About another path

The rocky terrain stretched out before them in jagged ridges and uneven slopes, the sun beating down relentlessly as Darius and Rice trudged through the hills. The occasional crunch of loose stones beneath their boots and the distant call of birds were the only sounds breaking the stillness.

Darius walked ahead, his eyes scanning the ground for any glimmers of bronze veins, while Rice trailed behind, occasionally kicking a loose rock or muttering under his breath. After a while, Darius spoke, his tone calm and measured. "So… about yesterday. That argument with Ryden—it got pretty heated."

Rice shrugged, picking up a stone and chucking it down the hill. It clattered noisily against the rocks below. "Yeah," he said, his voice carrying a forced nonchalance. "Thank god you intervened, or it probably would've been an actual fight. He's lucky I didn't throw hands."

He sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "It's just… that guy, Ryden. I feel like he got way too attached way too quickly, you know?" Rice paused, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't want to sound like a heartless jerk or anything, but if we didn't have any attachments to Lucy, we wouldn't be in this mess. We could've gotten help from Pillaris or maybe even found a way to sack that fat-ass Gastrar without all this hassle. But instead? Now we're stuck."

Darius stopped and turned to look at him, his face calm but thoughtful. Rice continued, gesturing emphatically as he vented. "A week to find bronze. Lucy's being held captive. Ryden's back at the Stonehoof tribe playing hostage negotiator. And worst of all? We might end up handing over our tech to a tribe that probably doesn't deserve it. All because we got attached."

Darius crossed his arms, his gaze steady as he mulled over Rice's words. After a moment, he spoke quietly, his tone deliberate. "It isn't a sin to open your heart to someone, Rice. Maybe in some more pragmatic timeline, we could've swept this whole thing under the rug and moved on. But Ryden feels responsible for Lucy's father's death and the destruction of her tribe. To him, it's not just about duty—it's grief. And I think, even if we disagree with his methods, we should honor his way of grieving."

Rice paused, his brow furrowing as he considered Darius's words. After a moment, he nodded. "I guess you're right, big guy," he said, his voice softer now. "It's just… everything feels different, you know? Ryden's changed. I've changed. Hell, even you've changed."

He picked up another rock and rolled it between his fingers, staring out over the hills. "I kinda thought everywhere was going to be like Pillaris, you know? Good vibes, good food, good people. But now we're dealing with actual, bona fide, heebie-jeebie villains." He threw the rock, his expression darkening. "And I'm scared, Darius. Scared of the thought that…"

Darius glanced at him, his voice low and steady. "That we might have to kill someone in cold blood?"

Rice nodded slowly, then let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah. That."

Darius adjusted the pack slung over his shoulder. "Not that we're going to die, right?"

Rice immediately straightened, "Us? Die? Nah, impossible. We're talking about the Shepherd of Plenty, the First Blacksmith, and the Herald of Beauty here. We're unstoppable, baby! No fatso tribe leader or murder-happy maniac is gonna take us down. Am I right, or am I right, Darius?"

Darius opened his mouth to reply, but the words never left his lips. In an instant, rough hands clamped over his face, muffling his voice, and a glinting knife pressed against the vulnerable skin of his throat. The blade was crude but effective, its jagged edge gleaming faintly in the dim light. A sharp intake of breath escaped him, his muscles tensing as his captors locked him in place.

Rice, just a few steps ahead, froze mid-turn. His habitual grin vanished, replaced by a wide-eyed stare as he processed the scene. From the shadows of the rocks surrounding their trail, three figures had emerged like phantoms, their movements swift and silent. Ash and streaks of paint marked their faces in patterns that seemed ritualistic, blending with the natural contours of their features. Their eyes gleamed with predatory focus, taking in every twitch of their captives.

Two of the ambushers held Darius firmly. One was a burly woman with arms corded in muscle, her grip like iron as she pinned his arms behind his back. Her hair was a tangled mess of braids, adorned with bone trinkets that clicked softly with her movements. The other was a lanky man, his sunken cheeks making his expression all the more menacing as he pressed the knife closer to Darius's throat, the blade nicking the skin just enough to draw a thin bead of blood.

The third figure—a wiry man with sharp, angular features and a cruel smirk—stepped forward, the tip of his own blade aimed unerringly at Rice. His weapon was longer than the others', sword made of a dark metal. The wiry man's voice carried a dangerous edge as he addressed Rice.

"Move a muscle, and your friend's blood waters the dirt."

Rice let out a sigh

"damn, spoke too soon"