The decision, once made by Zarok, sent shockwaves through The Well.
The leader was leaving the sanctuary he had built, entrusting its protection to Borin, his grim-faced second-in-command. The blight could no longer be held at the walls. It had to be confronted at its source.
The next two days were a whirlwind of preparation. Zarok oversaw every detail. This was not a flight but a calculated mission.
Two of the best pack animals, six-legged brutes, were chosen to carry water and supplies. Saddles and packs were checked repeatedly. Water was drawn from the newly-cleansed well. Food was packed efficiently: dried meat, snacks, and flour from desert tubers.
Weapons were selected with care. Zarok carried his heavy blade. Jacob received a well-maintained crossbow. "You're a scholar, not a soldier," Zarok said. "Stay at a distance. Your brain is more valuable than your arm." X received a balanced spear and a long knife. "The knife you used was clumsy. This has reach and balance. Learn to use it."
X gripped the knife, feeling natural in their hands. Phantom memories of combat stirred. Zarok raised an eyebrow. "You've held a spear before." X nodded.
Seren focused on healing supplies. Herbs, salves, bandages, needles, and sutures were packed. She worked with the other healers to ensure The Well would be cared for in her absence.
Her departure weighed heavily on the community. She was their heart, a symbol of resilience.
The evening before departure, the community gathered around the central bonfire. Elara, the elder, offered a blessing for the journey, the weapons, and their purpose.
People offered small tokens. A child gave Seren a necklace of polished stones. A blacksmith gave Zarok a whetstone. A woman, whose son X had saved, pressed a carved wooden bird into X's hand. X felt a connection to these people. It was no longer just a quest to save a faceless world. It was to fight for them.
Later, X found Jacob staring into the embers.
"Are you afraid?" X asked.
"I'm terrified," Jacob admitted. "For decades, my quest was academic, chasing ghosts in books. It was safe, an excuse to stay disconnected, to nurse grief in solitude. When my family died, the historian in me died too. I became just a survivor. But you, this pendant, you've reawakened him. The answers in the Sunken City might be worse than the curse itself."
He looked at X seriously. "This Katrina. If she is the last of the Scholar Clan, her life has been singular and driven. Don't expect her to be gentle. She may see us as tools or rivals. Be prepared for that."
The farewell with Seren was quieter. She found X at the edge of the well, where it all began.
"I want you to be careful," she said softly. "Not just of monsters and raiders. But of the pendant." She looked at the artifact, lying cold and dormant against X's chest. "That power you used. It is not a creative force. It does not heal. It erases. Using it may cost you something. It may create a void inside you that cannot be filled."
"I don't have anything to lose," X replied. "I'm already a void."
"No, you are not," she insisted, her hazel eyes intense. "You are a fortress with no one inside, remember? But the fortress itself is real. It is strong. There is a person there, waiting to be found. Don't let the power of that thing destroy the fortress before you can find the key." She briefly touched X's hand. "Promise me you will try to find yourself, not just the answers to the curse."
X nodded, unable to speak. The simple plea touched a part of them that had been numb since their awakening.
At first light, the four gathered at the newly repaired gate. Zarok, Jacob, Seren, and X. The warrior, the scholar, the healer, and the catalyst. Borin and a contingent of guards saw them off, their faces grim but resolute.
Zarok gave the signal. The gate groaned open, revealing the vast, pale desert. Without a word, he led the way. The others followed, leading the pack brutes behind them. As they crested the first dune, X looked back one last time at the green smudge of the oasis. Then they turned east, toward the rising sun and the unknown dangers of the Sunken City. The journey had begun.
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The desert east of The Well was different from the one X had first awakened in. The sand was finer, the color of rust, and the dunes were larger, their slopes steeper and more treacherous. The sun had a harsh, metallic glare.
Zarok set a brutal pace, pushing them and the pack brutes from dawn until the sun was high, then resting through the worst heat before marching again until dusk. Every action was dictated by survival and efficiency.
It became clear that this journey was run by Zarok's rules. He was no longer just the leader of a settlement. He was the commander of a small, vital unit in hostile territory.
He chose campsites with a soldier's eye, always selecting locations with visibility and defensible positions. He assigned night watches, taking the first and last shifts himself.
His interactions with the group were minimal and direct. He conferred with Jacob over maps, asking sharp, precise questions. How reliable is this water source? What creatures frequent this region? What is the best approach to this ridge? He listened to Jacob's knowledge but filtered it through his tactical lens.
With Seren, he was gentler but still exacting. She checked supplies daily. He asked for her assessment of their physical condition. How is the amnesiac's leg? Is the old man showing signs of heatstroke?
His treatment of X was the most complex. He was no longer hostile but deeply wary. He watched X constantly, observing their movements, their use of the spear, their reactions under stress. He was studying a weapon, learning its strengths and weaknesses.
One evening, as X practiced with the spear, moving through instinctive, fluid motions, Zarok approached. He watched silently for several minutes.
"Your style is ..," he said finally. "Defensive. Designed for multiple opponents. Not a soldier's style, more a guardian's."
X stopped, breathing heavily. "I don't know what it is. I just do it."
"That's what worries me," Zarok said. "You are a weapon that doesn't know its own purpose. That makes you unpredictable and dangerous." He gestured to the pendant. "The power you used at the gate. Can you do it again?"
"I don't know," X admitted. "I don't know how I did it the first time. I just reached for it."
Zarok grunted. "We need to know. If we are walking into a nest of those Children of the Sun, I need to know what assets I have. Tomorrow, we will find out."
The next day, he led them to a desolate, rocky basin. In the center was a twisted, blighted tree, its bark black and branches clawing at the sky. It was dead but still teeming with the curse's cold energy.
"There," Zarok said, pointing. "That is your target. Do what you did at the gate. Show me you can control it."
The task felt monumental. X stood before the tree, the others at a safe distance. They clutched the pendant, trying to replicate the feeling from the battle.
They closed their eyes, searching for the connection to the power of negation. Nothing happened. The quiet basin and Zarok's expectation replaced the adrenaline and threat.
X tried for nearly an hour. Sweat beaded on their forehead. The power would not come. Finally, exhausted and frustrated, X slumped to the ground.
Zarok's expression was grim. "So it's not a weapon I can command. It is a wild card. A last resort." He seemed disappointed but also relieved. A controllable super-weapon is one thing.
A person who can wield it at will is another, more terrifying prospect.
That night, the weight of command pressed down on Zarok. X, taking the second watch, found him staring into the darkness long after his shift ended.
"You think I'm a tyrant, don't you?" he said suddenly.
X was startled. "I think you're a leader," they replied.
Zarok gave a short, bitter laugh. "I was a mercenary. I fought for coin. I led men loyal only to the highest bidder. When the cataclysm hit, we built Stonefall. We thought we were strong. Walls, weapons, discipline. When the blight came, it didn't come over the walls. It came from within. It started with the water, like at The Well. People got sick. Paranoid. My men started seeing enemies in shadows. Fights broke out. Old friends turned on each other. I tried to maintain order. I made examples. I became a tyrant."
He turned to face X, eyes haunted. "It didn't matter. The madness was stronger than my discipline. The night it fell it was a slaughter. Not by raiders but by our own. I fought my way out, crawling over men I had called brothers. I was the only one who escaped."
"That's why I built The Well the way I did," he whispered. "That's why I don't trust outsiders. That's why I don't trust hope, or faith, or powers I don't understand. I've seen what happens when order breaks down. The curse doesn't just kill you. It makes you destroy everything you love first."
The confession was a revelation. Zarok's hardness was not cruelty. It was a shield forged by trauma. He protected his people from the wasteland and from themselves.
And in X, he saw the ultimate unknown, a power that could save them or make them tear each other apart again. His wariness was not just tactical. It was deeply personal.