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

His scar caught the light, a silvery reminder of bindings gone wrong, but there was a lightness to him today that hadn't been there in the spire's frantic glow—a man who'd carried his family's ghosts long enough to start setting a few down.

"These fields were Valthorne's first forge," he said, his voice low enough that it blended with the rustle around us.

"Not of metal or magic, but of patience.

He planted here as a boy, learned to coax life from stubborn soil.

Said it taught him more about power than any spell ever could—how it grows slow, roots deep, until one day it breaks the surface and changes everything."

I nodded, kicking at a clod of dirt that crumbled under my boot.

It was easy to imagine a younger Valthorne out here, sleeves rolled up, hands black with earth, dreaming of dough that could bind the stars.

But dreams like that always came with thorns.

The wind picked up, carrying a faint murmur that wasn't quite words—names, maybe, or fragments of laughter long faded.

The relics stirred in response, the Heart of Glimmerfen giving a soft thump against my chest like it was waking from a nap.

"Yeah," I said, more to shake off the unease than anything.

"Patience.

That's what got us through the peaks.

And the fens.

And that time Jex convinced us a shortcut through a goblin market was a good idea."

Thorne chuckled, a dry sound that cut through the whispers.

"You've got his patience in spades, Cecil.

Most men would've cracked under half the weight you carry.

Relics, rifts, a crew that'd follow you into hell for the jokes alone."

He wasn't wrong.

The crew had become the real circle, stronger than any shard or seal.

They'd faced their shadows in the whispers and the wraiths, come out scarred but standing taller, and now they moved through this deceptively serene landscape like they owned it—flaws and all.

Lilith scouted ahead, her figure a dark silhouette against the golden waves, scythe balanced casually on her shoulder as if it were an extension of her arm rather than a weapon forged for reaping souls.

She paused at the crest of a low hill, hand shading her eyes against the sun, horns catching the light in a way that made her look less like a demon from old tales and more like a guardian carved from the land itself.

The fens had hit her hard, dredging up echoes of a family that had cast her out for her fire, but she'd turned it into fuel—sharper quips, fiercer swings.

Now, she glanced back, her voice carrying clear over the wind.

"Clear so far, but this stuff's thick enough to hide an army.

Or a really persistent badger.

Pick up the pace, Dreggs—we're not here for a wheat-wallow."

Her smirk was all challenge, but there was warmth in it, the kind that said she'd walk through fire again just to keep the rest of us from burning.

Vorren lumbered along at the rear, his broad frame parting the occasional stalk like a ship through high grass, packs slung over his shoulders without a hint of strain.

He moved with that deliberate quiet of his, eyes scanning the horizons, hand never far from the knife at his belt—the one he'd used to carve through golem joints and rift-tendrils alike.

The peaks had suited him, given him space to breathe without illusions crowding in, and he'd opened up just enough over trail-side fires to let slip stories of a forge apprenticeship cut short by loss.

It made his silences feel less like walls and more like choices, and when he grunted now, it was with a nod that carried weight.

"Land feels... watchful.

Like it's holding its breath.

Keep ears open."

Simple words, but they landed heavy, a reminder that Vorren saw more than he said, and what he said was worth hearing.

Jex skipped along the middle of the path, turning the walk into his personal treasure hunt, bending to snatch up a shiny pebble or a twist of wild vine with the glee of a kid in a junkyard.

He twirled one particularly twisty root between his fingers, holding it up to the light like it was a stolen crown jewel.

"Oi, Cecil—think this'd make a decent sling?

Or maybe a necklace for Lilith.

'Scuse me, love, but you'd rock the rustic look."

He lobbed it her way with a wink, and she caught it mid-air without breaking stride, tucking it into her belt with a mock glare that dissolved into a laugh.

Jex had always been the spark, the one who turned pilfered peril into punchlines, but the rifts had quieted some of his restless edges—made his grabs feel less like escapes and more like invitations to the fun.

He fell back beside me, elbowing my arm lightly.

"Seriously, though—this place gives me the itch.

Like it's waiting for us to trip over something big.

Or buried."

Yvra walked with that effortless poise of hers, skirts brushing the wheat tops without snagging, her journal open in one hand as she jotted notes with the other—sketches of the land's subtle curves, annotations on how the wind carried the relics' hum.

She'd adapted to the wilds better than any of us expected, turning noble disdain into practical insight, but the whispers had reminded her of courtly cages she'd clawed free from, and now her plans carried an undercurrent of quiet defiance.

She glanced up from her page, falling into step with Thorne.

"The texts mention harvest rites here—bindings disguised as festivals.

If the fields are stirring, it might be tied to an old rite gone dormant.

Something Valthorne left unfinished?"

Her question hung light, but probing, the strategist in her always weaving the threads before they tangled.

Thorne considered it, staff pausing mid-tap.

"Could be.

He spoke of a 'wheat-weave' once—a spell to anchor echoes in the soil.

Meant to keep the Devourer's tendrils from seeping up like weeds.

If it's fraying..."

Fog brought up the side, his ethereal form weaving through the stalks without disturbing a single blade, tea cup steaming in his grip as if the fields' humidity only sharpened its aroma.

He sipped thoughtfully, eyes distant but kind, the mist around him blending with the haze rising from the warming earth.

"The soil remembers what the sky forgets," he said, his voice a gentle current under the wind's murmur.

"Roots run deeper than rivers.

Tread with care, Cecil—the whispers aren't always wind."

It was classic Fog—cryptic enough to unsettle, wise enough to steady—and after the rifts, his words carried extra weight, laced with the faint ache of apprentices he'd lost to similar seepages long ago.

Sir Thrain and Sir Gorrim rounded out our procession, turning the pastoral stroll into their own brand of rolling comedy.

Thrain strode ahead with exaggerated purpose, lance raised like a banner against invisible foes—"For the crown's golden gambol!"—only to step into a hidden divot and lurch forward, arms windmilling as he caught his balance on the next hill.

Gorrim, ever the loyal shadow, surged to steady him—"By valor's verdant grace!"—and promptly overcorrected, sending them both tumbling into a shallow ditch lined with wild mint that filled the air with a sharp, refreshing tang.

They emerged sputtering and green-stained, helmets askew, but their laughter boomed out clear and unashamed.

"Dishonorable dell!" Thrain declared, brushing leaves from his pauldrons, while Gorrim adjusted his mustache with mock dignity.

"Certainly a covert crevasse!"

The knights' clumsiness was a gift, really—a reminder that even in lands that whispered of old sorrows, you could still trip into joy if you weren't too proud to fall.

We crested the next rise as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that stretched like fingers across the fields.

The path widened into a crossroads, marked by a weathered stone cairn overgrown with ivy, its surface etched with faded runes that matched the faint glow of my relics.

The wind died suddenly, leaving the wheat still, and the whispers sharpened—not random murmurs now, but words, threading through the silence like silk through needles.

Cecil... lost... why persist...

They slithered into my ears, cold and insistent, stirring doubts I'd thought buried under peak victories and rift seals—the microwave flash that ended my old life, the party's early laughs that felt like pity, the fear that all this power would slip through my fingers like dry dough.

The others heard it too.

Lilith froze mid-step, her hand tightening on her scythe, face paling as clan-ghosts clawed back from the fens.

Vorren's jaw clenched, knife half-drawn, shadows of lost kin flickering in his eyes.

Jex halted his skipping, fingers curling into fists as street-sorrows surged.

Yvra's journal slipped slightly, court sneers echoing in her stance.

Even Thorne staggered, hand to his scar, old binding-failures burning fresh.

Fog's tea trembled in his grip, misty form wavering.

The knights gripped each other, valor-cries caught in their throats.

The cairn pulsed, runes flaring violet, and the ground trembled—a rift, but different, woven into the roots themselves, tendrils of shadow creeping up like ink in water.

"This isn't a leak," Thorne gasped, staff glowing as he traced a ward.

"It's a memory-weave.

Valthorne's anchor, corrupted.

It's pulling us in."

The wheat closed in, stalks bending unnatural, forming walls that herded us toward the cairn.

Illusions bloomed—half-formed figures rising from the soil, echoes of ourselves but twisted, wearing our faces with crueler smiles.

My double stepped forward, relics mocking on its belt.

"You're the joke, Cecil.

The civilian who got lucky.

They'll leave when the luck runs out."

Lilith's echo sneered, horns shadowed dark.

Vorren's loomed massive, fists clenched in accusation.

The air thickened, doubts pressing like weights.

But I saw the flicker in their real eyes—the shared resolve from peaks and fens, the laughs around valley fires.

This wasn't new.

Just another test.

I raised the scepter, shards igniting in a cascade of light that cut the gloom.

The circle flared, warm and true, relics linking with the crew's wills—Lilith's fire, Vorren's strength, Jex's spark, Yvra's clarity, Fog's depth, the knights' unyielding folly, Thorne's rooted legacy.

The illusions shattered, tendrils recoiling with a hiss like steam from a cooling loaf.

We surged forward as one, hands linking around the cairn, scepter plunged into its heart.

The weave unraveled, shadows sinking back into the soil, the runes steadying to a soft, healing glow.

The fields sighed, wheat straightening, wind returning gentle.

We slumped against the stone, breaths ragged but grins creeping in.

Lilith punched my arm lightly.

"Persistent, huh?

Guess that's us."

Vorren nodded, sheathing his knife.

"Roots run deep.

Good thing ours do too."

Jex exhaled, twirling a stalk.

"Never doubted it, mates."

Yvra closed her journal.

"Pattern noted.

Onward."

Fog sipped his tea.

"The weave holds.

For now."

The knights saluted the cairn.

"For the crown—and the crop!"

Thorne clapped my back.

"Valthorne's anchor, reforged.

You're more his heir than I ever was."

The sun dipped lower, painting the fields in amber.

Doubts lingered, faint as aftertaste.

But with this crew, they tasted like growth.

Like the start of something rooted true.

We pressed on, the path curving toward a distant village.

Whispers quieted.

But the world still hummed.

Ready for whatever grew next.