend the arcane university because her father had to sell his textiles shop. I've never met Isabelle before, but I can't help but picture someone perfect and compare myself to her.”

“When I'm talking to you, I'm not spending my time quietly comparing you to her.” Atticus states with serious, stern eyes. “Isabelle was her own person, just as you are. I don't expect you to be like her. I want you to just be yourself.”

The mage quietly meditates on his words for a moment before a grateful smile crosses her face. “Thank you.” She says, and presses her forehead against his shoulder. “I'm sorry if I sound like I'm always trying to make things about me. I'm new to this... romance thing.”

The corner of his mouth curves into a small, wry smile. “It's alright. I'm not as experienced as you might think, either.”

Though hidden from his sight, Zyra smiles too, and punctuates her improved mood by firmly grasping his hand. With nothing else to say, she rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes. Before long, the two drift into a deep slumber and enter the final day of their quest.