The Narrow Road

Chapter 12 - The Narrow Road

Zio woke early that morning. Not as late as the day before.

The air was still cold, but not biting. He tidied the house just enough before heading out. As his hand nearly reached for the dagger in the corner of the room, the smell of warm soup drifted in from outside. Soft, but clear.

“Zio.”

Martha’s voice came from the front of the house, followed by footsteps he had known since childhood.

“I thought you were still asleep,” she said as she stepped inside, carrying a bowl of soup with light steam rising from it.

Zio turned and gave a small smile. His hand dropped from the dagger without him noticing.

“Sit,” Martha said. She patted his shoulder gently, a habit she had never dropped. “Eat.”

Zio obeyed. He sat and took the bowl. The warmth rose to his face, making his breathing feel easier.

“Going to the forest again?” Martha asked. Her tone was casual, as if the answer did not matter much.

“Maybe,” Zio said.

Martha did not wait for more.

She walked to the door and stood there, one hand on the frame, one foot already angled outside.

“Oh,” she said, glancing back inside. “I almost forgot.”

Zio lifted his head from the bowl.

“How about you come east with us,” Martha continued. “To my relative’s place. A small village. Elf territory.”

“There are a few others coming along,” she said. “Delivering goods.” She paused, then added, “It won’t take long.”

Zio gave a small nod. No immediate reaction.

“We’re taking a wagon,” Martha said. “If we leave now, the road will still be cool.”

Zio’s spoon paused. “I don’t have to go, right?”

Martha smiled slightly and did not answer right away. Her fingers tapped the doorframe twice, a habit from when she was thinking.

“What would you even do at home?” she said.

Zio looked down at his bowl. “The forest.”

“The forest can wait,” Martha said lightly. “This won’t take long either.”

Zio blew on the soup once, then took another spoonful. He did not argue. A few seconds later, he nodded.

Martha nodded back, as if that was enough. She stepped outside, leaving the door open.

“I’ll wait at the east gate,” she said from outside.

Zio stood there for a moment after her footsteps faded. The open door let in the morning air, carrying the smell of wet earth and wood.

He finished the soup slowly, then stood. The dagger went straight to his waist. He glanced at the bag in the corner, then left it where it was. A light jacket would do.

The east gate of Greyhollow was already busy when Zio arrived.

A horse-drawn wagon stood by the dirt road. Crates and sacks were stacked tightly at the back, tied with coarse rope. Two brown horses stood calmly, heads lowered.

There were four people besides Martha. An adult elf woman checked the bindings on the sacks while speaking quietly. Nearby, a slim elf man stood with a simple bow slung across his back. Not a weapon of war, but enough to deter trouble.

A middle-aged human man sat by the wagon, inspecting the wheels and reins. Not far from him, a young human helped lift the last crate into place.

Martha stood among them. When she saw Zio, she gave a brief nod, as if confirming one thing only. He was coming.

“Here he is,” Martha said to the elf woman.

The elf turned, looked Zio over for a moment, then smiled lightly. “You’re Zio, right?”

Zio nodded.

“He’s coming along to Elen’shade,” Martha added. “So he doesn’t keep smelling like a workshop.”

“Still young,” the elf man commented as he tied the rope. “But he looks solid.”

Zio answered with a short nod. He stayed near the wagon, watching without getting involved.

Wood knocked against wood as the last crate was set in place. The horses shifted slightly, calmed by the carter’s hand on the reins.

“If everyone’s ready, we move,” the carter said. “The fog hasn’t settled yet.”

Martha climbed onto the wagon first and took a seat near the front. She glanced back and tapped an empty bench.

“Sit here,” she said to Zio.

Zio climbed up without comment. The wood was cold under his palms. The wagon rocked lightly as everyone took their places.

The reins were pulled. The wagon rolled forward, leaving the east gate of Greyhollow behind. The dirt road was still firm from the night cold. The wheels creaked in a steady rhythm.

The village slowly faded from view. Zio glanced back at the shrinking rooftops, then faced forward again. Trees began to close in, morning light breaking through the leaves.

Zio sat at the back, leaning against a crate. The vibration of the wheels traveled into his back. He shifted slightly, then stopped when it felt right. The dagger stayed at his waist, hidden under the jacket. As always.

Up front, the middle-aged carter gave a short whistle. “If the road stays like this,” he said casually, “the heat will take a while.”

Martha sat on the left side of the wagon, facing the elf woman. Their voices stayed low. They talked about the cargo. About who would receive it. A few names were mentioned, then dropped, like a conversation repeated too many times to matter.

The elf archer chose to walk alongside the wagon. His pace matched the wheels. Not tense. Not careless either. On the other side, the young human walked while occasionally glancing at the forest.

“Usually quiet,” he muttered.

“Usually,” the carter replied without looking back.

The village disappeared completely. The ground remained damp, old wheel tracks still visible. Trees on both sides grew closer, trunks tall, leaves blocking the light sooner than the forest paths Zio knew.

Martha looked back. “If you get tired, say it.”

Zio shook his head. “Not yet.”

Nothing else was asked. Martha returned to her conversation, her tone unchanged, as if the answer had been expected.

The wagon moved steadily. Birds called in short bursts from within the forest. The wind carried the smell of wet soil and old leaves.

Zio placed his feet firmly on the wagon floor. His body felt normal. Not heavy. Not restrained. He did not examine it further.

Ahead, the elf archer slowed. He stopped briefly at a bend, looked down the narrowing path, then at the thicker brush on the left.

“What is it?” Martha asked.

“The road narrows,” he said. Nothing more.

The wagon kept moving. Zio’s eyes followed the gaps between the trees. He was not searching for anything. Just an old habit that had not fully left him.

The path became a single line of tracks. Shrubs pressed in from both sides. Dry branches scraped against the wagon with a brittle sound.

The horses slowed. Not from the reins. More from instinct.

Something fell ahead. Heavy. Dragged for a moment, then stopped.

The reins were pulled halfway. The wagon stopped.

“Down,” the carter said.

No one asked questions when something struck the ground two steps in front of the horses. An arrow. The tip still quivered.

The elf archer was already moving to the side of the wagon.

“Bandits.”

Four figures emerged from the brush. They did not run. They did not shout. Their clothes were mismatched, but their spacing was controlled.

One raised his hand. “Easy. We just want the goods.”

No one answered right away.

The young human swallowed. The knife in his hand dipped, then lifted again. The elf woman reached for the nearest sack. Her palm faced down as it touched the rope. A faint glow appeared between her fingers.

Martha stepped down from the wagon. Her boots hit the ground with a short sound. She stood by the wheel, one hand still on the wood.

“We’re just passing through,” she said. “These are deliveries.”

The bandit with his hand raised smiled thinly. “Then leave them.”

Another bandit moved to the right. Slow. Circling. The others spread out, forming a loose half ring.

The elf archer lifted his bow. Not fully drawn.

Zio stepped down from the wagon. The damp ground pressed under his feet. He stood slightly behind Martha, half his body shielded by the wheel.

The air felt hotter in one spot.

The bandit in the center opened his palm. Red-orange fire appeared. Small. Dense. Turning slowly, like a compressed ember.

Zio saw it.

The elf archer fired.

The arrow flew. It struck the left bandit’s shoulder. His body was thrown back into the brush.

Another bandit charged the carter. The young human jumped in to help restrain him.

On the other side, the elf woman released a burst of wind. It knocked one bandit back, but not enough to drop him. He only grinned.

The last bandit, dressed slightly better than the others, rushed toward Martha.

Zio pulled Martha back a step.

He caught the bandit’s weapon arm. The bandit stiffened, surprised by what he felt. Before he could curse, Zio’s punch landed.

The bandit was thrown back farther than expected for a bare strike.

Zio stayed where he was. His hand clenched, then loosened. Heat spread deeper in his chest now. Not on the skin. Inside.

“Zio.”

A fireball shot toward him.

He knew he could not dodge in time. He raised his arm and turned his body as the fire hit.

The impact of flame and Martha’s shout echoed through the forest.

Zio hit the ground, then pushed himself up slowly. His head felt heavy. His chest tightened. His vision blurred.

“Stubborn brat,” the bandit said, fire already forming in his palm again.

Another fireball launched straight at Zio.

He did not fall back. He ran forward, his steps uneven, wrong.

His punch landed squarely on the bandit’s face.

The bandit collapsed. Zio’s knee hit the ground a second later. Pain surged harder. His vision went dark. He opened his mouth, but no air came. His hand pressed to his chest. Then his body gave out.

Martha ran, shouting his name, unheard by him. He lost consciousness.

Zio’s body hit the ground fully. The sound was dull, swallowed by wet earth.

“Zio!”

Martha dropped beside him. Her hands shook as they touched his shoulder, then his chest. His breathing was there. Shallow. Too shallow.

“Wake up,” she said quickly. Her voice broke. “Look at me.”

No response.

The fire bandit was still standing, breathing hard. Flame flared again in his palm. Larger. Rougher. He stepped forward.

“That’s enough,” he muttered. “This kid…”

The sound cut off.

An arrow struck the ground at his feet. Not a miss. A warning.

Footsteps sounded from the trees.

“Lower your hand.”

The voice was calm. Elven. Firm.

Seven elf figures emerged from the left side of the path. Not rushing. Not running. Light armor blended with the forest. Bows raised. Arrows nocked.

A patrol.

The fire bandit cursed. “Damn.”

He tried to raise his hand again.

The second arrow flew. This one struck his upper arm. The flame vanished. He staggered and dropped to one knee, cursing loudly.

“Drop your weapon,” the elf repeated. Same tone.

The other bandits were already retreating. Two vanished into the brush. No pursuit.

“Patrol Sylvaen,” the leader said, scanning the scene. “Who’s injured?”

“This one,” Martha said immediately. Her hand stayed on Zio’s chest. Her eyes were red, but focused. “He was hit by magic.”

The elf knelt. He did not touch Zio. He only looked. Too long for Martha.

“He’s alive,” he said at last. “Move him. Quickly.”

“Where?” the carter asked from behind.

“Greyhollow is too far,” the elf said. “Elen’shade is closer.”

Martha nodded without hesitation. “Take him there.”

The wounded fire bandit tried to move. Another elf stepped on his ankle, pinning him down.

“You’re coming,” he said. “Or you die here.”

The bandit stopped resisting.

Two patrol members lifted Zio into the wagon. Careful, but fast. His body felt heavier than it looked. His head lolled to the side, hair covering his face.

Martha sat beside him. One hand stayed wrapped around his wrist, as if letting go would mean losing him.

The wagon was turned around. The horses snorted, sensing the tension. Without more words, the group moved again. Faster this time.

The forest fell silent behind them. As if nothing had happened.

Greyhollow.

A man passed in front of Trod’s workshop. His steps were calm. He stopped by a wooden house not far away.

The hammer in Trod’s hand froze midair. He turned, studying the man.

The house door stood open.

“Can I help you?”

Trod’s voice came from behind him. Firm. No threat in it.

The man turned. A thin smile crossed his face. Brief. Familiar.

“Thank you,” he said.