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

The coastal path gave way to a riverside trail as we left the cove behind, the land sloping gentle into an estuary where the tarn's quiet waters met the sea's restless churn in a tangle of brackish channels and reed-choked bends.

It was the kind of borderland that felt alive with indecision—freshwater lilies blooming defiant in salty pools, herons stalking fish that didn't know which way to swim, the air a humid mix of river mud and ocean brine that clung to your skin like unspoken regrets.

After the tarn's mirror-sharp truths, this felt softer, more forgiving, but forgiveness had a way of hiding hooks, and the relics stirred with a low, uneasy thrum, the scepter's shards flickering like candle flames caught in a draft.

My coat, stiff with dried salt from the cove splash, chafed at the elbows, but it carried the faint scent of cider and laughter now, a reminder that we'd waded through worse and come out cleaner for it.

I was Cecil Dreggs, the fumbling fulcrum of this found family, the civilian-turned-circle-bearer who'd learned that revelations weren't always thunderclaps—they could be the slow seep of river water eroding stone, changing shape without a sound.

The crew moved with the estuary's rhythm, steps syncing to the lap of current against bank, the shared confessions from the shore hanging between us like mist off the water—spoken but not spent, the kind of vulnerabilities that bonded deeper in silence than in shouts.

Thorne took the lead along the muddy verge, his staff probing the softer spots where the path threatened to dissolve into soup, robes brushing the reeds with a soft swish that blended with the wind's murmur through the rushes.

The cove had cracked him open a fraction more, his scar a map of old drownings now shared around the fire, and he glanced back often, his steel-gray eyes holding a new layer of quiet kinship, like a man who'd spent years solo on a raft finally spotting land.

"The Estuary of Echoes," he said, voice threading through the hush.

"Valthorne called it his crucible of confluence—where rivers meet sea, and bindings must bend or break.

The final weave starts here, in the delta's heart, but the currents carry old currents—echoes that twist truths into temptations."

His words settled light, but weighted, a guide's warning wrapped in the wonder of someone who'd walked these banks in stories before seeing them real.

Lilith flanked the water's edge, her boots leaving shallow prints in the damp earth, scythe trailing lazy behind her like a shepherd's crook for wayward waves.

The tarn had reflected her solitude back sharp, a demon adrift without her fire's purpose, but she'd claimed it in the surf, turning isolation to the fierce independence that now made her steps surer, her glances warmer.

She skipped a flat stone across a calm eddy, watching the ripples race and fade.

"Temptations, huh?

After the tarn's funhouse mirror, I'm ready for whatever this delta dishes.

Just hope it's not more 'look at your lonely self' nonsense."

Her laugh rippled out, dry but genuine, the kind that invited echoes, her horns casting twin shadows on the water that danced like playful sprites.

Vorren trudged the higher ground, his frame casting a long shade over the path, packs balanced easy despite the mud's pull, his knife glinting occasional in the dappled light filtering through the overhanging willows.

The depths had shown him anvils cold and comrades gone, but he'd shouldered it like another load to carry, emerging with a steadiness that made the estuary's shifts feel like minor tides.

He paused to test a sagging branch over a deeper channel, grunting approval before crossing.

"Currents pull sideways.

Stay straight, or they spin you.

I've got the line."

Plain words, but they anchored, Vorren's presence the unyielding bank against which our river ran.

Jex hopped from tussock to tussock along the verge, turning the uneven terrain into a game, a reed in one hand like a fisher's pole, the other palming pebbles he'd skip into the flow with plink-plink precision.

The shore had bared his endless streets to him, pockets forever light and feet forever fleeing, but he'd flipped it into fuel for faster feet, his mischief now laced with a loyalty that stuck like burrs on wool.

He lobbed a pebble my way, grinning when I caught it mid-air.

"Estuary's full of shortcuts, Cecil—half fresh, half salt, all sneaky.

Bet there's a relic or two sunk in these bends, waiting for a clever dive."

His wink promised pilfered pearls, but his eyes held the spark of someone who'd found his bend in the river, no longer drifting alone.

Yvra navigated the softer spots with careful grace, skirts hitched practical above the mud, her journal tucked safe under one arm as she traced the channel's curve with her gaze, mind already mapping confluences.

The illusions had whispered of doors forever shut, titles turned to ash, but she'd rewritten the reflection in the waves, her strategies now infused with the freedom of open waters.

She fell in beside Thorne, voice thoughtful over the lap of current.

"The delta's a nexus in the old lore—where echoes converge before dispersing.

If we seal here, it reinforces the whole weave, but the temptations might manifest as choices: stay in the flow, or fight the current."

Her insight flowed easy, the noble planner evolved into navigator, charting courses that honored the heart as much as the head.

Fog wove through the reeds, his form parting the fronds without touch, tea steaming against the estuary's damp chill like a defiant hearth-glow, the cup's rim catching glints from the water's surface.

The tarn had dried his cup in vision, mist scattered to wind, but he'd refilled it with the crew's shared steam, his calm now a current that carried rather than contained.

"Choices carve channels, Cecil.

The delta divides, but also deepens—follow the flow, or force your ford."

His murmur merged with the river's song, sage advice softened to suggestion, the eternal pourer reminding us that even in confluences, the stream found its way.

Sir Thrain and Sir Gorrim splashed along the shallows, turning the trail into a tidal trampoline, Thrain's lance dipping to prod curious crabs—"For the crown's conch crusade!"—only to startle a school of minnows into a silver frenzy that sent Gorrim slipping sideways into a puddle.

He surfaced sputtering—"By valor's verdant vortex!"—both collapsing in giggles that echoed off the banks, helmets bobbing like buoys in the shallows.

"Diluvial drollery!" Thrain added, wringing water from his tabard.

Their watery whoops wove joy into the estuary's somber stretch, the knights' knack for nautical nonsense a buoy against the deepening pull.

The delta widened as afternoon waned, channels braiding into a labyrinth of loops and lags, the water darkening to ink under the slanting sun, reeds whispering secrets that tangled with the gulls' cries.

The temptations crept in subtle—a fork where the current split inviting, one path smooth and sunlit, the other shadowed but swift; voices on the wind offering ease, stay here, rest, no more weight.

My reflection in a still pool showed a simpler Cecil—jobless but unburdened, no relics, no rifts, just quiet days and forgotten novels.

Lilith's a lone wanderer, free of horns and haunts.

Vorren's a smith in peace, forge warm without war.

The pull tugged, sweet and insidious, currents coiling at ankles like old lovers reluctant to let go.

But the circle hummed counter, scepter flaring to light the true ford—the shadowed swiftness that promised progress over pause.

We chose it together, hands brushing in passing, illusions fading to harmless haze.

The heart of the delta revealed itself at the braid's core—a sunken stone circle half-veiled by water, runes pulsing faint beneath the surface, echoes rising as misty forms that offered visions of lives unlived: Jex rich and rooted, Yvra throned unchallenged, Thorne unbound by bloodlines, Fog solid and seen.

The knights' echoes knelt in quiet glory, lances laureled.

Temptation crested, currents swirling to sweep us into stasis.

I plunged the scepter into the circle's heart, shards igniting in a web of light that knit the braids, the crew's wills weaving with mine—Lilith's fire to burn illusion, Vorren's strength to stem the flow, Jex's spark to scatter shadows, Yvra's clarity to chart the course, Fog's depth to drown the doubts, knights' folly to fracture the false.

Thorne's legacy locked the seal, echoes sinking with a final sigh, the delta stilling to silver sheen.

We hauled out onto the bank, sodden but smiling, the weave reinforced, temptations turned to trials passed.

Lilith wrung her hair, grinning fierce.

"Chose the current.

Always will."

Vorren nodded, water sheeting off.

"Straight and swift."

Jex shook like a dog.

"Better than stuck."

Yvra dried her journal.

"Confluence claimed."

Fog sipped damp tea.

"Channels carved true."

Knights saluted the stone.

"For the crown's cascading choice!"

Thorne clasped my arm.

"The weave flows whole.

Southward now—the sea's own secrets."

We moved on, delta fading astern, revelations rippling behind.

Choices made.

Currents carried.

The estuary had divided.

We'd deepened.

Together, ever the river's run.