Chapter 171: Around the Fire.

The campfire crackled softly, sending sparks drifting up into the night sky like dying stars.

Nero sat with his back against a fallen log, his broken arm cradled carefully across his chest. The warmth from the flames felt good against his skin, chasing away some of the bone-deep cold that had settled into him during his time in the Southern Bogs.

Aisha sat to his left, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. She’d been quiet since he’d returned, her dark eyes studying him with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. Lucy was on his right, sharpening one of her twin swords with slow, methodical strokes. The rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone filled the gaps in conversation.

Geor sat across from them, his massive frame hunched forward as he fed small branches into the fire. His shoulder was bandaged where that cut had opened up, but he seemed to be managing well enough. Obed stood slightly apart from the group, his good hand resting on his sword pommel even now, his eyes constantly scanning the darkness beyond their small circle of light.

The silence was comfortable, in a way.

“So,” she said, not looking up from her blade. “Want to tell us what the hell happened out there?”

Nero huffed, unsure where to even begin. How did he explain diving into toxic bog water, finding the corpse of a dead god, absorbing forbidden knowledge, and nearly losing his mind to visions of an ancient apocalypse?

“I found the fungus,” he said simply.

Lucy’s hands stilled on her sword. She looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. “That’s it? You were gone for less than an hour and came back looking like you’d fought through the Seven Hells, and all you have to say is ’I found the fungus’?”

Nero blinked. “What?”

“Less than an hour,” Aisha repeated softly. Her voice was gentle, but there was a worried edge to it. “You left us at the edge of the bogs for less than an hour.”

Nero’s mind went blank for a moment.

Less than an hour?

That couldn’t be right. He’d spent hours in that ravine. Hours climbing down, hours inside the skull experiencing those visions, hours climbing back up and harvesting the fungus. The journey to and from the island alone should have taken at least two hours.

And yet, according to Aisha and Lucy, he’d been gone for less than one.

“That’s…” Nero started, then stopped. His thoughts raced, trying to make sense of it. Had time moved differently inside the dead god’s corpse? Or had he lost time somehow during the visions, his consciousness experiencing things that hadn’t actually taken as long as they felt?

“That’s impossible,” he finished weakly.

Lucy shrugged, returning her attention to the sword. “Impossible or not, that’s what happened.”

Geor spoke up for the first time, his deep voice rumbling. “The Garden plays tricks on time sometimes. Especially in places where the corruption runs deep. I’ve heard stories of hunters who spent what felt like days in certain areas, only to emerge and find mere hours had passed.”

He paused, feeding another branch into the fire. “I’ve also heard stories of the opposite. People who thought they’d only been gone a few minutes, only to find weeks had gone by.”

Nero felt a chill run down his spine that had nothing to do with the night air.

What if he’d experienced the opposite? What if he’d been trapped in that skull for days or weeks, and the only reason it seemed like less time had passed was because of whatever strange properties that place possessed?

He shook his head, pushing the thought away. Dwelling on it wouldn’t help.

“I went to an island in the middle of the bog,” Nero said quietly. “There was a lot of the fungus there. It was pretty.”

“And?” Lucy prompted.

“And I gathered what I could.”

Aisha leaned forward slightly, her eyes searching his face. “Nero, what else happened? You’re not telling us something.”

Of course she could tell. Aisha had always been perceptive when it came to him, sometimes terrifyingly so.

Nero was silent for a long moment, staring into the flames. How much should he tell them? About the dead god? About the Mark of Mephistopheles absorbing those runes? About the visions of the Age of Gods?

All of it felt too big and dangerous to share.

“There was something on the island,” he finally said. “Something old and very dead. I don’t really understand what it was, but it was there, and I think it changed me somehow.”

The words hung in the air between them.

Nero held his breath and rubbed his hands together as he stared into the fire light.

Obed turned slightly, his attention now fully on Nero. “Changed you how?”

Nero held up his left hand, showing them the back of it. The Mark of Mephistopheles had returned to its dormant state, but the inverted crimson cross was still visible, etched into his skin like a brand.

Lucy whistled softly. “That’s… unsettling.”

“You think?” Nero replied with a bitter smile.

Aisha reached out slowly, her fingers hovering over the mark but not quite touching it. “Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

“What did you learn?” Obed asked, his brow furrowed.

Nero shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s best not to say.”

The campfire crackled again, sending up another shower of sparks. The silence that followed was heavier than before, weighted with unspoken concerns.

Aisha pulled her hand back, settling it in her lap. “I’m glad you came back,” she said softly. “When you didn’t return right away, I thought… I thought maybe something had happened.”

“I’m harder to kill than I look,” Nero said, trying for levity and failing.

Lucy snorted. “You look like you’re one strong breeze away from falling apart, kid. That’s not the reassurance you think it is.”

Despite everything, Nero found himself smiling slightly. There was something comforting about Lucy’s blunt honesty, about the way she refused to treat him like he was fragile even when he clearly was.

Geor shifted his weight, the log beneath him creaking. “What about your arm? That needs to be set properly, or it’ll heal wrong.”

Nero glanced down at his broken limb. The bones had started to knit themselves back together thanks to his enhanced healing, but Geor was right. If he left it like this, it would heal crooked and useless.

“I’ll deal with it later,” he said.

“You’ll deal with it now,” Obed cut in, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Geor, you know how to set bones?”

“I’ve done it before.”

“Then do it. We can’t afford to have him crippled when the next fight comes.”

Nero wanted to protest, but he knew Obed was right. He sighed and nodded.

What followed was ten minutes of excruciating pain as Geor manipulated the broken bones back into their proper alignment. Nero bit down on a strip of leather to keep from screaming, his good hand clenched into a fist so tight his nails drew blood from his palm.

When it was finally over, his arm was wrapped in makeshift splints and bound tightly to his chest. It still hurt like hell, but at least it would heal properly now.

“There,” Geor said, sitting back. “Try not to use it for at least a week.”

Nero nodded weakly, his face pale and covered in fresh sweat.

Aisha moved closer, her hand finding his and squeezing gently. “You should rest. We’ll keep watch.”

“I’m fine,” Nero started, but the look she gave him made it clear she wasn’t accepting any arguments.

Lucy stood up, sheathing her freshly sharpened sword. “Get some sleep, kid. Tomorrow we head back to the main camp and figure out how to distribute all that food you risked your life for.”

Nero leaned back against the log, his eyes already growing heavy. The warmth of the fire, the presence of his companions, the bone-deep exhaustion—all of it conspired to drag him toward sleep.

As his consciousness began to fade, he heard Obed speak quietly to the others.

“Keep a close watch tonight.”

“You’re paranoid,” Lucy replied, but there was no bite to her words.

“Paranoia is what keeps you alive out here.”

Nero wanted to stay awake, to contribute to the watch rotation, but his body had other ideas. Within minutes, he was asleep, his breathing evening out as the others stood guard around him.

The fire continued to crackle softly, a small island of warmth and light in the vast darkness of Malady’s Garden.

Above them, unseen and unnoticed, the clouds began to gather. Thick and dark, they blotted out the stars one by one, until the sky was nothing but an oppressive black canvas.

In the distance, something howled.

The sound was neither human nor wholly animal, a twisted cry that spoke of hunger and madness and corruption given voice.

Obed’s hand tightened on his sword.

It was going to be a long night.

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