Emberlyth’s eyes fluttered open to find a glowing bug perched on her nose. It lingered there, oblivious to her gaze, calmly polishing its spindly legs. Its fiery abdomen pulsed gently, filling her vision with a warm, golden glow. For a fleeting moment, she thought of how absurd it all was—for her to be there, with the world’s smallest lantern idling on her face. Then a shiver ran through her, unbidden, and the bug flicked its wings and darted off into the soft twilight.

She didn’t stir, not right away. Instead, she lay there in the damp moss, letting the full weight of her situation settle over her like a sodden blanket. The cold had long since seeped into her bones. Hunger clawed at her stomach. Every muscle in her body ached, a dull throb punctuated by sharper stabs where bruises and cuts had taken root. Some parts stung; others pounded like a blacksmith’s hammer. Mostly, she just hurt.

To put it lightly, this wasn’t the adventure she’d dreamed of. No grand feats. No tavern tales by a warm hearth. Just exhaustion, discomfort, and a terrifyingly close brush with death.

At least the burning in her veins was gone. That was something.

If only I’d brought my bed, she thought, peeling herself from the ground. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain rippling through her body. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad?

She raised a hand to rub at her face, her fingers unsteady and pale. Around her, the world was unnervingly still. The rustle of reeds and the faint buzz of the firebugs were the only sounds, save for her own labored breaths. She had grown too used to the creeping whispers and haunting screams of the mist.

Then she heard it—soft footfalls approaching from the edge of the lake. She turned her head sluggishly, and there he was. Penta, looking just as worn as she felt, maybe worse. His damp hair was slicked back, his steps careful, and in his hands, he carried a simple wooden cup.

He waved as he drew closer, a tentative, almost sheepish motion. His lips curled into a weak smile, but they were cracked and dry. His ashen complexion spoke of exhaustion and strain, and the dark circles under his eyes made it clear he’d barely slept. Yet somehow, he still managed to summon that infuriating hint of cheer in his voice.

“You look worse for wear than I do,” he said, holding out the cup to her.

Emberlyth wanted to argue, to tell him he looked like he’d been dragged backward through the depths of the Abyss itself. But she couldn’t muster the energy. She took the cup with a faint nod, her gaze falling to the water inside.

It was cool against her lips, refreshingly clear, but it burned as it went down, scraping against her raw throat. Still, she drank every last drop, draining the cup in a single, unending motion.

“Where did you get this?” she rasped as she’d finished. “The cup, I mean. I get where you got the water.”

Penta took it with a faint smirk as he eased himself down beside her, every motion careful, deliberate. “I’m a resourceful guy,” he said, setting the cup aside. “No food, though. Sorry. That’s… somewhere out there.” He gestured vaguely toward the mist, and Emberlyth didn’t follow his hand. She didn’t care to look.

Instead, her gaze lingered on him. He seemed thinner, somehow, his frame narrower, almost frail beneath his damp shirt. She couldn’t help wondering—what else besides cups was he hiding? And where?

He probably wouldn’t tell even if she inquired, so she didn’t bother to.

“Your wounds?” she asked instead, leaving the rest of the question unspoken.

“I suppose…it won’t work to just ask you to forget about all that?” he asked with a hopeful smile. As she just held his gaze, he gave a tired sigh.

“The cat’s out of the bag, huh?” he said, his tone straining for levity but landing somewhere between tired and resigned. He tugged up his shirt, exposing the blackened scar where a spindly limb had speared him clean through. The skin around it—half his torso, maybe more—was eerily bare, the intricate Aethermarks that once crisscrossed him now erased.

“Convenient,” he said with a hollow laugh. “But incredibly painful. And not just the getting stitched back together part. This,” he tapped his bare skin where no ink could be seen, “That’s months of work gone. Half a year, at least. My entire stay at the Draekart estate, wasted.”

“Sorry,” Ember murmured. The word felt brittle, insubstantial.

Penta only shrugged. “Beats being dead,” he said, his grin faint but still determined to surface. “And it’s a price I’ve learned to pay. My line of work isn’t exactly safe, and, well, me being me doesn’t help.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He shifted, tugging his shirt lower to reveal another scar: a jagged black line slashed across his throat. His grin turned grim. “Told you, didn’t I? Most people prefer to just execute me on the spot if they catch me fiddling with their family’s Aethermarks.”

The sight of that scar—stark and cruel against his pale skin—sent a chill through Ember. The question formed on her tongue before she could stop it. Did it hurt? But she already knew the answer. She’d seen it, the pain carved into his face, the way he’d teetered on the edge of life.

So she asked something else instead, something softer but no less heavy. “And when the ink runs out?” Her gaze fell to the blank skin wrapping his torso. “What then?”

“Honestly?” Penta’s voice dipped, and he glanced down at himself, his fingers brushing the scar absently. “I’d rather not find out. Probably nothing pleasant.”

Ember nodded. She had figured as much. Death. Cold, unforgiving, and final. The kind you didn’t come back from.

“What about… this?” Ember ventured, gesturing vaguely toward the side of her head in a halfhearted attempt to lighten the mood. “Will the ink fix that too?”

Penta blinked, then ran his fingers through his hair as if only just remembering. She’d seen it too, streaks of white cutting through his raven-black locks. By now, he must have glimpsed his reflection in the lake, must have noticed the change. Just yesterday, his hair had been dark as midnight.

“Ah, no,” he said at last, his voice wearied. “Soul damage is… different. It doesn’t heal the same way.” He sighed, letting his hand drop. “Guess I should be happy I didn’t go bald?” He glanced at her with a faint, crooked smile, then flopped back onto the mossy ground. “Truth be told, I was hoping for another ten years before I started rocking the ‘Dashing Dad’ look. But…” He flashed her a toothy grin, eyes glinting with mock hope. “Not all bad, is it?”

“Sure,” Ember replied, her voice flat as the cracked earth they’d left behind. “I can barely keep myself from pouncing on you right now.”

Silence hung between them, brittle as glass, until she broke it with a ridiculous, halfhearted “rawr”.

Penta snorted, and then they were laughing—ragged and wheezy, doubled over with the kind of unrestrained mirth that didn’t ask permission. It hurt, of course. Ember clutched her ribs as each breath scalded her lungs. Penta ended up rolling onto his side, coughing hard enough to shake the ground beneath them. But it wasn’t bad.

No warm fire or cozy tavern tales, but maybe—just maybe—adventure wasn’t supposed to be those things all the time.

“That,” Penta said between coughs, “has got to be the most crippled cat I’ve ever heard.”

“Now you know how you sounded back in the library,” Ember shot back, leaning against her knees as she fought to catch her breath.

“Hey, mine was different,” he protested, his voice scratchy but insistent. “Mine was cute and sexy. Yours was… that.” He waved a hand vaguely in her direction before flopping back against the ground with a groan.

Ember smirked and lay back beside him, the ache in her body momentarily dulled by the weightless quiet of their surroundings. Above them, the twilight sky stretched on, endless and unchanging, a canopy of strange stars.

“What is this place?” she asked softly, her voice barely louder than the hum of the fiery bugs flitting through the air like errant sparks.

“I was hoping you’d know,” Penta said, equally quiet. “You’re the one who dragged me here.”

“Following your compass,” Ember countered.

Another silence, deep and heavy as the mist they’d left behind.

“Then I guess we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be?” Penta ventured, flashing a grin that looked more confident than it had any right to be.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Emberlyth said, slowly pushing herself upright. As if by an afterthought, she pulled out the Augur’s Compass from her pocket, now watching a needle that was once more spinning out of control. Once it spun around the dial, then it pointed forward, back, then forward again without every holding a single position for more than a second.

Maybe Penta noticed, as he lazily said, “Don’t worry too much about that thing. While it’s invaluable for traveling between worlds, here, where reality is a bit too solid, there’s too much interference. Do you really desire something to eat more than another few minutes to rest? Is the itch on your nose more important to scratch than the one on your left butt cheek? Unless you were some transcendent monk who is beyond worldly desires, there are too many things vying for its attention. It’s easier out there where everything is misery and your only way out is forward.”

Despite his reassurance, Ember wasn’t convinced. Her eyes flicked toward the trees where she’d seen the stag—or elk, whatever it was—but the shadows beneath the branches were empty now. Had it all been a fevered dream? She didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. Either way, it felt unwise to keep certain details to herself. “It’s not really the compass that worries me. You see, when we arrived here…”

“So, you mean to tell me some magical moose asked us to sod off because—what? He didn’t like my style?” The offense was heavy in Penta’s voice.

“Your kin,” Emberlyth corrected, already weary of the moose-stag-elk debate she’d apparently lost. She hadn’t even known moose was an option. “But yes. More or less.”

“And what, exactly, is my kin supposed to mean?” Penta huffed, brushing moss from his shirt with an exaggerated flourish. “Young, devastatingly handsome men? Because I’ll have you know, we’re a very misunderstood demographic. Mostly harmless. Usually charming. If we’re in the mood.” He crossed his arms. “Well, too bad for Mister Antlers either way, because I’m not leaving.”

“But—” Emberlyth began, only for Penta to cut her off with a sharp gesture.

“What? You want to head back there?” He jerked his thumb toward the mist, an ominous smear on the edge of this strange sanctuary. “Because I don’t. Not until I’ve had a proper meal and a few solid days of sleep. Minimum.” Without waiting for her reply, he started marching toward the lake. “Guess I’ll just have to meet your moose friend and have a chat. Maybe he’ll see reason.”

“First of all, stag,” Emberlyth called after him, dragging herself to her feet. “Second—”

Penta was already halfway to the water’s edge, his stride brisk and unapologetic, clearly not listening.

She sighed, rubbing a hand down her face as frustration bubbled up in her chest. The elk had seemed reasonable enough. The problem was that Penta usually wasn’t.