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

The estuary's tangled edges began to unravel as we pressed inland, the path straightening into a riverside trail where the water ran clearer, its surface catching the afternoon light in fleeting shimmers that danced like half-remembered dreams.

The salt-tang air softened, giving way to the clean, mineral bite of flowing freshwater laced with the earthy undertone of willow roots and distant wild mint, the kind of scent that promised renewal after the sea's relentless push.

Birdsong threaded the air—warblers flitting between branches, their calls a counterpoint to the river's steady murmur—and for the first time in days, the weight of the relics felt less like a burden and more like a companion, the scepter's embedded shards pulsing in time with the current, as if the river itself were humming an old, unfinished tune.

My coat, crusted with the cove's salt and softened by the fields' lingering pollen, swung loose at my sides, its familiar drag a quiet anchor in the shifting landscape, pockets jingling faintly with the oddments we'd gathered—Jex's pilfered pebbles, a shard of tarn-shell, Yvra's pressed reed.

I was Cecil Dreggs, the improbable pilot of this patchwork flotilla of fates, navigating not just the river's bends but the subtle currents of what came after confession: the way truths, once voiced, settled into silences that felt shared rather than solitary, binding us tighter than any ritual ever could.

Thorne took the lead with that unhurried assurance of his, staff parting the occasional low-hanging willow frond with a soft swish that released a faint, green mist into the air, his robes brushing the damp earth like the hem of an old tapestry trailing through time.

The cove's waves had washed away some of the isolation he'd carried like a second skin, his scar now less a badge of solitary suffering and more a line drawn between past and present, and he glanced back frequently, his gray eyes cataloging our faces with the quiet vigilance of someone who'd finally found a story worth telling alongside others.

"This stretch is the Relic Run," he said, his voice weaving seamlessly into the river's low song, carrying the cadence of someone reciting lore from memory rather than a book.

"Valthorne traced its banks after forging the first shards, letting the water carry away what he couldn't hold—the doubts, the fragments of failures that wouldn't quite sink.

It's said the river remembers, ballads buried in the silt, surfacing when the weave needs mending or the bearer needs reminding."

His words landed gentle but resonant, stirring the scepter in my hand to a warmer glow, as if the river recognized its own echo in Valthorne's tale, a reminder that legacies weren't stone monuments but living flows, meandering through time and turning up treasures—or troubles—when least expected.

Lilith matched the river's pace a few steps ahead, her boots leaving faint impressions in the soft verge, scythe slung easy over one shoulder like a fisherman's pole rather than a reaper's edge, her stride loose but alert, as if the water's whisper were an old rival she'd learned to sidestep without losing rhythm.

The tarn's reflections had bared her to the bone, showing a Lilith unmoored from her fire's fierce purpose, adrift in a world that feared what it couldn't chain, but she'd claimed that vision in the surf's embrace, turning vulnerability into the quiet confidence that now made her pauses feel like breaths between battles won.

She bent to trail a hand in the current, water slipping cool between her fingers, then straightened with a half-smile that caught the light on her horns.

"Ballads in the banks, huh?

Sounds poetic.

But if this river starts singing about my clan again, I'll compose a counterpoint with this."

She patted her scythe, the gesture light but laced with the steel she'd forged from those dredged-up doubts, her laugh rolling out soft and shared, inviting the rest of us to join the melody rather than harmonize in silence.

Vorren anchored the rear of our loose line, his broad frame casting a steady shadow over the path, packs balanced across his back like they were extensions of his unyielding form, each step deliberate and deep, leaving prints that the river seemed to respect, lapping just shy of their edges.

The estuary's temptations had tempted him with stillness—a life hammered flat, forges cold and comrades' ghosts laid quiet—but he'd chosen the swing of the hammer over the hush, emerging with a solidity that made the river's meanders feel like minor detours rather than dead ends, his presence the deep channel that kept our course from fraying at the banks.

He paused now and then to test the undercut edges with a thrown stone, watching the ripples spread and settle, his voice rumbling low when he spoke, carrying the weight of forges long cooled but never forgotten.

"Water carries what it touches.

Memories stick like silt.

But silt builds islands if you let it settle right."

It was Vorren at his most voluble—plain-spoken philosophy born from hands that had shaped metal and mourned its makers—and it grounded us, a reminder that even in flows that pulled sideways, you could build something lasting from the drag.

Jex wove through the middle like a current all his own, hopping from root to reed with the lightness of someone who'd learned to skim surfaces without sinking, a twist of willow bark in one hand that he whittled into a makeshift flute, blowing experimental notes that warbled off-key but earnest over the water's voice.

The delta's whispers had offered him the ultimate score—pockets eternally lined, streets traded for settled streets—but he'd flipped the con on its head, choosing the thrill of the shared sleight over solitary swindles, his mischief now a tributary that fed our forward flow rather than a solo sprint.

He pocketed the flute mid-note, falling back to nudge my elbow with a grin that crinkled his eyes against the sun.

"River's got rhythm, Cecil—bet it's humming one of Valthorne's hits.

Think I could learn it?

Or is that bard stuff too sticky-fingered for a proper pinch?"

His question hung playful, but underneath ran the current of belonging he'd claimed in the cove's confessions, the boy who'd once danced alone now tuning his tune to ours.

Yvra traced the river's curve with her gaze from her spot midway, journal tucked under one arm but open in her mind's eye, her steps measured to avoid the softer muds that sucked at unwary heels, skirts brushing the tops of wild iris that bloomed defiant in the damp.

The choices had dangled unchained thrones before her, power without the prick of people's judgments, but she'd rewritten the offer in the waves, her strategies now infused with the grace of guided currents rather than solitary eddies, turning plans into pathways that honored the pull of the group.

She caught up to Thorne, her voice thoughtful as she gestured to a bend where the water slowed, pooling deep and dark.

"The lore mentions 'silt-songs' here—echoes that surface as melodies, testing if the bearer can harmonize or drown in discord.

If the river's ballads are stirring, we might need more than seals; we could need a counter-chant to weave them back in."

Her insight flowed as naturally as the river beside us, the noble navigator charting not just routes but resonances, her presence the steady compass that kept our meanders from becoming mazes.

Fog drifted along the water's lip, his ethereal form mingling with the mist rising from the cooler depths, tea cup steaming in defiance of the growing warmth, its aroma blending chamomile with the faint, ferrous tang of the riverbed below.

The temptations had tempted him with evaporation—no more pour, no more presence—but he'd condensed from the crew's steam, his wisdom now a rivulet that deepened the main flow rather than a separate stream.

He skimmed a pebble across the surface, watching it skip four times before sinking with a final plop.

"Ballads bury deep, Cecil, but rivers remember the melody.

Sing with them, or they'll sing you under—harmony heals the hurt."

His words rippled out soft, sage counsel softened by the sanctuary's salt, the eternal companion reminding us that even buried songs could surface as strengths if met with the right refrain.

Sir Thrain and Sir Gorrim turned the riverside ramble into their rolling revue, Thrain attempting a "valiant vault" over a shallow ford—"For the crown's cascading canticle!"—only to misjudge the depth and splash hip-high, Gorrim's gallant grab devolving into a synchronized soak that left them sputtering on the far bank, armor dripping and dignity delightfully doused.

"Fluviatile farce!" Thrain bellowed through laughter, while Gorrim added, "Most melodious mishap!"

Their watery whoops wove whimsy into the river's serious song, the knights' knack for nautical nonsense a lively leitmotif that kept the ballads from brooding too black.

The Relic Run deepened as shadows lengthened, the banks rising steeper to cradle the water in a verdant gorge where willows gave way to overhanging oaks, their leaves rustling secrets that mingled with the current's hush.

The ballads began as murmurs—faint strains of melody threading the air, lute-like but liquid, pulling at the edges of memory like hooks in a half-caught fish.

At first, they soothed: lilting airs of harvests unbroken, bindings unfrayed, Valthorne's voice young and hopeful humming through the haze.

But the hooks sharpened, surfacing as dirges—songs of shards shattered, circles sundered, echoes of our voices warped into laments: my doubts as a downbeat drone, Lilith's fire flickering to ash in minor key, Vorren's strength straining to silence.

The river swelled, banks creeping closer, water reaching with tendril-touches that tugged at hems and thoughts, the ballads swelling to siren-song that promised peace in surrender: let go, let flow, no more fight.

Jex's melody mocked his sleights as futile flutters, Yvra's as empty echoes, Thorne's legacy as lost lyrics, Fog's wisdom as whispered wind.

The knights' valor vanished to a dirge of defeats un-sung.

The pull intensified, currents coiling to carry us under, ballads blaring in discordant demand.

But the circle stirred, scepter raised to resonate, shards singing counterpoint—our truths tuned to triumph, Lilith's laugh a lively lift, Vorren's grunt a grounding bass, Jex's jape a jaunty jig, Yvra's verse a vivid verse, Fog's flow a full fugue, knights' klutz a comedic cadence, Thorne's tale a tenor true.

My voice joined, rough but resolute, weaving the weave back whole.

The river receded, ballads blending to benediction, banks breathing easy, the Run running clear once more.

We slumped on the verge, breaths harmonizing with the hush, grins dawning like after-song applause.

Lilith exhaled, hand on scythe.

"Nice counterpoint, boys.

Let's keep that tune."

Vorren nodded, wiping brow.

"Solid refrain."

Jex hummed a bar.

"Hit single material."

Yvra smiled.

"Harmony holds."

Fog sipped.

"Songs settled."

Knights saluted.

"For the crown's choral conquest!"

Thorne gripped my shoulder.

"The Run runs true.

Inland now—the heart's own hymn."

We rose, river rippling behind, ballads banked to beauty.

Revelations rhymed.

The Relic Run had revealed.

We'd replied in round.

Together, the river's refrain.