The Illusion of Safety

“This is as far as I take you,” Kara said, arms crossed, her voice firm but not without a trace of weary compassion. Behind her, the cart was already loaded. A few children climbed aboard one by one, their meager belongings stuffed into patched-up sacks. Beside it stood Rocky, the group’s faithful beast of burden, snorting his displeasure at being roused so early.

“You’ll travel with them,” Kara continued, nodding toward the children. “No tricks. No noise. Reach Nor Badur quietly.”

She turned slightly, her gaze falling on the small Vorloi man standing at her side.
“And you’ll go with them as well,” she said—not a suggestion, but a command.

Then, as if recalling something important but long planned, she reached into her coat and pulled out a small, folded letter. She pressed it firmly into the Vorloi’s hand.
“Give this to the quartermaster when you arrive. Do not open it.”

The Vorloi said nothing. He simply climbed into the cart in silence, settling among the children with the practiced ease of someone used to orders—or someone who had long ago chosen silence.

Trista exchanged a look with Garlak and Emeryn.

Farrin stepped forward, raising both hands as he murmured softly. The air around them shifted—an unseen ripple brushing their skin. A shimmer passed over their faces, their features and posture subtly altering. In moments, the three adults looked like ragged teenagers: road-worn, forgettable.

“The illusion will hold long enough to reach Tik,” Farrin warned. “Three days, if you’re lucky. But don’t draw attention. It doesn’t take much to shatter a glamour.”

Emeryn gave a small, tight smile. “Thank you, Farrin.”

The three inclined their heads—not just to him, but to Kara and Talia as well, who watched in silence from the wagon’s shadow. There were no goodbyes. Only the shared weight of understanding.

Then the cart began to move. Inside sat an odd collection: three adults disguised as youth, a wordless companion, and eight true orphans—each bound for a destination none of them could name without fear.

(acá Podemos poner una imagen de la carreta yéndose) (Una foto de la party como niños?)

The tunnel stretched forward in a hush of stone and shadow, pierced only by the soft clatter of wooden wheels and the dim flicker of a coal lantern swaying from the cart’s beam. With each bump, its light danced across the damp rock walls, casting fleeting shapes that looked far too alive.

At the reins, they rotated shifts—Garlak, Emeryn, and the Vorloi—each guiding Rocky in silence, letting the beast set a pace dictated more by instinct than urgency.
The newcomer spoke little. His expression remained unreadable, his presence quiet yet steady. He never strayed far, never faltered.

By the end of the first day, they reached a checkpoint.

Trista’s shoulders tensed the moment the cart slowed. This was the same outpost—narrow, half-collapsed—where everything had gone wrong the day before. The tunnel pinched inward here, barely wide enough for two carts to pass. Ahead, a heavy supply wagon blocked most of the path, flanked by guards.

There were more now. Too many.

Some crouched low, sifting through the gravel with measured precision. Others stood in clusters, muttering in hushed tones, hands never far from their blades.

The group in the cart said nothing. Garlak kept his gaze ahead, fingers loose on the reins. Emeryn pulled her hood a touch lower. Trista didn’t blink.

A pair of standard soldiers spared them only a glance before waving them through—too absorbed in whatever investigation gripped the place.

But standing just off to the side were two figures who didn’t belong.

One was clad in an imposing suit of armor—obsidian-dark and curiously unmarked by dust or wear. His helmet rose like a pillar, smooth and featureless, as if carved from some black, silent stone. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

Beside him stood another, similarly armored but bareheaded. His face was visible—unremarkable, forgettable—but the way his gaze moved… sharp, deliberate, dissecting. As though the illusion cast by Farrin’s spell was a veil he could choose to lift at will.

Neither spoke. Neither stepped forward.

And yet, the silence they brought seemed heavier than the air itself.

The cart passed without incident.

No one stopped them. No one asked questions.

The moment they cleared the checkpoint, the tension snapped like a frayed rope. Trista exhaled, slow and quiet, as if afraid the sound might still carry back.

“Well,” Garlak muttered, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth, “either that glamour is damn good… or those guards are thick as cave clay.”

Emeryn didn’t smile. Her eyes were fixed on the black tunnel behind them, where no torchlight reached.

“Let’s hope it’s both,” she murmured. “Because if they’re not …” She left the sentence to die, unfinished, as if naming the alternative would summon it.

———————————————————————————————————

What Remains Unspoken

The road ahead swallowed the light. Silence returned like a second skin—clinging to the cart, to their thoughts, to every uncertain breath.

Inside, the group settled into a fragile rhythm. Not peace—just habit layered over exhaustion.

The children were better organized than expected. Kira, the oldest, had taken quiet control without being asked. She moved with the sharp efficiency of someone who had been forced to lead long before she was ready. She handed out water with care, adjusted blankets without ceremony, and quelled trouble with a glance. Her gaze swept across the others constantly, but always returned to the bundle at her side: a dwarven infant, tightly wrapped and sleeping soundly. Kira checked his wrappings often, pulling them tighter, ensuring warmth. It was as if the child’s survival had become her personal charge—perhaps even her purpose.

Gorin and Marn, the elven twins, muttered mischief back and forth beneath their breath. Their eyes flicked toward Garlak occasionally, testing him. Waiting to see how far they could push before they met the wall of his silence.

Dren, Rana, and Lila kept mostly to themselves—speaking in hushed tones or dozing when the road allowed it.

One boy did not speak at all.

He sat near the back of the cart, knees tucked against his chest, staring at nothing. A human child. Thin. Silent. Unmoving. He didn’t play. He barely ate. He flinched at neither noise nor touch.

Garlak leaned toward Kira and muttered, “Is he always like that?”

Kira followed his gaze, then gave a short nod. “Yeah. He’s always been quiet. Strange. But he’s one of ours.”

Emeryn, who had been watching the boy from the corner of her eye, finally spoke—softly, carefully, as though naming a shadow might make it real.
“Is he sick?”

Kira blinked, then frowned slightly. “Sick?” The question seemed to confuse her. “No… He’s fine.”

She said it not with certainty, but with the tone of someone for whom the thought had never occurred.

Emeryn didn’t press. She just nodded slowly, her eyes returning to the boy.

“It’s just… he looks like part of him didn’t leave,” she said, voice low. “Like something in him got left behind.”

There was no accusation in her words—just a quiet thread of concern, as if she were speaking more to herself than anyone else.

Kira didn’t reply. But she turned her head again and watched the boy more closely.

And through it all, the Vorloi remained silent. He did his part when asked—never more. He kept his bow near, his posture low, his attention on the path. Sometimes, when he thought no one noticed, his fingers drifted to the odd little mandolin strapped to his pack. A strange thing—fashioned from scavenged bone, worn wood, and thin wire. It looked barely playable.

But he never plucked a string.

—————————————————————————————————————–

Names and Silences

At some point during the second day, as the tunnel stretched endlessly around them and the rhythm of hooves and wheels blurred into thoughtless background, Emeryn broke the silence.

“We’ve still got days ahead,” she said, her voice low, casual, as though trying not to spook the quiet. Her eyes drifted toward the Vorloi seated near the rear. “Might be nice to at least know what to call you.”

The man looked up. His face, half-sunken in the lantern’s flicker, revealed nothing. For a moment, it seemed he might ignore the question. Then, in a voice dry and quiet—like wind through dead reeds—he said:

“Willow Swiftquiver. You can call me Willow.”

“That all right with you?” Garlak asked, half-smirking.

Willow gave a single, slow nod.

Trista tilted her head. “Swiftquiver. That’s… unusual.”

Willow offered no reply.

They tried a few more questions—soft ones, nothing sharp. Where he was from. How he’d found the resistance. How long he’d been in Ner Darul. His answers, when they came, were brief. Sparse. Sometimes just a shrug. Eventually, the questions stopped.

Still, he wasn’t cold. Just distant—like someone used to listening more than speaking. Or someone who had learned that words could cost more than they were worth.

Hours later, as the cart creaked through a sloping passage veined with glimmering mineral threads, Garlak leaned over and tapped Willow’s arm with the palm of his hand.

“So,” he said with a grin, “that letter Kara gave you… ever get curious? Could be useful knowing what’s inside.”

Willow didn’t answer. He shifted slightly, adjusting the strap of his pack with practiced calm.

“Could be a map,” Garlak continued. “Or a coded warning. Could be her stew recipe for all we know.”

Trista glanced at him, unimpressed. “We all remember how well that went last time.”

Emeryn gave a quiet laugh. “Let’s try not opening things. Just to see what that feels like.”

Garlak raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. Message delivered, seal unbroken. Scouts’ honor.”

Willow didn’t speak. But his hand brushed against the inside of his coat, fingertips ghosting over the letter’s hidden weight. As if part of him—buried deep—was wondering too.

The third day came and went. Rocky’s gait slowed near the end, his breathing heavy and uneven, but they pressed on. The glamour wouldn’t last forever, and stopping too long risked more than sore legs.

They reached Tik late in the cycle, just as the tunnel gave way to the outskirts of the cave-city. A small cluster of stone structures emerged from the gloom, their edges traced in the orange glow of coallamps and old runes.

They went straight to an inn carved near the gate—one maintained by a lizardfolk matron the group had known in better times. Inside, there were real beds. Stew that was hot. Water that didn’t taste of rust or pipe. A stall where Rocky could finally rest.

That night, for the first time in days, they slept under a roof—without illusion, without fear breathing down their necks.

Morning came slow and gray.

Kira was already up, checking on the little ones, handing out ration pouches like a commander in miniature. The three adventurers lingered near the cart, saying little. Willow stood nearby as well—not out of comfort, but because standing alone in a place like Tik was an invitation to trouble.

They didn’t speak of it, but they all knew what came next.

The illusion was gone. The road ahead was longer. And their time beneath the veil had run out.

Rations were packed. Blankets tightened. Rocky’s harness adjusted.

They were ready to move again.

—————————————————————————————————————

Echoes in the Dark

They left Tik at the start of a new cycle, slipping into the deeper tunnels just after the morning bells rang through the chimneys—dull and distant, like memories of a world above. The air carried the weight of beginning: cool, hushed, brittle with tension.

The illusion was gone. Trista, Garlak, and Emeryn rode exposed once more—hoods drawn low, weapons hidden beneath threadbare cloaks. They no longer played the part of travelers. Now they simply were: dangerous people with a cart full of children, hoping to pass for harmless.

Willow walked alongside the cart, his bow unstrung but always within reach. His steps were measured, soundless, as if the ground made way for him rather than the other way around.

Inside, the children fell into their familiar silence. Kira sat near the front, gently rocking the dwarven infant in her arms, whispering lullabies that barely moved the air. She checked his wrappings often, more from instinct than doubt. Gorin and Marn, the elven twins, argued over inches of space, their voices sharp but hushed. Dren and Lila passed the time flicking polished stones between them, counting silently. Rana sat apart, arms crossed, her expression carved from granite—a permanent scowl that dared anyone to speak.

And the quiet boy remained at the back, curled into himself, watching the tunnel unroll before them with the distant stare of someone long unmoored from the present.

They stopped once—long enough for Rocky to drink and the children to gnaw through dry bread. Then they pressed on. Time dissolved underground. Hours blurred, marked only by growling stomachs, sore backs, and the creak of weary wheels.

And then—something changed.

Emeryn raised a hand. “Stop.”

Ahead, the tunnel narrowed. A loose pile of stone choked the passage—a partial collapse. Not fresh, but not old enough to feel settled. No one had heard it fall.

“Must’ve happened before we reached Tik,” Garlak muttered, jumping down. “No wonder the road’s been so quiet.”

“We’ll need to clear it,” said Trista, already baring her arms.

She and Garlak began shifting stones. Emeryn stood watch, her staff angled forward, the iron chain at its tip swaying slightly with each breath. Willow knelt by the wall, gaze pinned to the dark like he expected it to move.

The children were told to stay behind the cart. They listened—most of them.

Gorin and Marn slipped down unnoticed, giggling as they darted around the cart in tight loops, chasing shadows. No one stopped them.

Not at first.

Minutes passed. Then Gorin returned—alone. His face had changed. His chest rose and fell in short, panicked bursts. He was pale beneath the dust.

“Marn fell!” he cried. “We were playing! He slipped—I tried to grab him, I swear—he just… he fell in!”

The camp froze.

Kira went still, clutching the infant tighter to her chest. “We need to find him.” Her voice cracked, low and urgent.

“Where?” Trista asked, sharp.

Gorin pointed into the dark behind them—back along the path they’d already passed.

Silence.

“We’re going after him,” Emeryn said.

“I’ll go,” Trista offered instantly. “If he’s hurt—”

“No.” Garlak shook his head. “You’re the only one besides me who can move the bigger rocks. We can’t afford to lose time. I’ll go.”

“And I’m not letting either of you go alone,” Emeryn added. “If something happens in there, someone has to protect the rest of the group. I’m going too.”

Trista hesitated, torn. “But if he’s injured—”

“I’ll go,” said Willow, voice quiet but certain.

All three turned to him.

The Vorloi tightened the strap of his satchel. “I see better than any of you in the dark. I hear better too. If the boy’s out there, I’ll find him.”

Trista studied him, then gave a nod. “You’re sure?”

Willow’s reply was simple: a nod.

“You take the lantern. Stay close.”

He turned to Gorin. “You’ll guide us. Show us where he fell.”

No one argued.

Trista unhooked the coal lantern from the cart and passed a torch to Garlak in exchange. “Keep clearing the way. We’ll be back soon.”

Willow looked to Kira. “Keep them close. Don’t lose another.”

Kira gave no reply—just climbed into the cart, drawing the rest of the children around her like a shield. She pressed them to the wall, shoulder to shoulder, her arms circling them with quiet force. Her eyes didn’t waver. Not once.

Then Trista, Gorin, and Willow stepped into the dark—chasing a child’s echo into the unknown.