Chapter 102: Peace Journey Indeed

The Caravan pulled off the hidden path into a clearing that seemed purpose-built for this exact moment.

Trees formed a natural barrier on three sides, their branches interlocking overhead like clasped fingers. The fourth side opened toward a gentle slope where a stream trickled past — the sound of it soft and constant, almost musical in the growing dark. The air smelled different here. Cleaner. Pine and wet earth and something faintly sweet, like wildflowers had bloomed nearby and left their memory behind.

People moved with practiced efficiency. This wasn’t their first time doing this, clearly. Wagons were arranged in a loose semicircle, horses unhitched and led toward the water, and fires began sprouting up in carefully dug pits that looked like they’d been used many times before. The ground around them was blackened in perfect circles, the grass worn away to hard-packed dirt.

Octavia stirred on my thighs, blinking slowly as awareness crept back into her expression. For a moment, she looked confused — that particular kind of disorientation that came from waking up somewhere unexpected. Then her eyes found mine, and something in her expression softened.

“We’ve stopped?”

“Camp for the night.”

She had literally slept the entire day. I wasn’t sure if I should be impressed or concerned. Maybe both. Her body was still recovering, still knitting itself back together from everything we’d put it through. Sleep was probably the best medicine she could get right now.

Tristan hopped off the wagon first, landing with an easy grace that made it look like he’d been doing this his whole life. Maybe he had. The old Battle-Priest had resumed talking to him, gesturing animatedly about some long-ago siege, and Tristan nodded along with the patience of a saint. His expression said he’d rather be anywhere else, but his posture remained respectful. Diplomatic, even.

Then Nisha and Levi followed, people filed along, and soon Octavia and I were on the ground too, joining a section of the camp.

Around us, the camp was taking shape with remarkable speed. Tents emerged from supply wagons, their fabric bearing symbols I didn’t recognize — geometric patterns that might have been religious, might have been practical. Hard to tell with these people. Everything seemed to carry double meaning.

“We should help,” Octavia said, already moving toward the nearest group struggling with tent poles.

And she was right. Standing around looking useless wasn’t going to endear us to anyone. These people had taken us in, hidden us among their numbers, asked no questions beyond the surface ones. The least we could do was pull our weight.

’Besides, idle hands give people time to wonder about the strangers in their midst.’

I found myself helping an older woman — not as old as the Battle-Priest, but weathered in the way that spoke of hard years — carrying supplies from one of the wagons. Dried meats, hard bread, vegetables that had seen better days but would serve well enough in a stew. She didn’t speak much, and I didn’t push. Some silences were comfortable. This one felt earned.

The fires grew brighter as the sky darkened overhead. Stars began emerging, one by one, then in clusters, then in great sweeping bands across the heavens. Ealdrim’s night sky was different from Earth’s — more stars, somehow, or maybe they just seemed closer here, brighter. Like the darkness itself was thinner, like someone had poked a thousand holes in a black curtain and let the light bleed through.

Someone had started cooking. The smell of it drifted through the camp — meat and herbs and something earthy I couldn’t quite identify. My stomach reminded me, rather insistently, that I hadn’t eaten properly since morning.

Tristan finally extracted himself from the old man’s stories and made his way over to where our group had settled near one of the smaller fires. He dropped down beside us with a heavy exhale, running a hand through his hair.

“That man could talk the legs off a horse.”

Levi looked at him, arms crossed.

“Your brother? Lagonieer? That’s the best you could come up with?”

Tristan shot him a glare.

“Name something that would’ve been much better.”

Levi shrugged. “How would I know… Speed King.”

Tristan’s glare got dark.

Immediately, Levi seemed to regret the words. “Play, play, I was just playing.” He held up his hands in surrender, but the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Nisha was gulping something from her gourd, her eyes tracing lazily down Tristan’s frame.

’Is that… alcohol?’

It couldn’t be. How could she be gulping that sharp thing like she was gulping water? Either she had the tolerance of a seasoned tavern keeper or the gourd held something considerably less potent than I thought.

The camp settled into the rhythm of evening. People ate, talked in low voices, laughed occasionally at jokes I couldn’t hear. Children ran between the wagons — there were families here, whole lives packed up and moving together through the hidden paths of the world. It felt… normal. Strangely, almost painfully normal.

A bowl of stew found its way into my hands at some point. I didn’t remember who gave it to me, just that it was hot and filling and exactly what I needed. The meat fell apart on my tongue. The broth warmed me from the inside out. Octavia ate beside me in comfortable silence, her shoulder occasionally brushing against mine when she shifted.

’This is nice.’

The thought came unbidden, and I didn’t try to push it away. Because it was true. This was nice. This moment, right here — the warmth of the fire, the sounds of a community at rest, the absence of immediate danger pressing down on my chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, I could just… exist. No running. No fighting. No desperate scramble to survive the next five minutes.

“So…” Tristan’s gaze locked on us as we ate. “Currently, we are in Oakham Grove. It’d take a while, but tomorrow we should cross Brackenfell.”

Levi sighed, leaning back on his hands.

“Still a long way to Faeren, ah. I miss home.”

Tristan looked at him.

“At least… we’re sure that we’re under the protection of House Hwarmaisch.”

I looked at them both.

“House Hwarmaisch?”

’What’s with the names around here? The pronunciation threatens to split my tongue.’

Tristan looked at me.

“Ah, right. So this entire region is called Thornwood. A duchy belonging to one of the founding Ducal Houses of Aetheris. Hwarmaisch.”

I nodded. “Yeah, we were taught about the five ducal houses and their powers.”

“Of all five, House Hwarmaisch is the house with the most open hostility towards the church. Of course, because of the power they hold, the church couldn’t just influence and replace them like they did with the rest.” He paused, firelight dancing across his features. “I hear the current Duke is even more dangerous than his father, who was at least reasonable.”

Tristan looked at me.

“The church really cannot do anything here. The journey to Faeren Heights will be smooth and easy.” His expression shifted. “When we get to Faeren Heights though, there’ll be need for us to be more careful.”

I looked at him studiously. “Why? Isn’t it still a part of Thornwood Duchy?”

Levi shook his head.

“Nope. That’s the Seacliffe Duchy, ruled by the Montfort rich bastards.”

Tristan’s expression was grim now.

“They’re quite… devout to the Radiant Faith. If we get to Faeren, the forces that’ll be after us will be doubled.”

’Out of the frying pan, into the fire.’

Tristan breathed and added:

“Somehow… we need to remove ourselves from this Caravan…”

Curious, I asked: “Why?”

He drank from his bowl of soup and hissed at the heat before looking at me in the most casual manner he could manage. But his eyes weren’t casual at all.

“Everyone gets checked. Talking identity proof checking.”

His look on me intensified.

“Do you have an identity token?”

The warmth of the fire suddenly felt very far away.

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