Chapter 682

Chapter 682

A sharper jawline? The boatman appeared more gaunt today, as if he had withered away since their last meeting. Enkrid considered mentioning it, but decided against it—pointing out details to a figure that never spoke was a futile exercise. He remained silent. The quiet of the river was as heavy as a thick shroud. Neither of them uttered a word, simply watching one another through the shifting gloom. Enkrid peered through the dark haze at the cloaked entity, and the ferryman met his gaze with a matching stillness. There was no ripple in the air, no hint of a shift. Yet, without Enkrid even blinking, the ferryman was suddenly standing directly before him. The suddenness startled him, but he did not recoil. Even within this realm of the mind, Enkrid maintained a deep-seated composure—a calm that had become his default state of being. The ferryman extended a hand without a sound. His palm was a map of cracks, resembling soil parched by a long drought. Within one of those dark fissures, something stirred. As Enkrid fixed his eyes on that wriggling black speck, the boat and the dark river vanished. A trick of the mind. He didn’t need to analyze it; the recognition was instantaneous. Deciphering the ferryman’s motives was always a challenge. Despite their numerous encounters, the figure remained a cryptic companion of repetitive cycles. Nevertheless, Enkrid accepted the vision the ferryman intended to share. “Ugh.” The environment was indistinguishable, the sky and ground lost to him. Only blurred shapes moved through a landscape of soot and ash—yet they were distinct enough to name. Ragna. Ragna spat out a mouthful of blood, wiped his chin, and looked up. “You claim you never back down from a struggle. Well, don’t turn your back on this one either.” To whom was he speaking? Behind Ragna’s translucent form, another figure lay on the earth, barely perceptible. The identity was lost in the blur. Ragna’s presence dissolved like rising smoke. The scene felt close enough to reach out to, yet impossibly remote. It was like witnessing a memory from a great distance. As Ragna dissipated, a different silhouette emerged from the haze. “…Just admit it. I had the solution. I was the victor.” “You fool. If you’re dead, you’ve lost.” “I am the cure, the universal remedy, the remedium omnia.” What was she even saying? The words seemed like nonsense. Enkrid stopped trying to find logic in the dialogue and looked at the state of things. Anne had been wounded by an unseen hand. She was delivering her final words before the end. Who was her audience? The person she addressed remained invisible. The voice was muffled, the gender impossible to tell. “If you die, you lose. You become nothing.” Anne coughed once more and turned to ash. The smoke swirled and reformed, presenting an older man. He had heavy brows, sunken cheeks, and a powerful frame. Enkrid could not feel the man’s presence, but his posture spoke volumes. A lean face with no wasted softness—this was a man who still practiced his craft and kept his body ready despite his years. He is a reflection of Greyham. There was a commander in the border guard who had never abandoned his blade regardless of age, reaching the level of a quasi-knight. He was a monument to human persistence, earning the devotion of every soldier. “It is never too late. My only error was hesitation.” A phrase Greyham frequently used. This stranger had clearly taken something Enkrid once said and made it his own. If Enkrid’s gut compared him to Greyham, the man likely shared that spirit. As a knight who specialized in sensory perception, Enkrid’s hunches were often as good as facts. The stranger tensed and finally spoke. “So, are you suggesting this is my failing?” Another swirl of smoke brought Ragna back. His chest was stained with old blood, and a crust of red had formed on his jaw. Gripping his weapon, he challenged, “Is it not?” Whether there was a true pause or not, Enkrid felt the response arrive after a heavy beat of silence. “…I gave it my all.” “Liar.” Ragna spat the word out immediately, not wasting a second. The fog broke apart again, and Enkrid found himself back at the edge of the vessel. The ferryman stood with his back turned, a lantern in his grip. “Why reveal these things to me?” Enkrid demanded. The boatman turned his head just a fraction. His face, hidden in the shadows of the cowl, was a void of blackness—featureless, as it had been from the start. Then, a sharp spark of meaning struck Enkrid’s brow. It wasn’t a voice, but a direct injection of purpose. Enkrid translated the sensation into language. “This will stay with you, will it not? Do not let it fade.” With that, he opened his eyes. The light was fading. The atmosphere was entirely different—the tangible world. “Was it a nightmare?” A voice reached him. Enkrid peered toward the tent flap and saw Magrun. It was the onset of evening. Behind him, the horizon was a deep indigo, the last of the light slipping away. Magrun’s shadow stretched inward, touching Enkrid’s feet. “It wasn’t a nightmare.” Enkrid rose as he spoke. The ferryman’s goals remained as cryptic as ever. The previous message about the nature of fire had clearly been a warning. Before that, it had been an intrusion. Was this advice? The ferryman never provided the answers Enkrid actually sought. Perhaps that was why he was an effective guide. A dark thought, and not one he’d share. Still—what was the point of this latest sequence? He had shown him people and snippets of a fight. The ferryman hadn’t used a single word. Even that parting thought felt out of character for him. “Any news?” “Nothing yet.” Enkrid questioned, and Magrun gave the update. The previous strike wouldn’t be the last. Magrun was aware of that. Everyone was. “You have the look of someone who just endured a talk with a ‘polite intellectual.’” Magrun remarked, seeing the change in Enkrid’s eyes. “Pardon?” “Just an old joke from the Empire.” “How does it go?” Enkrid began to stretch, working the stiffness out of his limbs, while Magrun leaned against the tent, chin resting in his palm. Magrun paused, debating if it was worth the effort of explaining. Whatever. He’d just say it. “It’s one of those sayings. It sounds ridiculous if you break it down. You know how scholars think they’re the only ones with brains. They love to talk in circles and don’t care if you’re following. But the ‘polite’ ones try to break the ice with a joke before they say something heavy—and the joke just makes everyone more confused. That’s the punchline. They’re being ‘considerate’ by trying to be funny, but the stuff they talk about still makes no sense. The explanation is the worst part.” “You’re right, that is worse.” “See? It’s an Empire thing. You just have to be there.” “I didn’t blame you.” Enkrid stepped out into the air. Ragna was staring up at the clouds. Odinkar was over by the mounts, brushing a mane with a distant look in his eyes. Anne was positioned near Ragna, while Grida was looking at the heavens, using the stars to find their path. “Clear skies tonight.” Grida noted as Enkrid walked over. He nodded and looked toward Anne. “Did you manage to sleep?” “I didn’t.” He didn’t press her for a reason. She had been covered in the blood of beasts, stayed awake through a crisis, and realized a predator was hunting her. Very few could sleep under those conditions—unless they belonged to the Mad Platoon. “Try to rest later. We aren’t slowing down.” “Understood.” It would be a struggle, but Anne was too smart to protest given the circumstances. “We stay for one more day.” Grida’s instruction meant they would move out tomorrow. She had factored this rest into their choice of camp. She started a small flame. Enkrid retrieved their travel food. He filled a container with water and began a stew using dried meat and greens. He chewed on some travel rations as well. Kraiss claimed to have made them more palatable, but it was still just fuel for survival. He added a scoop of what the knights called “combat mix”—a powder of dried meat, fish, and fruit. It was far more calorie-dense than standard rations when mixed with water. The flavor didn’t matter. It was purely functional. If they weren’t expecting trouble, they might have hunted for fresh game. But that was a risk they couldn’t take. Soldiers are only as good as their nutrition. Knights were the same. While eating, Enkrid weighed their paths. Option one: retreat to the settlement. We haven’t traveled that far yet. With the horses, they could be back quickly. Option two: send Anne back alone and stay here. If she is the target, the guard post is her best bet. Esther was stationed there. No low-level mage would get past her. There were also more blades to protect her. But Anne would likely refuse. Option three: wait for backup. It would be safer, but slow. If Jaxon had been present last night, the scout wouldn’t have vanished so easily. His tracking was second to none. Option four: push forward with the current team. The first three options caused delays. And a delay might be exactly what their shadow wanted. What if the attack wasn’t about Anne, but about stopping their progress? Should they increase the pace? Hardly possible. Even if Ragna carried Anne, she wasn’t built for that kind of travel. It would break her. Ragna also had his limits. A real forced march wasn’t about a single burst of speed. It was about keeping the group ready to fight while covering ground. Running while carrying Anne would burn their reserves too quickly. Even if she could take it, other issues would surface. “Do these types of encounters bother you?” Ragna asked from his side. Enkrid answered without a filter—his genuine perspective. This was his way with the Mad Platoon: Rem, Ragna, Audin, Jaxon, and Kraiss. He didn’t lie to them. That was why they respected him. He replied instinctively: “I don’t shy away from any kind of fight.” The second the words left his mouth, Enkrid froze, a sudden coldness washing over him as he looked at the embers. He looked up into the dark trees. That chill was a reaction to the vision the ferryman had provided. “Neither do I,” Ragna agreed, his voice steady. And Enkrid realized— The future? Perhaps what the boatman had revealed wasn’t a memory or a current event—but what was yet to come. Or perhaps it was the “now” he was about to fall into. It wouldn’t be the first time. The ferryman often provided glimpses of potential realities. They weren’t set in stone, but they were usually close to the truth. This time, the vision had come without context. Why? He didn’t know. Enkrid knew there was no use in overanalyzing it. So—what was the move? Whittle down the options. Focus on the immediate. What was within his power to change right now? He looked toward Odinkar. The man’s face was tight with stress, even while he ate. A fifth option occurred to him. Divide the party. Odinkar was capable—Enkrid wasn’t even sure he could beat him in a real duel. He knew the way back to Zaun, and he clearly wanted to return. “We should send Odinkar on ahead.” Enkrid stated. Grida and Magrun turned to him. “Is that possible?” He asked. They looked at each other. Odinkar blinked, then clapped his hands together and grinned. “Of course. That works. You always come up with something unexpected. Fine. I’ll take the lead.”