During his recuperation, Hunter had worked on a plan to more or less optimize his downtime from Elderpyre for rest, fitness and self-care.

He exercised, took a shower, ate, took a walk around the courtyard, and was in bed by nine o’ clock in the evening. He was up by four-forty-five in the morning, ran a few laps around the courtyard again, and ate a hearty breakfast by himself in the cafeteria. By five-thirty, he was already putting on his casque and getting ready to log back in.

He materialized in the same spot he was when he’d logged out the previous evening, at the center of the clearing, just a few paces away from where Fawkes had set up camp. She was already up, making herbal tea over a small smoldering fire. Fyodor was curled up next to her, still napping. Biggs and Wedge were perched somewhere in the trees surrounding the clearing, keeping a watchful eye for anything out of the ordinary.

“Welcome back!” Biggs projected through the mental link they shared.

“All is well!” Wedge reported proudly.

Hunter projected a notion of appreciation to the familiars, in which they both happily basked, then went to sit by the fire with Fawkes. The direwolf smelled him, opened a wary eye, waved a bushy tail, and licked his hand, giving him his own brand of snoozy welcome.

“Good morning,” Hunter told Fawkes.

“Good morning. Sleep well?”

“Like a log. Any trouble?”

“No. The godling delivered on his promise. Not even a gnat came near us all night.”

“The owl-thing?”

“In its burrow, only occasionally coming up to give me the stink-eye.”

Hunter turned his head round and shot a glance at the burrow’s opening. Was it just him, or could he see a set of huge yellow eyes peering out of the dark?

“In its defense,” he said, “we’ve set up camp in its front yard.”

“Well,” Fawkes said, leering at the dark opening. “We’ll be gone soon enough.”

“Right. Should I start to pack?”

“No. Sit a while.”

Hunter did, and Fawkes handed him a tin cup full of steaming hot herbal tea. Fyodor shifted his body around so that his head was on Hunter’s lap and his backside pressed against her thigh, like a furry bridge between the two of them.

“Thanks,” Hunter said. “It’s chilly out here.”

Fawkes nodded, poured a cup for herself, and sat silent for a moment, looking at the pre-dawn sky.

“You must learn how to take care of yourself on your own, Hunter,” she said at last.

“I know how to brew tea,” Hunter gave her a puzzled look.

“That’s not what I mean. A couple of days ago, you said you want to make the best out of your time on… on this side of things. See things, do things you can’t on your side of things.”

“Right.”

“From now on,” she continued, “you said you wanted to live life like an adventure. Or something equally lukewarm and poetic.”

“I did,” said Hunter, ignoring the meek attempt at a jab.

“Well, you have to learn how to handle yourself. I won’t be around forever. I mean, both in day-to-day small things and in a fight.”

“Uh… where is this coming from?” Hunter looked at her, perplexed. “I think I did more than fine in that last fight, considering I have the essence of an eldritch abomination in my backpack right now.”

“You barely know which part of your glaive is the sharp and pointy one,” Fawkes sighed. “You rely on the two windbags and your harebrained schemes for everything, and when those don’t work, you simply throw yourself at your problems and hope you’ll pop right back in, as if death never brushed you.”

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“Hey, if it works-”

“Bloody hell, lad! It doesn’t work! You almost broke your brain last time! Do you fancy spending the rest of your life as a - what did you call it”

“A vegetable.”

“A vegetable! Do you fancy spending the rest of your life as a vegetable? For what? This place is not even real to you!”

“Let’s not go down that road again,” Hunter said, starting to get irritated. Their truth aside, Fawkes’s words hurt more than he deserved.

“Let’s not, yes,” she sighed.

They sat there for a moment staring at the treeline at the edge of the clearing, saying nothing. Fyodor, sensing the tension between his two favorite humans, stirred from his slumber and let out a soft whine, looking up at both of them with pleading eyes.

“All I’m saying is,” Fawkes said, her voice tired, “if adventure is what you crave, you should be more serious about learning how to be a better fighter.”

“Yeah, okay, on that we agree.” Hunter took a sip of bitter herbal tea and scratched Fyodor behind the ears. “I thought you told me to just play to my strengths. Use the ravens more.”

“That was before. If you’re going to be sticking your head in burrows seeking thrill, we’ll have to find you a proper Path.”

"A Path?" Hunter repeated, furrowing his brow in confusion. "What's that?"

"It's a way of perceiving the world. A way of shaping and perfecting yourself." Fawkes said, her voice sharp and clinical. "But it's more than just that. A Path is a philosophy, a combat style, a way of fighting that goes beyond mere knowledge of magics and skill with a weapon. It’s the tool with which you assert your will to the world."

“Ah, yes. A Path,” Hunter nodded. "I think I’ve heard the term before once or twice on my side of things. And how do I find my Path?"

Fawkes fixed Hunter with a piercing, calculating stare.

“There are Paths that can be taught. Whole traditions of them, tried and true, perfected over centuries. Some seek to follow those, though finding one that fits isn’t always easy. Others make their own Path. An old colleague of mine used to say that if you're meant to find your Path, it'll find you. And when it does, you'll know.”

“What’s your Path, then?”

“I was taught the Path of the Gloam Blade,” Fawkes said. “The martial part of it, at least. It’s a Path whose roots reach all the way back to the times of the áeld.”

“Can you teach it to me?”

“No,” Fawkes cut him off. “It’s a vicious one, hard to learn and harder to master. And it requires áeld blood. It was not originally meant to be revealed to humans at all.”

“You have áeld blood?”

“Not nearly enough, as it turned out,” she sighed. “In short, no, the Gloam Blade is not the right Path for you. You seem to be on another Path already, besides.”

“I do?” Hunter frowned. “How so?”

Fawkes shrugged.

“I don’t know much about the ways of you transients, but those magics you know… Those don’t come naturally, Hunter. One way or another, you’ve been following someone’s teachings.”

Hunter's expression darkened.

“Like whose?”

“How should I know, lad? When it comes to philosophy, though, I believe your mind is your own. Unless you follow the Path of the Pig-Headed Donkey.”

“Is that a thing?”

“I was jesting, lad,” Fawkes said, exasperated.

She rolled her eyes, drained her cup, and petted the direwolf’s head.

“To get back to the matter at hand,” she continued, “I don’t think your time here will be enough for you to realize your full potential, so investing in a proper Path might not be worth the time and effort for you.”

“Why, how long does it take to learn a Path?”

“Years,” Fawkes mused. “Decades. A lifetime.”

“Yeah, no, you’re right. I don’t think I have that kind of time.”

That brought a frown to Fawkes’s face. For a moment there, she looked very old and very tired again. A breath later, however, she’d donned back her usual stoic visage.

“Right so. That’s why I’m of the mind that you should explore your and carve your own Path as you go. Still, there is a tried-and-true order to how one advances on a Path. That order, I believe you should follow.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Not now,” Fawkes said, and Hunter thought he spotted a glint of mischief in her eye. “Wait until we get back to the Brennai village. I might have a surprise for you.”

***

The rest of their journey took them the better part of two days and was more or less uneventful.

The Weald still never failed to mystify Hunter. It was brimming with life, and still it had a sense of stillness to it that made his skin tingle. Its damp, earthly scent filled his lungs with every breath. The mist hung low around the trees and roots and shrubs, hidden from the sun’s warmth under the verdant canopy. A lethargic sense of brooding pressed on him from all sides at all times, and still the Weald was starting to feel oddly familiar and comforting.

They moved at a leisurely pace, often taking breaks and enjoying each other’s company. Hunter tried to spend as little time logged out as possible, just enough to take care of his body on his side of things. To him, their trek felt like a pleasant hiking vacation. He often caught himself wishing that it would last, that they would never reach their destination.

Despite her seemingly improved mood, he and Fawkes hadn’t broached the subject of what would happen after they made their way to the Brennai village.

Would Fawkes really take off on her own?

The idea of having to deal with the superstition and xenophobia of the Brennai folken made his stomach clench as it was. Doing so without her… well, that was a thought he’d been actively trying to steer clear of.

The unspoken truce that seemed to have formed between them in recent days was fragile, but Hunter clung to it. This easy camaraderie they'd found was a fleeting moment, he suspected.

Still, he wanted to enjoy it to the last moment.