Chapter 12: Trust Doesn’t Come Easy

The morning sun cast long shadows across the mountain path as Alaric and Brother Jorin descended from the heights of the monastery into the rugged wilderness below. The cold air of the highlands clung to them, but with every step they took eastward, the landscape transformed, the ground growing softer and the trees thicker.

Jorin led the way, his staff tapping rhythmically against the rocky trail. He seemed unbothered by the weight of the pack on his back or the dangers that might lie ahead, his bright eyes filled with curiosity and youthful energy. Alaric couldn’t help but marvel at how unfazed the young monk seemed, even though they were venturing into lands where no monastery walls could protect them.

“So,” Jorin said, breaking the silence, “tell me about the Zeton. Is it really as powerful as the stories say?”

Alaric hesitated, his hand brushing the relic in his pocket. “Powerful? Yeah,” he admitted. “Dangerous? Definitely. But it doesn’t come with a user manual, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

Jorin chuckled, though there was a hint of nervousness in his voice. “I figured as much. Brother Thalos says that knowledge is our greatest weapon, but I suppose you can’t learn everything from books.”

“True enough,” Alaric replied. His mind drifted back to the battle in the monastery, the feeling of time bending to his will and the way the Zeton had responded. He couldn’t shake the fear that next time, he might not be able to control it—or worse, that he would unleash a catastrophe he couldn’t undo.

The path eventually widened, giving way to a dense forest of towering pines. The air grew warmer, and the scent of wildflowers and damp earth filled Alaric’s nostrils. Birds called from the treetops, and the underbrush rustled with unseen creatures. It was almost peaceful, if not for the constant edge of tension in Alaric’s mind.

Jorin paused, leaning on his staff and surveying the forest. “This way,” he said, gesturing to a narrower trail that veered off to the left. “It’ll take us to the edge of the plains by nightfall. If we’re lucky, we’ll find a village where we can rest.”

“Lucky,” Alaric echoed, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not sure if luck’s been on our side lately.”

Jorin grinned, undeterred. “Then maybe it’s time for a change.”

They pressed on, and the hours slipped by in a haze of walking, occasional small talk, and the ever-present awareness of the Zeton’s weight in Alaric’s pocket. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched, but each time he turned to look over his shoulder, he saw only trees and shadows.

Stay alert, he reminded himself. The raider leader may be gone, but that doesn’t mean we’re safe.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting golden light through the trees, Jorin slowed his pace. “We should stop soon,” he said. “The forest is dense, but we can make camp somewhere sheltered.”

Alaric nodded, grateful for the rest. His legs ached from the constant movement, and his mind felt heavy with exhaustion. They found a small clearing beside a bubbling stream, and Jorin set to work gathering wood for a fire while Alaric unrolled his blanket and dropped his pack.

Jorin was surprisingly efficient at building a fire, the flames crackling to life within minutes. “I spent a lot of time in the woods as a novice,” he explained when he caught Alaric’s curious look. “The elders said it built character. I just thought it built sore feet.”

Alaric chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Sounds like you had an interesting upbringing.”

Jorin shrugged, stirring the fire with a stick. “We all have our paths,” he said, his expression thoughtful. “What about you? Where did your path start?”

Alaric stiffened, memories of his past flooding back—memories of theft, betrayal, and a life spent running from one heist to the next. He wasn’t sure how much he wanted to share, especially with someone so... idealistic. “Let’s just say I’m used to looking over my shoulder,” he said finally, his voice guarded. “Trust doesn’t come easy.”

Jorin’s eyes softened, but he didn’t press. Instead, he offered a small smile. “Well, for what it’s worth, I trust you. You saved the monastery, after all.”

Alaric looked away, feeling a pang of guilt. If only he knew the trouble I’ve caused. But before he could dwell on it, a sound cut through the quiet—a rustling in the underbrush, too loud to be an animal. Alaric’s instincts flared, and his hand went to the dagger at his side.

Jorin tensed, his staff at the ready. “What was that?” he whispered.

Alaric’s eyes scanned the shadows, his heart pounding. The rustling grew louder, and a figure emerged from the darkness. It was a man, tall and lean, with hair as black as midnight and a cloak that blended seamlessly with the forest. His eyes gleamed with a predatory intelligence, and he held a crossbow aimed directly at Alaric and Jorin.

“Stay where you are,” the man ordered, his voice smooth and dangerous. “And don’t make any sudden moves.”

Alaric’s grip on his dagger tightened. “Who are you?” he demanded, his mind racing. A bandit? An assassin? Or someone after the Zeton?

The man’s lips curled into a smile. “Just a traveler, like you,” he said. “But I make it a point to know when relics of interest are being carried through my woods.”

Alaric’s stomach dropped. He knows.

Jorin’s voice was steady but wary. “We mean no harm,” he said. “We’re just passing through.”

The man’s gaze shifted to Jorin, and his smile widened. “Passing through with one of the most powerful artifacts in existence?” he mocked. “Forgive me if I don’t take you at your word.” He stepped forward, his crossbow never wavering. “Hand over the Zeton, and you can go on your way.”

Alaric swallowed hard, his mind racing. If I give it to him, there’s no telling what he’ll do. But if I refuse... He glanced at Jorin, who was watching him with a mixture of fear and trust. Alaric couldn’t let this stranger take the relic, but he also couldn’t risk Jorin’s life.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” the man warned, his eyes narrowing. “I’d hate to see this end in bloodshed.”

Alaric took a deep breath, his hand slipping into his pocket to grip the Zeton. He could feel its cold, unyielding surface, the power lying dormant within. Come on, he silently pleaded. Help me out here.

The man stepped closer, his finger tightening on the crossbow’s trigger. “Last chance,” he said. “Give me the relic.”

But before Alaric could make a decision, Jorin moved. With a speed that took even Alaric by surprise, the young monk swung his staff, knocking the crossbow aside. The bolt fired harmlessly into the trees, and the man cursed, stumbling back.

“Run!” Jorin shouted, his voice cutting through Alaric’s shock.

Alaric didn’t need to be told twice. He sprang to his feet, the Zeton clutched in his hand, and bolted into the forest. Jorin was right behind him, his staff still clutched in one hand. The stranger’s angry shouts echoed through the trees, and the sound of pursuit was not far behind.

Branches whipped at Alaric’s face, and his lungs burned with each breath, but he didn’t dare slow down. The forest was a labyrinth of shadows and obstacles, and every step felt like a gamble. We have to lose him, he thought, his mind racing. We can’t lead him straight to Tarvos.

Jorin’s voice was breathless but determined. “There’s a ravine ahead,” he called. “We can lose him there!”

Alaric nodded, his focus narrowing to the path ahead. The ground sloped downward, and he could hear the rush of water in the distance. But as they neared the ravine, Alaric’s foot caught on a root, and he stumbled, barely managing to stay upright. The Zeton slipped from his grasp, landing in the dirt a few feet away.

“Alaric!” Jorin skidded to a stop, turning back to help.

But the stranger was already closing in, his eyes glinting with triumph. “Foolish move,” he taunted, raising a dagger.

Alaric lunged for the Zeton, his fingers closing around it just as the stranger reached them. The relic pulsed, and Alaric felt the familiar surge of energy, but this time it felt different—more volatile, more wild. The world around him seemed to twist, and he knew he was playing a dangerous game with forces he barely understood.

“Get back!” Alaric shouted, hoping the Zeton wouldn’t tear everything apart.

A wave of energy exploded from the relic, distorting the air and sending the stranger flying backward. The ground beneath Alaric and Jorin cracked, and with a deafening roar, the edge of the ravine gave way, crumbling beneath their feet.

Alaric’s heart lurched as he and Jorin plunged into the darkness, the Zeton’s glow flickering around them. The world spun, and for a terrifying moment, Alaric thought this might be the end.

But the fall was not the end. The river below surged up to meet them, cold and unforgiving, and Alaric was swallowed by the icy current, his grip on the Zeton slipping away as the water pulled him under.

Hold on, he thought, the darkness closing in. Just hold on.