NOVEL NEXT Chapter 110: Echoes in the Afterglow
The scepter in my hand felt different now, its shards woven so tight it was less a tool and more a partner in crime, warm against my palm with a faint, contented pulse. The full circle of relics settled into a quiet chorus, the Heart of Glimmerfen thumping steady like a victory drum, the quill giving one last cheeky twitch before going dormant. My coat, that battered banner of bad decisions, hung lighter on my shoulders, its rips and stains earning their keep as badges of battles baked and bindings broken. I was Cecil Dreggs, the Loafbearer who'd gone from microwave mishap to mountain-mender, and for the first time in forever, the quiet didn't feel like the calm before another storm. It felt earned.
Thorne walked beside me, staff tapping a slower rhythm now, his scar catching the light like a silver thread in the dawn tapestry. He'd shed some of that haunted edge during the ritual, the weight of Valthorne's shadow lifting just enough to let a real grin slip through. "You know, for a guy who started this mess by getting trampled by a horse, you wrapped it up pretty neat." He clapped my shoulder, light but solid, the kind of touch that said we'd traded war stories and come out brothers. The spire had cracked him open a bit—admitting over the embers of a victory fire that he'd spent years chasing ghosts of his own making, binding failures that weren't his to carry. Now, he moved easier, like the peaks had forged something new between us.
Lilith ranged ahead a few paces, her stride loose and satisfied, scythe swaying like a pendulum marking time off the clock. She paused to snag a wild berry from a bush, popping it in her mouth with a hum of approval before tossing one my way. "Catch, hero. Can't have you fading on us now—eclipse hangovers are a bitch." Her laugh rolled back, warm as the sun climbing higher, but her eyes held that fierce glint, the one that said she'd seen me through the fire and wasn't done yet. The Warden's flames had singed her with old clan doubts, but she'd faced them head-on, turning ashes to armor. Now, she was all spark, the demon who'd dive back into the fray for the sheer joy of the jump.
Vorren brought up the rear of our little vanguard, his steps deliberate over the loose gravel, knife sheathed but hand never far from the hilt. He carried the bulk of our gear without complaint, slinging Thorne's pack over one shoulder like it was a feather. "Quiet's nice for a change. No golems grumbling, no kings yapping." He grunted a half-smile my way, the closest he got to poetry, but it landed solid. The heights had suited him—fewer illusions to punch, more ground to claim. He'd shared a rare fireside mutter about a brother lost to similar peaks, turning grief to grit that made his presence feel like an unbreakable wall.
Jex scampered along the middle, turning the descent into a game of hopscotch over roots and rocks, his tambourine tucked away for once but fingers drumming an absent beat on his thigh. "Cecil, that scepter's got stories—bet it could summon a pub at the bottom of this goat track. A boy's earned a pint after toppling tyrants." He dodged a loose stone with a whoop, landing light as ever, but there was a steadiness in his bounce now, the street-sharpened edges softened by the circle's glow. The ritual had quieted his pocket-phantoms, leaving room for the kid who'd always dreamed bigger than his reach.
Yvra navigated with her usual grace, skirts adapted to the trail with practical knots, pausing now and then to jot notes in a battered journal she'd pulled from her pack. "The binding's stable, but echoes like those shards don't fade quietly. We'll need contingencies for residual rifts—nothing major, just in case." She flashed me a conspiratorial wink, the noble calculation laced with genuine spark. The spire's shadows had dredged up courtly cuts she'd long ignored, but she'd alchemized them into sharper strategies, turning our ragtag run into something resembling a plan.
Fog drifted parallel to the path, his form catching the light in soft shimmers, tea steaming eternal against the morning chill. "The circle sings true now, Cecil. But songs evolve—listen for the new notes." He took a measured sip, eyes on the horizon, that sage calm wrapping around us like a well-worn cloak. The peaks had stirred old apprentice aches for him, but he'd woven them into wisdom, the kind that steadied without smothering.
Thrain and Gorrim turned the downhill into their signature shuffle, armor clinking a counterpoint to the birdsong. Thrain attempted a triumphant stride—"For the crown's cascading conquest!"—only to misjudge a dip and skid into a controlled tumble that ended in a crouch. Gorrim, hot on his heels, tried a supportive lunge—"By valor's descending grace!"—and bowled them both into a bushy brake, emerging with twigs in their mustaches and grins wide as canyons. "Vegetal villainy!" The knights dusted off, laughing loud enough to scatter a flock of ravens, their bumbles a balm against the binding's weight—proof that even in triumph, a little folly kept things fun.
The trail leveled out near midday, spilling us into a high valley cradled by the peaks, where a crystal stream bubbled over smooth stones and wildflowers nodded in the breeze. We claimed a flat spot by the water for a breather, packs down and boots off, the simple act of sitting feeling like luxury after the spire's frenzy. Thorne kindled a small fire with a flick of his staff, flames dancing blue and steady, while Jex rummaged for rations—dried fruits and hardtack that he somehow turned into a feast with a few relic-sparked illusions of steam and savor.
I splashed water on my face, the cold shock chasing away the last dregs of ritual fatigue, and leaned back on my elbows. "So, Thorne—now that the big bad's bound and the King's curb-stomped, what's next for the last of Valthorne's line? World tour of bakeries? Or you sticking with the circus?" The quill in my pocket stayed quiet, but the scepter gave a soft hum, like it was curious too.
He poked at the fire, sparks rising lazy. "World tour sounds tempting. But nah—this circle's got pull now. Feels like unfinished business, echoes or no." He met my gaze, steady. "Besides, someone's gotta keep you from baking the realm into oblivion. Consider me invested."
Lilith dropped down beside me, passing a skewer of roasted roots that smelled suspiciously like they'd been spiced by Fog's tea leaves. "Invested, huh? Careful, Thorne—you'll end up like us, covered in crumbs and questionable choices." She nudged my arm, her warmth cutting the valley's cool edge. The firelight played across her face, softening the horns to something almost gentle.
Vorren settled across the flames, carving a fresh stick with economical strokes. "Choices are what you make 'em. This one's mine—sticking till the echoes quit echoing." His words hung simple, profound in their plainness, the fire reflecting in his eyes like embers banked for the long haul.
Jex juggled his pilfered quartz absentmindedly, catching it mid-air with a flourish. "Hear hear. Besides, who else is gonna teach you lot proper slight-of-hand? Can't have the Loafbearer fumbling his flour forever." His grin flashed, but his eyes lingered on the group, soft with something like belonging.
Yvra closed her journal with a snap, tucking it away. "The pull's mutual. Residual rifts mean monitoring—nothing a well-timed contingency can't handle." She smiled, rare and real, the strategist revealing the friend beneath.
Fog refilled his cup from thin air, offering rounds with a nod. "Notes will come. For now, savor the silence." His toast rippled the stream, turning the water briefly to sparkling mead that we passed around, the taste sweet with possibility.
Thrain and Gorrim, predictably, turned the break into a bout—Thrain challenging Gorrim to a "valiant valley vault" over the stream, both leaping with war cries that dissolved into splashes and sputters. "Aquatic audacity!" They hauled each other out, dripping and delighted, shaking water from their helmets like oversized pups.
The valley held us through the afternoon, stories spilling easier than the stream—Thorne's tales of Valthorne's apprentice pranks, Lilith's demon-days duels, Vorren's forge-forged youth, Jex's street-swindles, Yvra's courtly capers, Fog's foggy philosophies, the knights' knightly near-misses. Laughter wove through, binding us tighter than any ritual, the circle's glow a soft undercurrent to the camaraderie.
As shadows lengthened, a distant rumble rolled in—not thunder, but something deeper, like the earth clearing its throat. The relics stirred, the scepter warming with warning. Thorne stood, staff ready. "Echoes. Not done yet. Something's stirring in the lowlands—old rifts reopening."
I rose, crew mirroring me without a word. "Lowlands it is. Can't let the party end early." The quill twitched awake, sketching a faint map in the air—twisting paths to a valley veiled in mist.
Lilith shouldered her scythe, grinning. "Lead on, Loafbearer. We've got your back—and your breadcrumbs."
We moved out, the valley fading behind, the rumble a call to the next caper. Silence savored, but adventure? Always waiting. With this lot, it felt less like a curse and more like coming home.