The road back to Nashkel felt longer than the one out.
No one said as much, but the pace told its own story. Our steps had slowed—not from hesitation, but from the quiet accounting that follows a fight when the body begins remembering what it endured.
The forest thinned gradually behind us. The deeper shade of Dryad's Falls gave way to the familiar slopes overlooking Nashkel's valley, where smoke from cooking fires drifted lazily upward into a sky that seemed almost too calm for the things that had unfolded beyond the trees.
Noober walked ahead of us for a time, the small gray cat cradled carefully in his arms.
Pixie had not resisted when he lifted her. The animal had merely blinked once and settled into his grip, as though the journey home had been the only thing she had been waiting for.
He glanced back once as the town came into view.
"I'll take her from here," he said.
Imoen smiled faintly.
"Drienne's gonna be happy to see her."
"She will," Noober agreed.
His tone carried something steadier than usual. Not the wandering curiosity he often wore like a second coat. Something closer to responsibility.
"I'll make sure Pixie gets back to her," he continued. "And I'll speak with Nalin as well. He should know what happened out there."
Rasaad inclined his head.
"The temple will want clarity."
Noober nodded once.
Then he looked at me.
"You should rest."
There was no argument in his voice—only simple observation.
He wasn't wrong.
The wound Branwen had sealed still burned faintly along my ribs, not sharp enough to stop movement but present enough to remind me that Brage's blade had come dangerously close to finishing the story for me.
I nodded.
"We'll see you later."
Noober turned toward the town road without another word, Pixie tucked securely against his chest.
The rest of us watched him go for a moment before continuing forward.
Nashkel greeted us with the same uneasy rhythm it had carried since we first arrived—voices kept low, people watching strangers a little too closely, the sense of a place that had not yet decided whether the danger had truly passed.
No one stopped us.
Which suited me fine.
My thoughts had turned inward again.
The fight with Brage replayed itself in fragments.
Not the beginning.
The end.
His blade slipping past mine.
The heat of it.
The way the world had begun collapsing inward as the ground rushed up to meet me.
I had nearly died.
That part was simple enough.
What lingered was the certainty that had come with it.
When my vision narrowed and sound began fading, something inside me had reacted—not like a player watching a character fall, but like a man standing on the edge of a cliff with nothing beneath him.
There had been no sense of reset.
No quiet promise of waking somewhere else.
Only the sharp, undeniable conviction that if consciousness slipped away completely…
…it would not return.
Not here.
Not anywhere.
Dying in this world would mean dying.
Full stop.
The thought settled heavily as we reached the edge of town.
Rasaad must have noticed something in my expression.
"Your mind is far away," he said quietly.
"Just thinking."
"That can be dangerous," Xan muttered.
Imoen snorted.
"Understatement."
We had just reached the cluster of buildings near the Nashkel Inn when a voice drifted lazily across the street.
"Ah."
We turned.
The Great Gazib leaned comfortably against the sun-warmed wall of a nearby building, arms folded loosely as though he had been enjoying the weather rather than waiting for our arrival.
Which, judging by the look on his face, he had absolutely been doing.
"Well," Gazib said, pushing himself upright. "You look like people who've been somewhere interesting."
Imoen tilted her head.
"You waiting for us?"
"Waiting?" Gazib placed a hand against his chest in theatrical offense. "Perish the thought."
Then he extended his other hand toward us.
Palm up.
Expectation unmistakable.
Xan stared at it.
"…Of course."
Imoen rolled her eyes, dug a coin from her pouch, and flicked it into his hand.
Gazib caught it smoothly.
"Information," he said pleasantly, "should always be properly appreciated."
He slipped the coin away and nodded once.
"In that spirit—your dwarf friend has returned."
My attention sharpened immediately.
"Zeke," Gazib said.
"He arrived earlier today," Gazib continued. "But this time he brought company."
That changed the atmosphere immediately.
Rasaad's hands folded slowly together.
"Go on."
Gazib inclined his head slightly.
"I suspect the three with him were mercenaries."
Imoen folded her arms.
"What makes you think that?"
"The way they carried themselves," Gazib replied.
He tapped a finger thoughtfully against his sleeve.
"One was another dwarf. Looked like he'd spent more time solving problems with steel than with words. Heavy shoulders. Thick beard. The sort who keeps a hand close to his weapon even when he's pretending to relax."
Branwen's expression hardened slightly.
"A sellsword."
"Quite possibly," Gazib said.
He continued.
"There was also a woman. Tall. Dark hair. Eyes that moved constantly, like she expected trouble to arrive from any direction at once."
Xan exhaled softly.
"That narrows it down to every suspicious person I have ever met."
Gazib ignored him.
"She wore armor beneath a traveling cloak," he said. "And she carried herself like someone used to being obeyed."
Rasaad listened quietly.
Gazib tilted his head slightly.
"The last one concerned me the most."
That pause drew everyone's attention.
"Thin fellow. Quiet. Didn't speak unless Zeke addressed him directly."
Gazib's eyes narrowed faintly.
"But he watched everything."
Imoen frowned.
"What kind of everything?"
"The sort that tells you where people keep their coin purses," Gazib said mildly. "Or which direction they might run if frightened."
Xan sighed.
"A thief."
"A careful one," Gazib replied.
He gestured lightly toward the northern road.
"Together they looked less like travelers and more like a hunting party."
A quiet tension settled over the group.
"They had the look of men being paid not to lose a trail," Gazib added.
His gaze flicked briefly toward me.
"Enough that I began to suspect whoever they were looking for might have quite a price attached to them."
I crossed my arms.
"And what did you tell them?"
Gazib smiled faintly.
"I did what any responsible citizen would do."
"Misdirect them," Imoen said.
"Exactly."
He gestured north.
"I informed them that a group fitting your description had been seen traveling toward Beregost."
Rasaad nodded slowly.
"You diverted them."
"Completely."
Gazib seemed rather pleased with himself.
"They left shortly afterward. Very determined people, I must say."
Branwen studied him carefully.
"You assume they will eventually realize the deception."
Gazib shrugged.
"Eventually."
His gaze moved toward the road leading back into town.
"And when they do…"
"…they may return here," Rasaad finished.
"Precisely."
Silence lingered a moment.
Then Imoen exhaled.
"Well."
She glanced toward the Nashkel Inn.
"I vote we deal with murderous dwarves after food."
Branwen shook her head slightly.
"Even mercenaries know better than to begin a fight in the middle of town."
"Not unless they're stupid," Xan added.
Gazib smiled faintly.
"Oh, I assure you—they did not look stupid."
For once, no one disagreed.
But as we turned toward the door of the Nashkel Inn, the thought lingered in the back of my mind.
The world had almost taken me once that day.
And if Gazib was right—
it might soon try again.