Mile and a Half, Give or Take Infinity

They'd left Gloryhollow behind two days ago, and not a single cheese-related disaster had followed them. Bartholomew considered this both a triumph and a deep betrayal. 

The road had turned quiet as they left the valleys. Hills turned into slightly more mountainous terrain, dotted with wind-worn trees and the occasional moss-covered milestone. It was warm, but not hot. The sort of weather that made even Gus feel like humming when one of the breezes passed by just right. 

"I think this is the longest we've gone without being chased, tricked, or nearly exploded," Willow said, skipping a flat stone across a brook. 

"Don't say that out loud," Joren muttered, not looking up from his makeshift map. "That's how things start." 

"But it's true," Willow insisted. "No curses. No haunted inns. Not even a suspiciously intelligent squirrel." 

"Give it time," Bartholomew said, walking backward with arms outstretched like a tightrope walker. "Peace is just chaos taking to nap." 

Gus grunted, chewing what looked like half a dried apple. "You say that like it's a proverb." 

"It is," Bart replied. "From the Gospel of the Crooked Spoon. Chapter four: 'On the Inevitability of Bizarre Interactions.'" 

Willow raised an eyebrow. "Is that the same book where a sentient bowl of oatmeal ascends to the sky?" 

"Wrong chapter," Bart said. "That's eight." 

They kept walking. 

A gentle hill opened up ahead, the road curling around the side. Beyond it, they could see the vague silhouette of a forest far off, mist settled between the trunks like it lived there. Somewhere in that forest, they had to cross one of the longest bridges in this part of the continent. 

They stopped for a short break under a bent pine, where Gus used a stump as a table to pass out bread and pickled eggs. Bartholomew added a wedge of something waxy and suspiciously orange. 

Willow sniffed it and recoiled. "Is this… flavored?" 

"Infused," Bart corrected proudly. "With the essence of rosemary and cacklespell mold." 

Joren stared at him. "That's not a real thing." 

Bartholomew took a bite and gave a thumbs-up with tears in his eyes. "It sure has a bite today." 

They rested a while in the shade, the breeze curling through the grass like it had nowhere else to be. 

Gus lay flat on his back, arms stretched out like a starfish. "If we don't move soon, I might become a permanent part of this hill." 

"That would be tragic," Willow said, peeling moss from a rock. "We'd have to rename you Guslog." 

Joren folded the map with a sigh. "You'd last ten minutes before begging for snacks." 

"Incorrect," Gus said. "I think I could push past 12, easy." 

Bartholomew, who had been fashioning a crown out of twigs and questionable foresight, looked up from his work. "You're all underestimating the survival properties of bark. Very fibrous, very sturdy." 

Willow wrinkled her nose. "You've eaten bark?" 

"I study bark," Bart said, placing the crown on his head with great solemnity. "And occasionally give it a little nibble." 

Gus propped himself up on his elbows. "That explains a lot, actually. Seems very fitting for our resident researcher." 

Bartholomew nodded, taking the compliment as if it were an academic award. "Thank you. I strive for excellence in the field of unconventional edibility." 

Joren glanced back at him. "Pretty sure that just means 'you'll eat anything once.'" 

Bart grinned. "It's called culinary bravery." 

"I can get behind that notion." Gus chimed in. 

Willow gave Gus a sideways glance. "You were also the one who said moss could be a 'snack in moderation.'" 

Gus shrugged. "That was a survival situation." 

"We were five minutes from a bakery," Joren said flatly. 

Bartholomew looked thoughtful. "Still, I admire the initiative. Nature's buffet is often underappreciated." 

Joren gave a slow, skeptical look, but didn't press it further. 

Willow stretched and stood up, brushing off the seat of her trousers. "Alright, enough grazing on the grass, boys. Let's move before Bart starts talking about leaf marinades." 

Bartholomew raised a finger. "Funny you should mention that—" 

"No." Joren said immediately, already hoisting his pack. 

They gathered their things, the soft hush of the breeze threading through the trees ahead like it was beckoning them forward. 

Afternoon – The Forest 

The path narrowed as they moved beneath the birch trees. Sunlight came in patches now, dappled and slow-moving, painting the dirt with the yellow rays. The trunks stood tall and pale, like quiet sentinels watching their passage. 

The air had a hush to it, the kind that made even their footsteps feel too loud. Every rustle of leaves, every snapped twig underfoot sounded sharper, more deliberate. 

Willow brushed her fingers along the edge of a curling leaf. "This place is so dark compared to the outside right now. Those leaves really block out a ton of light." 

Bartholomew, entirely unfazed, held up a stick like a divining rod. "Birch trees are excellent judges of character. If one slaps you in the face, it means you're dishonest. If it gives you a part of it, then you need to write the truth." 

Joren squinted at him. "That's the worst fortune cookie I've ever heard." 

Bartholomew continued, undeterred. "I didn't say it was a fortune, silly, it's fact." 

Gus muttered, "You're just waving a stick around and hoping it looks wise." 

Bart gave the stick a reverent twirl. "Some of the greatest truths in the world started with someone waving a stick around." 

Willow smirked. "And some of the greatest injuries." 

Joren rolled his eyes. "Then you must be a genius for all that stick waving." 

Bart nodded solemnly. "It's a heavy burden." 

They rounded a curve in the path just then, where the trees opened like curtains, revealing a deep ravine veiled in silver mist. Stretched across it, anchored between two moss-darkened cliffs, was the bridge. 

It looked… long. 

Unreasonably long. 

The kind of long that made conversations trail off and footsteps slow down. 

Willow blinked. "So this is the famous bridge, huh?" 

Bartholomew stepped forward, squinting into the mist with the gravity of a scholar at a ruin. 

"That," he began, pointing, "is the Veyrhund Span. Built during the reign of the Nineteenth Supreme Ruler of Varenthal. It was made in request to make travel between the western front to the capital far easier. The support beams are plated with quarried basalt and reinforced with darksteel." 

Bartholomew continued, voice low and reverent. "Real darksteel too, not the watered-down replica alloy you see in souvenir daggers these days. The metal was heated and fused to the stone using a method called skyforging, which, according to old records, was part of one of the islands of Clousand." 

Gus gave him a look. "You're saying an ancient civilization made a metal from the sky?" 

Bart shrugged. "In spirit, yes. Skyforging required natural lightning from what we can tell, but the methods are something lost to time during the change from the second to the third era." 

He stepped a little closer to the edge, letting his eyes roam along the faint silhouette of the bridge as it vanished into the thick mist. 

"They say the Veyrhund Span has no true center," he added quietly. "Because the king of Varenthal at the time had some sort of issue with central points." 

Willow tilted her head. "Like… emotionally?" 

Bartholomew nodded solemnly. "According to the logs of his royal architect, he believed that having a 'center' made structures vulnerable. To collapse, to sabotage, to symmetry. He considered symmetry a form of arrogance." 

Gus blinked. "I thought he was the one who built that palace with seven identical towers?" 

Bart held up a finger. "Ah, but he claimed they were metaphorically different. Each tower was assigned a unique characteristic to represent certain virtues." 

The moment they stepped fully onto the bridge, the air changed, but our friends didn't seem to notice. 

The mist that had once curled at their ankles now pressed in from all sides, rising in a slow swirl as if stirred by their movement. It was the kind of haze that didn't just obscure distance, but stopped you from seeing more than 20 feet in front of you. 

Willow kept walking, arms folded behind her head. "So how long did you say this bridge was, again?" 

"Technically?" Bartholomew replied. "Around a mile and a half. Two, if you count the ceremonial extension on the other end." 

Willow raised an eyebrow. "What kind of bridge has a ceremonial extension?" 

"The kind built by a king who believed every journey needed a dramatic preamble," Bart said. "As time began to take its toll, the pass started to become larger. They decided to add a small section that would be able to maintain the integrity for another 200 years or so..." 

Willow exhaled through her nose. "Spiritually misaligned. Right." 

They kept walking. 

The mist thickened. Their footsteps sounded a little softer now, like the bridge itself had begun to muffle them. 

A few minutes later, Gus squinted ahead. "Damn, how much did they add? This feels like we have been walking for 2 hours now." 

Willow glanced behind them. The entrance was long gone, swallowed by the mist. "Feels longer." 

Joren slowed his pace, eyes narrowing at the railing. "Has anyone noticed we've passed that same cracked lantern post three times?" 

Willow frowned. "I thought they just used the same design." 

Joren didn't answer. He reached into his pack, pulled out a bit of charcoal, and knelt beside the stone. 

With a slow, deliberate stroke, he drew an "X" on the side of the railing. 

"Just in case." he said. "That way, we will know for sure if it is the same one or not." 

They kept moving. 

No one spoke for a while. The sound of their steps faded further beneath the soft hush of the mist, like the bridge was swallowing everything they gave it. Even the occasional breath or shifting pack strap seemed quieter than it should be. 

Then Willow stopped. 

"…Guys?" 

Gus turned. "Yeah?" 

She pointed to the railing just ahead. 

There, clear and unmistakable, was the same charcoal X. 

Bartholomew squinted. "That's impossible. We didn't turn around." 

"We didn't," Joren said, voice low. 

He stepped forward, running his fingers over the mark. It was still fresh, just as he'd left it. 

Willow's arms folded across her chest, unease creeping into her voice. "So we're looping?" 

"Could be a coincidence," Gus offered, though he didn't sound convinced. "Maybe someone else marked it?" 

Everyone turned to look at him. 

"With my handwriting?" Joren muttered. 

Bartholomew tilted his head, then tapped the railing thoughtfully. "Yeah, I've seen this before." 

"A looping bridge," he said. "Happened to me once. Back when I was tracking a herd of space-displaced deer through the Dimbrook Expanse." 

Silence. 

Willow blinked. "What?" 

"They shimmered every time you looked away. Couldn't hear them walk. Bridge looked just like this, too." 

"So how did you get out of it?" Gus said, somewhat exasperated. 

"You have to speak a truth," he said. "One that you haven't said to anyone else you have been traveling with." 

Willow crossed her arms. "That sounds made up." 

Bartholomew didn't blink. "So did the never-ending bridge, and yet, here we are." 

Gus gave him a sideways look. "So you're saying this thing feeds on secrets?" 

"I'm saying it respects vulnerability," Bart said, tapping the railing like it was listening. "The kind that leaves a mark. It wants to know you before it lets you leave." 

This wasn't just a bridge anymore. 

It was a confessional. 

The truth shall set them free.