Amber barley turned violet beneath the falling shadow, and the river glimmered like a molten vein as we marched along the Severian Steps.
"We should find a suitable place to camp soon, Praefectus—before the Lifegiver leaves us to the Sisters," said Felix, his gaze sweeping over the sprawling valley.
I could see in the distance where the road and the river curved toward one another, their lines bending as if drawn by the same ancient hand. That meant a bridge lay ahead—and where bridges stood, there was usually ground solid enough for camp.
"We could camp near the bridge that should be ahead," I told Felix. "The ground there will be firm—good enough for us to set our camp."
I motioned for him to move forward.
He nodded and guided his horse ahead to scout the path, while the fading light bled the last of its color into the fields.
After a short while, the ancient white stones of the bridge began to fade into view. It still stood tall, its single arch rising firm and unbroken above the frothing waters of the Bellanis beneath it.
We moved to the side of the bridge. Sister Adrian guided the carriage to the left, slowing as the ground dipped, easing the burden on the horses as she led them down onto the grassy bank. She found the trunk of a sturdy plane tree and tied them there, close enough to drink from the river.
Felix and I followed, bringing our mounts beside hers before beginning to unload the cart and prepare for the night.
The creature, still chained to the cart, shifted as far as its bounds allowed—whether to give us space to unload or out of simple defensive caution, I could not tell. Either way, Felix and I moved the supplies we needed for the night without paying it much mind and went on with our work.
Preparing the camp felt like a well-rehearsed dance. Sister Adrian was already gathering scattered firewood along the riverbank and searching for whatever else the land might offer. Felix had begun unpacking, marking out where our tents would stand.I had already started collecting stones to ring the campfire and set the blackened iron pot in its place for the preparation of our evening meal. For a moment, I wondered whether lighting a fire here might draw unwanted attention. But the thought passed quickly—we were between towns, and the farmlands around them were scarcely settled enough for anyone to notice us.
The creature remained on the cart's bed, watching us quietly as each of us fell into our tasks without a word.
Felix was setting our tents side by side, all of them facing the small circle of river stones I had arranged earlier for the fire—a standard practice meant to keep us warm and give us clear sight in case we needed to move quickly.
From the cart, the creature watched him with a deepening frown, its disapproval growing until the words finally escaped it.
"Excuse me, sir," it began, voice polite as ever, "and forgive my intrusion, as I have no right to comment on your lodgings… but would it not be wiser to turn the tents westward?"
Felix froze mid-movement.
"You really want our backs turned toward you so you can stab them?" he asked, accusation sharp in his tone.
"On the contrary, sir!" the creature protested, almost offended. "Being watched by all three of you fills me with a great sense of security. That is precisely why I would prefer not to hear you cough smoke and cinder all night from the fire."
Felix narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, daimon?"
"You see," the creature replied carefully, "for the whole of our travels, the wind has been blowing westward. But as the night deepens and the warmth leaves us, the temperature will drop, and the current will shift. If you wish for a smokeless night, facing west would give you a far better chance."
It presented its reasoning with a confidence that suggested certainty rather than guesswork.
"Keep your suggestions to yourself, creature," Felix snapped. "Unless you wish to experience smoke and cinder firsthand."
"I would very much prefer not to become part of your smoking adventure, thank you," the creature said, then lay back against the cart's wooden bed, falling silent.
Felix scoffed and returned to the task.
But as he worked, I saw his gaze drift toward the nearby branches swaying above us, searching for confirmation. He stood still for a heartbeat, studying the half-raised tents, then exhaled deeply and muttered to himself.
After a reluctant shake of his head he began to reset the tents—aligning them westward.
With the fire lit and the metal pot beginning to boil above it, and with the Sisters already rising to begin their slow chase across the night sky, I finally allowed myself to sit and feel the weight of the journey settle into my bones. The Lifegiver had lent us His strength while He watched over us, but now He had withdrawn, leaving the Sisters to claim their toll.
Two days without sleep and near-constant travel had tied knots deep into my legs. Felix looked no better; his face tightened as he stretched his back, a low groan slipping from him before he eased himself down beside me with deliberate care—moving as a man aware that any careless motion might awaken every cramp he had earned along the road.
Sister Adrian had taken charge of cooking for the night. She had gathered a clutch of wild mushrooms beneath the trees and dropped them into the pot, where they simmered with dried pork and a few wheat biscuits from our supplies to form a thick, serviceable gruel.
A moment later she returned with a small handful of fresh thyme she had cut from a nearby bush with her sickle, scattering it into the pot before shaving a little hard, dried cheese over the surface. With that, our evening meal was ready.
It seemed the clergy's traditional training in herbalism served them just as well over a fire as it did in a shrine. Marching fare was not meant to be this fragrant — but I found little reason to complain.
She fetched three wooden bowls from the cookware sack beside her and began ladling portions into them. Felix, right on cue, produced a wineskin, and we started our meal.
Across the fire, the creature's glistening eyes caught the orange glow as it watched us from its restraints.
But this time, there was no calculation in its stare, no quiet plotting. Only longing. Need.
When had it last eaten?
My gaze drifted from my bowl back to it. Its small, bead-bright eyes traced the movement of the food, and its sharp mouth hung slightly open.
"Are you hungry?" I asked.
The question snapped its attention to me.
"Famished, sir," it answered at once.
"Sister Adrian," I said, turning to her, "is there enough for another portion?"
She hesitated, glancing from the creature to me, her expression tight.
"There are some scraps left, sir… yes," she replied cautiously.
"Let's fetch another bowl, then," I told her.
She moved with reluctant steps toward the cookware sack.
After scraping the bottom of the pot and producing a half-filled bowl of gruel, Sister Adrian handed it to me—clearly preferring not to approach the creature herself.
I took the bowl in both hands, leaving my own beside the fire, and pushed myself to my feet with a small groan. The creature had already leaned forward in anticipation on the cart's bed.
"Be careful, Praefectus," Felix murmured. "It could be trying to trick us."
"I hope Sister Adrian's cooking will change its mind, then," I told him, trying to ease the tension—though I weighed the creature's intentions myself as I approached.
"Back on the rail," I ordered.
It obeyed at once, pressing its back against the far side of the cart.
I set the wooden bowl onto the cart's edge and stepped back several paces.
"Go on, then."
It lunged forward—not violently, but with undeniable urgency—clasping the bowl in both grey-skinned hands. It closed its eyes for a moment, as if savoring the warmth, then drew in a deep breath of the rising steam.
"I am deeply grateful, sir," it said. "Smelling this excellent supper from afar has been… challenging."
It shoveled a mouthful into its pointed maw, speaking again through the food.
"And what an inspired choice of seasoning."
"Would you care for water?" I asked as it devoured its meal.
"Water is a touch too bland for my tastes, sir," it replied earnestly. "But if you were willing to share a little of that fragrant wine, I would be most appreciative."
A small chuckle escaped me despite myself.
"Sister Adrian," I called to where she sat observing us, "would you be kind enough to bring the wineskin?"
She rose reluctantly, setting aside her half-eaten meal before walking toward us. Felix watched the whole exchange closely, eyes sharp even as his hands continued working steadily over his own bowl.
"Here you are, sir," Sister Adrian said as she handed me the warm wineskin. Her head was lowered, but her eyes kept flicking past me, tracking the creature's every movement.
"Could you pass it to it yourself, Sister?" I asked.
She froze. Terror widened her eyes as they met mine.
"What if it attacks me, sir? What if it tries to curse me or—"
I cut her off gently. "Have a little faith in your own cooking. It should be far less hungry after your offering."
The creature chimed in at once.
"On the contrary, young lady, I would like to commend your skills. I believe this wine will elevate them even further."
Its voice held a renewed vigor now, buoyed by warmth and food.
Adrian did not acknowledge the praise. "Very well, sir," she murmured, and stepped forward with cautious, measured movements.
She extended her arm as far as she could, trying to keep the distance between them at its maximum. The moment the creature's long fingers wrapped around the wineskin, she withdrew her hand in a sharp recoil.
"Much appreciated, young lady. Much appreciated," the creature said, pulling the cork free and taking a generous swallow.
"Mmhmm," it murmured, savoring it. "One thing is certain: your people truly understand how to craft fine wine."
It took another sip.
"That we do," I replied, extending my hand to signal for the wineskin's return.
"Oh—of course," the creature said, offering it back after one last small drink.
With our meal finished, and the warmth of the fire and the wine settling comfortably through us, Felix and I began planning the next day's travel—tracing the road ahead and estimating how long it would take us to reach Arventis. Sister Adrian had already repacked most of the cookware after rinsing it in the cold river, leaving only the few utensils still resting near the creature on the cart's bed.
One Sister had withdrawn into a thin silver sliver, while the other had only just begun her ascent. With one waning and the other waxing, the night became one of the darkest of spring, tiny stars freckling the sky between their faint crescents.
The creature lay on its back across the cart's bed, staring upward.
"What a wonderful starry night to camp under," it said to no one in particular.
"When the Sisters stand far apart, they leave stars behind them to trace their way back to one another," Sister Adrian replied unexpectedly, her tone that of a tutor correcting a child.
"I would suggest," the creature answered smoothly, "that we see the stars now because the sun no longer reflects upon them, allowing their gentler light to reach us. But you are, of course, free to follow your own interpretation, my dear."
Its tone was polite, even warm. Adrian did not seem offended—if anything, her curiosity sharpened.
"So you do know the Sisters reflect a portion of His glory back to us," she said. "They told me you were godless. Faithless."
"I assure you, young lady, I certainly did not intend to imply—"
I stepped in before it could talk itself into deeper trouble.
"It may simply be unaware of what we hold to be true, Sister," I suggested gently, glancing at the creature so it understood the lifeline I was offering.
"What if no one cared for its soul," she murmured, "and let it wander down this path toward Oblivion?"
"Then we are fortunate," I said, "that it is not the only one blessed with your company tonight, Sister."
Her eyes widened slightly. A faint red warmed her pale cheeks before she turned her face away, falling quiet once more.
Felix had stopped studying the map on his lap. He looked at me, puzzled by the entire exchange.
"Having less hostility between us will do no harm," I told him quietly, answering the question in his eyes.
"Caution will not hurt us either, Praefectus," he replied, returning his attention to the open map.
"That's true, brother," I said. His face, lit by the shifting colors of the campfire, eased at my reassurance.
Sister Adrian was the first to retreat into her tent. Her voice carried for a moment in a brief night prayer, then faded into a soft snore.
Felix remained beside me. Exhaustion had settled deep in his features; he no longer pretended to follow the map, his gaze held instead by the fire as he tried to keep his eyelids from falling.
"Go and get some rest, Felix. The firewood holds no answers for what lies ahead, and I'll need you sharp tomorrow."
He hesitated. "What about you, sir?"
"I'll be right behind you."
"You've earned a good night's rest," I added, releasing him from duty.
"You too, sir," he said, rising stiffly. He slipped into his tent, the flap falling closed behind him.
I was left alone with the creature, the crackling fire, and the map of the Lake spread across my lap. My eyes traced the distance we still had to cover before reaching Arventis.
Only the chained ones remained awake, I thought, hearing the faint chiming of its restraints — a reminder of my own confinement as I looked toward the place we were meant to reach.
Everything had unfolded so suddenly that this was the first quiet moment in which I truly considered the vagueness of our goal. If the Keeper sought atonement, why rush it so fiercely? Reaching Deawiel and "returning" the creature felt heavier than I understood.
My thoughts were interrupted by its voice.
"Thank you for earlier, sir," it said softly.
"Social interactions are not… one of my strengths." Its head dipped, red hair bright under the firelight.
"I didn't do it for you," I replied, barely looking at it.
"You did it for all of us, in a way," it said, a small smile forming on its grey lips. "In any case, I would like to return the favor. Ask freely for my help."
"I don't see how you could help me for now — except by letting me have some peace."
"If that is your request, I will gladly fulfill it."
It turned its back, curling on its side as if trying to sleep.
"I could help with your incomplete maps, if you would like…" it murmured, ending in a deep yawn.
And then it fell quiet.
I remained alone beneath the dark spring sky, an unease growing in my chest as its last words repeated themselves in my mind.
Incomplete how? I wondered and stared into the bright orange glow of the fire.