The road east unrolled beneath their boots like an old scar that refused to heal.
Dust rose in lazy clouds with every step. The hills flattened into wide, rolling plains dotted with the occasional twisted black tree and the skeletal remains of waystations long abandoned. The air smelled of dry grass, distant smoke, and something sharper underneath — the faint metallic bite of trouble that hadn't quite arrived yet.
Vesna walked in the lead, steady and tight, eyes on the horizon. Her father's dagger rode at her hip, the caravan crest on the pommel catching the sunlight every few steps like a reminder. She didn't speak much. She didn't need to. The records were tucked safely inside her cloak, and every mile they covered felt like another page turning toward something real.
Zzyzx trailed half a step behind, tendrils partially extended along Vesna's arms and collarbone, pink-azure shimmering in the daylight. She was curious about everything — the way the wind moved through the grass, the shape of a distant cloud, the tiny lizard that darted across the path and froze when it saw her. Every new sight pulled a soft, wondering comment inside Vesna's head.
That one has horns but no legs. How does it decide which way is up?
That rock looks like it's frowning at us. Do rocks get opinions here?
Leshwai stayed glued to Vesna's shoulder, mossy fluff puffed out, tiny antlers glowing faintly. He read both of them like an open book — the way Vesna's shoulders tightened when the road curved, the way Zzyzx's tendrils flicked with restless wonder. Every time one of them drifted too far into their own thoughts, he would chirp or nuzzle or butt his head against the nearest cheek until they came back to the pack.
They were in open-road mode now. No labyrinth walls. No collapsing ceilings. Just sky, dust, and the three of them moving together.
Late in the afternoon the first travelers appeared — a small caravan heading west, wagons creaking, faces drawn and tired. They gave the trio a wide berth at first, eyes flicking to the living ribbons along Vesna's arms and the small gremlin perched on her shoulder. Then one of the drivers slowed his wagon just enough to call out.
"You lot heading toward Vaelor's Reach?"
Vesna nodded once.
The man spat to the side. "Wouldn't if I were you. Whole place is burning. Demons got organized this time. Not the usual raiding packs. This feels… planned."
Another traveler, an older woman riding a gaunt mule, leaned over. "Folks are leaving, not arriving. Whole families. Said the walls are holding for now, but the fires don't stop. Something's got teeth out there."
They didn't stop to chat longer. The westbound caravan kept moving, dust trailing behind them like a warning.
Zzyzx's tendrils tightened slightly against Vesna's skin.
Planned, she echoed quietly inside Vesna's head. That word tastes wrong.
Leshwai made a low, uneasy growl and pressed closer, ears flat.
Vesna kept walking. Her jaw was set, but her hand drifted once to the records inside her cloak, fingers brushing the parchment like a promise.
The rumors stayed vague. No one had details. No one had names. But the direction was clear.
Trouble was ahead.
And it had teeth.
Still, none of them suggested turning back.
The road remembered every step they took, carrying them east toward Vaelor's Reach — toward smoke on the horizon, toward a family that might still be breathing, toward whatever "planned" trouble was waiting to meet them.
The pack kept moving.
Together.