Chapter 14: The Scarred Hills

  The sucking mire of the Blackfen finally yielded, releasing their worn boots with a final, reluctant sigh. Edmund took a deep breath, the air tasting different here. Sharper. Less like stagnant water and rot, more like damp stone and something metallic, carried on a wind that whistled through unseen crags.

  "Definitely left the fens behind," he murmured, adjusting the pack on his shoulders. He scanned the horizon, a frown touching his lips. Gone were the flat, waterlogged plains and skeletal reeds of East Anglia. Before them, the land began to rise and fall in rugged, rolling hills, cloaked in sparse, hardy pines that clung stubbornly to rocky outcrops. The ground underfoot was stony, unforgiving. And the land itself… it bore scars. Old tracks, likely from mining carts, cut across the slopes like half-healed wounds, and distant hillsides showed the ragged edges of quarries or slag heaps. "Hills already, and look—scars in the rock. Different feeling here."

  Beside him, Isolde pulled her grey wool cloak tighter, her gaze sweeping the landscape with an unnerving intensity. "The Essence feels… thinner," she replied, her voice low. "Strained. And there's an old metallic tang beneath the decay, carried on the wind. This land has been worked hard, Edmund. Wounded, perhaps, even before the Blight."

  He glanced at her, noting the familiar caution in her eyes. Since the confrontation with the Púca in Blackfen, since her collapse and the revelation about the taint worsening within her, he found himself watching her more closely, his natural optimism tempered by a sharp edge of worry. The easy camaraderie they’d forged felt overlaid with a new tension—his need to protect, her frustration with her own limitations.

  Not just strained… wounded, Isolde thought, her gloved fingers tracing the faint, dark lines now more prominent beneath the leather wrapping her wrist. The fen's corruption felt like rot, pervasive. This feels… torn. Exploited. Does the Blight feed differently on such wounds?

  They walked on in silence for a time, the only sounds the crunch of their boots on the rocky path and the mournful sigh of the wind through the skeletal branches of blighted mountain shrubs. Edmund stayed slightly ahead, his hand never far from the pommel of his sword, scanning every ridge, every cluster of shadows. He knew Isolde was more than capable of spotting magical threats, but physical dangers… those felt like his domain now, more than ever.

  After another hour of steady climbing, he found a relatively sheltered spot beneath an overhang of dark grey rock, partially shielded from the biting wind. "Let's rest here a moment, Ms. Isa."

  Isolde nodded curtly, sinking onto a flat stone with a weariness that seemed deeper than mere physical exertion. Edmund immediately unslung his waterskin, uncorking it and offering it to her first.

  "Here, drink. You need to keep your strength up. These hills will take it out of you."

  Isolde took the waterskin, her fingers brushing his. He didn't imagine the slight stiffness in her grip, the careful way she avoided putting too much pressure on her marked wrist. She took a sip, her gaze distant.

  "My strength isn't the issue, Edmund," she murmured, handing the skin back. He noticed she subtly rubbed her wrist before pulling her glove tighter. "It's the… cost. Every step feels heavier when you can't lean on what you know." Her eyes flickered with frustration. "This rock," she gestured vaguely at the overhang, "it remembers things. Old rituals, maybe. Duergar workings, perhaps. But the power is dormant, almost… unwilling to speak. Drawing even basic information feels like…" She trailed off, shaking her head slightly.

  "Just… be careful, Ms. Isa," Edmund said softly, his brow furrowed with concern. "We don't know what we're walking into here in Mercia. No need to push yourself."

  Her lips thinned, but she didn't argue. He meant well, she knew. His steadfast loyalty was a rock in the turbulent sea of their lives. But his worry, however well-intentioned, felt like a cage. How could she study the Blight here, understand its Mercian nuances, decipher the whispers of the entity they both feared, if every minor flicker of Essence use was met with his alarmed gaze? This limitation… it was crippling. And terrifying. The lines etched onto her arm served as a tangible reminder of how effortlessly she could succumb to the same fate as her order, the memory of which still lingered.

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  They pressed on after the brief respite, the path growing steeper. It led them towards a narrow cut between two hills, a pass clearly carved by miners centuries ago. But recent rains, or perhaps the Blight's subtle undermining of the land itself, had caused a landslide. The path ahead was choked with a treacherous slide of loose shale, mud, and thorny, blighted bushes whose greyish leaves seemed unnaturally sharp.

  Isolde instinctively raised a hand, the air around her fingertips gathering a faint green shimmer. A simple binding spell, the thought came, automatic, ingrained from years of practice, just enough to stabilize the bank…

  She caught herself abruptly, lowering her hand, clenching her fist. The phantom echo of pain, the memory of the flare-up after Blackfen, was sharp and immediate. She couldn't risk it. Not for this.

  Edmund had already turned, assessing the situation with a practical eye. "No," he said firmly, shaking his head. "Too much risk, even for a small spell. Look," he pointed towards an overgrown ridge running parallel to the landslide. "That looks firmer. We can climb there, bypass this slide. Slower, maybe, but safer." He offered her a small, encouraging smile. "Save your energy, Ms. Isa."

  She nodded, forcing down the spike of frustration. He was right, of course. It was the sensible choice. But the reliance on purely physical means felt alien, restricting. As they began the scramble up the rough ridge, Edmund took the lead, testing handholds, calling out warnings.

  "Careful here, the shale is loose! Follow my footing!"

  Isolde followed, her movements precise. Denied her usual magical senses for analyzing the terrain, she focused on her physical observations. "Interesting," she commented, examining a patch of the blighted thorn bushes growing amidst the slide debris below. Their roots seemed to have burrowed into the rock itself, leaving spiderweb cracks radiating outwards. "This blight seems to leech the stability from the stone itself, not just corrupting surface growth like in the fens. Note the fracture patterns. Almost crystalline." She pointed towards a larger boulder embedded in the slide. "And see how that quartz vein is discolored, almost… consumed? These Mercian strains seem adapted to drawing minerals."

  Her analytical tone was back, a familiar defense mechanism. Edmund listened intently, storing the information away. Her knowledge was still their sharpest weapon, even if the direct application of her power was now curtailed.

  The climb was taxing, but they reached the top of the ridge without incident. Below them, the landslide looked even more precarious. From their new vantage point, however, Edmund spotted something promising on a nearby rise—the dark silhouette of a ruined stone watchtower against the bruised sky.

  "Shelter, Ms. Isa. Looks like we might be out of this wind soon."

  They made their way towards it. The tower was old, likely dating back to border skirmishes before the Blight. Most of the upper levels had collapsed, but the ground floor offered solid stone walls and a partially intact roof, enough to provide refuge from the elements and a defensible position for the night.

  While Edmund cleared debris from a corner and gathered dry scrub for a small, carefully shielded fire, Isolde examined the tower's stonework, running a hand over worn, almost obliterated carvings. Duergar markings? Too faded to be certain.

  Later, huddled by the small fire, the whistling wind muted by the thick stone walls, a fragile quiet settled between them. Edmund cleaned his sword, the task methodical, familiar. Isolde watched the flames, her expression unreadable in the flickering light.

  "Good," Edmund said finally, breaking the silence as he finished sheathing his blade. "We're safe for now. Shelter from the rain, if it comes. You alright?"

  Isolde nodded, pulling her knees up to her chest. "I'll manage." She stared into the fire for another moment. "Mercia feels different. More people, perhaps, based on the tracks and ruins, but the tension… it's sharper than the fen's gloom. More potential for conflict, less for simple survival."

  "We knew it wouldn't be easy," Edmund replied quietly. He looked at her, seeing the weariness beneath the tightly controlled surface, the faint shadows under her eyes. He saw the way she held her arm, slightly protectively. "But we'll face it. Together."

  She met his gaze then, a flicker of something—gratitude? Shared resolve?—in her eyes. "Together," she echoed softly. But how long, a cold inner voice whispered, can we manage if I cannot fully wield my knowledge? These runes… I must reach the Duergar-Kin. The thought was less a plan, more a desperate prayer whispered into the encroaching Mercian shadows.