The pair of travelers crossed the bridge soon after that. Atilla held his breath as they reached the edge, and he immediately felt a ripple of energy when they stepped onto the other side.
The air felt different here, and the further they walked, the more Ceremus could sense they weren't alone. Though the landscape didn't appear much different from where they came, there was something majestic about the way the snow fell from the sky—as if the snowflakes were clearer, and the snow itself was whiter.
The trees curved beautifully, their branches decorated with drops of icicles. The weather was less chilly on this side, and Atilla could feel a breath of warmth permeating his body. Though there was still something eerie about the place, perhaps due to the serene energy surrounding them, it truly resembled a wonderland—a winter wonderland.
The unsettling quiet pressed down on them, broken only by the soft crunch of their boots against the pristine snow. Ceremus moved forward with measured steps, his sharp gaze sweeping the landscape.
A sudden rustling echoed from the trees ahead, and Atilla's hand went straight to his sword. His pulse quickened, and his grip tightened on the hilt. But Ceremus merely lifted a hand, a silent command to wait.
From the shadows of the trees, a figure emerged. Cloaked in white, they blended seamlessly into the snow-covered forest, their presence more ghostly than human. The figure's hood obscured their face.
Atilla swallowed as he wondered whether the person standing before them was friend or foe.
The figure took a step forward, their voice carrying through the cold air like a whisper of wind.
"You stand at the threshold of sacred ground," they said, their tone neither welcoming nor hostile. "State your purpose, or remain as a wanderer till the end of your days."
Ceremus met the stranger's gaze—or what he could see of it beneath the hood. Not one for idle chatter, he immediately stated their purpose.
"We wish to find someone," he said simply.
The figure was silent for a moment before extending its long, frail arm to the left. The two followed the direction it was pointing to, and suddenly, a large river appeared out of thin air, replacing the snowbank over yonder.
Atilla's eyes widened while Ceremus raised his brows in surprise. A boat, carried by the water's current, approached them. The boat was large enough to fit exactly two people and had an oar on each side.
"Traverse the Kalamma River until it reaches its destination. But be warned, touch its waters, and you shall meet an untimely death," the figure said.
Before either man could respond, the figure turned and walked away, disappearing in a swirl of snow.
Ceremus furrowed his brows, finding what they had just witnessed odd, but none of it deterred him from his goal. He approached the boat, eyes locked on the vessel by the riverbank. His young companion remained rooted where he stood, causing the king to turn. One look at Atilla's face, and he could tell something was wrong.
"What's wrong?" Ceremus asked, his tone soft but carrying a hint of impatience. Fortunately, Atilla was too much of a wreck to notice it.
His face was as white as the surrounding snow, his body frozen, breath caught in his throat.
The river looked too much like that lake.
The one from years ago.
The one where he had lost her.
A coldness far deeper than the winter air wrapped around his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs. He could still hear the frantic splashing, the panicked cries. His younger sister's small hands reaching for him, fingers slipping just beyond his grasp.
Atilla, help me!
He had jumped in after her. He had fought against the water, against the way it clutched at him, pulling him down. But in the end, he was too slow. Too weak. By the time he had dragged her to shore, her lips were blue. Her eyes, once so bright, stared unseeing at the sky.
He had never felt such a terrible, crushing helplessness since that day. Until now.
"Are you coming?" Ceremus's voice cut through his thoughts.
Atilla's vision refocused. Ceremus was already by the boat, one foot resting against its worn wooden side. He was watching him now, his usual indifference tinged with something else—concern, perhaps?
Atilla opened his mouth, but no words came. He felt sick. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers curling into fists as if that could stop the shaking.
Ceremus tilted his head slightly, and in the stillness, his voice dropped just a fraction.
"Atilla."
Atilla flinched, and Ceremus' gaze sharpened. The sound of his name grounded him just enough to keep from collapsing.
Atilla swallowed hard, the taste of grief bitter on his tongue. His knuckles had gone white from clenching his fists so tightly.
"I…" He tried to force words out, but his voice cracked. He hated this. He hated how the past still had its claws in him, how it could render him powerless with just the sight of dark waters.
Ceremus' gaze lingered on him for a long moment before he exhaled through his nose and stepped away from the boat.
"Then you won't cross," Ceremus stated—not a question, but a fact. He didn't need someone who would hold him back, not when he was finally a step closer to reaching his goal.
It was heartless of him to think so, but Hael's well-being was the only thing on his mind at the moment. The only thing he could focus on.
Atilla stiffened at his words, realizing how sincere Ceremus was being. He really was going to leave him here if he didn't get his act together. Atilla wasn't weak, but he felt so incredibly small in this moment. Yet, no matter how much it felt like the world was going to collapse on him, he had no desire to be left behind.
Atilla had made a vow with himself that he wouldn't let the past define him. He was better now, stronger than he had been in the past. He would not let this minor setback impede his desire to help the man he respected. Not only that, he didn't want to look like a child in front of the king.
"…I just need a moment," he muttered, voice strained.
Ceremus studied him but said nothing more. He simply leaned back against the boat, arms crossed, and waited.
The young knight stood at the edge of the water, forcing himself to breathe—though his breath came out shallow and uneven.
The Kalamma River stretched before him, reopening old wounds, spreading through the scab that was once healed like an infection. Though its waters were like the ones from the past, he knew the river was different. They weren't the same.
Despite knowing this in theory, the mind had a funny way of tricking those who were vulnerable. He could see images of the water mirroring the river.
His finger dug into the lining of his fur cloak.
"Are you planning to stand there all day?" Ceremus's voice, dry as ever, cut through the fog in his mind.
Atilla forced himself to lift his gaze. Ceremus was watching him, arms still crossed, but there was patience in his posture this time—an unusual thing for a man like him. He hadn't pressed, hadn't mocked. He had simply waited.
The young knight knew how pressing their current situation was, how they couldn't afford to waste any more time. So, he took a step forward. Then another. The wooden dock creaked beneath his boots, the scent of cold, wet wood filling his senses.
Ceremus said nothing, merely shifted slightly as Atilla approached. The boat rocked gently as he reached it, and for a brief, terrible second, he thought his legs might lock again. That the weight of memory might drag him back into paralysis.
But he forced himself to move.
One hand gripped the edge of the boat, fingers curling around the worn wood.
Atilla swallowed.
It's not the same lake, he told himself.
He braced his foot against the edge of the boat, stepping inside. He let out a slow breath as he saw the ripples in the water from the boat rocking under his weight. Though he was still afraid, he was glad he could take the extra step.
It was progress.
Ceremus gave him a sidelong glance, as if gauging his state, but—like before—he said nothing.
The minute the pair had settled inside the vessel, it moved on its own, as if letting them know they were now departing. The young knight's breath hitched as the current carried the boat, and Ceremus, who had been watching him intently, couldn't help but wonder what had made this boy, who was strong and had matured beyond his years, look so afraid.
But despite his curiosity, the king said nothing, choosing to remain silent. If the boy wished to express his anxieties to him, then he would listen.
Everyone had a past, everyone had demons they were running from, secrets they preferred to keep hidden. Ceremus was no stranger to this. So, he understood that whatever plagued Atilla was an ordeal he would have to face on his own.
All he could hope for now was that the rest of their journey would be smooth sailing.