There exists a peculiar state in human cognition where the body continues its function without the direct oversight of the conscious mind—a moment where physical actions become mechanical, and the mind is left to drift freely. This phenomenon occurs most frequently during repetitive tasks, where habit supersedes intention, allowing thought to untether itself from immediate action. A person walking a well-worn path, chopping vegetables, or scrubbing the same spot on a dish may find that their mind is no longer present in the act itself but instead lost within its own corridors, moving through memories, plans, and imagined futures.

  This cognitive split is a testament to the duality of human function—the body remains rooted in the present, while the mind roams across time itself. A blacksmith hammering steel to a rhythmic pattern may suddenly find himself reminiscing about his childhood, hearing the echo of his father’s voice in the strikes against the metal. A soldier polishing his boots might drift into thoughts of home, of a lover’s last words before he left, the scent of the familiar streets lingering in memory. A simple farmer tending his field, hands moving instinctively in the soil, might ponder his future, wondering whether this harvest will sustain him through the next winter, whether he will ever leave his land, whether his children will inherit the same fate.

  The mind’s tendency to drift into thought loops or philosophical musings during repetitive tasks is both a form of escape and an unconscious attempt to find meaning. Some of the most profound realizations come not in moments of intense focus but in these unguarded lapses, where thoughts follow their own natural currents. What is for dinner? What must I do tomorrow? What path has led me here? Where am I going? Who am I becoming?

  This is where simplicity and complexity merge—a cook stirring soup may wonder about marriage, a soldier sharpening his blade may contemplate his mortality, a merchant counting coin may begin to question the worth of gold itself. What begins as idle wandering often turns into deep reflection, the mind searching for meaning while the hands continue their task.

  And yet, the danger of this phenomenon lies in its very nature. A person too consumed by thought may find themselves unable to recall the details of what they have just done. How many steps had they taken? How many times had they drawn the bowstring? When did the sun shift in the sky? In this, the line between presence and absence begins to blur. The body remains in the world, the hands continue their duty, but the mind is elsewhere, suspended between what was, what is, and what might be.

  In the end, this state reveals the paradox of human nature—we exist both in action and in thought, in motion and in reflection. We live in the present, yet we are forever drawn to the past and the future. Perhaps it is in these small, unnoticed moments—when the body moves without command and the mind drifts freely—that we are closest to understanding the essence of our existence.

  This was where I found myself. Step after step through the shifting sand, the reins of my horse in my hand, dragging the tired creature forward.

  The landscape stretched endlessly before us, the same dried and dead grass, the same distant hills, the same fading light melting into the horizon. The rhythm of our movement, the crunch of boots against earth, the occasional snort of a weary horse—all of it blurred into the kind of monotony that required no thought, only motion.

  And so, my mind drifted.

  The idle conversation around me blurred into background noise. Words passed between my companions—some lighthearted, others practical—but none worth my attention. They spoke to fill the silence. I let the silence take me elsewhere.

  It pulled me back to my conversation with Cordelia.

  A stampede. A courier. A summoning.

  The Wraiths’ activity in Hollowed Valley had been predictable. Their stationed members at Twisted Trunk had been eliminated, and retaliation followed as expected. A stampede—an indiscriminate, chaotic act of destruction. Crude, but effective.

  The summoning order for Ewin from High House Syltharion had been anticipated. The timeline aligned with projections. No variables there.

  The courier, however, was the anomaly.

  And I had no doubt as to the nature of the message. The courier carried orders regarding the Wraiths. No other directive would require such urgency.

  For a military detachment to receive new orders mid-march, the directive had to originate from an officer ranking above our unit’s commanding authority. That alone narrowed the list of potential sources to a select few within Aeloria’s military hierarchy. It was the reason I had calculated the courier’s arrival much later than reality dictated.

  But, that’s how high command operates.

  Had the Wraiths been a conventional irregular force, there would have been no need for escalation. Bandit factions follow predictable patterns—territorial control, resource extraction, and opportunistic raids. They can be coerced, eliminated, or absorbed into the state’s auxiliary forces through a mixture of financial incentives, legal pardons, and targeted decapitation strikes.

  The Wraiths, however, functioned outside the constraints of rational warfare. No chain of command, no logistical dependencies, no self-preservation instincts. Only assassination. Subversion. Kill orders with no expiration date.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  And worse, they possessed knowledge of Outerplane summoning rituals. If left unchecked, this was no longer a matter of insurgency suppression but civilizational threat containment.

  High command would have realized this as well.

  The ruling body of Aeloria, along with its neighboring states, could not afford political naivety at this stage. If they failed to recognize the strategic implications, they would have already been absorbed by a foreign power or replaced by a puppet regime.

  The logical assumption was that they had arrived at the same conclusions I had.

  If the Royal Inquisition was operating with adequate intelligence, their analysts would require only a handful of key deductions to formulate the obvious answer:

  “There is a high-value target or arcane asset within Silent Rock that the Wraiths have deemed critical.”

  From there, a single question followed: “What is it?”

  The working hypothesis: A ruin. A monolith. A dormant artifact. The likelihood remained low, but low probability was not the same as zero probability.

  And a non-zero probability was enough justification for military intervention.

  This granted the Royal Inquisition independent operational authority. A mission of this scale would bypass standard chains of command and fall under the direct oversight of the King, the Queen, or Lord Alfred.

  Even if the worst-case scenario proved unfounded, the mission would still neutralize a hostile cell and prevent mass civilian casualties.

  This strategic shift rendered our unit an operational liability.

  Had this been a standard anti-insurgency engagement, high command would have left us to operate under discretionary orders.

  This was not.

  This was a controlled operation. A precision strike to dismantle the Wraiths while securing a possible arcane asset. Independent units—even those operating under allied banners—were now a risk factor.

  Operational security demanded tight coordination. A miscommunication could compromise strategic positioning. A single unaccounted maneuver could force unnecessary redeployment.

  The conclusion was evident.

  Our party would be decommissioned as an independent unit.

  Not disbanded outright, but restructured—integrated into wherever our skill sets were deemed most effective. We were already embedded in the conflict. There was no tactical advantage to removing us entirely.

  Ewin’s departure with the High Elven delegation was assured. His wife’s labor was imminent, and the High Elves would not allow any delay.

  Mira’s future was less certain. Given the recent political shifts within her family, there was a strong likelihood that she would leave as well.

  That left six of us.

  Rylas and Selene had been with me before this party was ever formed. Their positions would remain unaltered.

  Lyrik, as a swordmaster, was a battlefield asset. He would be deployed where his combat proficiency was most effective—likely frontline reinforcement.

  Alric, with his priesthood and support capabilities, would be reallocated to logistical or backline divisions.

  Vyk, as an infiltration specialist, would be absorbed into scout or reconnaissance operations.

  This was not an emotional matter. It was a strategic certainty.

  And now, I would tell my party what they need to know.

  I set my cup down, my fingers resting lightly against the rim. No rush. No flourish. Just a pause—long enough to make them listen.

  "This right here, right now, might be the last meal we share together."

  I let the words settle. Let them weigh on the silence.

  "It has been over five months since our party was formed. We've had our differences. But through it all, we fought together, bled together… and I will admit—" a small, almost imperceptible smile crossed my lips, "it was never dull."

  I turned my gaze to Ewin, watching the flicker of confusion in his golden eyes. He was sharp—he’d catch on before the others.

  "I will certainly miss your dry humor, my friend."

  Silence. Confusion. Then a slow shift in his expression—the smallest intake of breath as the pieces fell into place.

  Ewin’s gaze darted around the table, searching for confirmation, his fingers tightening around his cup. Then it struck him.

  "What are you… Oh." His voice caught, just slightly. His pupils shrank, and for the first time since I’d known him, he looked unsteady. "You… Are they here?"

  His voice was expectant. Hopeful.

  I inclined my head, a small nod. A rare, genuine smile. "Congratulations. It won’t be long now."

  And then it spread—the realization washing over the others like ripples across still water.

  The silence barely lasted a moment before it shattered.

  "Wait—what?" Lyrik’s chair scraped against the wooden floor as he half-rose, eyes darting between Ewin and me.

  Selene gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, while Mira—who had been quiet up until now—let out a rare chuckle, shaking her head as though she had expected this all along.

  "Well, I'll be damned." Alric leaned back, exhaling sharply before offering a slow, knowing smile. "Looks like we’re losing our archer."

  And just like that, the room shifted.

  "Oi, don’t talk about me like I’m dead!" Ewin snapped, but there was no real bite to his words. His usual sharp tongue had lost its edge, dulled by the weight of the realization. His fingers were tight around the rim of his cup, his usually bored expression cracked open with something raw, something unguarded.

  "Your wife, huh?" Selene beamed, nudging his shoulder. "Took you long enough to mention her."

  "We all knew she was expecting," Rylas rumbled, his deep voice as steady as ever. "But this soon?"

  "The High Elves must be ecstatic," Mira murmured, her gaze thoughtful. She had known more about Ewin’s background than most, and now, there was a certain acceptance in her eyes—as though she, too, knew this was inevitable.

  Lyrik clapped a firm hand against Ewin’s back, shaking him slightly. "Damn, Ewin. We should be drinking to this!"

  And just like that, the floodgates opened.

  The previously quiet, measured atmosphere of The Miller’s Rest—a place built for hushed conversations and refined guests—was suddenly alight with laughter and the clinking of tankards.

  "To Ewin! To fatherhood!" Lyrik roared, lifting his drink high.

  "May the child inherit mother’s patience!" Mira added, smirking.

  "And not his damn attitude!" Selene chimed in.

  "Oi, now listen here—" Ewin tried to protest, but it was lost beneath the eruption of voices and cheers.

  The once-muted ambiance of the inn fractured under the weight of our celebration. Other patrons—noblemen, merchants, and travelers—turned in their seats, raising brows at the commotion. A few looked amused, while others clearly weren’t pleased at the disruption of their otherwise quiet evening.

  A waiter hesitated before approaching our table, warily glancing between us and the disapproving gazes of wealthier guests. "Uh, sirs, if you could—"

  Lyrik threw an arm around Ewin’s shoulders, grinning. "Relax, friend! Tonight is a night of celebration! In fact—" he reached into his pouch, tossing a few extra coins onto the table with a satisfying clink. "Keep the drinks coming!"

  The waiter paused, eyes darting to the silver. After a moment, he gave a reluctant bow. "Very well, sirs. But please, try not to disturb the other patrons too much."

  Alric chuckled, sipping his drink with amused detachment. "Too late for that, I think."

  Even Vyk—who had spent most of the night silent—an observer rather than a participant—gave a slow, faint smirk. He wasn’t one for celebrations, but he didn’t seem inclined to stop this one either.

  Ewin, for once, didn’t fight it.

  He just shook his head, pressing his fingers to his temples as the others poured their energy into the moment, into him. And though he tried to mask it with exasperation, I could see it—the way his shoulders lost some of their tension, the way his lips twitched as if holding back a real smile.

  This was a farewell, even if no one dared to say it outright.

  A night to remember.

  I remained seated, watching as they laughed, as they drank, as they made a memory they could hold onto when the road finally took them their separate ways.

  And when Ewin caught my gaze—just for a moment—he nodded.

  A quiet acknowledgment.

  A quiet goodbye.

  I returned the nod, lifting my drink in silent toast.