[The Wanderers Journey] - Chapter 2.

The night arrives. Stars begin to claim the sky, one by one. The first sounds of its arrival start to fill the air: crickets and the crackling of a campfire nearby. The subtle hum and background murmurs of encampment life. A river rumbles in the distance, and pine-scented wind whispers through the trees. The cool breeze stirs the tents, tugging at their corners, swaying the lanterns. It carries woodsmoke and the scent of cooking meals throughout the encampment, hugging the corners of its hardened wooden barrier. The boundary walls stand tall, the tips sharpened, as it has been for decades. Necessary. The wilds here care nothing of your story.

Grandmother Bo steps out from her tent, stirring a freshly made cup of tea. She walks toward the encampment's entrance, her dark robe sways with each step. Her eyes on the liquid swirling in her cup. Her feet know the way by heart. “Fissle root, jackweed and a touch of ginger,” she whispers. A deep inhale. The smell warms her. She hugs her arms close as she moves through the worn grass, her gaze lifting to the sky. The first stars flicker to life on the horizon. Lovely.

She arrives to see Sorin, a hired guard—and a lifelong friend, getting comfortable in his position at the gate. He is the first to take the watch. She shuffles over to him, her hands clasping the cup, keeping them warm. She doesn’t look at him when she hands him the tea. She’s watching the night behind the gate, a look that conceals worry. The cold starts setting in. She tightens her robe, arms crossing over her chest. “You’re hungry,” a statement. Soft and kind.

Sorin stands in Madam Bo’s presence, a respect he has always shown her. A small smile, “I’m not. Thanks for the tea.” His voice is Quiet. Slow. Measured. Bo humms—a sceptical sound. “Mmhmm.” He lifts the cup, blowing gently across the surface. Through dark lashes, his eyes study her. There’s a quiet, unyielding sharpness to him—like the constant threat of a lash that will break you. The sip is warm. Dark. Something rich and spiced, warming him from within. A gift crafted with knowing hands. A drink made with care. Made just for him.

“You’re quiet,” she says, staring out into the beyond. “You’re loud,” he counters before taking another slow sip. “And worried.” Bo turns to him. Her face, lined with decades of love—decades of worry. “I told him not to go alone. He’s not the man he once was. My heart would miss him if something happened.” She doesn’t want to think about it. She looks down. The distant campfire highlighting her growing tears. The soft crackle, its glow flickering against the edges of their faces.

The silence between them begins to carry a weight. "The camp’s restless." Bo finally says before exhaling sharply. She paces, her footsteps crunching against the grass. She needs to move. It helps calm her nerves. "I know." Sorin tilts the cup, watching the liquid swirl. "It’s because of the eclipse, isn’t it?" Bo looks at him. She doesn’t answer right away. Her worry—evident now.

"It’s got people talking." Sorin continues. "They wonder about the old stories. The Orders sacred texts. If it’s prophecies are coming true." "Superstition," Bo snaps, but there's doubt there. He huffs a quiet laugh. "That’s not what they think." Bo sighs, clasping her hands low. "I think people search for meaning behind things they don’t understand." "And what about you?" She looks at him. His gaze is stone, unreadable. "What do you think it meant?" She shakes her head, but it’s more to push away the unease than answer him. "The sun will rise tomorrow, Sorin. As it always does."

Sorin humms, tilting his head slightly. "Then why the worry? Or, what is it you believe?" She meets his gaze, sees his probing. "It doesn’t matter what I believe. It matters what they believe,” gesturing toward the camp members. She pauses, turning her focus back to the gate. "And right now, they're afraid. So I can't afford to be."

Sorin watches her for a long moment before taking another slow sip of tea. "You don’t need to pretend with me. Say how you feel, Bo." She exhales, long and slow, looking back at the encampment. At its members stirring, conversing. Its history weighing down on her. She helped build these walls. Grow its gardens. Care for its people. "Sorin, what if they’re right?” She pauses. "The Order. Their prophecies. What if this is the start of something?" she finally admits, voice quieter than before. "What if… we don’t make it?" A fear she doesn’t want to speak aloud. “Who will then help the families back home when we can’t?”

She doesn’t realise it, gripping her arms tightly. Sorin places the cup down and puts a hand on her shoulder. "Bo," he says simply. "You worry too much.” He offers her a small, genuine smile. “Look around, Bo. The fire’s warm, the walls are strong. Worry about what’s in front of you, not what isn’t.” Bo feels his grip, firm, steady, and unshaken. Her throat tightens, but she nods. The silence stretches between them again, but this time, it feels a little lighter.

The sound of hooves in the distance. Sorin’s eyes flick past her toward the road. He squints into the night. "He’s here. It's Obin. The old man's made it back," relief in his voice as he steps to unhinged the barrier. Bo exhales, closing her eyes and clasping her hands together. “Thank you, Father.” It's a tiny prayer, but filled with gratitude.

Sorin pulls the heavy iron bar off the latch, and Bo swells with pride. She watches him, as she does from time to time, noticing how much he's grown. “he used to be half this size, trailing behind me with dirt on his face and a hunger that never faded.” He drags the gate open, and she offers a small nod of thanks, hiding her smile in the night.

The gate moans. Bo moves before anyone else, before Obin can even adjust. She reaches for him, arms wrapping around him, pulling him in close. He smells of the road—the earth, sweat, and the lingering scent of pine and dust. A scent she’s known for years. A scent she's missed dearly.

"You old fool," she whispers against his shoulder, her grip tightening for just a moment before she pulls back to look at him properly. She expects to feel relief. But there’s something wrong. The weight in his stance, the stillness in his breath—it lingers. His eyes are distant as if he hasn’t fully returned from wherever he’s been.

Bo studies him, her concern deepening. “What happened out there?” Obin forces a smile, but it doesn't last. "Long road, that’s all." He holds Bessy’s reins close, almost as if afraid to leave the spot. Sorin offers a warming smile, attempting to break the tension. "Come on, old man." He steps forward. "Let me help you empty the cart." Obin’s reaction is sudden, sharp. His grip tightens on the reins, his voice coming too quickly. “No. Don’t worry yourself.” Sorin’s smile fades. He catches Bo's eye, and she sees her own concern mirrored. His gaze sharpens.

"Obin," she says, softer now. “What’s wrong?” Obin’s fingers flex against the reins. His breath quietly shudders. He stands, eyes darting between Bo and Sorin. For a moment, it looks like he might not answer at all. But then, his jaw clenches, and he forces the words out.

"The chapel,” he breathes. “Something… terrible has happened.” Bo stiffens. She doesn’t speak. She waits. Obin’s body tremors for a brief moment. “I found bodies. They’re all dead.” Sorin’s face hardens, his gaze—unbreaking. The shift is subtle, but Bo sees it. The coiled tension beneath his ease. The stillness of a man trained for violence. “What?” Obin nods grimly. "I don’t know what happened. Or why."

Sorin moves quickly to secure the gate, sealing the night outside. "I must tell the others." He strides toward the camp, weaving through the curious onlookers gathering. Bo doesn’t stop him. She can’t. She stands in the silence he leaves behind, the weight of Obin’s words pressing against her.

Bo's eyes glaze with worry. Obin doesn't look at her. He can’t look at her. For a moment, neither of them speak. The campfire crackles in the distance, a breeze passing between them. Bo feels a charge in the air, a muted crackle watching them. She swallows before speaking. “Obin, my love,” She touches his arm gently. “What has happened?” Her eyes invite him in—to open up. For her. “Tell me, old friend.”

She’s afraid.

Obin finally looks at her, and in his eyes, she sees something she’s never seen before. His voice comes out in a whisper, “There’s something else.” Bo’s stomach tightens. She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t want to. “I must show you,” he continues, his eyes widening. Bo’s fingers tighten slightly around the fabric of her robe, she adjusts her posture, straightening just a little. Deep inside, something twists. A knowing. The last time she felt this way, she lost someone she loved. She does not ask him what he means. She doesn’t need to. Instead, she exhales softly, nodding once. “Come.”

Together, they step into the firelight.

Bo leads Obin through the encampment, past the glow of the central fire. The warmth flickers against their faces, flashes of orange and shadow. A few of the camp’s elders murmur their greetings. “Welcome back, lad,” they say. Obin forces a smile, but struggles to keep it. He nods, but he doesn’t stop. They don’t push. They can feel it—something lingering. A static. They don’t realise it, unaware. But they all stand.

A hidden gesture. An unconscious knowing.

Bo’s tent embraces them in warmth as they step inside. The lanterns inside flicker to life, their dyed glass casting soft hues of red and purple against the walls. The air is warm, thick with the scent of herbs and aged extracts. A mix of dried lavender, spiced resin, and the faint, sweet sharpness of fermented root. A space of luxury and comfort, far from the established world.

Bessy lingers just outside, her whine is soft. Bo moves to the kettle resting over low embers, steam curling from its spout. “Tea?” she offers. A simple word. A simple ritual. But control begins with simple things. “Something strong. Something to steady him.”

“Yes, please,” Obin exhales, his voice rough, clearing his throat. “Something strong,” he adds, venturing back outside. Bo smiles. She can help him. She knows how. She gets to work, reaching for the lined jars on her wooden shelf, her fingers brushing over worn labels. She knows each one by heart. Wayfarer’s Leaf—to soothe the nerves. A little honey, goat’s milk—to warm the body.

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She exhales, calming her nerves. “He's home now. We'll sort this out over tea, yes. Just like we always do.” She moves to another shelf. Parchleaf. A pinch. Just enough to take the edge off. She crushes the dried white leaf between her fingers, letting the fine powder drift into the steeping pouch. Her keen eye measures—just enough. “Not too much. Don’t want to put the poor bastard to sleep.”

Perfect.

She stirs slowly, breathing in the heat. “This will help. This will ground him.” A soft thud breaks her focus. She sighs. "What have you done now?" she says, turning with the cup. She feels a change in the air, something subconscious but undeniable. Her eyes lift. But her body locks. A gasp. The tea slips from her fingers, shattering against the floor, but the silence swallows the sound of breaking glass. Obin doesn’t notice. He’s kneeling, noiseless. Still, and she sees why. A young woman—bare, helpless, perfect—lies unconscious across from her.

The air inside the tent is heavy. Thick with something unseen, something breathing, humming.

Bo moves before she thinks. Before fear. Before reason. A mother's instincts. She grabs a quilt—one Obin gave her long ago. Worn, familiar, warm. Obin doesn't say anything; he sits, watching quietly. She sees a person in help, not any danger. "Where did you find her?" Bo whispers, kneeling beside the unconscious figure. Her eyes scan for injuries but find none. The woman's skin is flawless, untouched.

“Who is she, Obin? Why did you bring her here?” He doesn't answer. He just sits silently, as if in reverence. She turns to Obin, “You understand our rules, Obin. You can't bring just anyone back here. If the wrong people know we’re here. If the Empire finds us…” She doesn't finish, and she doesn't need to. He already knows.

She turns back to the woman, studying her features. Her mind begins to be shown. She feels it, like a magnetic pull drawing her in. Her features are too precise, too perfect. She pulls the quilt over her, covering her in decency. Her fingers brush against her silver hair, an accident. That feeling, that texture. She jolts her hand back with a gasp as if touching something sacred without permission—unnatural, silken, weightless. This isn’t just a woman.

“Why does she feel like this?” Bo knows Obin has no answers. But Obin sees Bo tremble slightly, trying to understand what lies before her. “Is it magic?” His voice is hushed, like he’s afraid of the words. His hands clasp, rubbing together in unease. “Or is it something… more?” Bo’s throat tightens. “I don’t know.” She stares at her hair, that impossible silver shimmer. A colour that’s not real, gleaming in the lantern light.

She has spent her whole life believing in the divine, in the gods. But now, here she stands, petrified.

Bo knows what this means. The Order’s decree playing in her mind: “To harbour them is to invite the Father's judgment. To remain silent is to share in their sin.”

“The Order is hunting them, Obin. People with white hair like that.” Obin lowers his head. The weight of the moment is starting to crush him. Bo stands, moving back to her table, reaching for another cup. To distract herself. But she freezes. “The bodies you found?” she asks, already fearing the answer.

Obin doesn’t respond at first, staring at the ground. “Obin.” Her voice is gentle, pressing him. “Tell me.” He grips his knees, fingers curling. Then, in a whisper, a confession—“They weren’t just travellers, Bo.” He lifts his head, eyes meeting hers at last. “Men of the Faith.” A breath. “Men of the Order.”

Bo stops moving. She had been reaching for another cup, for anything to keep her hands busy—now her fingers press into the grain of the wooden table. “The Order,” she murmurs. “Dead. So close to our home.” The decree burns through her thoughts again—Judgment. Sin. “Why is this happening? Why now?”

She turns to look at the woman again. She sees no malice. No threat. No evil. Just a stillness, a perfect silence cradled in soft slumber. Yet, beneath her skin, beneath her bone, something watches. Bo notices her heart pounding in her chest. She breathes deep, closing her eyes, “Father, guide me.”

The wind shifts, pressing against the tent fabric like unseen hands. A breeze stirs the dying embers, making the lantern’s flame flicker. It touches her skin—not cold, not warm—just present. She stares at the woman. The stories, the warnings—they all tell her to run, to turn away. But standing here, breathing this moment in, none of it feels real. None of it feels true. The moment brings clarity.

Obin’s voice cuts the quiet. “What are we going to do?” His voice is soft, uncertain. Bo doesn’t look at him, “What should we do? Throw her to the Order and pray they kill her cleanly?” Obin doesn’t answer. She exhales, measured, slow. “We keep her hidden. Until she wakes, she may have answers, Obin. Answers we need.”

Bo turns to Obin, her voice softer now. “Not a word to the others. Not yet. Fear spreads fast.” Her eyes meet his, making sure he understands. "They've had enough fear for today. Let them sleep easy tonight, at least." Obin nods, accepting the weight of this secret.

Outside, the encampment stirs, unaware of the storm that has already arrived.

Bo straightens, brushing dust from her robe. “Now, I must speak with Thomas.” She heads toward the tent's entrance but pauses, turning back to Obin. “Let's hope there's still some good news to be found.” The night air hits her face as she steps out through the flap, her feet carrying her across the worn earth toward the gate.

Her thoughts darken with every stride.“Fool of a man. Putting all our work here at risk. If she is connected to those dead men. Imperial men. They will come. Armed. Ruthless. They will search for answers, and they will find us.” She exhales heavily, rubbing a hand against her forehead. “Has he forgotten why we’re here? The coin we make. The families it feeds. This place, this work, is the only thing keeping people from starving, from being swallowed whole by Fellhaven’s filth. Without this place, they have nothing. They’ll be lost.”

Ahead, she sees the camp guards gathered at the gate, talking in low voices. There are only three of them, but all are competent men—friends. Killers. Their conversation hushes as Bo approaches. “I take you’ve heard the news? Sorin catching you up on current affairs?” Bo says, joining the circle huddled against the gate. “Evening, Madam Bo,” Idris greets her, his voice deep, quiet.

Thomas rubs his chin, scratching through his rough stubble. “Yeah. We’ll take care of the bastards first thing tomorrow.” He nods toward Idris. “Get them buried before the smell carries. Can't risk any Herdsmen catching the scent.” “There’s another problem,” Bo says, almost cutting him off with a sharp, hushed voice. “Obin says that they are Imperial men.” She swallows, “Men of the Order.”

There’s a silence. Their eyes dart between each other. But it’s Thomas’s charm that breaks the hush. “Fuck.” Sorin and Idris draw similar thoughts. Bo whispers, careful that no one else overhears, “We need to know what happened at that chapel.” She pauses, and for just a moment, her mask slips—revealing the weight of leadership, of responsibility. “We need to prepare for what comes next.”

The weight of the words hangs in the air, pressing against them. But then—Idris raises a hand, sharp, silent. A signal. Everyone stills. He stares beyond the gate, eyes narrowed, his body tensing. "Someone's coming." His voice drops low, barely a whisper. The sound of hooves approaches through the darkness. Bo steps back as the circle breaks. The men ready themselves, subtly falling into familiar positions. This place has no visitors.

Sorin steps forward, his stance firm. “That’s close enough.” A warning. The shadow stops. “I mean no harm,” A woman's voice returns from the darkness—controlled, steady. “Just looking for a place to rest my head for the night.” The shadow slowly approaches, hands raised, slow, measured. Removing her gloves. The figure pulls back her hood, letting long hair spill out, but keeps her mask in place.

The firelight catches her face—a sharp jawline and piercing blue eyes that press against the dark. Her cloak bears the marks of long travel, frayed edges telling stories of distant roads. No colour brightens from the dim firelight. She wears black, blending almost seamlessly into the shadow of the night. Unnerving. “An elf,” Idris points out, his sharp eye missing nothing.

Bo’s stomach tightens. “An Imperial elf? The last thing we need.” But this elf is different. Its ears are longer. Her hair is pure black. They’ve never seen an elf like this before. Bo steps forward, her interest piqued. The elf approaches, standing just outside the gate. “I can trade?” Her voice is warm—but something beneath it is locked tight. Controlled.

“I’ve coin? Or food?” A pause. “Even got some good wine, if you’ll have it?” Her eyes are sharp, focused, and she studies each man in turn. She is still. No unconscious fidgets. No wasted movements. Even as she lowers her mask, offering a polite smile—the air around her remains taut. Calculated. “I’ve traveled far. Just asking for a small kindness. I’ll keep to myself if need be.” “Fuck off,” Thomas cuts in. “We don’t want your shit. Just leave.”

She holds his stare, unreadable. Unmoving. Then—“Okay,” she says simply, breaking the moment. She slips her gloves back on, turning toward her horse. “Wait,” Bo calls. The elf pauses, turning back. "Where did you come from?" "North," she answers, focusing on her gloves with careful attention. "This encampment is under Imperial protection," Bo probes, stepping closer for a better look. The elf's soft laugh carries no warmth. "Finally made it to Imperial lands," she says to herself, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. A slight shake of her head. “Didn’t think I’d get this far.”

Bo steps forward, her eyes studying the stranger with careful attention. “Where are you headed?” Sorin shifts beside her, a silent shadow. Watching. Ready. Nothing will touch Madam Bo. The elf tilts her head slightly, “Hummm,” A pause, thoughtful and measured. “White sands. Warm, blue waters would be good.” “You’re a long way from anything like that.” Idris scoffs. The elf's smile is almost a laugh. " Yeah," she breathes. Her eyes lift to the night sky, stars reflecting in their depths. "It seems so."

“You’re a Shadow Elf, aren’t you?” Madam Bo's face softens suddenly, recognition dawning in her eyes. The elf's head snaps toward her—quick, sharp. Not fear. Not anger. Something else. Something unexpected. As if hearing a name long forgotten, forbidden. She remains silent, but it's too late. “Impossible,” Bo whispers to herself, Sorin catching notice. “They’re supposed to be extinct. All claimed after The Great Elven War.” She takes another step forward, closer, her voice finding its strength again. “Why are you here, elf? What is it you really want?”

The elf's fingers find her horse's neck, stroking gently. She remains quiet, but her eyes never leave Bo's face. Members of the encampment start to gather. Their interest in this uninvited guest. “Not sure yet,” the elf finally says. “To work. To be useful.” An exhale, a whisper herself, “To start over.” A nod, a smile. Both are hard to hold.

Bo’s wise eyes watch the elf intensely. She doesn’t see trouble. Doesn’t feel any threat. She sees a lonely traveller, someone losing their way. Bo exhales, glancing at the gathered faces. Her people. Her responsibility. Then, at the elf—tired, standing just outside the fire’s glow. “She’s asking to stay for the night, but why do I feel as though she is secretly looking for a place to belong?” Bo understands that kind of exhaustion. “What is your name, elf?” The elf, busy looking at the members of the encampment, worn, rough, but humble. Honest people living on the edges of a ruthless land. She turns back to Bo, and for the first time, she offers something real.

“Serine.”