Chapter 34: New Men

…

…

"Arwyn! Arwyn!" A faint, muffled voice that Arwyn could barely hear echoed in his ears as he slept. 

It'd been such a long time since he'd had such a great sleep. He envisioned a woman—a smile that brightened day, eyes gleaming like stars in the night sky, and her hand that Arwyn held so gently, like Arlene's. Arwyn had that feeling, as if he wanted to stay unconscious, covered in such a soft fabric blanket and his head rested on a smooth cushion forever—

Pak!

"Get your shit up, kid. I've been calling you ten times." That voice turned out to be Nathaniel's. His eyes jolted open, and he was back in this unforgivable world he'd transmigrated into. Though it didn't matter, since his—no, their journey had a purpose. Arwyn remembered something as his eyes comprehended the room they'd checked in hours ago.

The Phoenix Quill. There was no time for games anymore. Cedric was continuing his walk, reaching that precious artifact before them. Meanwhile he was there, lying on this velvety bed that he needed to get up off, as well as getting out of this whole damn continent that'd treat him like an outcast.

"Shit…" Arwyn's voice was hoarse, possibly from the unbearable work he'd exerted before he slept. Fighting the urge to sleep more and enjoy the rest, he got up and stood out. His legs buckled slightly, but he stayed steady.

Nathaniel chuckled in approval. "That was some nice work earlier, kid." He tossed Arwyn new clothes that citizens of Runar wouldn't really take interest in, as well as one of the Dreamer Rings—specifically the Ring of Chronos. "I forgot to give this to you days ago, and for that, I apologize."

Arwyn couldn't believe what he just heard. Him? Nathaniel? Apologizing? Impossible!

Though Arwyn's face stayed stoic, hiding his thoughts of disbelief. "No, it's alright. I like a bit of a challenge anyway."

Nathaniel snorted, shaking his head. "Anyway, wear that ring along with those clothes. That ring will reduce your presence of Passion Energy by just a bit. You'll still have to train to conceal that aura of yours."

"Got it." Arwyn slipped the Ring of Chronos onto his finger, its gold band cool against his skin. A faint shiver ran through him, like a breeze he couldn't see, dulling the hum of Passion Energy that had buzzed in his veins since the feather scar woke up. 

He tugged on the clothes Nathaniel had tossed him: a drab gray tunic, patched trousers, and a hooded cloak stiff with dust. Nothing flashy, nothing Delacroix. He was now just another faceless drifter in Runar's sprawling West Coast.

Nathaniel adjusted his own disguise, a ragged brown coat and a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his blue hair. He slung a sack over his shoulder, stuffed with junk to sell the look of a wandering trader. 

"Four days," he said, voice low as he scanned the inn room's cracked walls. "That's how long we've got to cross the West Coast and ditch this continent. Cedric's not waiting around, and neither should we."

Arwyn nodded, shoving his sketchbook into a leather satchel. The Phoenix Quill burned in his mind, a lifeline to Arlene's voice, her laugh. He couldn't let Cedric snatch it first. "Let's move," he said, still hoarse but now firm, shaking off the last threads of sleep.

They stepped out into the dawn, the inn's wooden door creaking shut behind them. The West Coast of Runar stretched ahead, a beast of a region: jagged cliffs loomed over churning seas to their left, while sprawling towns and dusty roads snaked through the right. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the air carried salt and sweat. Citizens bustled, their faces hard and weary, barely glancing at two more travelers in the crowd. The disguises worked… for now.

Day one blurred into a slog. They stuck to backroads, skirting the main ports where guards patrolled with spears and suspicious eyes. Arwyn kept his hood low, the Ring of Chronos muting his aura, but his hands itched for his pencil every time a shadow moved too fast. Nathaniel led, his strides steady, muttering about shortcuts through fisherman villages and abandoned lumber trails. 

By nightfall, they camped under a sagging pine, the sea's roar drowning out the crickets. Arwyn sketched a small fire pit, slamming the page to spark it alive. The flames crackled low, just enough to warm their hands without drawing notice.

"Save your energy," Nathaniel warned, chewing on a strip of dried fish. "We've got three more days, and the West Coast doesn't play nice."

Arwyn grunted, rubbing his temple where a faint ache lingered. "Yeah. Learned that lesson."

Day two brought trouble. They'd reached a trading hub, a chaotic sprawl of tents and shouting merchants. The air stank of fish oil and spilled ale. Nathaniel bartered some scrap from his sack, keeping their cover, while Arwyn lingered near a cart, hood pulled tight. 

That's when he saw them: three guards in the same Dream-forged armor, shoving through the crowd, their gazes sharp. One pointed at a man sketching a crude coin on a crate, and before Arwyn could blink, they'd tackled him, shouting about "unlicensed sketching." His sketchbook hit the dirt, pages fluttering.

Arwyn's stomach twisted. "Is that a Sketcher?!," he whispered, edging closer to Nathaniel.

"Shush. Keep walking," Nathaniel hissed, tugging his sleeve. "Ring or not, you're still a Delacroix. Move. That man isn't a Sketcher. I know one when I feel one."

They slipped out, but the guards' shouts echoed behind them, a reminder of the net tightening around Runar. That night, they slept in a ditch, no fire, just the cold bite of the wind off the cliffs.

Day three tested them harder. A storm rolled in, gray clouds choking the sky, rain pelting the road into mud. They trudged through it, cloaks soaked and heavy, boots squelching with every step. Nathaniel's hat drooped, water dripping off the brim, but he kept them on course, weaving past flooded gullies and fallen trees. Arwyn's legs burned, the feather scar throbbing faintly, but he pushed on. The West Coast's edge felt closer, a promise beyond the rain.

Then it happened. Late afternoon, the storm easing to a drizzle, they hit a narrow pass between cliffs. Three figures blocked the path: rough men in patched leather, clubs in hand, grins wide and crooked. "Toll," one growled, stepping forward. "Pay up or bleed."

Nathaniel sighed, dropping his sack. "Kid, your call. Small and smart."

Arwyn's pulse spiked, hands diving for his sketchbook. He flipped it open, pencil scratching fast under the drizzle. Size. Strength. Value. He drew a coiled rope, simple but thick, then that Passion Compression rune, and slammed the page. A wet snap sounded as the rope burst into being, whipping out from his hand. It lashed around the leader's legs, yanking him off his feet. He hit the mud with a splat, club bouncing away.

The second thug charged, swinging his club at Arwyn's head. Arwyn ducked, the wood whistling past his ear, and sketched again: a metal plate, palm-sized. He slammed it, and the plate popped up, catching the club mid-swing with a dull clang. 

The thug stumbled, off-balance, and Nathaniel stepped in, slamming his boot into the man's knee. A crack rang out, and he crumpled, howling.

The third bolted, but Arwyn wasn't done. He scribbled a slick patch under the man's boots and slammed the page. The ground gleamed wetter, and the thug slipped, skidding face-first into a rock with a meaty thud. 

He didn't get up.

Nathaniel smirked, kicking mud off his boot. "Not bad."

Arwyn panted, the ache behind his eyes flaring. "Yeah, well, it worked." He tucked the sketchbook away, the Ring of Chronos humming faintly with muffled mark as they pressed on.

Day four dawned clear, the West Coast's end in sight. The cliffs parted, revealing a wide stone bridge arching over a churning river, the exit from Runar. Beyond it lay the unknown, a new continent, a detour to loop back toward Sketcher's Rest and the Quill. Arwyn's chest tightened with something like hope, his mother's face flickering in his mind.

They'd made it through towns, storms, and ambushes, their disguises holding just enough. The bridge stretched ahead, its stones worn smooth by centuries of feet. Nathaniel adjusted his hat, voice low. "Once we cross, we're out. Cedric's reach thins past here, but we're not safe yet."

Arwyn nodded, stepping onto the bridge. The river roared below, white foam crashing against jagged rocks. Halfway across, a figure emerged from the far side, blocking their path. A woman, cloaked in dark green, her face shadowed under a hood. 

She stood still, one hand resting on a whipsword at her hip, and beside that whipsword was a dagger Arwyn didn't notice, but should've been familiar if he did see it. Her other hand raised in a halting gesture.

"Stop," she said, voice sharp but steady. "You're not leaving Runar that easy."

Arwyn froze, hand brushing his sketchbook. Nathaniel tensed beside him, fingers twitching toward his coat. "Who are you?" Arwyn asked, squinting through the morning glare.

She stepped closer, boots clicking on the stone. "Someone who's been watching you stumble through the West Coast for days." Her tone carried a bite, but her stance wasn't hostile, not yet. "I know what you're after. The Quill, right?"

Arwyn's gut clenched. How did she know? He glanced at Nathaniel, whose eyes narrowed but gave nothing away. "What's it to you?" Arwyn shot back, voice rough.

"I'm done with Runar," she said, lowering her hand from the blade. "Bounty hunting's dried up. They stripped my license, kicked me out of every guild from here to the North Coast. I've got no place left here." She paused, tilting her head so the hood slipped slightly, revealing a glint of dark eyes. "But you two? You're going somewhere. I want in."

Nathaniel chuckled, low and dry. "And why should we trust a stranger with a whipsword and a sob story?"

She smirked, a quick flash of teeth. "Because I've tracked you through four days of chaos without turning you in. That's worth something."

Arwyn studied her, the feather scar tingling faintly. Something about her felt off, familiar in a way he couldn't place. A disguise, maybe, like theirs. "What's your name?" he pressed, stepping forward.

She hesitated, then pulled her hood back just enough to show a sharp jawline and her blonde hair. 

"Santina Carreon. Call me… a friend, for now." Her voice softened, but her gaze locked onto his, and with a smirk. "Take me with you, and I'll prove I'm more than dead weight."

Their eyes widened for a moment, but Arwyn replied first. "But you just said that you had things to do—"

"And I just told you that I can't live here anymore. Stripped out of every street." With a deep sigh, she put on a smile of the persuasive and innocent type of vibe. "Tag me in your journey, Arwyn. Please."

Nathaniel turned his gaze to him. "Hey man, it's your choice."

Arwyn hesitated now. Should he trust her? Should he trust a bounty hunter that'd been living in a continent full of discrimination for a Delacroix like him?

Though at the same time, she didn't do anything wrong to them from their travels in this godforsaken place. He couldn't think of a thing that she did that he could label as 'betrayal' or 'treachery'. She only helped them. 

...

...

...

So, finally, he spoke.

"Fine. Come."