Chapter 14: Need A Fire

The forest closed in around them, shadows stretching like grasping fingers as the last rays of sunlight faded from the sky. Alaric’s heart thumped in his chest, his senses straining for any sign of the man in the black cloak. Jorin followed close behind, his staff clutched tightly, his breathing shallow but steady.

They moved in near silence, their footsteps muffled by the carpet of leaves underfoot. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the occasional hoot of an owl echoed through the trees. Every rustle of leaves or crack of a branch made Alaric’s pulse quicken, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that danger was lurking just out of sight.

We can’t keep running forever, Alaric thought, his mind racing. They needed a plan, something that would give them an edge over their pursuer. But in the fading light, with exhaustion weighing heavily on them, he struggled to think clearly.

Jorin stumbled, catching himself on his staff, and Alaric turned to steady him. “Are you alright?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Jorin nodded, though his face was pale. “Just tired,” he admitted. “And cold.”

Alaric’s gaze softened. Jorin was strong, but he was still just a young monk, unaccustomed to the kind of danger they were facing. Alaric couldn’t afford to let him down. “We’ll find a safe place to rest soon,” he promised, though he had no idea if such a place even existed.

They pressed on, weaving through the underbrush, until they reached a small clearing. The moon had risen, casting a silver glow over the landscape, and Alaric’s instincts told him this was as good a spot as any to regroup. He motioned for Jorin to sit, and they both sank to the ground, too exhausted to continue.

“We need a fire,” Jorin said quietly, his voice trembling. “But that would give us away, wouldn’t it?”

Alaric considered their options, his mind torn between the need for warmth and the risk of being discovered. “Yeah,” he said finally, “but we can’t freeze to death either.” He set to work gathering kindling, moving as quietly as possible. Jorin watched him, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope.

Within minutes, they had a small, carefully shielded fire crackling between them, the flames casting flickering shadows on the trees. The warmth seeped into Alaric’s aching limbs, and he sighed, feeling some of the tension leave his body. Jorin held his hands close to the fire, his shivering slowly subsiding.

“Thank you,” Jorin said softly, looking at Alaric with gratitude.

Alaric gave him a small smile. “We’re in this together,” he said, though his mind was still racing with worry. How long until our luck runs out?

But the fire’s warmth and the brief moment of peace were short-lived. A sudden snap of a twig shattered the quiet, and Alaric’s hand went to his dagger in an instant. His eyes narrowed, scanning the darkness beyond the firelight.

“Did you hear that?” Jorin whispered, his voice tight with fear.

Alaric nodded, his body tense. The shadows beyond the clearing seemed to shift, and the air grew heavy with an unspoken threat. He rose to his feet, motioning for Jorin to stay low, and stepped cautiously away from the fire.

The man in the black cloak emerged from the trees, his crossbow aimed directly at Alaric. Moonlight glinted off the weapon’s metal, and the stranger’s eyes glinted with cold amusement. “You’re persistent,” the man drawled, his voice smooth and mocking. “I’ll give you that.”

Alaric’s jaw clenched, his grip on his dagger tightening. “Back off,” he said, his voice steady despite the fear coiling in his gut. “We don’t want any trouble.”

The man’s smile widened. “Funny, coming from the one carrying a relic that could alter the course of time itself,” he said. “Hand over the Zeton, and I’ll let you live. Resist, and I can’t promise the same.”

Jorin’s eyes darted to Alaric, panic clear on his face. Alaric’s mind raced. If I give him the Zeton, there’s no telling what he’ll do with it. But if I refuse...

The man’s crossbow never wavered. “Tick-tock,” he said, his tone mocking. “Your time is running out.”

Alaric took a deep breath, his thoughts churning. Think, Alaric. You’ve gotten out of worse situations. He glanced at the fire, an idea forming in his mind. It was a gamble, but it was the only chance they had.

In one swift motion, Alaric kicked a burning log from the fire, sending a spray of embers flying toward the stranger. The man cursed, flinching back as the embers singed his cloak and face. Alaric didn’t waste a second. He lunged forward, his dagger flashing in the moonlight, aiming for the man’s weapon.

The stranger was quick, sidestepping the attack and swinging his crossbow like a club. The weapon struck Alaric’s side, and pain exploded through his ribs. Alaric stumbled, but he didn’t let go of his dagger. He twisted away from the next blow, narrowly avoiding the man’s strike.

Jorin scrambled to his feet, his staff raised defensively. “Leave him alone!” he shouted, his voice breaking with fear and determination.

The man’s eyes flicked to Jorin, and his smile returned. “Stay out of this, boy,” he sneered. “Or you’ll regret it.”

Alaric’s mind raced. He had to do something before Jorin got hurt. The Zeton pulsed faintly in his pocket, as if reminding him of its presence. Desperate times, he thought, reaching for the relic. The moment his fingers closed around it, he felt the familiar surge of energy, wild and barely contained.

He focused on the stranger, willing the Zeton’s power to bend time, to give them an opening to escape. The world seemed to ripple, the shadows deepening and twisting, and the stranger’s movements slowed, his crossbow frozen mid-swing.

“Now!” Alaric shouted, his voice strained from the effort of holding the power.

Jorin didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Alaric’s arm, and they bolted into the forest, the Zeton’s energy flickering around them. The world snapped back to normal behind them, and the man’s furious shouts echoed through the trees, but they didn’t look back.

Branches whipped at their faces, and the ground blurred beneath their feet as they ran. Alaric’s chest burned, and his limbs ached, but he forced himself to keep moving. The Zeton’s power was fading, and he knew they couldn’t rely on it forever.

They finally stumbled into a dense thicket, collapsing in a heap of tangled limbs and shallow breaths. Alaric pressed a hand to his side, wincing at the pain from the earlier blow, but relief flooded through him. We made it. For now.

Jorin’s face was pale, his eyes wide with shock. “What... what was that?” he gasped, his chest heaving. “How did you...?”

Alaric shook his head, the Zeton’s weight heavy in his pocket. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice ragged. “I just... did what I had to do.”

Jorin stared at him, fear and awe mingling in his gaze. “We can’t keep running like this,” he said, his voice trembling. “We need a plan.”

Alaric’s heart sank. Jorin was right. They couldn’t keep relying on luck and the Zeton’s unpredictable power. The man in the black cloak was still out there, and he wouldn’t stop until he had what he wanted.

We need to get to Tarvos, Alaric thought, determination hardening his resolve. And we need to figure out what the Zeton really is before it’s too late.