The camp was quiet.
Too quiet.
No idle chatter. No laughter. Only the occasional rustle of boots on gravel, the low murmur of enchanted barriers shifting with the night wind, and the quiet crackle of guarded fires.
Lucas sat in a canvas tent near the edge of the formation, his back against the cold metal wall of a supply crate. The space was barely wide enough for him to stretch out. One plate of food lay untouched on a crate beside him, its warmth long faded.
He wasn't tied up. No chains. No cuffs. Just two armored guards standing silently outside the entrance, their presence more than enough.
He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the ceiling of the tent.
'So this is what it feels like to be on a leash without feeling the pull.'
The flap shifted.
She entered.
Lyss stepped into the tent with the same calm authority she carried on the battlefield. Her armor had been changed for a dark traveling cloak lined with silver thread, her hair braided back loosely.
Lucas didn't move.
She looked at him for a few seconds before finally sitting on the crate across from him. No words. No preamble.
Just silence.
And then, softly:
"…What's your name?"
Lucas blinked.
Of all the things she could've said, that one caught him off guard.
He met her gaze, then shrugged slightly. "Lucas."
She gave a small nod, almost to herself.
"I'm—"
"Lyss," he interrupted. "Everyone knows who you are."
She tilted her head.
A faint flicker of something passed through her expression—amusement? Annoyance?
But she let it go.
"Fair enough," she said. "Lucas it is."
Another pause.
The tent held the tension like smoke.
Then her voice sharpened, just a little:
"Why were you with them?"
Her tone was calm, but there was weight behind every syllable.
Lucas didn't hesitate.
"I needed money."
Simple. Honest. Blunt.
Lyss didn't flinch, but her eyes narrowed just slightly.
"That's it?"
He gave a small nod. "Saw the notice on the board. No combat, decent pay. I wasn't hired to ask questions."
Lyss leaned back slightly, resting her hands on her knees.
"And when you realized what you were helping transport?"
Lucas didn't answer right away.
He looked down at his hands for a moment. Then back at her.
His voice was steady. Cold.
"What did you expect me to do? Die trying to save someone I didn't even know existed until a few hours ago?"
Her jaw tightened.
"I expected you to do something," she said. "Not just look the other way like it didn't matter."
He scoffed quietly. "It didn't matter to me."
Silence filled the tent again, heavier than before.
Lyss studied him.
"Do you know what would've happened to her?" she asked, quieter now. "Do you even care?"
Lucas met her gaze without blinking.
"No," he said flatly. "I don't. Not because I'm cruel. Because I can't afford to. I'm not like you."
Lyss stared at him for a long moment.
Then slowly stood.
"I didn't come here to change your mind," she said. "I came to see what kind of person you really are."
She took a step toward the flap.
Lucas spoke again, not quite loud, but clear:
"You think I had a choice. I didn't. That world—the one where people like me get to be heroes? It doesn't exist."
Lyss paused at the tent's edge.
Without turning, she said softly:
"Maybe not. But even in this world, you get to decide whether you're just another piece of it."
Then she stepped outside.
Lucas let out a slow breath and leaned back against the crate.
He didn't regret his words.
But they didn't feel like armor, either.
The morning came cold and quiet.
Mist clung to the edges of the trees surrounding the camp, and frost kissed the top edges of the tents. The fire pits smoldered with the last embers of night.
Lucas was still in the same position when the guards returned.
One of them stepped inside. "You're moving. Now."
Lucas pushed himself to his feet, eyes narrow. "Where?"
"She said you're going with her."
He blinked. "The hell I am."
He made it two steps toward the flap before the second guard entered and blocked his path.
"I didn't agree to this," Lucas said, standing straighter. "I'm not one of her soldiers."
The guard didn't move. "Not asking for your agreement."
Lucas clenched his jaw. "I'm not a prisoner."
"No," came a voice from behind them. "You're something worse."
Lyss stepped into view, arms folded over her chest, flanked by another pair of guards further back.
"You're a complication," she continued, tone even. "You stood by while an innocent was chained and sold. That makes you involved—like it or not."
"I didn't touch her," Lucas snapped. "Didn't lay a hand on her."
"But you knew," she said, eyes narrowing. "And you did nothing."
His fists tightened. "I already told you—"
"I know what you told me," Lyss interrupted, stepping closer. "And I'm telling you that I'm not letting someone like you vanish into the next tavern and pretend none of this happened."
She turned to the guards. "He comes with us. If he resists, don't hurt him—just make sure he understands."
Lucas took a step back.
"I'm not going."
"You are," she said. "I'm not giving you a choice."
The guard behind him moved, hand gripping his arm—not painfully, just firmly.
Lucas stared at Lyss for a long, silent second.
Then, low and bitter:
"This is bullshit."
Lyss met his eyes.
"No," she said. "This is consequence."
Then she turned and walked away.
Lucas didn't resist after that.
Because deep down, he knew—resisting wouldn't change a damn thing.
The convoy advanced in solemn silence, wheels creaking against worn stone paths as the fog thickened with every passing hour. The sun barely pierced the clouded sky, and a damp chill clung to the air like a second skin.
Lucas sat alone in the back of a supply carriage, arms resting over his knees, jaw clenched.
He hated the stillness.
He hated the road.
But most of all, he hated being here.
His fists tightened as his gaze flicked forward.
There she was.
The elf.
Riding in a smaller cart near the center of the formation, her form wrapped in a soft grey cloak, surrounded by attendants who offered her water, bandages, and comfort like she was some rescued noble.
She looked better now. Healthier.
Alive.
Lucas felt something sour rise in his throat.
Not guilt.
Bitterness.
Resentment.
He'd said nothing. Done nothing. And now he was being dragged like some criminal while she sat safe and warm because someone else made the heroic choice.
The same someone who now controlled where he went, what he did, and how long he'd be treated like a problem.
The cart slowed as the convoy passed through a narrow, rocky pass.
The elf turned slightly in her seat, her eyes landing on him.
Lucas met her gaze. Cold. Sharp. Angry.
Then, without thinking, he muttered under his breath—low, but loud enough to carry across the short distance between them:
"This is your fucking fault."
Her expression didn't change. No flinch. No reply.
She just stared.
Then looked away.
Lucas leaned back in the cart, the wood creaking behind him as he exhaled sharply.
'I should've walked away when I had the chance.'
He closed his eyes.
But the weight didn't lift.
They made camp just before dusk.
The road vanished behind them into rolling mist and dead hills. The guards set up formation quickly—tents raised, fires lit, enchantments spread out in rings to keep beasts and bandits away.
Lucas sat alone near the edge of camp, a small fire burning in front of him. Not that he was welcome near the others. He hadn't been given a tent. Just a bedroll and a spot far enough from the main group to remind him exactly what he was.
He chewed slowly through a half-burned piece of meat someone had tossed his way. It tasted like ash and regret.
In the distance, he saw Lyss standing beside the elf, who now moved on her own, wrapped in a clean cloak, her skin no longer pale and bruised. The two spoke in hushed tones. Occasionally, Lyss would glance in his direction—but never long enough to read.
Lucas looked away.
He'd never felt this exposed. Not even in The Crucible's black desert. At least out there, the danger made sense.
Here?
Here, he was the villain in everyone's eyes.
'I didn't hurt her. I didn't chain her. I didn't lay a fucking hand on her.'
But it didn't matter.
Inaction was enough.
'I'm being punished for something I didn't do. Again.'
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, firelight dancing in his dark eyes.
'Next time, maybe I will do something. At least then the blame will be earned.'
He let the thought sit, cold and bitter in his chest.
Then stared into the flames until they blurred into nothing.
The fire had long since died.
Lucas didn't sleep.
He lay on the cold ground, eyes open, listening to the night sounds—crackling embers, distant hooves, the rustling of cloaks in the wind. The guards rotated shifts without speaking to him, treating him like something between a stray and a threat.
When morning came, the mist was heavier.
Dew clung to his hair and clothes as he stood and stretched, his muscles stiff from the damp. A soft whistle signaled the order to break camp. Carriages rumbled into motion again. The path ahead curled between sharp hills and tall, dark stones—natural pillars formed long before humans ever walked The Crucible.
Lucas climbed into the same cart as before.
No one spoke to him.
He didn't speak, either.
He just sat there, watching the road unfold ahead, mile by mile, fog wrapping around the world like a noose.
Every bump in the road reminded him that he wasn't going where he wanted.
He was being pulled along by someone else's choice.
'I said it wasn't my problem. Now I am the problem.'
He looked out through the side of the cart, past the escorting guards, past the distant trees.
The road rose higher now, cutting toward the spine of the mountains in the distance. And beyond them…
The Stronghold.
He didn't know what waited for him there.
Judgment? Forgiveness? Another prison without bars?
Didn't matter.
He wasn't walking away from this.
Not anymore.
'So this is what it feels like to be chained without chains.'