Chapter 19 | Part 1

Three days.

Drusniel had counted every hour. Seventy-two of them, each marked by the slow pulse of bioluminescent fungus on the cave walls, by the rasp of Elion’s breathing as he slept, by Srietz’s muttered calculations as he inventoried their supplies for the fourth time.

They took turns collecting water and watching the entrance. Between watches, Drusniel checked whether Elion was awake.

“Elion’s color is better.” Drusniel didn’t frame it as a question. He’d learned that Srietz responded better to observations than queries.

“Srietz agrees. Yesterday: grey. Today: pale. Tomorrow, perhaps, something approaching normal.” The goblin’s long fingers sorted dried meat into precise piles. “Two more days. Maybe less. Then he walks, and we leave.”

“Forty-eight hours.” Drusniel looked toward the faint light at the cave mouth. “We’ve been here too long already.”

“Srietz notes the impatience. Srietz also notes the wisdom of waiting. A recovered scout is more valuable than a dead one.”

Elion opened his eyes. His cheeks were still hollow, but he followed the conversation without losing focus.

“You’re discussing me.”

“We’re discussing departure.” Drusniel moved closer. “Can you travel?”

“Not yet.” Elion’s voice was raspy. “Another day. Maybe two. The transformation—” He stopped, seemed to search for words. “It’s like being turned inside out and having to remember which parts go where. The body knows, eventually. But it takes time.”

“We don’t have time.”

“Then leave me.” No bitterness in the words. Just fact. “I’ll catch up when I can. If I can.”

“That’s not happening.”

Elion held his gaze, then eased himself back against the wall.

“Then we wait,” Elion said. “And you tell me where we’re going while we do.”

Drusniel hesitated. He had put off telling them where Zaelar had sent him. Now they needed a destination.

“Szoravel.” The name felt strange on his tongue. “A drow mage. Someone who might have answers.”

“Might?”

“Zaelar sent me to him.” Drusniel watched Elion’s face. “The mage who taught me. I don’t trust him.”

“And yet you’re going.”

“I don’t have other options.”

Srietz looked up from his inventory. “Srietz knows of Szoravel. By reputation only. The drow mage has… protection. Powerful protection. Srietz does not know what kind.”

“Protected.” Drusniel let the word sit. It should have been comforting. It wasn’t. “What else do you know?”

“That Szoravel is east. That the eastern territories are contested. That traveling there requires passing through lands where three lords fight for dominance.” Srietz’s voice was flat, clinical. “Srietz survived by avoiding those lands. Srietz did not ask questions about what ruled them.”

“But you survived.”

“Srietz knew routes where fewer travelers disappeared.” His ears twitched. “Srietz used them alone. Two companions make hiding harder.”

Elion had closed his eyes again, but Drusniel could tell he wasn’t sleeping. Just listening. Processing.

“When you’re ready,” Drusniel said, “we move east. Toward Szoravel. Toward whatever answers wait there.”

“And if the answers aren’t what you want?”

“Then at least they’ll be answers.”

He went to the cave mouth and looked east.

Beyond the caves lived a mage who might know what had happened to him on the sea. All Drusniel had was Zaelar’s name for him and Srietz’s directions.

Szoravel. The name Zaelar gave him. The destination that felt more like a trap every time he thought about it.

Srietz went back to counting food. Drusniel waited at the entrance until Elion called for water.

Direction, at least. Direction was something.

End of Chapter 19.1 —> 19.2: Direction: Information