We made camp before the light was gone.
The canyon had opened just enough to give us space—a shallow bend in the rock where the wind broke unevenly against the stone and the ground leveled into something that could pass for rest. It wasn't ideal.
But it was enough.
Minsc handled the fire.
He worked with the same direct certainty he brought to everything else, gathering what little brush the canyon allowed and setting it with deliberate care. Boo remained close, darting between stones and returning in short bursts as though contributing in ways only he understood.
"Boo finds the finest twigs," Minsc said proudly.
Boo squeaked in confirmation.
Branwen didn't respond.
She had already cleared a space nearby, shield set aside, mace resting within reach as she rolled her shoulder once, then again, testing the joint.
"You've grown slow," she said without looking up.
Minsc grinned.
"I have grown patient."
"That is worse."
She stepped forward.
He met her halfway.
Their weapons didn't clash so much as meet—measured strikes, controlled movement, a rhythm built less on winning than on remembering. Wood against metal. Force checked before it carried too far. A practice shaped by discipline rather than competition.
Rasaad watched.
Hands folded loosely, posture relaxed, eyes following each exchange with quiet attention. Boo drifted closer to him at some point, circling once before settling near his feet, then darting forward again with an excited squeak whenever Minsc pressed the advantage.
"Your stance opens on the left," Rasaad said calmly.
Minsc corrected mid-motion.
Branwen adjusted in response.
The rhythm held.
I sat just beyond the reach of the firelight.
The scroll rested across my knees.
The ink was old but stable. The script familiar enough now that I didn't need to force the translation, only follow it—line by line, intent layered into structure, structure into execution.
The spell itself wasn't elegant.
It didn't pretend to be.
It took.
It drained.
It worked.
I moved slowly.
Not out of caution.
Out of recognition.
Each mark carried weight beyond the page. Not just instruction, but direction—something that reached outward, waiting to be anchored properly.
I could feel that now.
Not in the scroll.
In everything around it.
The canyon lingered in memory—the way the squirrel had moved, the awareness that had slipped into place without invitation. It hadn't left.
It had settled.
Quiet.
Patient.
I finished the final line and let the ink dry.
The page didn't change.
But something behind it did.
Subtle.
A shift in how things aligned.
I exhaled and set the scroll aside.
"You'll live longer if you keep doing that."
Xan's voice carried just enough to reach me without disturbing the others.
I looked up.
He stood a short distance away, arms folded, expression measured as ever.
"That encouraging?" I asked.
"It is practical," he said. "Encouragement would imply expectation."
That tracked.
He stepped closer, producing another scroll from within his sleeve.
"This is redundant for me," he said, holding it out. "Which makes it potentially useful for you."
I took it and unrolled it slightly.
The structure was lighter. Subtler.
Designed to bend perception rather than confront it.
"It's intended to make others more… agreeable," Xan said. "More receptive to suggestion. Temporarily."
I glanced up.
"I'm not saying you lack the ability to persuade," he added. "You are, after all, a bard."
"High praise."
"It is an observable fact," he replied. "This simply improves your odds."
I considered the scroll.
Useful.
Situational.
Dangerous in ways that weren't immediately obvious.
"Thanks," I said.
Xan hesitated.
Just briefly.
Then:
"Use it carefully," he said. "People tend to resent realizing they've been persuaded more than they intended."
"Good to know."
"I assume you would have discovered that eventually," he said. "Likely at an inconvenient time."
Then he stepped away.
Conversation concluded.
The fire settled lower.
The sparring slowed.
Branwen stepped back first, lowering her weapon with a small nod.
"Adequate," she said.
Minsc beamed.
"I will improve."
"You will need to."
Boo squeaked triumphantly.
Rasaad's expression softened, just slightly.
Imoen settled beside me without announcement.
She stretched her legs toward the fire, leaning back on her hands, gaze drifting between the flames and the canyon beyond.
For a while, she said nothing.
Then—
"So," she said, light on the surface, deliberate underneath. "When all this is done… what do you think you'll do?"
I watched the fire for a moment before answering.
"Go home."
The words came easily.
They didn't explain anything.
Imoen nodded slowly.
"Yeah," she said. "That makes sense."
Candlekeep.
That's what she heard.
I let it stand.
She shifted, drawing one knee up.
"Ever think about… more than that?" she asked.
I glanced at her.
"More?"
She shrugged.
"Staying somewhere. Building something. Having something that's yours."
A pause.
Then, quieter:
"Family, maybe."
That one caught me off guard.
Not because of what she asked.
Because of how easily she asked it.
I let the question sit.
"I haven't really thought that far ahead," I said.
True.
Just incomplete.
Imoen studied me for a moment, then nodded.
"Fair."
She didn't push.
Didn't need to.
Do you think it will matter?
The voice slipped in cleanly.
No warning.
No transition.
Just—
there.
I didn't react.
You're already diverging.
I kept my focus forward.
Firelight.
Movement.
Anything but that.
Do you think it ends the same way?
The question lingered.
I pushed back.
Inward.
Controlled.
The presence pressed—
then eased.
Not gone.
Just waiting.
I exhaled slowly.
Imoen glanced at me.
"You sure you're good?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said.
This time it took effort.
She held my gaze for a second longer.
Then let it go.
Behind us, Minsc had begun recounting something that involved at least three enemies and what sounded like a door used as a weapon.
Boo punctuated key moments with emphatic squeaks.
Branwen corrected details when they drifted too far.
Rasaad listened without interrupting.
Xan did not.
The fire burned lower.
The canyon settled around us.
For the first time since the village, the world felt still.
Not safe.
Just—
paused.
"Get some rest," I said.
No one argued.
One by one, the movement around the fire faded.
Voices quieted.
The night took what remained.
I lay back against the ground, eyes tracing the narrow strip of sky above.
Sleep didn't come immediately.
It rarely did.
The awareness lingered at the edge of things.
Faint.
Patient.
Observing.
We had parted ways with Melicamp somewhere behind us.
He and the bear had their own path now.
Their own version of this.
Ours stretched forward.
Always forward.
You're learning, the voice said quietly.
I closed my eyes.
Didn't answer.