The Wanderer tracked them from above.
When the night came, the caravan slowed down, circling the wagons into a temporary fortress.
From the safety of the treeline, he watched as they moved, spreading bedsheets over the dirt, stoking a central fire, and hanging a heavy iron pot over the flames.
Soon, the scent of simmering broth drifted through the trees. To a man who had spent weeks tearing into raw meat, broth was a luxury.
He had never dared a fire of his own, smoke was a beacon, and he was a man who lived or died by his ability to remain unseen.
Hunger eventually overrode caution.
He slipped from the shadows, creeping toward the pot, but a twig snapped under his weight.
A guard spun around, hand on his hilt, mistaking the movement for a scavenging animal.
The Wanderer stepped back, his stolen steel leveled in an instant.
"Stand down!" The merchant’s voice cut through the tension.
He stepped into the light, raising a hand. "It’s alright. Our friend from the road just seems to have worked up an appetite." He looked at the Wanderer, his expression softening into a weary smile, and held out a wooden bowl. "Eat."
The wood was warm against his calloused palms. The steam carried the scent of spices he hadn't tasted since he left Lythra.
He stood still, eyes darting between the merchant and the bowl, waiting.
Understanding the silence, the man chuckled and took a deliberate, steaming spoonful from the pot.
Only then did the Wanderer eat, the hot liquid vanishing in seconds.
"Good, isn't it?" The merchant laughed. "My friend here is a great cook. Give him some scraps and a bit of salt, and he’ll give you a feast."
The Wanderer lowered the bowl. "It was... good. How do I repay this?"
"Tell us your story," he replied, settling onto a crate. "The road to Draemir is long and dull. We could use the company."
His grip on his sword loosened, just an inch. He sat, placing the blade on the dirt beside him, close enough to grab, but far enough to signal a truce.
"There isn't much to tell," he said, his voice raspy from disuse. "Something wants me dead. I don't intend to let them succeed."
Suddenly, his head snapped toward the dark. A sound -or perhaps the memory of one- vibrated in the back of his mind. He stood saying. "I have to go."
"Rest if you must," the merchant said, unfazed. "We move for the mines at dawn."
The Wanderer left through the trees, returning to the cold isolation of his cave.
Over the following weeks, the ritual repeated. The merchants made their circuit between Draemir and the mining colonies, and each time, the Wanderer was there to meet them. He remained alert, his eyes never truly losing his edge, but the hostility began to scab over.
He learned their names. Myre was the talker, the heart of the operation, Logan was the cook, though he still stared at the Wanderer with a lingering narrow-eyed, for the blade he had once held to his throat.
They traded food and supplies for stories of Lythra, though the Wanderer was careful not to mention Qi or magic in his tales.
One night, the firelight hit the Wanderer’s arm, illuminating dark stains creeping up his flesh.
"I noticed those marks before," Myre said, gesturing vaguely. "Thought it was just forest dirt."
He pulled his sleeve down. "No. They appeared suddenly. I don't know why."
Myre’s expression turned to concern. "Do you use magic, friend?"
His gaze sharpened, locking onto the merchant. "Why do you ask?"
"It looks like the mana caused them," Myre said calmly. "The black patches, the tremors, the way you flinch at shadows... those marks burn when you draw on your power, don't they?"
The Wanderer surged to his feet, hand snapping to the hilt of his sword. The air around him seemed to thicken. "And if I do? If you think this makes me easy prey, you're mistaken."
"Relax," Myre said, holding up his hands, though Logan had already reached for a crossbow. "I’m no doctor, but I’ve seen that rot before.
You need to get help soon, otherwise the symptoms will get worse, especially if you continue using magic."
He stared at the black patches, thinking if he should ask to accompany them to a healer.
Myre hesitated, his gaze lingering on the dark patches tracing the Wanderer’s skin. After a long silence, he spoke. "How about you come with us to Draemir? It’s a major city. I’m sure someone there would know how to help you in some way or the other."
Logan jolted upright, his face reddening. "No! Absolutely not. I let you have your talks, Myre. I let you share our grain. But look at the guards." He gestured toward the armed guards, who sat rigid, swords out of its sheath.
"They haven't slept a full night since he started showing up. And now you want him in the wagons?"
"The first meeting was a misunderstanding," Myre argued, his voice steady. "He isn't a bad man, Logan. He’s a man in trouble."
"Are you serious?" Logan snapped. "Did you not hear the whispers from Lythra? His story has more holes than a fishing net. They say this man alone was the catalyst for a civil war."
"He was misunderstood," Myre insisted. "Pushed into a corner by people who feared what they didn't know."
"And what if he causes the same chaos in Draemir?" Logan stood, oddly he had no shadow against the fire."Can't you see it? Tharos was right. He is a pilgrim of ruin. A curse on this world."
"Enough, Logan!" Myre’s shout echoed through the trees.
The Wanderer was already on his feet. He turned and began walking into the dark.
Myre gasped, scrambling over a log to catch up.
"Wait! Stop!" the merchant panted, reaching out but stopping short of touching his shoulder. "Logan didn't mean that. He’s just… over-enthusiastic about his opinions. Come back. Finish the meal."
Turning slowly, he followed Myre back to the fire without a word, but the world was beginning to fracture.
As he sat, his vision flickered. The firelight showed their severed heads rotting atop the very rocks they sat on, eyes clouded and skin sloughing off. He blinked, and they were back to normal.
He looked toward the guards. Another flicker came in, their armored bodies lay slumped in the dirt, lifeless husks. Then, the vision snapped back to their cautious, living stares.
*What is happening?* he thought, his pulse rising. *Is the Spiral doing this? Does it want them dead?*
But the merchants had done nothing but offer him kindness. Also how did Logan know what Tharos said, I didn't mention the exact words.
"We move at first light," Myre’s voice cut through the intrusive thoughts. "Get some rest. You’re welcome to sleep by the fire tonight."
He looked towards the cave, then back at the merchant. The warmth of the fire was tempting, but the images of their corpses still burned in his retinas. "I prefer the cave," he rasped. "But thank you… for everything."
Myre gave a small, weary laugh. "See you at dawn, then."