We leave Oosal bright and early the next morning, stocking my bag with supplies from the market and then the Emporium itself, leaving the requisite money in the till. Flynt tries to argue with that, but we all insist, especially me—I have a feeling that anything amiss would be blamed on me and I don’t want to give his father any more reason to despise me.

We take the North Gate out of the city and follow the Western Road past the farm land where we gathered wild flowers and hunted thorgs, then up into the foothills. It’s a little out of the way—the Nobles Gate would have been more direct—but it’s better than running into Tyrus’s half-brother, Titus, who works with the city watch.

Tyrus may have the occasional disparaging thing to say about elves, but Titus has disparaging things to say about practically anyone who isn’t dwarven and has, the last couple of times through, been increasingly nasty—particularly to me and Flynt. When we passed through for the thorg mission, it almost came to blows between Tyrus and Titus, which wouldn’t have been good for anyone.

It’s early spring, and the weather reminds me of Massachusetts: there are buds on the trees but ice on the ground, and bits of snow drift in the perma-shadows at the bases of trees. Small, ice-white flowers cluster around the lantern posts, and there’s bit of ice on the banks of the creek that runs alongside the road for the first couple of miles.

We see the occasional deer, rabbits, other creatures that don’t have analogues in the real world. The sky is bright blue and the sun is warm despite the chilled breeze that plays with the hem of my cloak and numbs the tips of my ears.

In short, it’s a beautiful day. People pass us with wagons and carts, often carrying wares of some kind, on their way to the city for market. It’s not as many as would be toward the end of the week, but still plenty to keep commerce going.

Every now and then a friendly traveler stops us to ask directions, or to warn us about mud on the road or a possible creature sighting up ahead—though everyone counts on the magical lanterns to keep most of the beasties at bay. Flynt says they emit a hum that only creatures can hear, though I’m not sure how much I believe that—and I know that Meg doesn’t as she rolls her eyes whenever he explains such to a nervous traveler.

Midday, we stop for lunch, prepared and wrapped by Almira before we left.

“Almira is a gift, you know that,” Jonas says, mouth full, to Flynt.

“I can’t believe you grew up wealthy and want to be an adventurer.” Tyrus’s mouth is also full. The two of them sit on a log. Meg sits cross-legged on the ground near me, while Flynt and I share a large flat stone, sitting back to back, leaning against each other.

“Want to be?” Flynt echoes. “Last I checked I was.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Meg says. “You collect flowers with the best of us.”

“I think I collected the most flowers, for whatever that’s worth.”

“And Keira took out the thorgs by herself,” Jonas replies. “It’s not a competition.”

“You’re just bitter because you don’t deal damage,” Tyrus scoffs.

“I do deal damage, my damage is just creepy. Withering hands, right? Withering hands.”

“I’d be fine never seeing that again,” I admit.

I know, thanks to my lovely little [Interface] superpower, that Jonas is technically classified as a necromancer. A healer, yes, but he uses death energy, which is creepy as all get out. He’s never said anything, though, so I wonder sometimes if he even knows what the origins of his power are, but I’m not going to rat the guy out. That’s not my business. And frankly, I haven’t checked the [Squad Status] since that first time. Part of me knows I should, but it feels like an invasion of privacy. None of them are able to do it.

“Right?” Jonas raises his sandwich toward me. “It’s creepy. Just… sucking out their life force.”

“Then don’t use it.” Meg simply shrugs as she finishes the last bite of her salad wrap, sucking some dressing off her thumb. “You don’t have to. We have your back. You know that.”

“Yes, but I want to be helpful.”

“You are,” I reply. “Believe me. I wouldn’t be here if not for you. I don’t think Meg would be either.”

“I certainly wouldn’t,” Tyrus agrees. “Not because I’d have died, but because the rest of them are so boring.”

I scoff. “Oh, gee, thanks. You know just what to say, Tyrus.”

“I have a gift with language.” He grins, and wipes dressing out of his neatly trimmed dwarvish beard with a napkin. He looks up at the sky. “Sure glad the rain’s gone.” We all groan at that. “What?”

“Do you remember anything that Keira says?” Meg asks.

“What?”

“You tempted the wrath from high atop the thing,” Jonas says, throwing a napkin at him. “Mosby’s law!”

“Murphy’s,” I correct. “And technically they’re separate if related ideas”

“There’s not a cloud in the sky!” Tyrus defends, and we all groan again. His cheeks get red and he folds his arms, glaring at us. “I am not tempting anything.”

“Just stop,” I say. “Just. Stop.”

Sure enough, it’s about three hours from sundown when the clouds roll in and the drizzle starts. It doesn’t even have the decency to be proper rain: it’s more an English mist that just sinks into your clothes and chills you to the bone without actually making puddles.

Flynt begins looking back at me periodically as if to gauge my miserable meter, which I’m determined to keep low as possible as long as possible, but that only lasts for so long before I start feeling like a cold, drowned rat.

Thankfully, the sun is setting by this time and the lanterns are increasingly transitioning from signposts to beacons in the twilight. We keep going for what is, by my estimation, another hour and a half, before Meg, up in front, takes a look back at what must be four miserable faces—because she wouldn’t stop just for me, she’s too determined for that—and sighs heavily, nodding and waving, taking us off the road toward a clearing that had been obviously used for camping in the past. It’s under the trees, so at least partially in cover, and we pull the large tent out from my bag to begin setting it up while Tyrus and Jonas go searching for wood.

Camp is up in less than an hour, and we lay out our sleeping rolls and blankets under the tent. We set up a lean-to set up in front of it to shield the fire from the rain that’s really starting to come down, now. Tyrus, the cook of the group, slowly removes the supper supplies and sets them up, laying out the vegetables and kebabs on the large hot stones he and Jonas arranged in the middle of the fire.

Flynt leans in toward me, pressing his shoulder against mine. “You’re doing better than usual.”

It takes me a moment before I remember my extra point in [Fitness] and the resulting buzz, and I smile at him. “I think I’m getting used to it. Not the cold. But everything else. I told you I would.”

“I just didn’t expect it to be overnight.”

“Have I been that bad?” I ask, frowning.

“No, not bad, just… noticeable.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

“Great. Sorry.”

“Stop apologizing. It’s not your fault.”

“No. But I can still be sorry I slow you down.”

“You’re not, anymore.”

“Well, that’s good.” I sigh softly. I glance up at him and smile. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Having patience.”

“Always.” He grins at me and I chuckle softly, shaking my head, looking over toward the others—only to have my chest freeze as I stare out past the fire at the foreign faces peering at us.

“Hello,” I say, tentatively.

The others follow my gaze and I see Meg reach behind her toward the dagger I know she keeps at her belt. Tyrus does the same, discreetly, while Flynt clasps his hands together—the smallest of the moves, but potentially the most destructive, depending on what he decides to throw.

Four faces stare up at us from near the road: a young male half-ork a little bigger than Flynt, two female half-elves from my guess, and a male elf. At least by presentation. All have weapons, too, though none are at the ready.

“Hello, Friends,” the male elf says, holding out his hands in a steadying fashion. “We’ve been looking for a clearing for some time and were wondering if we may share.”

We all look at one another, Meg and I more on guard than our male companions, though that’s not especially surprising. Flynt clears his throat and nods.

“Please. Join our fire. Hospitality of the road.”

“Hospitality of the road,” the elf repeats. Each of his travel companions does the same, and Meg, Jonas, and Tyrus do as well. I catch up a little late—apparently, it’s some kind of custom.

The newcomers nod to one another and shrug off heavy packs, beginning to set up their camp on the edge of the firelight. Jonas, the mensch that he is, gets up and helps, and Tyrus sighs heavily before doing the same, occasionally coming back to check our meal despite Meg having kept an eye on it. I was going to as well, but Flynt gently clasps my wrist and subtly shakes his head.

“I’m Phaelen,” the elf says by way of greeting once they have their tents set up. “This is Mitra and Lane,” he points to the two women, “and Vintrick.”

“Nice to meet you,” Flynt says, cordially. “I’m Jayspar. This is Askan,” he points to Tyrus, “Kev, Ren, and Ace.” Jonas, Meg, and Myself. The ease with which Flynt gives these false names is almost as troubling as it is impressive. There's something about that—and something about the overall vibe of Phaelen and his group—that puts me on edge, and I realize I’m actually trembling. I want to say it’s the cold, but I know nerves are certainly playing a role.

“Noted,” the elf says with a nod, meeting my eyes, and another chill coasts over me. “Well met, then.”

I try to stare back coolly and lean against Flynt. It feels like the right thing to do, the thing I would do with a male friend back home if there were predators in the area.

“Where are you off to?” Phaelan asks, not taking his eyes off me.

“Toward the Pass,” Tyrus says, gruffly, turning over some of our meal and then motioning toward me with a snap of his fingers. It’s an odd move from him, but I acquiesce, grabbing the plates out of my bag—though not without noticing the tightening around Phaelen’s features at Tyrus’s snap. My friend must have done it on purpose; he must be trying to get a read on the stranger. “You folk on your way back to the City?”

“The City,” Lane scoffs. She’s a medium-height woman with pale skin and strawberry blonde hair. She tucks a strand behind her slightly pointed ear. “We’re coming from a real city. From Gerai.”

“Of course,” Jonas says, very evenly. “What’s bringing you to Oosal?”

“Trade contacts.” Phaelan’s response is a little too quick.

Mitra leans in and whispers to the man, then suppresses a light giggle, glaring at me. She’s small, delicately featured, with dark hair and eyes, and skin similar to my complexion. She has to be half-elf: her ears only lightly pointed, and she doesn’t have the height most elves seem to. Phaelen smirks slightly but shoos her away.

They look a lot alike, though. The same fine features, the same coloring. I wonder if she’s his daughter or his sister. It could be either, given elvish lifetimes. Though I notice that Phaelen actually has the same long ears I do—not the shorter points of Mr. Stoutbrooke and Nyssa.

Phaelen settles into a sitting position on one of the logs gathered around the fire, and he gazes at me through the flickering flames.

“Are you well, Sister?” he says, and it takes a moment to realize that he’s speaking a different language, one I understand and suddenly know how to speak myself. A form of Elvish, I guess. I’ve only ever read the language before, but I suppose it makes sense I can speak it too.

“I am quite well. And you, Brother?” It’s not just the language, it’s the cadence, too; it feels as natural as breathing.

“Cold. Is this ork treating you as he should?”

“He is as elvish as your companions.” I make a subtle nod toward half-elves Mitra and Lane. “Let’s not judge one another’s choices.”

He chuckles at this and nods. “Fair, Sister, I stand humbled.”

“As long as you are.”

I don’t know what possesses me, but I know exactly what to say, as if something is feeding me the lines. Eerie things have happened to me on a daily basis since I came to Qeth, but this is probably the strangest. I tuck an arm around Flynt’s waist and squeeze, nearly laying my head on his shoulder, staring at this Phaelen character defiantly.

The man chuckles again, and looks across my companions.

“Apologies, it’s not often I meet kin on the roads like this. We Hunter Elves are rare indeed in Qeth.”

“Where are you from?” Flynt asks in a different form of Elvish. “I don’t recognize the dialect. Outside of Ace, that is.”

Flynt glances at me and again, squeezing me back. For better or worse, this is a dance I recognize. Protecting my female friend by pretending she’s my girl. Whatever else is going on between me and Flynt—or not—doesn’t matter. There is something else going on here.

The others seem to recognize it as well, and Meg has eased in a little closer too, while I don’t think Tyrus has lost his mark on the big green guy on Phaelen’s team. If things go down, that half-ork is going to have a dwarvish dagger in his throat before he can whistle.

There’s some kind of cultural politic happening that I don’t understand. It’s not a female thing, Meg doesn’t seem threatened in the least, it’s a full on elvish thing. Phaelen calling out our unique language, speaking to me like he did, like he’d never imagine I would be in the presence of those I am. Calling me ‘Sister.’

I remember what Meg told me early on, that it was unusual I wasn’t traveling with other elves. I’m also well acquainted with the elvish reputation for elitism by this point, one that seems to be driven by this image of purity and perfection. It’s stomach turning, has uncomfortable parallels to the real world I know. I don’t want to be a part of it, but I also don’t know how much of it is real of elvish culture as a whole, and how much of it is intentionally created and perpetuated by those like Phaelen.

I clutch the back of Flynt’s shirt, glad for his understanding of these worlds. Qeth generally, but elvish more specifically. The fantasy novels I know have elves as these graceful, thoughtful, sage creatures, above time. So many of the elves I’ve met, including Flynt’s own father in some ways, feel anything but: too ready to jump to their own conclusions, see things from a warped perspective.

Phaelen stares at me for a long beat after Flynt’s question, then offers a small half smile before blinking up toward my friend.

“I’m from Caulin,” he replies in Qethi—the common language, the one I hear as English. “Across the sea. Came to see my kin, here. I fell in love with Qeth. Its magic. Its beauty. There’s so much it offers.” He smiles almost genuinely, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His compatriots sit on their side of the fire, listening to the conversation but seeming disinterested in it—though I know it has to be an act. There’s an edge to their body language. “There’s so much it takes.”

“What do you mean?” Jonas asks.

“It’s a beautiful country. But it extracts a price, does it not? Can’t you feel the magic here, being denied you? A piece of it feels missing. But maybe I’ve just been here too long. How old are you, Sister?” He again looks my way.

“Plenty,” I reply. “And you?”

He chuckles. “I reckon the same. You all must feel it. The fading of this country. It could be so much more, and yet it’s been ruptured.”

“What do you mean?” Jonas asks.

Meg shakes her head. “We have nothing to do with that. Our mother’s mother’s grandmother had nothing to do with that. Not all of us live so long.”

“Still. It’s a shame,” Phaelen says.

“Maybe. But it’s not for us to say. What’s done is done.”

“Does it have to stay that way?” Phaelen’s words almost seem to echo.

The temperature has gotten colder—or maybe the tension has just ratcheted up with Meg’s entry into the conversation, the edge in her voice as evident as Phaelen’s disdain toward her.

“Unless you know how to turn back time,” she says, “in which case, please, share. Otherwise, you have your side of the light. We, ours. We can exist in peace for the night, but let us not debate. The state of Qeth is not our doing nor yours.”

“It could be,” Phaelen says.

We look out at him and his cohorts. The others continue to seem disinterested, beginning to share their own meal: cold and wrapped in leaves. Phaelen’s eyes gleam like coals, but there’s a magnetism to him. He’s handsome, he’s well spoken, he’s passionate, and he’s dangerous. Very dangerous. He’s the sort of man who sees himself as the hero, and he’ll not have argument otherwise.

Maybe it’s the wrong thing to do, but I’m happy to stay quiet, to let Flynt play protector, let Meg be indignant and big. Powerful. I’m an archer, what am I going to do here? And maybe that’s cowardly. I just really don’t want to step in it, and I suspect I would if I tried to do or say anything of any real weight. I simply don’t understand enough. My reading hasn’t changed that.

“Supper’s up,” Tyrus interrupts. He looks to the other party. “You content with yours? We have extra.” He pauses, then, with emphasis, repeats: “Hospitality of the road.”

“Not necessary,” Phaelen says as his compatriots shake their heads. “We’ll turn in quickly and be away in the morning. You need not worry about us.” He smiles at me as he says this. Then, as Tyrus serves up our meals, they retreat to the shadows at the edge of the fire light.

We gather closer together as we eat.

“We keep a watch,” Meg whispers, “and stay together.”

“Definitely,” Flynt agrees. He has his leg and shoulder pressed to mine as we eat, though his attention is at least partly focused beyond our fire. “No one out of sight.”