[Wanderers Journey]

Serine wakes to the faint light of dawn creeping through the cracks in the tent. The air is cool, carrying the earthy scent of the nearby woods. She lies still for a moment, staring up into the lightening blue of the morning sky, her body motionless but her mind already on alert.

The encampment begins to waken. She hears the quiet shuffling of feet outside, the muted murmurs of early risers, and the crackling of rekindled fires. The camp's rooster crows, its call cutting through the stillness. It’s a familiar sound in these rural settlements, but here, in this camp at the edge of civilisation, it feels like an echo from a world Serine no longer belongs to.

Her fingers instinctively trace the rough edges of her worn leather armour as she rises to a sitting position. The weight of her weapons rests close by, within arm’s reach, always. She moves with silent precision, like a predator stirring from sleep, her body graceful and ready.

But this morning, she feels something unsettling pressing on her chest, cold and heavy. A disturbance, deep and unnatural, tingles her senses. She cannot easily explain it but feels a dread that refuses to dull. Her instincts, born of battle and war, scream of danger, though no immediate threat presents itself.

Serine closes her eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath. She has felt this before—this inevitable danger. It plays on her mind, worrying her thoughts. She can’t shake it, and it’s frustrating.

She pushes aside the tent flap, stepping into the cool morning air. The camp is alive now with the sounds of people moving about, their routines beginning. Fires are lit for cooking, and the aroma of tea and other herbs mingles with the fresh air. Merchants prepare their stalls, and the clinking of metal and soft chatter fill the space. Yet, even in the mundane distractions of camp life, the feeling lingers—this creeping unease, as though something evil is looming just out of sight.

Serine’s eyes scan the horizon, her gaze hard and focused as she watches the forest’s edge. Its stillness makes her uneasy, as if something lies, ready to pounce. She mutters under her breath, “What are you waiting for…” The sensation of being watched tightens around her, not by men but by something else—something older, darker.

The rational part of her tries to dismiss it as a remnant of the long night, a product of her sleeplessness and the exhaustion of constant vigilance. But her instincts refuse to be silenced. Something is about to happen. She knows it, she can feel it.

The sky grows brighter as the sun peeks over the horizon, the light slightly easing the tension. Out of the corner of her eye, Bo approaches quietly, her presence offering a sense of calm amid Serine’s restless thoughts. The lines of worry on the older woman’s face are clear, but her voice remains steady. "Didn’t get much sleep, did you?" It’s less of a question and more of an observation.

Serine shakes her head, her eyes never leaving the treeline. "Old habits," she replies, her tone matter-of-fact, distant. Bo moves closer, her steps are cautious, as if trying not to startle Serine from her focused vigil. She stands beside her for a moment, the silence between them thick with unspoken thoughts. Bo’s eyes sweep the treeline, then drift to Serine, studying her quietly.

"That business last night with Thomas and the others," Bo begins gently, her voice carrying a tone of weariness. "I want to apologise for their behaviour. We don’t get many visitors out here, especially from your kind. Things have been on edge lately, and they... reacted poorly."

Serine tilts her head slightly, her gaze still fixed on the forest's shadows. "They were doing their job," she replies evenly. "I’ve been treated worse."

Bo nods, her shoulders relaxing a little, though the weight of responsibility still clings to her. She sighs, "Things can be quite stressful. Rumours of Herdsmen nearby, and after the eclipse... well, everything feels on edge." Serine’s expression remains neutral, but her eyes flick briefly toward Bo, catching the older woman’s concern. She knows the burden of leadership and the fear of failure.

"Herdsmen in these parts?" Serine thinks, considering the danger. "Yeah, they don’t leave much room for second chances."

"No, they don’t," Bo agrees, pausing momentarily, thinking of the widespread pain they’ve caused. "Thomas and the others are good at what they do, but sometimes their nerves get the best of them. I just wanted you to know that they’re not always so hostile. I guess fear just makes people act out." Serine finally turns her head to meet Bo’s gaze. There’s a look of quiet understanding between them, something unspoken but felt. Serine knows fear well—the kind that shakes the mind, making even the strong falter. She offers a slight nod. "I understand," she says, her voice carrying traces of empathy. "We all have our scars."

Bo’s expression relaxes. The tension between them eases for a moment, replaced by a thin connection of similar struggles and quiet respect.

With a small, hopeful smile, she turns toward the camp. "We’re getting breakfast ready," she says softly, "You should join us. You'll feel better after.” Serine hesitates, her gaze lingering on the shadowed treeline before shifting back to the camp’s entrance. She takes a slow breath, steadying herself. She knows she should leave, slip away before the sun fully rises, disappear back into the wilds, not to get tangled here. She’s made this mistake before—walked into the entanglements of men and their desperate struggles. Breakfast was more than just food. It was an invitation, a gesture that seemed innocent enough, but Serine knows better. She knows how easy it is to stay a moment too long. Bo wants her to join, to share a meal, to be a part of their world even if only for a moment. And she knows where that leads—to new connections she isn’t ready to make, not yet. The pull to walk away is strong. Her plan is simple: leave at first light, head South, keep moving until she finds a quiet place to rest. But hunger, the simplest of needs, gnaws at her. It’s been too long since her last real meal, and her body feels weary, worn down by too many days of evading the things she cannot change. She glances once more toward the treeline, considering, weighing her options. She takes a deep breath, nodding finally. “Sure, food sounds good,” she says, her voice guarded but accepting, knowing that one meal doesn’t mean she’s staying. It’s a compromise she can live with for now. Bo's smile widens. "Great. This way."

They walk together toward the campfire, the heart of the encampment's morning activity. As they move through the clusters of tents and wagons, Serine becomes acutely aware of the eyes upon her. Conversations hush as they pass, and people pause their tasks to watch them.

She notices the subtle shifts in their expressions—curiosity mingled with unease. Most here have seen elves before, the Sol Elves of the Empire. But Serine is different. Her pitch-black hair contrasts sharply with the Sol Elves' golden locks. Her dark leather armour, worn yet well-kept, stands out against Sol’s flowing robes and light attire. Her light blue eyes, sharp and attentive, meet their gazes briefly before moving on. Even her ears are slightly longer, more pointed—a subtle distinction that sets her apart. Serine maintains a calm exterior, but inside, she's alert, noting the tension in the air. She understands it's not just her presence causing the unease—the recent eclipse and strange happenings have everyone on edge.

Bo senses the resting eyes on Serine as they walk. "Don't mind them," she says gently. "They're just not used to seeing someone like you." Serine offers a faint smile. "It’s alright, I understand."

They arrive at a table set near a newly lit campfire. The flames crackle warmly, casting a welcoming glow against the morning chill. Seated at the table is an elderly man with a tranquil expression. His long, white beard flows over simple robes, and his eyes hold a deep, gentle wisdom. His hand resting on his walking stick, an old bit of wood reflecting his age. He looks up as they approach, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“Good morning, Bo," He says with an old, shaky voice as he nods, his eyes full of warmth despite his age. His gaze shifts to Serine. "And you must be our new guest," he adds with the same welcoming smile.

"Serine, this is Mr. Yang," Bo introduces. "He's the oldest among us, and he’s been with us longer than anyone can remember." Serine, standing tall but relaxed, meets his gaze. Elves have always held respect for the elders of most races—those nearing the end of their lives—and it shows now in her quiet posture as she inclines her head slightly. "It's an honour to meet you, Mr. Yang," she says softly, her voice carrying genuine warmth.

Mr. Yang's smile deepens, and the simple gesture holds a deep understanding between them as if he sees more than just a traveller before him.

Serine and Bo take their seats at the table as a few other camp members gather around. The crackling campfire provides some warmth, but the morning air still bites, and an undercurrent of tension hangs between them. Though things appear calm, it’s there—an unmistakable heaviness in the silence. Bo looks around, offering a gentle smile to the others, her eyes acknowledging the unease in the group. "Seems we're all feeling a bit on edge this morning," she says quietly. "Maybe we could use some distraction? Any news?" Owen, the young man sitting nearby, jumps in eagerly. "Well, I’ve heard talk of the Imperial Celebration," he starts, his eyes lighting up. "The Olympians are officially joining the Empire now—took three long years. They’re saying it’ll be the biggest celebration yet." He leans forward, his enthusiasm evident, nodding as if already swept up in the excitement. Across from him, an older man frowns, his fingers tapping softly on the table, and a few elders exchange knowing glances, their expressions clouded. Bo’s lips press together, her voice gentle but tinged with worry. "The fierce Olympians, now they’re part of the Empire’s strength," she says. Owen smiles, undeterred. "It’s about time," he says. "With Olympia on our side, who could stand against us?" The younger members nod in agreement, a murmur of enthusiasm sweeping through them. Bo sighs softly, her voice cutting through their excitement. "Now, now… strength isn’t always a blessing," she says, her tone deliberate. "What happens when power goes unchecked?" She glances over at Mr. Yang, noticing his agreement. “It’s true,” he says, his voice calm. “Power is like fire,” he continues, “It warms those who wield it, but if left unchecked,” a gentle shake of his head. “It can consume everything—even the ones who lit the flame.”

Serine’s eyes lift from her food, glancing at the group. She feels it again—that creeping unease, the sense that something far larger than politics is at play.

As the talk of the Olympians fades, Mira leans in, her sharp eyes catching the flicker of unease around the table. The streaks of silver in her hair glint in the soft morning light, her voice calm but carrying weight. “The Empire may be getting stronger,” she says, her tone thoughtful, “but strength isn’t everything. Not with what’s coming.” She pauses, letting the words settle. “We need to talk about The Order. What are they doing? Are the words of the faith coming true?” The table falls silent, the shift in conversation can be felt. The younger ones exchange uneasy glances, their expressions carrying hints of doubt, while the elders grow rigid, their gazes lowering slightly. The air takes on a different heaviness as if Mira's question has brought something unspoken into the light, something everyone has been trying to ignore. Bo sets her cup down, her face growing tense as she sighs. “The Order,” she murmurs. “Faith, the holy words, the Father… they protect us. Keeps the darkness at bay. But that eclipse... they must be overwhelmed. People will be scared, looking to them for answers." Her voice trails off, and it’s clear she doesn’t need to say more. Everyone at the table can feel the creeping unease over the land since the sky darkened.

“You think the Order even knows anything?” Owen asks, a note of scepticism in his voice. “They talk a lot about prophecies, but when do we ever see them actually do something? If that eclipse was really the one they talk about in their holy texts, the one that warns of Darkness consuming everything, then where are they now? What are they doing?”

Mr. Yang chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Doubt isn’t a bad thing, Owen,” he says warmly, a gentle smile on his face. “Faith... there are times when the hardest part isn’t seeing the path forward—trusting that there is a path at all.” His laughter eases some of the tension. His gaze softens as he leans a little closer to Owen. "You’re young. Maybe too young to understand, but faith can be like armour," he says quietly. “It can protect you, but only if you choose to wear it.” Mr. Yang’s words hang in the air, and Owen falls silent, his expression shifting as he considers them. Serine listens, her eyes scanning the faces around the table. There’s a warmth in Mr. Yang’s voice, a quiet strength that seems unbroken despite everything going on around them. She finds herself admiring it, even if she doesn’t share his view. "Faith as armour," she thinks. It’s something she’s never been able to count on. But watching Mr. Yang, she wonders if maybe that belief is what keeps these people together—gives them strength in the face of everything falling apart.

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The talk at the table turns back to prophecies, and Serine’s thoughts drift. “Prophecies again,” she muses, her lips barely twitching into a wry smile. “Always putting faith in myths and stories written to make sense of the chaos.” She knows better. Life doesn’t wait for anyone’s predictions—it hits hard, and you either adapt or fall. It’s true. But despite all that, a part of her also knows she’s here for a reason.

A heavy silence blankets the table as the conversation tapers off. Mira glances around at the youngsters, her brow furrowed, her voice dropping almost to a whisper. “Can’t you feel it?” she asks, tension threading her words. “Something’s wrong. The whole place feels... off. Like a worry that wasn’t here before.” A few other elders nod, their faces lined with unease, though no one dares to voice it out loud. They’ve all sensed the stillness, something that seems wrong, unnatural. Owen shifts uneasily, his gaze drifting to the treeline. “I don’t know... maybe it’s just the forest,” he mutters. “But I get it. Since the eclipse, it has felt like something is... waiting. Or like something’s watching.”

Bo shakes her head, her gaze distant, her fingers tapping lightly on her mug. “It’s not just the forest,” she says quietly. “It’s this quiet... it feels too close, like it’s already among us, hiding in plain sight.”

Serine’s eyes narrow, her attention shifting to Bo. The words echo in her head—“already among us.” The same feeling that had gnawed at her all morning, the silent pressure of being watched. The air feels suddenly thicker, as if the truth she’s been avoiding is inching closer. The campfire’s crackling fades, the chatter around them a dull murmur in her ears. “Could it be?” The idea of something already inside the camp, hiding within its walls, strikes her. It’s not just a lingering dread anymore—it’s a threat, something that’s already breached their defences, and she knows better than anyone how quickly things can go wrong when they’re overlooked.

The conversation continues as Oban approaches the table, his face etched with deep worry. He leans close to Bo, his voice lowered but loud enough for the rest to catch snippets. “Emily’s daughter… she’s not improving. We’re running out of time, and we need to decide what we’re doing soon.” The group falls into an uneasy silence, a ripple of dread spreading across the table. Bo's expression hardens, her eyes briefly flicking towards Serine before nodding. "I know... we can’t keep waiting. Let me go see her," she says quietly while lifting out her seat. One of the elders sighs. "We should take her to Backwater. The healers there... they might know something we don’t." Bo pauses, shaking her head, her frustration spilling out in her words. "I don’t get it. I’ve tried everything—my strongest elixirs, every remedy I know. Nothing is working." Serine listens, leaning in slightly, her voice calm yet probing. "When did she fall ill?" Bo’s eyes drop, her hands clasping together in her lap, the reluctance evident. "Since the eclipse," she admits, the heaviness of her words reverberating in the silence.

Serine’s chest slowly tightens as unease starts to settle in. “Could this sickness be…” Her instincts flare, and pieces slowly begin to align. “There’s a herb—Frilmary,” she says, her voice steady. “We’ve used it for centuries to fight infections.” Bo’s eyes flicker with a hint of gratitude before she shakes her head. “I tried that already—it didn’t make a difference.” Something about this feels off. Serine feels the tension in her gut deepen. “What exactly is wrong with her?” she asks. Mira clasps her hands as if in prayer, her gaze distant.

"Infected with darkness…"

The air around the group thickens, a shared unease settling in. Bo gives Mira a look, a silent plea to hold back from making it worse, but the words are already hanging over them. Bo’s silence speaks volumes. When she finally meets Serine’s eyes, something deeper lurks in her gaze—fear, maybe even a trace of despair. Her voice drops, trembling slightly. “Let me show you.”

Serine rises and begins to walk beside Bo, her senses on high alert, every muscle taut as the atmosphere grows heavier with every step. The closer they get, the more the cold feeling intensifies—an instinctive warning that something is deeply wrong. Bo’s voice cuts through the stillness, quiet and strained, as if talking to herself. “I’ve tried everything. Herbs, salves, even my strongest mixtures.” looking up briefly, her eyes searching the sky. “Father bless... nothing’s helped.” There’s frustration in her tone, but Serine hears something closer to loss beneath it.

The tent stands ahead, its entrance illuminated by a flickering light within. Emily’s soft voice carries out, speaking to her daughter—a strained murmur filled with love and worry. As they near, Serine catches the glances exchanged between the others—hope, fragile and weighed down, as if they were silently asking her to fix what none of them can. She steps toward the entrance, the sense of wrongness pressing harder, almost suffocating. “Is this it,” she thinks, her fingers brushing against the hilt of her blade. “The source?”

“We need to be cautious. We don’t know how this spreads,” Bo whispers, determination mixed with uncertainty. Serine nods, pulling a cloth over her mouth as she steels herself, ready for whatever lies beyond the flap.

Serine steps into the tent and the first thing that hits her is the thick, heavy, almost suffocating air. It’s not just the stillness of a sick room; it feels different, darker, like the air is resisting her presence. The unease she’s felt since arriving intensifies, pressing against her chest, and she knows she’s found it. She draws in a sharp breath, readying herself. The only light comes from a small candle by the bedside, its flickering glow barely piercing the shadows that dance across the canvas walls. Emily sits huddled in the corner, her body trembling as she whispers prayers, her voice shaky with desperation. Her hands are clenched together, fingers white from the strain, as she rocks gently back and forth. Serine hears the broken murmurs—to the Father for forgiveness, to the Mother for mercy. It’s raw, a mother’s plea for her child, for something—anything—that could bring hope, to save her daughter.

Serine’s attention shifts to the bed. Her blood runs cold.

The child lies strapped to the wooden bed, thick leather restraints holding her tightly in place. She can't be more than fourteen. Her body jerks violently, muscles convulsing and limbs twisting. Bones shift and crack under the strain, the sound sharp in the heavy silence of the tent. Her skin has lost all its warmth, now a sickly pale grey, with dark, pulsing veins creeping across her arms and neck like tendrils of something foreign. When her eyes snap open, they’re black—empty, devoid of humanity. It’s as if they swallow all the light from the room. Each breath she takes comes out as a low, guttural groan, echoing with an unnatural depth that sends a chill through Serine. Serine's heart pounds, her stomach twisting into a knot that she hasn’t felt in years—not in battle, not in war.

“This can’t be real.”

Suddenly, the girl's head snaps to the side, her hollow gaze seemingly locking on Serine’s presence. Her mouth begins to stretch open slowly—a grin of death—revealing blackened teeth stained with blood. A guttural growl rumbles from her throat, reverberating around the small tent, unnatural and echoing, followed by the sickening crack of her spine bending at an impossible angle. A chill washes over Serine, her skin prickling as the realisation sinks in—what she’s facing here is something unlike anything she has seen, unlike anything she knew was possible. She has faced men, monsters, death itself, but this… this is different. It radiates an ancient hunger, a deep malevolence. Emily’s whispered prayers turn into frantic cries as the child begins to thrash. Her head turns sharply toward Serine again, the darkness in her eyes seeming to pierce through the space between them. And then it comes—a voice, low and twisted. Something dark and mocking, a presence beyond what any of them could understand, speaks through her as if to taunt those who dared to bear witness.

"You all are already lost!"

The voice reverberates through the tent, chilling Serine to the core. It sounds as though thousands of voices are speaking at once, all clawing their way out of the child’s throat. For the first time in a long time, Serine feels fear.

Emily’s sobs turn to cries of agony. “Please, Father, please save her!” she wails, her voice cracking as she clutches the edge of the bed, her knuckles white. But Serine knows, as much as it pains her to admit it, that no light of prayer or holy words will reach this darkness. The horror in the tent swells, suffocating the air. Serine turns to Bo, her heart pounding, the weight of hopelessness settling in. She meets Bo’s gaze, and in that shared silence, she knows they are both thinking the same thing—“There’s nothing human left in this child.” There’s no remedy, no elixir, no potion that can cure this darkness. Bo’s face turns pale.

A sharp crack echoes through the tent, splitting the air as the bed frame splinters beneath the girl's thrashing, shards of wood scattering across the floor. Serine’s instincts flare instantly to life. In one fluid motion, her blade is drawn, the steel glinting dimly in the candlelight. The child jerks upright, her body twisting in grotesque angles, her black, empty eyes darting around before locking onto Serine with an unsettling intensity. The transformation is complete—this is no longer a child, but something twisted, monstrous. The creature's gaze shifts, assessing each figure in the tent, its body hunched and tensed as if ready to strike. Serine feels every muscle tighten, her grip on her blade steady, her instincts screaming to protect those around her. But before she can move, the creature snarls, a guttural growl that fills the space. It lunges sideways, tearing through the tent wall with an effortless rip. Sunlight floods in, and in a blink, it’s gone—bolting toward the camp boundaries, a blur of movement, leaving torn canvas flapping and stunned silence in its wake.

Serine bolts after it, her eyes adjusting as she bursts into the blinding morning sunlight. The camp is alive with its usual activity, unaware of the horror slipping through its midst. Ahead, the creature—no longer a child—moves with inhuman speed. A screeching scream tears from its throat as the sun scorches its skin, smoke rising from its searing flesh. Nearby camp members turn and finally notice the creature, their eyes widening in shock. People stumble back in fear, their conversations cut short, replaced by panicked gasps and cries. The camp turns its attention to the chaos unfolding, a mix of confusion and panic. The creature crashes into the wooden barricade, its clawed hands raking against the timber, splintering the surface. It shrieks in pain as the sunlight continues to sear its pale, veined body. Serine’s pulse hammers in her ears, each beat propelling her forward, her focus narrowing on the abomination clawing its way upward.

She watches as it begins to climb, its contorted limbs bending at unnatural angles, each movement defying reason. With barely a breath, Serine sheaths her blade and draws a dagger. Her fingers are quick, steady, and in one practiced motion, she releases the weapon. The dagger slices through the air and buries itself deep in the creature's side with a sickening thud. Any human would have been brought down instantly. But the creature only howls, a shrill, tortured noise of fury and pain, and doesn’t stop. It keeps moving, clawing its way up, reaching the top of the barrier. With one last unnatural lurch, it leaps over, disappearing into the shadows of the forest beyond, leaving Serine staring at the darkened line of trees through the fence. The weight of what has just happened starts to settle in. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, a stillness that seems to grip the camp in its entirety, as if time itself has paused. Then, drifting from the forest's shadows, a low, mocking chuckle breaks the quiet—a sound faint yet unmistakable. It lingers, a cold reminder of the evil that now roams free.

Serine's heart hammers in her chest, her breaths coming fast, but her mind is already calculating, planning the next steps. Mapping out potential routes the creature might take. She turns toward Bo, who stands frozen, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. The rest of the camp begins to move again, fears rising, the horror that’s escaped. Serine glances back at the tree line, her eyes narrowed. “Warn the others,” she says, her voice low but carrying a firm urgency, a command. She has faced enemies of all kinds—soldiers, beasts, men—but this... This was something beyond all that. A rare uncertainty creeps into her chest as she turns back to Bo. The dark power that had twisted Emily’s daughter felt ancient, relentless—something that couldn't be defeated by strength alone. She exhales slowly, her gaze hardening. “This isn’t over,” she mutters. She knows what she needs to do.