Chapter 9 | Part 5

Consciousness returned in fragments.

Warmth first. Not the remembered cold of the nightmare sea, but actual heat—sand beneath his cheek, warm enough to feel through numbness. Then smell: sulfur, ash, something metallic and wrong. Then sound: the rhythmic lap of water behind him, the crackle of a fire somewhere nearby, a voice speaking words he couldn’t quite parse.

Drusniel opened his eyes.

The world was the wrong color.

A sky stretched above him, but it wasn’t any sky he recognized. Red-tinged grey, perpetual twilight, no sun visible but light coming from somewhere—diffuse, sourceless, casting everything in shades of rust and shadow. The air itself seemed tinted, as if he was looking through stained glass.

“Don’t try to move yet.”

The voice was practical, neither friendly nor hostile. Drusniel turned his head—the only movement he could manage—and saw a man crouched near a small fire. Human, by the look of him. Weather-beaten face, calloused hands, eyes that assessed without revealing what they saw.

“The crossing takes everything,” the man continued. “Seen it before. The strong ones need a day to recover. The weak ones don’t recover at all.” He glanced toward the water’s edge where a small boat rested half-submerged. “Smart, using a boat. Most try to swim. Most don’t make it.”

Drusniel tried to speak. His throat was raw, scraped by effort and exhaustion and the metallic air of the nightmare sea. What came out was barely a croak.

“Water?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Asking for water? After that?” He gestured toward the nightmare sea, dark humor in the motion. “Brave or stupid. Hard to tell which.”

But he produced a waterskin anyway, moving with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this many times before. He held it to Drusniel’s lips, letting him drink in small sips that burned on the way down.

“Not from Wyrmreach,” the man observed. “Obvious from the way you look. Drow, yes? Haven’t seen one of you in years.”

Drusniel managed a nod. His body was slowly remembering how to function, but slowly was the operative word. Every muscle ached. His magic was a hollow space in his chest, empty and echoing. The debt—that weight he’d accepted without understanding—sat beside his heart like a second pulse.

“Where am I?”

“Wyrmreach.” The man said it like it was supposed to mean something specific. “The coast, specifically. Scavenger’s stretch, the locals call it. Things wash up here.” He looked at Drusniel with that assessing gaze again. “People too, sometimes.”

The fire crackled. Beyond it, Drusniel could see more of the landscape—black sand extending toward crystalline formations that shouldn’t exist, plants with colors that had no name in any language he knew, and in the distance, a glow on the horizon that pulsed like something alive.

“Volcano,” the man said, following his gaze. “The contested lands. You don’t want to go that direction.” He paused. “Where were you headed?”

Drusniel’s mind worked sluggishly, trying to remember the name Zaelar had given him. “Szoravel.”

Something flickered in the man’s expression. Recognition, quickly hidden. “Szoravel. The drow mage. You know him?”

“No.” The word came out steadier now. “I was sent to find him.”

“Sent.” The man’s tone was carefully neutral. “Long way to come for someone you don’t know.”

Drusniel didn’t have the strength for caution. “I was given instructions. Cross the nightmare sea, find Szoravel. That’s all I know.”

“Hm.” The man fed another piece of driftwood to the fire—black wood, wrong-colored like everything else here. “Well, you’ve done the first part. Barely. The second part…” He shrugged. “Szoravel isn’t easy to find. Doesn’t want to be found, from what I’ve heard. Protected, somehow.”

Drusniel tried to push himself upright. His arms shook, but they held—barely. The world spun, settled, spun again.

“Rest,” the man said, not unkindly. “Whatever you did to survive that crossing, it cost you more than you probably realize. Try to move too soon and you’ll collapse before you get ten steps.”

He was right. Drusniel could feel it—the absolute emptiness where his reserves should have been, the hollow ache of magic spent past safety. He’d pushed himself to breaking in the nightmare sea, and then something else had pushed him further. The recovery from that wouldn’t be measured in hours.

“Who are you?” he asked.

The man smiled, and the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Name’s Merrik. I work these shores. Find things that wash up. Help the ones that can be helped.” He poured something into a bowl—broth of some kind, smelling of meat and herbs that were probably local. “Eat. Sleep. Tomorrow we can talk about getting you to where you need to go.”

The broth was warm. Strange-tasting, but warm. Drusniel drank it slowly, feeling heat spread through his exhausted body.

“Why help me?” he asked between sips.

Merrik’s expression didn’t change. “Does there need to be a reason?”

“In my experience, yes.”

A laugh, short and genuine. “Fair enough. Let’s say… I’m curious. Drow don’t usually survive the crossing. Barely anyone does, these days. The fact that you’re here, alive, talking—that makes you interesting.” He fed another stick to the fire. “Interesting things are valuable, in Wyrmreach. One way or another.”

Drusniel’s mind noted the words—valuable, one way or another—and filed them away for later analysis. Right now, he didn’t have the capacity for suspicion. His body was demanding rest with the urgency of someone who had nearly died.

“Sleep,” Merrik said again. “The fire will keep the coast-runners away. Nothing will bother you tonight.”

It wasn’t a promise of safety. It was a statement of practical fact. And in Drusniel’s current state, practical facts were all he could afford to deal with.

He lay back on the black sand, still warm from the day’s heat—if this place had days. Above him, the wrong-colored sky pulsed with distant light. Behind him, the nightmare sea whispered against the shore, patient and ancient and utterly indifferent to his survival.

And in his chest, the debt waited. Silent. Patient. Certain to be called eventually.

One favor owed, he thought as consciousness began to fade. To something I didn’t see. For a price I don’t know.

It should have kept him awake. Instead, exhaustion dragged him under like a gentle tide, and he slept on the shores of a realm that had never been meant to hold him.

Tomorrow, he would worry about what came next.

Tonight, he would simply be grateful to be alive.

End of Chapter 9.5 —> 10.1: The Knot at Riverhold: The Veteran