The creek path was less a road and more a scar of wet earth. Alex followed the rough trail, staying close to the water's edge, using the black flow of the creek as his guide. The air here was heavy with the smell of stagnant water and decaying leaves, a damp cold that seemed to permeate the thick wool of Theron's traveler's cloak.
Every sensation of the medieval night was amplified by the shift in scale. A twig snapping under the ill-fitting travelling boots sounded like a gunshot. The weight of the cloak was a cumbersome heat that held sweat close to his skin. He realized that the greatest defense against this world was not magic, but silence and sheer physical endurance.
The Cost of the Trail
The first hour was manageable, fueled by adrenaline and the sheer terror of what lay behind him. But as the dark hours deepened, the terrain became a relentless enemy. The path was riddled with exposed roots and slick river stones. The oversized leather boots, a saving grace against the cold, chafed mercilessly. Alex knew the agony was just beginning; by dawn, the friction would have peeled the skin from his heels, turning every step into a calculated, agonizing effort.
He focused on the internal ledger: Ledger One (Life). He ate a small piece of the dry, salted tallow he had stolen, trying to pre-empt the caloric collapse. He mentally checked the core: the Stillness tank was still nearly full, a dense, frigid presence at his core, untouched since the latch was silently frozen.
He was conserving his future, but sacrificing his present comfort.
The Mire of Decision
Just before the deepest part of the King's Wood began to press in on the creek, the trade path vanished. A patch of thick, viscous silt and mire extended from the bank to the forest line—a deep, gluttonous mud that sucked at anything that touched it. It was too wide to jump, and navigating the deep, cold creek was a risk of hypothermia and a lost footing that he could not afford.
Stopping was not an option. Theron, once roused, would be driven by fury and a need to recover his lost assets.
Alex approached the edge, stamping his oversized boot. The mud gave way with a sickening schlurp. Crossing would take minutes of grueling, exhausting effort, risking one of the oversized boots being sucked off and swallowed by the mire.
The Stillness solution was immediate: Draw sustained power, lend extreme vigor to the legs, and sprint across the slick, treacherous surface without sinking.
Alex closed his eyes, tasting the sheer temptation. Ten seconds of sustained vigor. A fifteen percent tank drain. Easy, safe transit.
But the image of the aged lines on his face—the cost of his first mistakes—flashed in his mind. It is not a mortal threat, his analytical mind argued. It is a physical obstacle. Magic is reserved for death, not inconvenience.
He rejected the magical solution. Instead, he forced his body to scan the immediate environment, his accountant's mind searching for an external tool. He spotted a collection of flat, pale river stones near the water's edge—too small for normal stepping, but the only option.
He began the grueling, careful process of relocating them, inch by agonizing inch, placing them in the mire. He created a staggered, improvised stepping-stone path. The effort required twenty minutes of sustained, back-breaking labor in the biting cold, forcing him to rely on the body's meager caloric reserves.
He crossed, moving slowly from stone to stone, his muscles trembling violently with exhaustion. He made it to the other side, his boots caked in cold, heavy mud, but intact. He had spent twenty minutes of human effort and only depleted his caloric buffer. His Stillness tank remained full.
He had won a small victory against his power, proving he could survive without accelerating his own death.
Alex has faced the first environmental challenge and conserved his magical resources. The trail is now leading him closer to the Thorp of Wyllow.