Chapter 18 | Part 5

They didn’t stop until dusk.

The camp was makeshift—barely more than a clearing where they could collapse against rocks and pretend they were safe. Xandor tended to wounds: a gash on Eldric’s arm, bruises on Dulint’s ribs, cuts on Balin’s hands he didn’t remember getting.

The artifact sat between them, pulsing and pointing as always, its call undiminished.

“They’ll come back.” Eldric’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “We hurt them, but we didn’t break them. They’ll regroup, gather reinforcements, try again.”

“Then what’s the point?” Balin’s voice came out sharper than he intended. “We fight, they retreat, they come back, we fight again. How long until we lose?”

“We keep moving. Stay ahead of them. Reach somewhere defensible.” Eldric met his eyes. “That’s all we can do. That’s all anyone can do.”

“People almost died today.”

“People almost die every day. That’s life. The trick is making ‘almost’ count.”

Dulint was silent, clutching the pack with the artifact. His face looked older than it had that morning—lined with something beyond exhaustion.

“Uncle?” Balin moved closer. “Are you all right?”

“No.” Dulint’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’m not all right. I haven’t been all right since Stonehold.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” Dulint stopped. Started again. “I mean we keep moving. That’s all we can do. It’s all we’ve ever been able to do.”

There was something in his uncle’s voice. Something being held back. But Balin was too tired, too shaken, too empty to push.

Maris sat apart from the others, knees drawn to her chest, eyes fixed on nothing.

“She saw it coming,” Balin said quietly. “The ambush.”

“She sees many things,” Xandor replied. “Seeing and stopping aren’t the same skill. Don’t blame her for powers she never asked for.”

“I don’t blame her. I just…” Balin trailed off. “I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know how to feel.”

“Then don’t. Not yet.” Xandor’s ancient eyes held His ancient eyes softened. “Let yourself be numb for now. The feelings will come when you’re ready for them. And if you’re lucky, not a moment before.”

Balin looked at his hands. Still stained, despite the water Xandor had given him.

He could still feel the sword going in wrong. Still hear the sound the Grukmar made as it died.

First time killing someone.

The words wouldn’t stop.

“Eldric.” Balin’s voice cracked. “When does it stop feeling like this?”

“It doesn’t.” Eldric wasn’t cruel about it. Just honest. “You learn to carry it. You learn to put it in a box in your mind and leave it there until you need to open it again. But it never stops feeling like something you can’t take back.”

“Because you can’t.”

“No. You can’t.”

They sat in silence as darkness fell. The artifact pulsed. The forest held its breath. Somewhere behind them, Grukmar were licking their wounds and planning their next attack.

And ahead—always ahead—something waited. Something they didn’t understand, couldn’t predict, couldn’t escape.

Balin looked at his uncle, who had protected him his whole life. At Eldric, who had warned him this would happen. At Maris, who saw horrors and couldn’t look away. At Xandor, who knew more than he was saying.

They were a collection of broken people carrying a burden they didn’t choose. Not heroes. Not legends. Just survivors.

First time understanding what that really means, he thought. First time wishing I could go back to not knowing.

But there was no going back. There never was.

They walked north. The artifact pointed the way. And behind them, bodies cooled in the blood-wet grass.

The eager boy who had left Stonehold counting firsts was gone.

Something harder was taking his place.

End of Chapter 18.5 —> 19.1: Direction: Recovery