The final miles to Oakridge were walked in a heavy, oppressive silence. The discovery of the destroyed caravan and Captain Alain's tattered banner had extinguished the last embers of their earlier good cheer, replacing it with a cold, grim resolve. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat, every rustle of leaves a potential ambush. The weight of their task, and the terrifying reality of the forces they now faced, had settled upon them completely.
By late afternoon, the surroundings finally began to show signs of true civilization. The dirt path widened into a proper road of packed earth and gravel. They passed fenced pastures with grazing cows and a woodcutter's cottage with smoke rising lazily from its chimney. A group of children gathering apples in a nearby orchard stopped to stare at the weary travelers, their innocent curiosity a stark contrast to the grim world the adventurers now inhabited.
Soon, Oakridge itself came into view, a stockade wall of thick, sharpened logs encircling a lively market town nestled amid gently rolling hills. True to its name, groves of mighty oak trees dotted the landscape around it, their leaves a riot of autumn colors. The town gate stood open, two militiamen standing guard more out of formality than any real expectation of trouble. They eyed the approaching party of five, their armor dented, their cloaks stained with travel and old blood, with open curiosity.
"Ho there, travelers," one guard hailed, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "From the west, are you? Any news from Blackstone?"
Darius stepped forward, his expression weary but his bearing still that of a commander. "We bear important news for your captain," he said, his voice a low rumble. "And we carry the wounded. We need to see your garrison leader immediately." He did not flash any letters; their grim appearance was credential enough.
The men straightened, their casual demeanor vanishing at the gravity in Darius's tone. "Understood, sir. Captain Roland is in charge here. You'll find him at the watch barracks, straight down the main lane." The guard gestured through the gate. "We've had some refugee wagons from villages further west a few days past, talking about undead attacks." He shook his head as if not entirely believing such tales. "You might know more?"
"Far too much, I'm afraid," Lyra interjected gently, her voice tired but firm. "There was an attack, and worse. We will inform your Captain. In the meantime, do allow any refugees free passage, they've been through enough."
The second guard, younger and softer-looking, scratched his head. "Heard rumors of a beast on the road too. Huge and deadly. No one's seen it, though."
Finn, leaning heavily on Azaël for support, managed a lopsided, pain-filled grin. "Oh, we saw it," he rasped. "It won't be bothering anyone else." Before the guards could ask for more, the party moved past them and into the relative safety of the town.
The sounds of a bustling small town greeted them, merchants hawking wares, a blacksmith's hammer ringing from a forge, villagers chatting as they went about their daily lives. After the silence and terror of the wilderness, the mundane noise was a comforting shock. Still, their motley appearance drew stares. The sight of a battle-worn knight, a barbarian wielding a monstrous axe, a graceful elf, a weakened cleric, and a sparking, injured rogue was not a common one.
They soon arrived at the barracks, a sturdy stone-and-timber building by the town square. Captain Roland turned out to be a gruff, middle-aged man with a hooked nose and a limp he'd earned in some long-forgotten border skirmish. He ushered them into his small, cluttered office, his initial curiosity turning to alarm as Darius recounted their tale.
Darius and Lyra took turns summarizing the key points: the undead attack at Graystone, the necromancer's cult, the journal, the grim fate of Alain's patrol, and the battle with the corrupted razorclaw that had nearly claimed them all. When Erik produced the tattered shred of Alain's banner, Captain Roland's face went pale.
"By the King's crown…" he breathed, sinking into his chair. "I'll dispatch messengers immediately, to Blackstone, and to the duchy capital by raven. This is… dire news." He eyed their exhausted forms with a newfound respect. "You all look like you could use a proper rest. I'll see that rooms at the Oak's Rest Inn are covered for you tonight, on the Crown's coin. It's the least we can do."
They gratefully accepted. Finn, who had been slumping against the doorframe, perked up at the mention of real beds. Roland wasn't finished, though. "I also have two half-decent healing potions in our stores. My finest. Take them, our town is quiet enough." He slid two small glass vials filled with a glowing red liquid across the desk.
Lyra inclined her head, accepting the potions with a murmur of thanks. They were a precious resource, and the captain's generosity spoke volumes about the gravity of their news.
At the Oak's Rest Inn, the innkeep, a plump, bustling woman named Maribel, clucked over them like a mother hen as soon as she learned who they were. "Right this way, dearies," she said, leading them to comfortable quarters upstairs. "We've only got two rooms free, but they're cozy. I hope you don't mind doubling up."
They arranged accordingly; Darius, Erik, and the still-weak Finn took one larger room, while Lyra and Azaël were given the adjacent one. It was a practical, unspoken arrangement. As they settled in, the sheer relief of being indoors, safe and warm, washed over them. Erik dropped his pack and axe in a corner and stretched, feeling the deep ache in his muscles. The indoor warmth and the soft glow of lamplight felt heavenly after days of roughing it on the cold, dangerous road.
He stepped out to the common washing room down the hall, the feeling of hot water on his skin nearly moving him to tears of joy. When he returned, much of the road grime removed, he found the door to the women's room ajar. He could hear Lyra's soft voice and knocked gently on the doorframe.
"Everything alright in here?" he asked.
Lyra looked up from where she was helping Azaël treat a shallow cut on her arm with a fresh poultice. Both women had changed into simple linen shifts, their armor neatly arranged on stands to air out. The soft lamplight made Azaël's hair shine like tired copper and caught the gentler brown tones in Lyra's. For a moment, with the day's horrors behind them, the scene was one of simple, peaceful domesticity.
"We're fine, Erik," Lyra said, offering him a tired but warm smile. "Just tending to the last of our wounds. How are you feeling?"
"Sore, but I'll live," Erik replied, leaning against the doorframe. He looked at Azaël. "I meant what I said on the road. If you hadn't intervened… we would all be dead. I won't forget that."
Azaël met his gaze, her expression gentling from its usual guarded focus. "And I won't forget that you faced that beast head-on to protect your friends. That is not a common quality, Erik." There was a pause, then she added with a playful lilt, "Though next time, maybe let the one with the bow soften it up a bit more before you grapple something ten times your size, hm?"
He laughed softly. "I'll keep that in mind."
The three of them fell into a comfortable silence, the shared experience of the battle creating an easy camaraderie. After a moment, Azaël spoke again, her voice thoughtful. "Fate is a strange thing. If someone told me a month ago I'd be in a human inn, sharing a mission with a group of brave souls I'd just met, I'd have scoffed. I was so used to walking my path alone."
Erik nodded, understanding the sentiment completely. "I know the feeling. When I first joined the Iron Wolves, I was… lost. These people," he gestured vaguely toward the other room where Finn could be heard complaining about a lumpy mattress, "they became my family. And now you're part of that."
Lyra, finished with her bandaging, sat on the edge of her bed. "We're glad you are. I was worried, to be honest… that adding someone new might upset our balance. But you fit right in, like you were meant to be with us."
Azaël's eyes warmed at Lyra's earnest words. "That's kind of you to say. I feel that too, as improbable as it sounds." She gave a half-smile, then looked down, fiddling with a ring on her finger, a simple band of braided silver and oak wood. "Truthfully, I haven't had… friends, in some time. My duties, the things I've seen… it pushed me away from many."
Erik sensed a depth of loneliness and pain in her admission. Lyra, ever the empath, reached out and gently touched Azaël's hand. "Well, you have friends now," she said softly. "And after what we went through with that razorclaw, I'd say more than friends, comrades in arms. That's a bond forged strong."
Azaël looked at Lyra, then at Erik, and something akin to gratitude shone in her emerald eyes. "Thank you."
Erik felt it was the right moment to ask something that had been on his mind. "Azaël, you mentioned… you said you saw me in a vision, about the Tower."
Azaël nodded, her expression growing serious again. "I did. It was an impression, not a clear sight. But I sensed a connection. Your path, Erik, feels… different. As if it's woven with a thread from another loom entirely." She tilted her head, studying him with that unnerving perception of hers.
Lyra looked from Azaël to Erik, her brow furrowed in thought. "What do you mean, 'another loom'?"
"It's difficult to explain," Azaël admitted. "It's a feeling. A sense that his fate is not bound by the same rules as others in this land." She then asked him directly, her gaze piercing. "Erik, do you believe in destiny? Or that a man can forge his own path?"
He pondered, the question echoing the thoughts he'd had on his journey. "I used to think we make our own way," he said slowly. "But now? Too many coincidences seem to be aligning. I think maybe it's both. Fate might set the stage, but our choices determine the outcome."
Azaël seemed satisfied by that. "Spoken like one who walks between worlds," she murmured, her voice laced with an enigmatic quality that sent a shiver down Erik's spine. He wondered at her phrasing, at what she could possibly be sensing about his true nature.
Before he could ask, Lyra spoke, her voice grounding them. "Perhaps fate brought us all here, to this moment, for a reason. Azaël, your prophecies. Erik, your strength. All of us, together. The Light works in mysterious ways, but it does not act without purpose." She smiled, a beacon of faith in the room. "Whatever trials await, we will face them. Not as individuals bound by fate, but as a family bound by choice."
Her words seemed to resonate deeply with both Erik and Azaël. The archer's guarded expression softened into one of genuine warmth and acceptance.
With the night growing late and exhaustion tugging at them all, Erik bid the two women goodnight. As he turned to leave, Lyra called his name softly. He looked back.
"Rest well, Erik," she said, her eyes conveying a depth of care and gratitude that made his heart stir. "We'll need your strength tomorrow."
He gave her a final, reassuring smile before closing the door, leaving them to their rest. Returning to his own room, he found Darius already asleep and Finn snoring softly. He settled into his own cot, the silence of the room amplifying the turbulent thoughts in his mind.
He replayed the conversation with Azaël. 'A thread from another loom,' she had called him. But it was more than that. He recalled the moment after the battle when Lyra had awakened, the shimmering runes on her arms fading into her skin. He had seen them with his Runic Sight. And Azaël… he was certain Azaël had seen them too. There had been a flicker of deep recognition in her eyes, a knowing glance that went beyond simple observation.
Was her arrival truly just 'fortune'? An elf with prophetic sight, who can perceive the very runes that defined their power, who was guided by omens of the exact evil they now fought, just happens to find them at the precise moment they needed her most? The coincidence was too perfect, too clean.
It felt… pre-written.
The thought sent a wave of cold dread through him, a feeling far more terrifying than the razorclaw's claws. His entire life, his first one, had been a prison of routine, of choices made by others, a cage of gray walls and suffocating expectations. He had craved freedom, a purpose that was his own. He had thought he'd found it here, in the brutal honesty of battle, in the fierce loyalty of his friends. He had chosen to fight for them, to stand with them.
But was it ever a choice?
If Azaël was fated to find them, if Lyra was fated to awaken her true power, if he was a fated figure in an ancient elven prophecy… what did that make his own actions? Was his charge against the razorclaw an act of will, or just a character playing his part? Was his desperate need to protect this new family a genuine feeling, or just a line from a script he hadn't known he was reading?
He lay in the darkness, listening to the soft snores of his friend, and felt more trapped than he ever had in his cubicle. The 'freedom' of this world was beginning to feel like a far more elaborate, more cruel, and more inescapable prison than the one he had left behind. He was an unknown variable, yes, but an unknown variable in an equation that had, perhaps, already been solved. He closed his eyes, the weight of a destiny he had not chosen settling upon him like a tombstone.