Chapter 5: A Long Road

The carriage was silent now, the raw, wrenching sobs of the previous night having given way to a heavy, stunned numbness. Ori and Tez sat side-by-side, their bodies swaying with the motion of the wheels. Ori stared blankly at the dark green rod concealed beneath his tunic. It felt inert, a lifeless rod that mocked his failure.

The journey East from Estily had been a grim procession of fear and hushed rumors, but the closer they got to the central spine of the kingdom, the more the refugees thinned out. The King’s Road here was wide and well-trafficked, and the familiar sound of horse hooves and creaking carts provided a false sense of normalcy.

They reached the Mountain Pass late that afternoon. The passage, where the lower peaks of the central range began, was a strategic choke point. It was now a fortress.

Soldiers in the King's garrison stood grimly behind newly constructed defensive works—rough log walls stacked with barrels of pitch. Burnt-out wagons lay scattered nearby, visible signs of the crisis. These soldiers were not the panicked guards of Estily; they were disciplined, and their presence alone projected the high stakes: keep the monsters contained, or lose the entire Northern half of the kingdom.

Yasir, who had barely spoken since the watchtower collapsed, finally broke the silence.

“I have to leave you here,” he said, his voice cracking. “My mother… my father… my only hope is that they went North. We have family in Nutherkeep.”

Tez, despite his own exhaustion, remained the idealized pillar of calm. He laid a heavy hand on Yasir’s shoulder. “It’s the right choice, Yasir. It's the only hope of finding them.”

A grizzled Northern soldier stopped their carriage, his eyes hard and suspicious. He carried a distinct air of disdain for the refugees, as if the South’s problems were a contamination.

“Where are you three headed?” the soldier demanded, peering into the carriage.

“He is going North, to Nutherkeep, to family,” Tez said, indicating Yasir. “My brother and I are heading East, toward Sowden.”

The soldier sniffed, looking Yasir up and down. “Lucky for you the pass isn’t closed yet. We don’t need any more hungry mouths or cowards up North.” He slammed his hand on the door, signaling Yasir to get out.

The farewell was swift, marked by a final, desperate embrace. Yasir stepped out of the carriage and was immediately swallowed by the rigid, defensive line of the North. Ori watched him go, another link to his past severed.

“Sowden, then,” Tez murmured, nodding to the driver. “To Rost, to our uncle.”

The month-long travel to Sowden was agonizingly slow. They moved primarily by hitching rides with small trade caravans, their meager funds rapidly dwindling. The journey was marked by vast, silent stretches of wilderness interspersed with small, untouched towns that existed in a state of fragile denial.

In the carriage or by the campfire, Tez remained the perfect leader. He managed the rations, bartered for supplies, and spoke to Ori with unwavering patience. Tez showed his own deep grief only in the hard, drawn lines of his face and the exhaustion in his eyes. He never broke, never complained, never questioned the morality of their flight.

Ori, however, was consumed by his own internal turmoil. It wasn't just the sorrow of losing Klohee; it was the persistent guilt over his weakness. He replayed the watchtower sequence every night—the paralysis, the failed scream, the useless rod. He saw the face of the brave men he ran past, and his shame deepened.

They passed through the last stretches of the Central Territories and finally reached the edges of the Southern Basin—the country of humid lowlands and lakes. One evening, after asking a half-dozen tavern keepers for any word of a man named Rost, a gruff, scarred man behind the bar of The Three Rivers Inn finally looked up.

"Rost? Aye, I know the old bag. My name is Garret," the tavern keeper admitted, carefully wiping down a mug.

“He’s our uncle,” Tez quickly explained. “Klohee sent us. We need to find him.”

Garret eyed the boys, taking in their worn clothes and the grief in their eyes. He gave a sharp, decisive shake of his head. "He won't be in Sowden. Not since the leg went bad. He lives out near Thunderrock now, keeps to himself. Comes in to trade furs once a month. You've missed him by a week, boys."

The next morning, the two brothers left the tavern. Garret, despite his gruff exterior, pointed them toward the local general goods store.

"Grab yourselves some decent supplies. Tell the owner, Melisa, that Garret sent you. She'll know where his lodge is. But you don't mention the old days, you hear? He doesn't like visitors."

Tez and Ori pooled their remaining coins for dried meat and a few days' worth of bread. Melisa, the kind, elderly shopkeeper, gave them a sympathetic look as Tez asked for directions to Rost's lodge.

"Rough journey, boys. Yes, Rost is up near Thunderrock. Follow the old logging trail off the King's Road for about a day, then look for the split pine. His lodge is deep in the woods after that."

With clear, if foreboding, directions, the two brothers left the relatively peaceful civilization of Sowden. They plunged into the thick woods of the Southern Basin, following the logging trail.

As the sun began to dip, they found the split pine. The trail gave way to thick, silent forest. After another hour of walking in fading light, they saw it: a sturdy lodge, built of heavy, dark timbers. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney.

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