Chapter 15: RestlessThe world didn't return in a rush of light or sound; it returned as a smell. It was the scent of crushed vender, stale sweat, and something sharp and metallic—like ozone after a lightning strike. One that sent a jolt through Miz’ri Niranath, making her bolt upright, her eyes snapping open. “Ihar!” (Mother!) she cried in a dry voice. "Ol fmgrae!" (It burns!) Miz’ri croaked, her voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. Panic, hot and jagged, fred in her chest. She reached instinctively for the hilt of her sword, but her left arm refused to cooperate. A white-hot spike of agony shot from her elbow to her shoulder, dragging a strangled cry from her throat. She colpsed back against the bedroll, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches.

  "Miz! Miz, stay down! Please, you're safe, you’re safe!" A pair of hands—warm, soft, and smelling of that same vender—pressed against her shoulders. Miz’ri snarled, her red eyes focusing with predatory sharpness on the figure hovering over her.

  "Back off!" Miz’ri hissed, her right hand cwing at the air, looking for flesh to tear at with her nails. "Where are they? Those miserable goblins? The male—where is that wretched male, he did this to me, didn’t he!?"

  "They’re gone, Miz, you’re safe. Everyone is safe." Talisa’s face came into focus. The girl looked terrible. There were deep, bruised circles under her eyes, and her curly brown hair was a knotted mess, but her expression was one of pure, unadulterated relief. "We’re safe in a tent, with the caravan. You’re safe."

  Miz’ri blinked, her gaze darting around the cramped, canvas-walled space. It was a simple camp tent, lit by a single, sputtering ntern. Her gear was piled in the corner—her sword, her boots, her travel-stained clothes. Next to them y the tattered remains of her red leather gloves; the left hand reduced to utter shreds as it looks like they had to cut it off her body to get at the infection. Her left arm was a bulky, bandaged mass resting on a pillow.

  "Safe," Miz’ri repeated, the word tasting like ash. She forced herself to sit up again, slower this time, ignoring the protest from her limb. "How far? How many miles did we retreat?"

  "It’s not how far, Miz," Talisa said softly, sitting back on her heels. She reached out, hesitating before gently brushing a strand of white hair from Miz’ri’s sweaty forehead. "It’s how long. You’ve been in a bad way with a terrible fever for three days."

  Miz’ri froze. Three days, how?. In the Reaches Below, being unconscious for three minutes was a death sentence. Being vulnerable for three days was... impossible. "Three days," Miz’ri whispered, her voice trembling with a rare, naked vulnerability. She looked at her bandaged arm, then back to Talisa. "And I'm still alive? How? My blood should have curdled."

  "I took care of you, but honestly, it was serendipity," Talisa said, offering a small, tired smile. "Baby—the blonde woman—she had medicine. A Teazalnan Draught. She keeps it for Artie, just in case this exact situation happens. She said the toxin on that whip was alien—something from the deep wilds of the Fairy World. It would have killed a human in minutes; it’s a miracle you’re still here."

  Miz’ri leaned back against the support pole of the tent, her head spinning. "The male. Artie. I’m assuming you struck up some kind of deal for this medicine, what do we owe him?” Fantastic, I owe a male, a favor. This couldn’t get any worse.

  "Well, Artie gave it up himself pretty readily. Father Yuith must have been watching over us, putting us exactly where we needed to be." Her hands csped Miz’ri’s right arm in a simple, wide-eyed prayer. “I did what I could, but in the end I had to have faith that with the medicine you could fight it.”

  Miz’ri let out a sharp, cynical puff of air. "Faith, Yes, I'm sure your God is very concerned with my health.” She let out a huff, but Talisa didn’t let go of a grip upon her hand. She looked at the grasp in confusion for a moment before Talisa lets go. Miz’ri couldn’t help but imagine the word. “So, have we been kidnapped?”

  "No! Nothing like that. They’re good people, Miz. Gourdy is a gentleman and a pretty good cook. Artie is super nice, you two have a lot in common! And Baby is…uh, interesting. She can be a lot, conversationally, but she knows her way around a fight. They've been looking out for me; for us." There was a new steadiness in Talisa’s gaze—a confidence that hadn't been there before the battle. Miz’ri felt a sharp, bitter pang in her chest that she refused to identify as jealousy.

  "I see," Miz’ri muttered, picking at a loose thread on the bedroll. "So that’s how it is, guess you don’t need me anymore."

  Talisa’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping open in a small 'o' of shock. "Miz! Good golly, That’s not—I didn't mean—"

  The tent fp pulled back with a sudden, sharp fwick. "Good morning lovers," a raspy, familiar voice drawled before turning back to announce something to the camp. "Her girlfriend is finally awake!” Both women went beet red in the face. He turned back to them, and then offered a coy smile at Talisa. “Maybe now you’ll get some sleep yourself, okay Tali?" Artie stood in the entrance, his hood down, his violet eyes dancing with a cold, amused light.

  The silence that followed Artie’s remark sted exactly one heartbeat before the tent erupted.

  "She is not my girlfriend!" Miz’ri roared, her face flushing a shade of purple that nearly matched the goblins she’d been fighting. The sudden exertion made her head throb, but she pushed through it, pointing a trembling finger at the tent fp. "Do you think I came to the surface in search of human ass; of course you would have, you horned up male! I do not have ‘girlfriends’. I have assets, I have rivals, and I have people I haven't killed yet. This soft human is but a toy for my amusement for as long as she needs my protection!"

  "We’re just traveling together!" Talisa squeaked at the same time, her hands waving frantically in front of her face as if to physically swat the words out of the air. "It’s a pilgrimage! I’m a woman of the cloth—well, a woman of the pilgrim’s path—and Miz’ri is my protector! My contracted, very professional, very non-romantic protector!"

  Artie leaned against the tent pole, his obsidian arms crossed over his chest. He watched them with the ft, tired expression of a man who had seen this specific performance a hundred times before. "Uh-huh," he drawled, his violet eyes flicking from Miz’ri’s flustered scowl to the way Talisa was still hovering close enough to catch the elf if she fell. "Right. So Tali…standing sleepless vigil over her for days, changing the dressings nearly on the clock-tick, fretting over every fever spike. You tell me what that sounds like.”

  “Friendship!” Talisa cried, with Miz’ri saying “Asset Protection”, at nearly the same time.

  Artie waited a beat and then let his lip curl into a snide little smile. “Sure. Hey cousin, she told us she's your ‘ste’kol’. My buddies might think it's just a cute pet name but I know what that really means. Naughty, naughty. Vel'kr's dosst ste'kolen sslu?” (Where's your sex toy’s colr?)

  Pig. "Get out," Miz’ri snarled, reaching for a spare boot to throw, only to realize she didn't have the strength to lift it.

  "In a minute," Artie said, his pyfulness vanishing as he looked back over his shoulder toward the camp outside. "I heard you screeching from across the fire. Thought I’d check in before you woke up the neighbors. You need to keep the volume down."

  Miz’ri narrowed her eyes, her predatory instincts finally overriding her embarrassment. "Neighbors? We’re in the middle of the Trade Road. Unless the goblins have decided to set up a vilge, there’s no one out there but us and the merchants."

  "The merchants are asleep," Artie said. "And the 'neighbors' don't exactly have a sense of humor. We’re on the edge of the Korokevitz outskirts."

  "Korokevitz?" Talisa asked, her brow furrowing. "The old mining town? I thought that was abandoned centuries ago."

  "It was," Artie replied. He pushed off the pole and beckoned for them to follow him. "Old Grand Port Trading Company city, full of people until their little business colpsed. After that, the old Valientan Empire decided to turn the forge into a testing ground for their awful technologies, before they fell apart as well. That was a few decades back. Now it’s still got a bit of a... pest problem."

  Miz’ri forced herself to her feet, leaning heavily on Talisa’s shoulder despite her previous protests. “Take it easy, lean on me.” Talisa whispered sweetly as she tried to support the taller woman hunched over.

  "What kind of pests?" Miz’ri grunted, limping toward the exit.

  Artie didn't even turn around. "Shiny Shamblers. Glittery Rotters. Whatever you want to call them." He stepped out into the night air, his voice carrying back with a chilling nonchance. "Zombies with energy crystals shoved in them from necromantic experiments. Hundreds of them. And they have very good ears, so please mind your volume."

  Miz’ri exchanged a look with Talisa. The girl looked pale, her grip on Miz’ri’s arm tightening. "What manner of dead are they?" Talisa asked. “If they are but empty vessels, I can handle them.”

  “Interesting, I forgot that you’re Julisian. Let's go talk to the Gang about it.” Artie said, motioning for the girls to follow.

  "Great," Miz’ri muttered, adjusting her bance. "Fey-poison, mercenaries, and now the restless dead. If your god is watching over us, Talisa, He has a very twisted sense of entertainment."

  They emerged from the tent into the cool, damp air of the evening. The caravan was circled up tight, but the Garden Gang had established their own little satellite camp near the tree line—close enough to guard the perimeter, far enough to avoid the nervous stares of the merchants.

  A fire crackled in the center of their setup, casting long, dancing shadows against the looming pines. Seated on a log, looking like a boulder that had decided to grow a beard, was Gourdy. The massive Half-Orc was stirring a rge iron pot suspended over the fmes, his movements surprisingly delicate for a creature with hands the size of hams. Beside him, lounging on a bedroll with the grace of a court courtesan, was Baby. The blonde sorceress was busy cleaning her fingernails with a small, vicious-looking dagger. She looked up as they approached, her blue eyes locking instantly onto Miz’ri.

  “Well, look who finally decided to join the living,” Baby purred, swinging her legs off the bedroll. She stood up, smoothing the skirts of her dress. “I was beginning to think I’d wasted my good stuff on a corpse. Although…” She looked Miz’ri up and down, taking in the disheveled white hair, the bandages, and the lethal scowl. “You do look delicious when you’re ruinous, darling.”

  Talisa blushed crimson, looking down at her boots. Miz’ri, however, didn't flinch. She was used to being looked at like a prize or a threat; being looked at like a snack was a refreshing change of pace. “Fttery will get you nowhere, witch,” Miz’ri drawled, leaning heavily on Talisa as she hobbled to the fire. “Unless you have wine to go with it.”

  Baby ughed, a bright, dangerous sound. “I like her. She bites.” She winked at Talisa. “You’re a lucky girl, Pilgrim. Aggressive women are so hard to find these days.”

  “Baby, py nice” Gourdy rumbled, gesturing to an empty log with his dle. “Eat. You need strength.” He filled two wooden bowls with a thick, savory porridge that smelled of roasted root vegetables and salted pork. He handed one to Talisa and the other to Miz’ri. “Artie says you’re asking about the neighbors.”

  Miz’ri took the bowl, her hands shaking slightly from the effort of staying upright. She sat down, grateful for the support of the log. “Your ‘Cousin’ mentioned zombies,” she said, nodding toward Artie, who had perched himself on a crate near the darkness, keeping watch. “I prefer my dead to stay quiet. What exactly are we walking into?”

  Gourdy sighed, a sound like a grindstone turning. “History,” he said simply. “Bad history.”

  He pointed his dle toward the dark silhouette of the mountains rising in the distance. “This is the Handinen Pass. Used to be the main artery for the Grand Port Trade Company—dwarves with too much gold and not enough sense. They built mining operations all through these hills—Korokevitz, Karupunlin. They were digging for resonant crystals.”

  “Mana vessels,” Baby interjected, blowing on her own nails to inspect the shine. “The Valientan Empire took over after the dwarves sank their own capital into the ocean. The Empire wanted to weaponize the crystals. They tried to fuse them with living tissue to create soldiers that didn't need food or sleep.”

  “And let me guess,” Miz’ri muttered, taking a spoonful of porridge. “It went poorly.”

  “It went spectacurly wrong,” Baby grinned. “The Empire fell, but the experiments didn't die. They just lingered and lingered and lingered. Those resonant crystals keep them animated. They’re hungry, they’re tough, and they explode in a really funny way if you hit them too hard in the wrong spot.”

  “They used sacred magic, for experimentation,” Talisa whispered, horrified. “That’s… that’s an abomination against the Cycle, against the Father himself. I have a duty to put these bodies to rest.”

  “It’s a pain in the ass is what it is,” Artie called from the shadows. “And the pass is swarming with the unstable bastards.”

  Gourdy nodded. “Which brings us to the proposition. The main road colpsed—ndslide, probably caused by one of the Shamblers detonating. The only way through to Vandi is straight through the ruins of the Crystal Forge itself. It’s a bottleneck. The undead are thickest there.”

  He looked at Miz’ri, his expression serious. “We’re good. But two bdes and a bster against a horde in a confined space? That’s tight odds, and I’m no gambler. We saw you fight back at the ambush. The Elf is lethal, Tali says she knows her necromancy, and the skeleton is a tank.”

  “We’re offering a contract,” Gourdy said. “Assist us in clearing the Forge. We get the merchants through, you get safe passage to Vandi, plus a cut of the hazard pay.”

  “And,” Baby added, leaning forward, her eyes dancing with mischief. “If you need other forms of compensation to keep your spirits up… I’m sure we can work something out. I’ve always wanted to know if the stories about Dark Elf stamina are true.”

  Miz’ri narrowed her eyes, ignoring the heat rising in her cheeks. “I don’t work for free, and I certainly don't work for… favors.” She looked at Gourdy. “We have pces to be.”

  “Vigil, right?” Gourdy nodded. “Talisa told me all about your pilgrimage while you were out. It’s a noble goal. Pappy seems nice.” The Skeleton rattled in approval.

  Miz’ri stiffened. She shot a look of pure betrayal at Talisa. “You told them?”

  Talisa blinked, confused by the sudden hostility. “Well… yes? They asked where we were going. They were helping you. Why would I lie?”

  “Because information is leverage!” Miz’ri hissed, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Because you don’t hand strangers a map to your vulnerabilities, you naive little—”

  “Easy on your girl,” Gourdy rumbled, his voice cutting through Miz’ri’s paranoia. She's not my girl. “She’s proud of you, Elf. She’s done nothing but glowed about you, telling us how you saved her in the woods. Maybe you should try trusting the people who kept you from rotting from the inside out.”

  Miz’ri cmped her mouth shut. She looked around the fire—at the earnest Orc, the amused Sorceress, the watchful Drow, and the open, honest face of the Pilgrim. She felt cornered. Not by enemies, but by a ck of enemies. “Fine,” Miz’ri spat, stabbing her spoon into the porridge. “We’ll help you clear your Forge. But I want my share in gold. Up front.”

  “Done,” Gourdy agreed easily. “We move at dawn tomorrow; give your sword arm more time to mend. It’s going to be a long day.”

  The deal was struck, but the air around the fire didn't warm. Miz’ri ate mechanically, forcing the porridge down not for the taste, but for the calories. Her body was a machine that had been running on fumes for three days; she needed fuel if she was going to kill anything tomorrow.

  Talisa, on the other hand, was chatting happily with Baby, seemingly oblivious to the way the sorceress was mentally undressing both of them. Miz’ri tuned them out, her eyes scanning the camp. Her paranoia was a low, constant hum, scratching at the back of her skull. Why are they so helpful? she thought. Mercenaries don’t adopt strays. They don't waste expensive medicine on strangers. What’s the angle?

  Her gaze nded on Gourdy. The massive Half-Orc had finished serving and was now scraping the bottom of the pot into a smaller bowl. He stood up, his armor creaking softly, and walked toward the edge of the firelight where Artie was keeping watch.

  Miz’ri watched over the rim of her bowl, feigning disinterest.

  Artie didn't turn around as Gourdy approached. He just reached out a hand, palm up. Gourdy pced the bowl in it, but he didn't pull away immediately. His rge, green hand lingered for a second on Artie’s shoulder. It wasn't a grip of command, or a shove of camaraderie. It was… deliberate.

  Artie leaned into the touch, just an inch, his posture shifting. He whispered something low in Tea’Zalnan—too quiet for Miz’ri to hear the words, but the tone was conspiratorial. Secretive. Gourdy murmured something back in Common, a low rumble, before turning and walking back to the fire. Miz’ri lowered her spoon. The realization hit her with a cold spsh of cynicism. They’re pnning something.

  It was a setup. The Orc and the Drow were too close, too quiet. Why pay up front? Why offer gold so easily to strangers? Because they didn't expect to lose it. They pay us now to keep us compliant, she calcuted instantly, her mind racing through the tactical implications. We clear the path, we take the risks with the undead, and once the heavy lifting is done… they slit our throats in the dark and take the gold back. It’s efficient. It’s what I would do.

  She looked at Talisa, who was ughing at something Baby had said, her face flushed and open. The Pilgrim was a sitting duck, happily chatting with the executioners. Fools, she thought bitterly. She’s too trusting. The traitorous voice reared its inconvenient head, whispering She trusts you. She took care of you in Miz’ri’s mind. She flinched and then her lip curled. In the Reaches Below, generosity was a trap. Seeing it here, so btant and unearned, made her skin crawl. It made them dangerous. If the Orc signals, the Drow strikes, she noted, watching Artie melt back into the shadows. We need to be ready to move before they make their py.

  “I need rest. Talisa, help me up.,” Miz’ri announced abruptly, dropping her empty bowl onto the log with a ctter that silenced the conversation.

  Talisa jumped. “Miz? But Baby was just telling me about—”

  “I don’t care,” Miz’ri snapped, standing up. She swayed slightly, the fog in her head making the world tilt, but she masked it by grabbing Talisa’s shoulder in a grip that was tighter than necessary. “I need to check my gear. Unless you want me to fight exploding zombies with a spoon.” She gred at Gourdy, then at Artie’s silhouette in the dark. “Thank you for the meal. Stay out of my tent.”

  Gourdy just nodded, unperturbed. “Rest well, Elf. You’ll need it.”

  I’ll bet I will, Miz’ri thought darkly. Miz’ri used Talisa to haul herself up and steered them from the fire, away from the warmth, and back toward the isotion of their canvas shelter.

  “You’re being so rude,” Talisa hissed as they crossed the dark gap between the camps. “They’re nice people who don’t deserve any barbs!”

  “They’re plotting,” Miz’ri muttered, her voice thick with suspicion and fatigue. “A well-spun web looks beautiful enough to buy the spider a moment to kill.”

  “Gourdy’s right. You need to trust a little more.” Talisa said with an almost scolding look in her eyes. Miz’ri simply rolled them in return.

  “I trust only what’s within my grasp.” Miz’ri pushed Talisa through the tent fp with a gentle squeeze of the girl’s ample rump. As they entered Miz sealed it behind them, shutting out the Garden Gang, the firelight, and the conspiracy she was certain was tightening around their necks. Inside the tent, the darkness felt heavy. Miz’ri sat on her bedroll, her hands trembling as she began to try to attach her sword to her belt.. Her left arm still throbbed, a rhythmic reminder of her own frailty.

  Talisa moved quietly, packing their few belongings back into their travel sacks. She looked at Miz’ri several times, biting her lip, before finally speaking. "You were shouting in your sleep," Talisa said softly. "The st three nights. Shouting, thrashing... you sounded so scared, Miz."

  Miz’ri’s hands went still. She didn't look up. "Fever dreams. The toxin was messing with my mind."

  "It wasn't just the fever," Talisa countered, stepping closer. "I have only known you less than a week, but each morning you look like you haven't slept at all."

  Miz’ri let out a sharp, ragged sigh. "I've had them since I was a child. Dreams aren't an escape. They’re a betrayal. They're the only pce where my walls don't work…I hate sleep."

  She stared at the canvas wall, her eyes distant and hollow. "If I could cut the ability to dream out of my head, I would have done it decades ago."

  Talisa didn't say anything for a long moment. Then, she reached out, her hand resting gently on Miz’ri’s shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Miz. That sounds so hard, so lonely. To never have a moment of real peace, even in your own head." If only you knew how bad the silence really is. Usually, Miz’ri would have flinched away. She would have made a biting comment about human sentimentality or the uselessness of pity. But the weight of the fever, the suspicion of the mercenaries, and the raw exhaustion of the st few days had worn her down. For a heartbeat, she didn't pull away. She leaned into the touch, her shoulder dropping as she rested the side of her head against Talisa’s hand. The warmth of the girl’s palm seeped into her skin, steady and quiet. It was a brief, terrifying moment of genuine peace. It felt like a small isnd in a very dark sea.

  Then, the moment broke. Miz’ri stiffened, her face hardening as she pulled back and stood up, her jaw set. "As, peace is for the dead," she said, her voice regaining its sharp, cynical edge. "And despite the pain, I'm far from dead." She turned away, hiding the way her heart was still thumping against her ribs, while Talisa watched her from the shadows, sensing the walls go back up, stone by heavy stone.

  Miz'ri turned and found her pack leaning against a crate near her bed. She sat heavily on the cot, her body still tired from days of disanimation. Digging through it with jerky, impatient movements, her fingers brushed against something soft and familiar. She pulled them out—the remnants of her elegant red leather gloves.

  “Those were important to you, weren't they?” Talisa probed. Her hands tried to reach out to Miz'ri but she pulled back, anxious fingers clenching at her forearms.

  Miz'ri let out a long sigh. “They were a gift to myself after I won a fencing tournament representing my city within the empire. I was so proud of myself, My family didn't give a shit about my achievement. If they wouldn’t celebrate, I would treat myself. They were supple, dyed the color of a fresh kill, and trimmed with spider-silk ce.” She pyed with the tatted leather in her fingers. “They are the st piece of who I was supposed to be.” Now, they were ruined. One was completely shredded, the leather torn into jagged strips by the Hobgoblin’s whip. The other was intact but stained with bck goblin ichor and her own purple blood, the silk ce matted and grey.

  “Well, in my little experience ‘what ifs’ only prove to harm us. I'm not sure this woman you were ‘supposed to be’ ever existed.” Talisa said, wrapping the soft red scarf around the elf's neck, taking care to make it snug and comfortable against the Elf’s dark skin. “But I'm here for you Miz, reliable, passionate, utterly crazy, You. Not just that scary face you showed me when we met on the High Road.” The traitorous voice woke up again. She sees you. You don't need to hide.

  Miz’ri looked at Talisa smiling and the tattered leather, then at the thick white bandages wrapping her forearm. She felt the warmth of the scarf and the girl's smile, holding onto both as an anchor from floating into the nothingness that pgued her life. Talisa just simply smiled warmly, and held on a little tighter. Miz couldn’t help but blush a little more. “T-thank you, for all your help so far...I rarely ask anyone for anything but can you help me to the fire, before I y down again.”

  “Sure, what for?” Talisa asked.

  “For me.” Miz'ri said as she leaned on Talisa's soft body again, using it to hoist herself up, shredded red gloves in one hand, a firm grip on Human’s shoulder in the other. The two stepped out of the tent and approached the dying fire. She looked at the embers. Without a word, she dropped both gloves into the glowing orange heart of the fire. The leather curled and hissed, the smell of burning skin filling the air. The spider-silk ce vanished in a single, bright fsh of white. She watched until there was nothing left but charred grey fkes .Her obsidian hands bare, her fingers flexing in the cool air. She felt terrifyingly exposed.

  Talisa stood at her side, watching her in silence. The girl didn't say a word, but she could see something set in Miz’ri’s shoulders. The dark elf adjusted the red scarf around her neck, feeling both the void of the silence, and the little whispers of traitorous kindness that was leaking into her mind. Miz’ri looked toward the dark peaks of the mountains, where the Forge waited. "Dawn comes soon, and I abhor that awful sun. I’d rather sleep while it taunts us." she said, her voice like cold iron. "Let's y down for a moment, Talisa. We have a long leg of this journey ahead of us."