The Pathfinder's Oath

Aiden remained still, his helmeted head having snapped back from Sascha's brutal punch. For a long moment, Aiden didn't flinch, didn't even make a sound. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, as Sascha's curses echoing faintly in the quiet Thicket.

Then, with excruciating slowness, Aiden straig back to its usual position. There was no visible damage to his helmet, not even a scratch on the dark visor. He simply stood there, an unyielding monolith absorbing the torrent of anger.

He did not reply to Sascha's curses, nor did he acknowledge the stunned silence of the others. Instead, with that same unnervingly soft tone that had first broken his silence,

Aiden spoke, his voice completely devoid of any malice or judgment. "Drink the elixirs. All of you." He didn't look at Arianne, but his voice was a clear instruction, a quiet command that cut through the lingering shock and fury.

He then, with another slow, deliberate movement, took a single step back, widening the small circle of tension. The profound weariness that had been visible when his face was unveiled now seemed to settle deeper into his posture, a heavy cloak draped over his immense control.

He wasn't indifferent; he was simply... unreactive to the emotional outpouring, as if he had anticipated it, perhaps even accepted it as an inevitable outcome. His focus was already shifting, moving beyond the immediate confrontation, back to the silent vigilance he had maintained for days.

The party, though still reeling from Sascha's outburst and Aiden's chilling stoicism, found themselves instinctively obeying. Arianne, her hands still clutching the vials, began distributing them, her movements almost mechanical. Sascha, panting on the ground, watched Aiden through a haze of pain and lingering fury, but made no move to strike again.

The sheer, unshakeable calm emanating from Aiden, even after being physically assaulted and verbally excoriated, was more unsettling than any retaliation could have been. It made his intentions, whatever they truly were, seem even more profoundly alien.

Aiden watched, his helmeted gaze unwavering, as the party slowly, reluctantly, drank the elixirs.

Sascha, still glaring, grudgingly swallowed his, the taste a complex blend that settled the fire in his gut.

Miriam savored hers, a flicker of surprise in her eyes at the subtle, invigorating flavor.

Sona coughed slightly as the potent liquid warmed her, her sobs subsiding.

Lucille drank hers with a discerning sip, a faint furrow still in her brow, even as her senses sharpened.

Arianne, after ensuring everyone had their vial, drank her own, the faint glow of the liquid a stark contrast to the grim set of her mouth.

Once all the vials were emptied, Aiden took another step back, deliberate, almost apologetic in their quiet precision. Then, without a word, he turned. He moved away from the group, not into the deeper but more sheltered spot within their small clearing.

Here, with the same efficient, silent grace he used in combat, Aiden began to set up camp. Poles extended and clicked into place, fabric unfurled soundlessly, transforming into a surprisingly spacious, wind-resistant shelter.

He worked alone, his actions a stark contrast to the violent fury he had unleashed moments before. There was no hesitation, just the quiet competence of a seasoned survivor creating a temporary sanctuary.

As the shelter took shape, Aiden turned his attention to dinner. Pulling from the 'thin air', he produced a compact cooking kit and ingredients that seemed to materialize from nothing. The soft scent of herbs and savory meats soon began to waft through the air, subtly mingling with the Thicket's oppressive smell.

He worked with an almost reverent care, slicing, stirring, and simmering over a small, contained heat source that cast dancing shadows. This was not just sustenance; it was a meal crafted with a profound care, designed to soothe battered nerves and replenish depleted spirits.

He even prepared a separate portion for Arianne, distinguishable by its lighter, herbier aroma, demonstrating a quiet acknowledgment of her unique dietary needs, a detail he had clearly noted before. The care put into the food was starkly at odds with the near-lethal trial they had just endured.

When the camp was fully set up – the shelter taut, warm fire crackling softly within a stone ring, and the exquisite aromas of dinner filling the air – Aiden rose. He took a final, sweeping glance at his handiwork, then, with a posture of quiet resignation, he moved away from the inviting glow of the fire. He walked to the edge of the clearing, stopping under the skeletal branches of a gnarled tree.

There, he leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, his helmeted head slightly bowed. He knew. The last thing they wanted, after the terror he had inflicted, was to be in the same close proximity as him.

The White Eagle Party watched him go. No one spoke. No one protested. The silent agreement was palpable. As Aiden settled into his vigil, they hesitantly began to move. Their steps were soft, drawn towards the warmth of the fire and the tantalizing scent of the food.

They settled around the small fire, huddling together, a stark contrast to the lone figure at the edge of the clearing. The bowls of dinner were passed around. The first spoonful was a revelation. The flavors were exquisite, far surpassing the functional, if tasty, meal Aiden had prepared on their first night near the Thicket.

The meat was tender, rich with spices, the vegetables perfectly cooked, bursting with a vibrant freshness that seemed impossible in this corrupted forest. It was a meal designed not just for sustenance, but for comfort, for healing.

But despite the incredible taste, no one spoke. The usual banter, the lighthearted jests, the strategic discussions – all were absent. They ate in silence, the only sounds the soft click of spoons against bowls, the crackle of the fire, and the distant, unsettling whispers of the Thicket.

Each bite was a reminder of the near-death they had escaped, of the cold, calculating fury of the man who had cooked this meal. Their anger still simmered, a quiet, furious hum beneath the surface, but for now, it was overshadowed by the profound exhaustion and the overwhelming, desperate relief of simply being alive.

They ate, and in their silence, they processed the terror, the betrayal, and the brutal, undeniable leap forward their training had taken.

The last mouthfuls of dinner were swallowed in strained silence. One by one, the party finished, placing their empty bowls and utensils carefully in the center of their small circle.

The exquisite flavors lingered, a bitter irony given the recent terror. They then began the quiet preparations for sleep, unrolling bedrolls and settling into their uneasy sanctuary.

Arianne approached Aiden, who remained a dark, still silhouette beneath the tree. Her voice was a bare whisper, audible only to his enhanced senses. "Night watch will be set. Sascha, Miriam, Lucille, and I will take turns. Sona will be exempt."

Aiden offered no response, no nod, no acknowledgment. He simply held his rigid posture, arms still crossed, the helmet obscuring any hint of expression. His silence was a cold, unspoken agreement, confirming his understanding that they would not trust him out of their sight.

As the night deepened, the Thicket's whispers grew louder, more insidious. The first watch began. Sascha, still simmering with a volatile mix of fury and exhaustion, took the initial shift. His legendary blade lay beside him, glowing faintly, a silent sentinel.

He watched Aiden, who remained unmoving under the tree, a dark, enigmatic presence. Hours passed in tense quiet, broken only by the crackle of the low fire and the unsettling sounds of the forest.

When the time came for the shift change, Arianne, her face etched with a quiet anger that hadn't dulled, moved to take over from Sascha. She settled into her spot, her senses alert, her gaze fixed on Aiden.

Long minutes of silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the soft, almost imperceptible sounds of the sleeping party. The air was thick with unspoken resentment and the raw aftermath of betrayal.

Finally, Arianne's voice, though still hushed, cut through the quiet, a sharp edge beneath its controlled tone. "Will you clean these, Aiden?" she asked, her gaze sweeping pointedly towards the pile of dirty dishes at the center of the camp.

Aiden uncrossed his arms. With the same fluid, he began to walk towards the campfire. He moved silently, his steps light, approaching the dishes without a word.

He knelt down, picked up the bowls and utensils, and began to clean them with a practiced, efficient grace, using water from a hidden pouch and a small, absorbent cloth. The soft sounds of his meticulous cleaning were the only break in the oppressive silence.

As he tidied, Arianne's voice rose again, still infused with a simmering anger that she made no attempt to hide. "Why, Aiden? Why did you do it? That brutal... 'first-hand experience'? You nearly killed us. You nearly killed Sona." Her voice caught on Sona's name, the thought of her friend's terror still raw. "What was the purpose of such a cruel test?"

Aiden, still kneeling by the fire, slowly ceased his meticulous cleaning of the plates. The soft scrape of steel against pottery faded, leaving only the distant, unsettling whispers of the forest.

Without a word, he turned his helmeted head towards Arianne, his posture unchanging, yet something in his stillness commanded attention.

After a brief, drawn-out silence that seemed to stretch for an eternity, Aiden deliberately reached up and unlatched his sleek, black helmet. He lifted it from his head, revealing his face once more.

But this time, it wasn't the stoic, unyielding visage nor the profound weariness Arianne had seen before. His features, illuminated faintly by the embers of the dying fire, were soft, etched with a deep, pervasive melancholy.

His eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, held a profound sadness, a weight of burden that seemed almost too heavy for one man to bear.

Then, with a gentle movement, Aiden picked up a small, unassuming pebble from the ground beside him. He held it, showing it to Arianne. His gaze was steady, calm. With deliberate slowness, he flicked the pebble. It arced through the air, a tiny, dark speck aimed directly at Sona's sleeping figure.

Arianne's breath hitched, Her heart leaped to her throat, an instinctive surge of panic. She braced herself for the soft thud of the pebble hitting Sona. But it never came.

The moment the pebble was mere centimeters from brushing Sona's cheek, it simply vanished; it disappeared like a stone falling into a perfectly still lake, the air around where it had been rippling outwards in soft, concentric circles, like water. Then, out of nowhere, a soft clink sounded in the distance, not far from their camp, confirming the pebble had reappeared elsewhere.

The occurrence left Arianne completely stunned. Her mind, racing, clicked through the implications. This was a plan. A sudden, sickening wave of understanding washed over her.

It was why Sona, despite being the most vulnerable, had sustained fewer direct attacks than the others during Aiden's deadly barrage. It was why Aiden, even in his extreme, sure-kill movements, had focused so intensely on Sona. He had placed a contingency plan on her.

"What... what was that?" Arianne whispered, her voice barely audible, her anger momentarily forgotten, replaced by a profound, chilling awe.

Aiden looked at her, his melancholic eyes reflecting the faint firelight. "It's one of the arcane arts unique to Pathfinders," he murmured, his voice still soft, almost regretful.

"When?" Arianne pressed, a new question forming. "When did you... put that spell on Sona?"

"It was around the time I gave them individual training," Aiden replied, his gaze flickering towards Sona's still, sleeping form. "While she was focusing on adapting her spellcasting to the Thicket's interference."

Arianne fell into a deep silence, contemplating his words, the unsettling precision of his actions. Her initial, blazing anger began to shift, to transmute into something far more complex: a reluctant understanding, a profound unease, and a dawning, terrible respect. She remembered the elixirs, the care in the cooking, and now this hidden, protective magic.

She looked at Aiden, her voice laced with quiet, worn-out resignation. "Why?" she asked again. Just one word — yet it carried the full weight of everything they had endured. "Why did you put so much effort into this? So much... burden on all of us?"

Aiden closed his eyes for a brief moment. A flicker of exhaustion — not just of the body, but of the soul — passed over his face. When he opened them again, the melancholy in his gaze had deepened into something near absolute.

"Because," he said, voice barely above a whisper, "the kind of monsters — the entities that come through the Rift — they don't try to kill you." His eyes drifted to the others, still asleep in fragile peace. "They will kill you."

For once, the words kept flowing — not from the Pathfinder, but from the man beneath the mantle. Raw, unfiltered. Devastating.

"You were right, Arianne," he admitted quietly, the confession as heavy as the silence between them. "I've been inside the Rift. Many times."

His voice fell into a low murmur, each syllable spoken like a weight he could no longer carry alone.

"I've seen what lives there. Creatures faster than a Pathfinder's perfect strike, beyond even our truest movement. Things so powerful they shatter reality with their presence alone. Even a master of the Order — someone who's trained every breath for that battlefield — can barely survive seven seconds in their presence." He looked down. "The entities we fought before... they were nothing. Fleeting shadows. What's truly waiting in the Rift doesn't give you time to scream."

Silence hung between them like a blade.

"The Pathfinder Order," he continued, his voice quieter now — reverent, almost like a eulogy. "We were once hundreds of thousands. Now..." His eyes met hers. "There are only a few dozen of us left."

The chill of that truth settled deep into the bones.

"I am one of the last," he said.

And then, slowly, something changed in his voice — not louder, but firmer. As if a vow was being spoken, even if only to himself.

"If ensuring even the smallest chance of survival for the White Eagle Party means I have to become the monster Sascha thinks I am... then I'll bear it." His eyes held no anger, only a cold, unwavering conviction. "If I must be the demon he cursed me as... then so be it. I'll take every word. Every wound."

His gaze didn't waver. "If it gives you even a chance to live... then I will be that monster."

Aiden finished stacking the plates back into the thin air — the last faint clink of pottery vanishing into silence. His movements remained precise, methodical. Ritual. The fire crackled softly, the only sound accompanying the hush that had settled in the wake of his confession. He stood, turned from the fire, and picked up his helmet.

But just before he raised it, he paused. His gaze — weary, mournful, unbearably human — met Arianne's. The depth in his eyes spoke of lifetimes lived in warzones no soul should remember.

"Have you," Aiden asked, voice barely more than a whisper, "ever heard the Pathfinder's Oath, Arianne?"

She didn't answer with words. Only shook her head, slow and small, her expression stricken — wide eyes drinking in the rare, unshielded vulnerability he offered. In that moment, she saw not a warrior or a shadow, but a man carved from duty and pain.

Aiden nodded faintly, exhaling a sigh that felt ancient. His eyes drifted beyond her — to their sleeping companions, and further still into the dark, swallowing expanse of the Thicket.

When he began to speak, his voice carried the rhythm of ritual, quiet but unbreakable — the cadence of something sacred, carved into his very soul.

"I stand where light and reason die,

Where silence screams and echoes lie.

No dawn will come, no peace remain,

Yet still I rise through endless pain.

I walk where time itself decays,

Through shattered dreams and ash-choked days.

The stars forget, the gods avert—

But I endure through flame and hurt.

No song for me, no stone, no name,

Just whispered myths and distant flame.

Yet every breath, though scarred and dire,

Is spent to hold the creeping fire.

Alone I fight, and bleed, and burn,

While worlds collapse and skies won't turn.

I swore the Path, and did not stray—

Through death and dark, I hold the way.

Let horrors rise and heaven tire—

I am standing tall. I am a Pathfinder."

The final words hung in the air, a chilling echo of his dedication, his impossible burden. The same oath he had taken. The same oath that explained everything. The same oath that condemned him to a life, and perhaps a death, of solitary, brutal service.

After a brief, agonizing moment, Aiden slowly, deliberately, brought his helmet up. The dark visor swallowed his melancholic gaze, transforming him back into the inscrutable, faceless sentinel they had known.

With a final, almost imperceptible click, he sealed himself off from them, from the world, from his own revealed vulnerability. He turned, and with the same silent, fluid movements, walked back to his previous spot beneath the gnarled tree at the edge of the clearing.

There, he resumed his vigil, arms crossed, a dark, unmoving silhouette against the Thicket's oppressive gloom. He was once more the silent, unreadable guardian, his presence a stark reminder of the unfathomable depths of his commitment.

Unbeknownst to Aiden, Arianne wasn't the only one who had been listening to the chilling confession.

Arianne's angry questions roused an exhausted Sascha. He'd heard every word: the contingency spell on Sona, Aiden's horrific experiences within the rift. The anger fueling his earlier punch now mingled with cold, dawning dread and grudging, painful respect. Last ? His grip on Excalibur, resting beside him, tightened. The 'monster' he'd cursed was a sacrifice, bearing an incomprehensible weight.

Miriam, feigning sleep, listened with every heightened sense. Her eyes, open just slits, watched Aiden's face as he spoke, seeing the sorrow etched there. The Pathfinder's Oath, raw and brutally poetic, chilled her to the bone. Her usual playful veneer cracked, revealing profound awe and an unsettling understanding of the lonely war he waged. Aiden's mystery hadn't lessened; it had only deepened, transforming into something far more tragic and immense.

Sona, tears subsided to quiet sniffles, hadn't truly been asleep. She'd heard the low murmurs, felt the tremor of the pebble's disappearance. As Aiden spoke of entities, of Pathfinders, of being one of the last... a quiet, fierce resolve stirred within her. Her protector, once feared then pitied, was a martyr, carrying a burden too vast for one man. The oath resonated with terrifying truth.

Lucille, ever the tactician, meticulously dissected every word, every nuance, her mind creating terrifying new frameworks of understanding. The 'illogical' tactics now held a chilling context. Her initial outrage gave way to a stark, cold assessment of the true, world-ending threat. The dwindling Pathfinders, Aiden's rift survival, the descriptions of incomprehensible entities—all horrifying data that reshaped her entire perception of their mission. This wasn't just a hero's journey; it was a desperate last stand, spearheaded by a man willing to be reviled for their survival.

The night's silent vigil became a crucible of raw truth. Aiden stood alone at the clearing's edge, a self-imposed exile. Yet in the fragile circle of their camp, the White Eagle Party lay awake, each grappling with the crushing weight of his confession, his oath, and the brutal, sacrificial love of their demon-teacher.