The road north out of Nashkel stretched through low hills brushed with pale morning light.
The town faded behind us quickly. Smoke from cookfires drifted lazily above the rooftops, and the sounds of early trade—voices, hammering, the groan of wagon axles—dissolved into the quiet rhythm of travel.
Grass bent beneath a steady wind moving across the valley.
The party moved with an easy familiarity that had settled over the past several days. Armor shifted softly. Boots pressed steady patterns into the dirt road.
Imoen eventually broke the silence.
"So," she said, glancing back toward Nashkel. "That was a lot less dramatic than I expected."
"What was?" I asked.
"Leaving town," she said. "Thought something big would happen first. Bandits. Explosions. A wizard accidentally turning someone into a sheep."
Xan sighed.
"Disappointingly uneventful."
"That was not disappointment," Imoen said.
"That was observation."
Branwen walked ahead of us, mace resting across her shoulder.
"Peaceful roads should not be lamented," she said. "War finds us soon enough."
Rasaad walked beside me, hands loosely folded in his sleeves.
He seemed content with the quiet.
I, on the other hand, felt something closer to reluctant motion.
For days we had stayed in Nashkel.
Mornings were spent training with Rasaad. Evenings were spent committing crimes against music with a lute Volothamp Geddarm had confidently promised could be mastered through "proper dedication and spirited enthusiasm."
Volothamp had clearly never heard me play.
But staying had been comfortable.
Too comfortable.
Imoen nudged my shoulder.
"You've been quiet."
"I'm thinking."
"That's dangerous."
I ignored her.
Ahead of us the road curved around a shallow ridge where scattered birch trees broke the wind.
"I was just wondering," I said, "how many of the strange things we've run into lately actually turn out to matter."
"That depends," Xan said.
"On what?"
"On how long we survive to regret them."
Encouraging.
Imoen kicked a pebble down the road.
"Still can't believe we're actually chasing the Belt Ogre."
"Technically," Xan said, "we are investigating the possibility of a belt-related ogre."
"Details."
Branwen slowed slightly.
"If travelers are threatened along the road," she said, "the matter deserves attention."
"At the very least," I said, "it answers the question of whether the man we saw earlier was completely insane."
"Statistically unlikely," Xan said.
"Disappointing," Imoen replied.
Rasaad spoke after a moment.
"Sometimes the smallest encounters linger," he said calmly.
"How so?" I asked.
"Because they remind us that our paths cross the lives of others in ways we rarely expect."
His tone had softened.
"Even those we do not help leave impressions behind."
We walked in silence for several steps.
The road climbed slightly, the soil giving way to patches of exposed stone.
Wind rippled through the grass.
"You always talk like that?" I asked him.
"Like what?"
"Like every random encounter in life is secretly a philosophical lesson."
Imoen laughed.
"Careful. You're about to get monk wisdom."
Rasaad did not appear offended.
"Perspective is a discipline."
"Sounds exhausting."
"For some."
We crested the ridge.
The road ahead stretched long and pale through open countryside before dipping toward darker ground in the distance. Reeds swayed along the lowlands, and the air carried the faint smell of standing water.
Rasaad spoke again.
"When I was younger, I believed every journey would have clear purpose."
That caught my attention.
"But purpose is not always visible at the beginning."
He looked toward the distant horizon.
"My brother and I were raised together in the monastery of the Sun Soul."
The statement arrived quietly.
Not an announcement.
Just a memory.
Imoen's joking expression softened.
"You had a brother?"
"Gamaz," Rasaad said.
"We trained together. Studied together. We believed our paths would always remain the same."
"And?"
"And life rarely honors such expectations."
His voice held no bitterness.
"He chose another path."
"What kind?" Imoen asked carefully.
Rasaad's expression remained calm.
"One I still hope to understand."
The road grew quiet again.
Even Xan said nothing.
After a moment I spoke.
"You're pretty composed about that."
"Training teaches many things."
"Such as?"
"That loss does not always arrive as tragedy."
"What else could it be?"
"Distance."
He folded his hands again.
"And distance can be crossed."
I considered that.
The smell of wet earth drifted stronger now.
Marshland was close.
For the first time since leaving Nashkel, the road ahead felt less like wandering.
More like movement.
Progress, however small.
Somewhere ahead—
if the rumor held any truth—
an ogre waited.
Probably wearing more belts than any creature reasonably should.
Imoen nudged me again.
"You're smiling."
"I am not."
"You definitely are."
I sighed.
"Let's just go see the belts."