They left Stillpoint before dawn.
No one said goodbye to the stones.
There were no words for places that weren't meant to be remembered — only passed through.
The forest had begun to change. The trees were still tall, but they no longer leaned inward like watchers. More light filtered through. The ground was firmer, less like rot and more like dirt. Roots didn't curl to trip them with the same hunger.
It felt almost natural.
Almost.
Phoenix walked, slow but steady, flamberge strapped tight to his back. Every few hours, his breath hitched, his hand strayed to his ribs — but he never asked to stop.
No one offered.
Elric took point this time, the big green knight's axe resting across his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Ryliegh stayed at the rear, watching their backs with a stillness that was almost supernatural.
Bram and Soren whispered occasionally, but even their voices had softened — not in fear, but respect. The Darkzone had stolen their shouting.
Vale checked the map again as they passed a broken stone marker, half-buried in ivy. "Another mile, maybe two. Then we reach the basin. If the river's still low, we cross. After that—"
"Civilization," Phoenix muttered.
Vale glanced at him. "As much as it still exists."
The wind shifted.
It carried sound now.
Not screams.
Not monsters.
Birds.
Small, chirping, oblivious.
Phoenix stopped walking for a moment. "Do you hear that?"
Soren nodded slowly. "I forgot what that sounded like."
Ryliegh stepped up beside Phoenix. "Means we're close."
"Close isn't safe," Phoenix replied.
"No," Ryliegh agreed. "But it's closer."
The trees broke at last around midday.
They stood at the edge of a rise, looking down over a stretch of low grassland — pale, frost-touched, but open. Across the distant field: the river, winding like a silver scar. And beyond it, a speck of stone and timber.
An outpost.
Alive.
Smoke from a chimney.
A flag — green and silver — barely visible on the breeze.
Bram exhaled. "Is that real?"
Elric grinned faintly. "Real enough."
Phoenix stared at it. Then at his hands. Then back to the horizon.
"Feels wrong," he said. "Getting out."
"You're not out yet," Ryliegh said. "Not until your boots are on clean stone."
Phoenix gave a weak laugh. "You really are terrible at celebration."
"You didn't die," Ryliegh said simply.
"Not for lack of trying."
They moved again.
Six knights.
Steel on their backs. Scars beneath.
Each step forward felt heavier — but not because of pain.
Because of memory.
But ahead was something they hadn't had in weeks.
A roof.
A wall.
A gate.
And maybe — just maybe — rest.