Chapter 12: Cobblestone

It'd take them around a day to reach Runar's big stone wall that separated the continent from the outskirts. The sun rose, and the wind blew just fine. As they approached it, there was a whole camp of soldiers standing guard.

Arwyn clutched the Delacroix Diary, its leather warm against his palms. His scar tingled, 5,900 poules buzzing steady in his veins. His Passion Energy was yet to be fully recovered. "Can't we use the diary to check what the old Dream Sketchers did here?" he asked, thumbing the pages. Blank. Useless unless Nathaniel played narrator.

Nathaniel leaned against a pine tree, its trunk thicker than any Earth-grown giant, smirking like he was sizing up an old foe. "Your family? Shit, kid, they transmigrated to Earth over two thousand years ago—back when I was still kicking around this dump."

"What do you mean, transmigrated?" Arwyn's hazel eyes narrowed, the diary trembling faintly in his grip.

Nathaniel raised a hand, pointer finger up, the rest clenched. "Later." He nodded toward the wall. "For now, we've got that to crack. Runar's a beast. Those guards down there? Seasoned like steak. Might have magic tricks up their sleeves that'll whoop us if we're not sharp."

Arwyn squinted. The camp stirred, with smoke curling from a fire, a dozen soldiers in patchwork armor glinting with inked designs. Serpent-hilted swords, shields etched with glowing vines. One paced with a spear that hummed, its tip flickering like a sketch gone glitchy. "Dream-forged gear," Nathaniel muttered, voice low. "They've got Sketchers—or scavenged their scraps."

Finally, a soldier noticed the two standing out in the open. His shout cut the air. "Halt! State your mark!" He pointed, armor clanking as the camp snapped alert.

Nathaniel cursed under his breath. "Shit. Arwyn, stay back." He cleared his throat. "So uhh, we came to see a friend that lives here in this place."

Meanwhile, Arwyn pinched the bridge of his own nose. 'Fucking hell… This man doesn't know how to talk shit.'

"Friend, huh?" The guard's voice was gravel, his spear tilting forward. "Then we need confirmation! Hand over your IDs, and we'll see about letting you pass."

Nathaniel huffed, disbelief dripping from every syllable. "Since when did Runar need IDs to pass?!"

The soldier stiffened, gripping his spear tighter. "Since the wars of the fourteen continents, over two thousand years ago! Have you lived under a rock?" His tone sharpened, firm as the stone behind him. "Now, I must ask for your IDs, travelers."

Arwyn snorted, stepping up beside Nathaniel. "Two thousand years? Buddy, he's been gone longer than your wall's been standing. Cut us some slack."

The soldier's eyes flicked to Arwyn, sizing him up. Scar, sketchbook, the faint yellow hum in his veins. "And you, kid? You reek of ink. What's your story?"

"Tourist," Arwyn deadpanned, holding up the diary like a prop. "Heard Runar's got great views. Crimson towers, markets, the works. Thought we'd pop in, grab a souvenir."

Nathaniel shot him a sidelong glance, lips twitching. "Yeah, what he said. We're harmless. Just two guys looking for… what's his name again, kid?"

"Uh, Greg," Arwyn said, picking the dumbest name he could muster. "Big guy, likes ale, probably owes you lot some money."

The soldier didn't blink. "Greg, huh? No Gregs on the ledger. And you—" he jabbed his spear toward Nathaniel. "—you talk like you've been here before. Before the wall?"

Nathaniel shrugged, leaning harder against the pine. "Maybe I have. Place changes, though. Used to be open fields, chaos, good times. Now it's all runes and paperwork. What's next, toll booths?"

A second soldier, a wiry woman with a vine-etched shield, stepped forward with a smirk. "Funny man. Fields are gone 'cause of filth like you. Wall keeps the mess out. So, IDs now or we drag you to the pit."

Arwyn raised a brow. "Well, the pit sounds cozy, but we're on a schedule. Look, we don't have your fancy tattoos or whatever 'mark' you're after. How about a trade? Info for entry?"

The first soldier scowled. "Info? What could you know that's worth a damn?"

Nathaniel straightened, grin fading to something sharper. "How about some information about invisibility magic? I got a grimoire packed in my bag, written by my pal over here. And that wall? My pal's bloodline built it. Show some respect for the Delacroix."

The woman laughed, short and harsh. "Delacroix, huh? Heard that name in legends. Traitors, deserters, outcasts. They fled when the fighting got thick. You expect us to roll out the carpet for that shit?"

"Fled?" Arwyn snapped, scar flaring hotter. "My family didn't flee. They survived. And I'm here now, so maybe I'm fixing their mess. Let us in, and you might not have to deal with whatever's sniffing around out here."

The lead soldier's spear hummed louder, runes on his armor flickering. "Smell that ink on you, kid. You're no tourist."

"Trouble's already here," Nathaniel cut in, nodding past the wall. "Runar's towers are leaking Passion Energy. I can feel it from here. You think that wall's holding? Something's awake outside, and we're the ones who can handle it. Lock us out, and the only thing I can do is wish y'all good luck when it spills over."

The woman hesitated, glancing at her captain. "He's… not wrong. Patrols reported glitches near the spires. Half-sketched beasts, shadows and entities moving fast. Could be Erasures."

The captain's jaw tightened, spear still raised. "And so, it could be you stirring it up. No mark, no entry. Rules are rules, rogues."

Arwyn smirked, flipping open his sketchbook—not to draw, just to flash the pages. "Rules? I've got a diary that says my family's been breaking those for generations. Let us through, and I'll sketch you a nice spear-sharpener. Deal?"

The woman snorted. "Tempting, but we don't trade with strays."

Nathaniel crossed his arms, Ring of Chronos glinting faintly. "Then how about this: I've walked Runar when it was just dust and dreams. I know where the old gates, the old pirate treasure lie. The ones your maps forgot. Let us in, or I whisper their spots to every scavenger out here. Your Great Wall of China won't mean shit then."

The captain's eyes narrowed, but a flicker of doubt crossed his face. "You're bluffing."

"Oh really? Then try me," Nathaniel said, voice flat. "Two thousand years is a long time to forget secrets, soldiers."

Silence hung, thick as the smoke curling from the camp. The woman shifted, muttering to the captain, "If they're Delacroix, they might know something. Pit's full anyway. Let 'em in, tag 'em as risks. We'll watch them as they go."

The other soldier was against her claim. "Boss, you know what happens when we have 'em runnin' the lot. We get fired, or worse. They'll chop our heads off."

The captain glared, then lowered his spear an inch. He glanced at the woman soldier, then the denying one. Considering the options, it was a harder decision, but the bluff was too good to be one. Though at the same time, letting them in might cause a whole scene of chaos and then— 

With a deep sigh to at least try and erase the overthinking in his mind, the captain made the decision.

"Fine. Cross, but you're marked now. One slip, and you're ash. Now move."

Arwyn exhaled, tucking the diary away. "Pleasure doing business." He stepped past, Nathaniel falling in beside him, smirking again.

"Told you I can talk shit," Nathaniel murmured.

"Barely," Arwyn shot back, but his lips twitched.

They crossed the wall, Runar sprawling below—jagged towers of stone and concrete, streets alive with figures in medieval garb. Men in tunics and braies, some layered with doublets or cloaks, hose tucked into leather turnshoes. Women in kirtles, wimples or barbettes framing their faces, fillets adding flair. Arwyn's black faux leather jacket, denim pants, and sneakers stood out like a glitch. Nathaniel ditched the tire from his head, spiky blue hair free under a puffer jacket and khakis.

Eyes followed them. Shocked, confused, amazed. They were celebrities in a crowd of history.

Arwyn's scar pulsed, the diary jolting in his pack. He pulled it free—new ink bled across a page:

"Generation 120: Arwyn Delacroix. The Wall bends when the Quill stirs."

His breath caught. Something watched from Runar's heart, and they'd talked their way into its jaws. Nathaniel stared at the city, and muttered.

"Everything's different."