Chương 124: 50-3. Day of Departure

It wasn't until we made camp on the first night that I finally understood what "diplomatic mission to the South" actually meant in human terms: take a collection of people—some valuable, some expendable—place them in the wilderness, and gamble on how many would still be there by sunrise. We set up on a sheltered slope not far from the main road. Matthews had chosen the site. A shallow creek to the left for water. Low trees and broken stone to the right, enough to break sight lines after dark.

The road was visible ahead, but not close enough that someone could stumble across us and sweep the entire camp in one motion. Julian's first order wasn't to build fires, but to manage them.

"Flames low. No circular shape. No silhouettes," he said from the camp's center, voice compressed but carrying perfectly.

"All cooking goes into dug pits. Every lamp gets hooded. Double sentries on the outer ring, rotating shifts inside. Starting tonight, nobody leaves camp alone. Even for a latrine visit—two people minimum." I stood nearby listening to him issue commands with crisp efficiency, and felt my prejudice about his decorative appearance chip away by another reluctant layer. Thoroughly irritating. This type was the worst—looked like ornamental statuary, refused to act like it when it mattered.

Hans stood with his characteristic granite expression, cross-referencing transit seals with two scribes. Mr. Mimi had positioned himself in front of the supply crates like an extremely alert goblin treasury hound, personally supervising every sack of grain, every medicine box, and every silver coin that might inspire midnight treachery. I had hoped to contribute something useful. Alvira looked at me once and delivered her verdict:"Staying out of the way is the greatest help you can provide." Deeply offensive.

More offensive: she was right. As chief envoy, my most valuable contribution on the first night wasn't command, logistics, or projecting Imperial dignity. It was simply remaining alive—avoiding wolves, bandits, traitors, and my own stupidity long enough to actually reach the South. Dinner was consumed faster than I'd anticipated. So fast it felt less like eating and more like refueling. Nobody was in the mood for conversation. Even Jessi only managed one quiet complaint into her soup—"I think Mr.

Mimi's salt rations inherited the frugality of previous dynasties"—before Alvira's glare silenced her. Once the fires were banked, shifts assigned, and outer sentries deployed, the camp sank into a very particular kind of quiet. Not the safe kind. The kind where everyone is lying down and everyone knows perfectly well that nobody is actually sleeping. I lay in my tent, staring at canvas that pulsed between light and shadow, turned over twice, and finally sat up. Sleep wasn't coming. Not because of the hard ground.

I could handle that. What kept me awake was the sudden absence of distraction. Everything accumulated during the day finally found space to circle back—the King's glass, the city gates, the escort roster, the amulet Olivia had pressed against my chest, Victoria's warning about becoming someone else's instrument, and the South itself... a place that still existed only as map lines, rumors, and fire in other people's mouths. I pulled on my cloak and slipped out. The night wind was cold but not cutting.

The camp was marked only by suppressed glows; everything beyond melted into black. Shadows moved—the watch rotation. Horses were tethered in the inner ring, occasionally tossing their heads, iron rings chiming faintly. I walked a circuit around the tents, avoiding the fires, drifting toward the darker perimeter. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Alvira was there.

She stood beside a waist-high boulder at the camp's outer edge, back to the fires, letting moonlight catch her shoulder and profile. With her silver hair tied back, she looked even colder in the dark—as if someone had twisted moonlight into thread and draped it over her. She held the short blade I'd seen earlier, undrawn, her fingertips resting habitually against the grip as though weapon and hand had long since agreed to be inseparable. She didn't turn around. She spoke first.

"If you came out here to admire the scenery, you still have time to go back."

"Do I look like someone who wanders out at midnight to contemplate the moon?"

"No," she said evenly.

"You look like someone who can't sleep and refuses to admit they're afraid." I walked over and sat on the edge of the boulder.

"Does everything you say have to land this precisely?"

"You don't understand subtlety." I sat quietly, finding that difficult to refute. The camp was behind us—close, yet somehow distant. A strange sensation: turn your head and you could see people, fires, tents, carriages. But facing outward into the dark wasteland stretching toward the horizon, the reality was inescapable: the city was gone. I stared at the black line of the horizon for a while before speaking.

"During the ride today, I thought I was starting to get used to it."

"Used to what?"

"Being sent out," I said quietly.

"Being used by the Empire to plug a southern gap. Being watched by the capital, waited on by the South. Being treated by everyone as something useful but ultimately disposable." Alvira didn't respond immediately. The night wind swept past, catching a loose strand of hair at her temple. After a moment, she said with characteristic flatness:"If you're only feeling that way now, you're behind schedule."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"No," she said.

"I just dislike you still operating under the assumption that danger begins when we enter the South." I gave a short laugh.

"I learned that lesson today."

"Good." She glanced at me.

"Most people only figure it out right before they die. Very wasteful." That was entirely Alvira. Other people's comfort: You'll be fine. Her comfort: At least you understand now, so you'll die with some dignity. Strangely, it actually helped. I looked back out at the dark.

"Why did you come?" I'd wanted to ask all day but hadn't found the right moment. Now—late, isolated, and with her surprisingly not ordering me back to my tent—seemed perfect for risking my life on the question. Alvira didn't answer immediately. She shifted the blade in her hand, resting the scabbard's tip against the ground.

"If I said it was out of pity, would you believe me?"

"No."

"Good," she said.

"You haven't reached that level of stupidity yet." I watched her. Her gaze remained fixed on the distance, tone as level as if discussing someone else's logistics.

"Victoria can guard your capital-side loose ends. Olivia can lay your trade routes and contingencies. Jessi's mouth is perfectly suited for cutting other people's purse strings." She paused.

"As for me—" She finally turned her head and looked at me, expression unreadable.

"I'm better suited to dragging you back before you try to sell yourself a second time." I couldn't decide whether to laugh or thank her first.

"So I really am that foolish in your estimation."

"Not foolish," she said.

"You just accept your fate too easily sometimes." When those words landed, something shifted quietly in my chest. Not the flinching kind of shift. More like being touched precisely at a point that didn't bleed, but made you realize—ah, there actually is something there. I looked down at my bandaged hand.

"Is accepting fate such a bad thing?"

"Yes," she answered instantly.

"People who accept their fate are the ones most likely to die in ways that feel inevitable. Like they were always supposed to." Wind passed between us. I stayed quiet for a long time before asking slowly:"What about you? You don't look like someone who accepts anything." The corner of Alvira's mouth moved—almost a smile, too slight to be certain, too deliberate to be accidental.

"Elves live too long," she said.

"If we accepted our fates, we'd be bored to death long before anything else got the chance." That was unexpectedly funny. I laughed under my breath. Alvira let her expression—the one suggesting the world owed her at least two lives—relax fractionally.

"The first night is always like this," she said.

"You look like you've departed, but half your mind is still in the capital. Tomorrow, the day after—you'll start memorizing roads, water sources, horses. You'll notice whose footsteps are too light, who avoids eye contact when they speak. Once those things fill your head, tonight's particular brand of spiraling will quiet down naturally."

"That doesn't sound much like comfort."

"I told you I wasn't comforting you." She rotated the grip.

"I'm telling you that feeling awful right now is normal. If you slept like a dead man tonight, that would be worrying." I was about to respond with something about being grouped with dead men when the amulet inside my coat pulsed again. Alvira and I both looked down simultaneously. The deep blue crystal glowed much brighter in the dark than it had in daylight—like a drop of cold fire cupped in someone's palm. Alvira's brow creased slightly.

"A second contact this quickly?"

"I'm hoping it's not a welfare check." I drew out the chain and channeled mana into the crystal. When it flared, the voice that came through wasn't Olivia's. It was Julian's.

"Lord Envoy." His voice was pitched nearly flat.

"Come to the outer perimeter immediately. Do not alert the camp." I went completely still.

"What's happened?"

"Forward scouts have returned," Julian said.

"With news from the South." The connection cut. The night suddenly felt deeper. Alvira was already on her feet, hand settled firmly on her hilt.

"Move." — End of Season One: The Bastard — Season 2 will begin rolling out in July 2026.