Chapter 12 – Echoes That Travel
The road bent east after Harthwell, thinning into a stretch of uneven stone that had once been properly maintained. Grass pushed through cracks like quiet rebellion. Wind moved in long, low sighs across the open fields.
They did not speak much the first few hours.
Something about leaving a wounded town made conversation feel unnecessary.
Lucius walked slightly apart again, not intentionally—just enough distance that their shadows did not overlap.
Behind him, Mike hummed.
The melody had evolved.
Lucius recognized it immediately.
"A Dear Friend."
The title had slipped from Mike's mouth the night before like a joke that wasn't a joke. Now it clung to the tune with unsettling certainty.
Lucy matched Lucius's pace after a while.
"He's refining the second verse," she said.
"You can tell?"
"He keeps changing the rhythm after the third line."
Lucius listened.
She was right.
Mike would sing:
—a man who walks when others kneel—
Pause.
Adjust.
Repeat it differently.
Lucius exhaled slowly. "He should be careful."
Lucy glanced at him. "Of what?"
"Songs travel faster than swords."
"That's why they matter."
"That's why they're dangerous."
Lucy didn't argue.
They reached a crossroads by midday.
A wooden signpost leaned slightly, arrows pointing toward towns both familiar and forgotten.
Jak studied it. "West leads back toward the capital road. South cuts through the low forest."
Alicia folded her arms. "The forest is slower."
"The capital road is watched," Lucy added.
Lucius looked at the worn wood grain, at the shallow knife marks where someone had scratched out old directions and carved new ones.
Watched.
That word felt heavier lately.
"South," Lucius said.
No one challenged him.
They turned toward the low forest.
The trees were not dense, but close enough to mute the horizon. Shafts of light broke through leaves in uneven beams, painting the ground in fractured gold.
Mike walked ahead for once.
He plucked a few soft notes as he moved, letting sound bounce between trunks.
"Good acoustics," he muttered. "Tragic setting. Very poetic."
"Stop treating everything like a stage," Jak grumbled.
Mike looked back over his shoulder. "Everything is a stage."
Lucius watched the space between trees.
It felt… attentive.
Not hostile.
Just aware.
He tightened his grip on the strap across his chest.
They made camp before dusk near a shallow stream.
Alicia took first watch without comment.
Lucy sat across from Lucius while Jak gathered wood.
"You didn't like the way people listened yesterday," she said.
Lucius stared into the unlit fire pit. "They were looking at him."
"At Mike?"
"No."
Understanding flickered across her face.
"They weren't sure what they were looking at," she said gently. "That's not the same as suspicion."
"It's close."
Lucy leaned forward slightly. "You're assuming connection where there might not be one."
"The dungeon reacted."
"Yes."
"And then we arrived in a town already breaking."
"That's correlation, not proof."
Lucius didn't respond.
Because the truth was simpler than paranoia.
He didn't like the feeling of being part of something that moved without asking him first.
Jak returned and began building the fire.
Mike sat down with exaggerated exhaustion. "I have tragic news."
"No," Alicia said from her place at the edge of camp.
"Yes," Mike insisted. "The chorus refuses to cooperate."
Lucius didn't look up.
"It's missing something," Mike continued. "It has teeth, but no heartbeat."
"Then write a better one," Jak said flatly.
"I am wounded by your lack of artistic sympathy."
Lucy hid a smile.
Mike's gaze drifted to Lucius.
"What do you think?"
Lucius hesitated.
"About what?"
"The idea."
"Of?"
Mike held his stare. "A man walking instead of kneeling."
The fire caught then, flame licking upward between sticks.
Lucius watched it grow before answering.
"Depends on why he refuses to kneel."
Mike's fingers stilled over the strings.
"And if he doesn't know?" Mike asked.
"Then it's arrogance."
Silence settled heavier than before.
Mike broke it first with a quiet chuckle. "Well. That complicates things."
He plucked a note—lower this time. Slower.
Lucy looked between them carefully.
"You're both assuming the song is about someone specific," she said.
Mike grinned lightly. "All good songs are."
Lucius stood. "I'll take second watch."
He walked away before anyone could stop him.
The night air was cooler deeper in the forest.
Lucius positioned himself on a fallen log, eyes scanning darkness.
For a long while, nothing moved beyond ordinary woodland life.
Then—
A tremor.
Subtle.
Barely a shift.
But not natural.
He rose slowly.
The air felt thinner.
Not drained.
Stretched.
Like a veil pulled too tight.
His pulse quickened.
He stepped forward, boots barely disturbing leaves.
The tremor came again—faint, rhythmic.
Not footsteps.
Not breathing.
Something… aligning.
Lucius reached outward with instinct alone.
Not power.
Just awareness.
And for the briefest heartbeat—
Something pressed back.
Cold.
Curious.
Distant.
Then it vanished.
The forest returned to normal.
Crickets resumed their steady chorus.
Lucius stood very still.
He had not imagined it.
It hadn't attacked.
It hadn't warned.
It had simply acknowledged.
He swallowed.
"Not interested," he muttered into the dark.
No answer came.
But the silence afterward felt different.
Morning arrived gray and reluctant.
Lucius said nothing about the tremor.
He didn't know how to explain a feeling without sounding unstable.
They broke camp quickly.
The forest thinned by noon, revealing rolling hills beyond.
In the distance, smoke rose from a settlement—thin and orderly.
Not destruction.
Industry.
A traveling merchant caravan approached from the opposite direction.
Four wagons.
Two guards.
One banner Lucius didn't recognize.
As they drew closer, one of the guards slowed.
His gaze lingered on Lucius longer than necessary.
"Road's unstable ahead," the guard said casually. "Gate activity reported near the southern ridge."
Lucy stiffened slightly.
"What kind of activity?" she asked.
The guard shrugged. "Unconfirmed. But the report mentioned a… fluctuation."
Lucius felt the word land like weight.
Fluctuation.
The guard's eyes flicked to him again.
"Travel carefully," he finished.
They passed without incident.
But Lucius felt watched long after the caravan disappeared.
By late afternoon, they reached a small rise overlooking a valley settlement.
It wasn't large enough to be called a town.
Too structured to be a village.
Somewhere in between.
Fields partially harvested.
One windmill turning lazily.
No visible damage.
No smoke.
Peaceful.
"Good," Jak said quietly. "Normal."
Lucius didn't trust normal anymore.
They descended toward the settlement as the sun dipped lower.
A group of children chased each other near the outer fence, laughter carrying on warm air.
One of them stopped when he noticed Lucius.
Just stared.
Not afraid.
Just… aware.
Lucius looked away first.
The inn here was modest but intact.
They secured two rooms and a meal without difficulty.
Conversation flowed more easily than in Harthwell.
Relief did that.
Even Mike seemed lighter, strumming playful chords while testing lines under his breath.
Lucy leaned toward Lucius as noise swelled around them.
"You can't carry suspicion into every quiet place," she said softly.
"I'm not trying to."
"But you are."
Lucius watched a farmer laugh at something Jak had said.
"I don't want to be the reason something changes," he admitted.
Lucy's expression softened.
"You're not that powerful."
He almost smiled.
"Yet."
The word slipped out before he could stop it.
Lucy heard it.
And that frightened her more than anything else he'd said that day.
Later that night, when the inn had quieted and most candles burned low, Mike sat alone again.
The parchment returned.
The quill hovered.
He tapped the wood twice.
Then wrote slowly.
To a dear friend, who keeps walking even when the road does not want him.
He paused.
Smiled faintly.
Then crossed out the second half.
Outside, wind shifted direction.
And somewhere far beyond the valley, beyond forest and hill—
A pulse moved.
Not violent.
Not destructive.
Just measured.
As though something had begun tracking a rhythm it intended to follow.
Lucius stood at the window of his room once more.
Different town.
Same feeling.
He pressed his palm lightly against the cool glass.
"I won't kneel," he whispered.
Not to defy.
Not to challenge.
Just to remind himself.
The windmill outside creaked softly as it turned.
Life went on.
But beneath it—
Something had started listening more closely.