I AM NOT THE MAIN CHARACTER, PLEASE STOP GIVING ME QUESTS

The lowlands welcomed us with a deceptive calm, rolling hills giving way to meadows stitched with hedgerows and dotted with farmsteads that puffed lazy smoke from chimneys. But the rumble grew as we descended, a low vibration underfoot that set the relics humming discordant, the scepter's shards flickering like faulty lanterns. The mist rolled in thick by evening, turning the world to a watercolor wash of grays and greens, the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and something sharper—ozone, like a storm brewing underground. My coat clung damp, but the circle's warmth pushed back the chill, a steady anchor in the fog. We were Cecil and company, fresh from peak-top triumphs, but the rifts whispered of unfinished business—cracks in Valthorne's grand seal, leaking chaos like overproofed dough bursting its tin.

Thorne navigated the murk with staff-probes, parting vapors that clung like curious ghosts. "Rifts like these are scar tissue—weak spots where the binding thinned. The Devourer's not breaking free, but tendrils slip through, stirring old magics." He glanced back, voice low. "Stay close. They feed on carelessness."

Lilith prowled the edges, scythe cutting swathes in the mist that reformed stubborn. "Careless? That's Jex's middle name. But fine—let's plug these leaks before they turn into floods." Her tone teased, but her stance was alert, the post-peak glow sharpening her instincts.

Vorren shouldered through thicker patches, clearing paths with broad sweeps. "Tendrils or no, if it moves, I hit it. Simple." His pragmatism cut the fog's creep, a rock in the swirl.

Jex darted scouts ahead, vanishing into the haze and popping back with reports. "Clear-ish up front—couple of spooks, but nothing a good jape won't scatter." His energy pierced the pall, turning dread to detour.

Yvra consulted her journal, cross-referencing rift-lore with the scepter's hum. "Patterns match the old texts—ritual echoes, best sealed at the source. We fan out, contain, then converge." Her plans grounded us, mist or no.

Fog's mist blended seamless, his form a beacon in the brew. "The tendrils tempt—ignore the pulls." His calm clarified.

Thrain and Gorrim clomped central, lanterns swinging wild. Thrain swung wide—"For the crown's cloudy crusade!"—hitting fog that poofed playful. Gorrim parried—"By valor's vaporous grace!"—both coughing laughs into the cloud.

The first rift cracked open at a crossroads, ground splitting with a groan like waking stone, violet light bleeding up in wispy veins. Tendrils lashed—shadowy whips that whip-cracked air, coiling for grabs. One snagged Jex's ankle, yanking him toward the maw with a yelp. "Oi—not the good boots!"

Vorren lunged, knife severing the coil with a snick, hauling Jex free. Lilith spun through the fray, scythe shing-ing arcs that dispersed the wisps. Yvra hurled wards from her journal, etched quick in the air to flare barriers. Fog thickened the air, tendrils tangling in their own traps. Thorne's staff thrummed, channeling counter-binds that sucked the light back down.

I plunged the scepter into the crack, circle igniting—shards flaring to knit the wound, the rift sealing with a hiss of steam. The ground smoothed, mist thinning. "One down."

More followed—rifts at river bends, in ruined rings, each a skirmish of slash and seal. Tendrils grew bolder, manifesting as half-formed horrors: spectral hounds that bay-bayed doubts, vine-beasts that thrash-thrashed with thorned temptations. We danced through, crew in sync—Lilith's precision, Vorren's power, Jex's jukes, Yvra's yields, Fog's folds, knights' klutzy counters, Thorne's threads.

By the third, fatigue nipped, but banter buoyed. "This one's got teeth!" Jex quipped, dodging a fang-whip. "Like my ex's lawyer."

"Keep quipping—it's distracting them," Lilith shot back, scythe cleave-cleaving a coil.

The core rift yawned in a hollowed oak, massive and malevolent, tendrils thick as ropes lashing wild. The Devourer's whisper echoed faint—"Free... feast..."—stirring old chills.

We encircled, scepter high. The crew linked hands, wills weaving with the circle—fears faced, bonds burned true. Light bloomed blinding, shards singing symphony, sucking the rift shut with a thunder-clap that shook the leaves.

Silence settled, true and deep. The mist burned off, stars pricking clear. We collapsed in the oak's shade, breaths ragged, grins wide.

Thorne broke the quiet. "It's holding. For good, this time."

Lilith leaned on me, head on shoulder. "Told you—we're unbreakable."

Vorren nodded, knife sheathed. "Damn right."

Jex raised a pilfered flask. "To the unbreakable idiots."

Yvra toasted. "And their contingencies."

Fog smiled. "New notes await."

Knights saluted. "For the crown—and the capers!"

We lingered, stars wheeling, the world mended. Echoes quieted, but the horizon hummed—new quests, new quirks. With this family? The dawn tasted like doughnuts. Endless, eternal.

late afternoon sun like waves on a forgotten ocean.

It was beautiful in a way that felt almost cruel after the raw, punishing heights of the Ironspikes—soft curves of earth instead of jagged stone, the air thick with the earthy scent of soil and distant rain, carrying none of the thin, biting chill that had clawed at our lungs for days.

But beauty like this always hid something sharper underneath.

I'd learned that the hard way, from the first time Sir Galrik slung me over his shoulder like a sack of regrets and marched us into a forest that looked peaceful until it tried to eat us.

Here, the wheat stood tall enough to swallow a man whole if he wandered too far, and the wind whispered through it in ways that sounded almost like voices—faint, teasing, pulling at the edges of your thoughts like loose threads on a well-worn coat.

My coat, of course, was already a lost cause, its hems frayed from fen mud and peak scree, but it still hung on me like an old friend who refused to quit, pockets bulging with the quiet weight of the relics.

The scepter felt warm in my hand now, its shards woven so seamlessly that it thrummed with a life of its own, responding to the land as if the fields themselves were an extension of Valthorne's old magic.

I glanced at Thorne, who walked beside me with that steady, unhurried gait of his, staff tapping the dirt path in a rhythm that matched the sway of the wheat.