Back at the Campground, I set the brooch on the stump beside the deck of cards. Its faint gleam under the firelight seems to whisper of old allegiances, oaths sworn in a time I can't recall. I touch it lightly, hoping for a spark of memory, but nothing comes. Instead, the silence grows. Lynn stands near, her face half-illuminated by the flames. She seems uneasy, but I know better than to press her for answers now. The mist polices our speech and intent, and no amount of pleading will break that barrier.
I focus on the cards again. Reaching for them has become a ritual. The leather box gives a soft creak as I open it, as if acknowledging my resolve. I shuffle slowly, fingers grazing the edges of painted cardboard. I wait until I feel that subtle warmth, that quiet hum that guides me to the next selection.
This time, the deck yields three cards with a quiet inevitability:
Location: Overpass Market Ruin
A place once bustling with vendors and voices, now silent, scattered with broken stalls and petrified produce. Metal beams and concrete remnants of an overpass loom overhead, casting uneven shadows.
Event: Harrowing Toll
A distant bell that rings once, kindling dread. Its sound may scatter weaker foes but strengthen the resolve of any who remain. Treasure might improve, but at a cost.
Enemy: Preacher of the Splintered Word
A robed figure, gaunt and hollow-eyed, chanting discordant verses. Its presence frays courage and emboldens lesser foes. Silencing it might restore balance.
My throat tightens. The Preacher seems dangerous—not physically mighty, but capable of bending the minds of other creatures. Combined with the Harrowing Toll, this might be a perilous test. Still, I need to push forward. I must gather resources, glean hints, break through the barriers this place has set before me.
Lynn's hand hovers near mine, not touching, but close enough that I can sense her concern. She tries once again to form words, but the mist tightens around the camp. Her lips move, shaping warnings or encouragement I'll never fully hear. The fire crackles softly. I give her a slight nod and step into the mist with the chosen cards.
The world beyond the Campground forms before my eyes: the remains of a city market sprawled under a half-collapsed overpass. Stalls lie overturned, wooden crates smashed, produce long since turned to brittle husks. Among twisted metal beams, I see old banners and faded price tags flutter in a breeze that carries an ashen smell.
A hush hangs over this place, so deep that I barely dare to breathe. I move carefully between broken stands that once displayed fruits and grains, perhaps spices, now reduced to dust and shards. Lynn follows at a slight distance, light on her feet. I wonder if she, too, senses a presence here, something watching.
There's a sudden, bone-deep clang, as though a great bell has been struck. The Harrowing Toll. It echoes through the ruins, making my hair stand on end. The sound seems to travel through the stalls, rattling old chains and stirring loose debris. For a moment, I think I see shapes scurry into the shadows, lesser beings frightened by the sound. Yet I also feel something else: a cold certainty settling in my limbs, telling me this challenge will be fiercer than the last.
I round a corner and there he stands—if he is even truly a man—the Preacher of the Splintered Word. Tall and unnaturally thin, draped in colorless robes. He stands before a toppled stall as if it were a lectern, reciting verses that prick at the edges of my mind. I can't understand the language, but I feel its weight. The words drag on my spirit, make my thoughts heavy. My grip on the axe tightens.
As I watch, three small creatures slink forth from behind a cargo pallet—ragged shapes that might have been human once. They carry broken pipes and sharp bits of metal. They seem jittery, frightened by the Toll, yet the Preacher's voice emboldens them. They stop cowering and begin to circle slowly, like wolves testing prey.
I must silence the Preacher. His voice is the key. Without it, these half-feral scavengers might break and flee. But how to get close? The floor is littered with broken glass and tangled wire. A misstep will betray me.
I glance at Lynn. She meets my eyes, tilts her head as if to say, "Now or never." No words pass her lips. We are becoming used to this silence between us. She raises her hand slightly, and I recall how her presence comforted me in battle before. I do not know if she can heal me should I fall, but I trust that she will try.
I inhale, step forward, and deliberately scrape my axe along a metal beam. The sharp sound cuts through the Preacher's chant. The scavengers flinch. The Preacher slowly turns, hollow eyes fixing on me. His mouth twists, and the chanting grows louder, harsher. I can feel my knees tremble, as if he's pressing invisible weights down upon me.
I push back against the fear, drawing on my new class—Knight-To-Be. I plant my feet firmly, raise the axe, and fix my gaze on the Preacher. He is no towering beast, just a figure spouting poison-words into empty air. I will not cower. With a growl, I lunge forward.
The scavengers react first. One darts in, swinging a pipe. I block with the axe handle, feel the shock run up my arms, then kick him back into a broken stall. Another tries to circle around me, but Lynn surprises me by stepping in his path, arms raised. She makes no sound, but her stance alone distracts him enough that I can sidestep and bring my axe down. He crumples, injured or dead—I do not know, and I have no time to check.
The Preacher's chant swells, and I feel a dark haze settling in my mind. My vision blurs at the edges. I bite down on my lip, tasting copper, and force myself forward. The last scavenger lunges, but his nerve falters halfway. The Harrowing Toll and my own grim resolve seem to confuse him. His blow goes wide, and I strike with a heavy chop, sending him sprawling.
Now only the Preacher stands before me, robes fluttering in a breeze that I cannot feel. He hisses softly and reaches inside his garments, producing a dull iron rod carved with strange symbols. My heart hammers. I swing at his side, but he steps back with unexpected grace. Another chant, sharper, more cutting. My head throbs.
Lynn moves behind him, silent and determined. The Preacher senses her too late. As he turns his head, I catch my opening. I sweep the axe's blade into his arm. He howls—a thin, grating sound—and his chant breaks. At once, the crushing weight on my spirit lifts. I step in again, putting all my strength into the next strike. The axe bites deep into his robes and the figure staggers back, clutching at the wound.
He tries to speak again, to form those foul words, but all that emerges is a rasp. One more swing, and he collapses, robes fluttering into the dust. Without his voice, there's only the quiet drip of distant water and the whisper of wind through broken metal.
I lean on my axe, breathing hard. Lynn stands a pace away, her expression pained but resolute. When I look into her eyes, I see pride and sadness at once. Perhaps she hoped I would never have to kill something with a human shape. Or perhaps she mourns that I must learn these lessons alone.
We search the ruined market. Among the toppled stalls, we find a small cache of salted meat wrapped in oilcloth—an unexpected boon in this empty place. Under a broken counter, a set of sturdy leather gloves that fit my hands well enough. I slip them on and flex my fingers. Better grip, less chance of cutting myself on broken edges.
In the Preacher's robes, we find a torn scrap of parchment bearing indecipherable runes. They swirl and overlap, painful to look at. I fold it carefully and pocket it. Maybe one day I will find a way to read these words without pain.
The Harrowing Toll no longer sounds. Perhaps it was a single chime meant to test our resolve. The scavengers lie scattered, their crude weapons now mine if I choose. I do not bother. My axe is enough. The Preacher's iron rod proves too twisted to be useful.
We step back through the threshold and into the Eternal Campground. The transition is seamless. The quiet hum of the safe zone greets us as if we never left. The cards return to their box, and I lay out our new supplies near the fire. Lynn stands a short distance away, her arms folded, chin lowered as though in deep thought.
I watch her, wondering what secrets press against her silence. She knows more than she can speak. I see it in the subtle tightening of her jaw, the way her gaze lingers on the scrap of parchment in my hand. Yet the mist forbids honesty, at least for now.
I settle down beside the stump, the brooch from before still resting there. Another step taken, another enemy defeated, another faint trail of clues collected. I have no clearer memory of my past, but I feel a growing strength in my chest—an acceptance that I must forge my destiny in this strange labyrinth, no matter what old truths remain hidden.
I am a Knight-To-Be, and I will continue forward, one step at a time, until the mist parts enough to reveal what lies beneath it all.