CHAPTER 206: RIVER’S EDGE

The river was still there, a few dozen paces to his left, invisible behind a curtain of birches, yet present in the steady roar that served as his guide. Dylan preferred to remain at the edge — neither fully in the forest nor completely out in the open. A middle ground where he could vanish with a single step back, yet still watch what lay beyond the trees.

He walked along the current, following the gentle slope of the land. Sometimes the water appeared between trunks — shifting glints, pale reflections beneath the mist. The banks were too steep in places to climb down, but he mentally noted each possible access — just in case he had to rush toward it.

Julius...

He had left behind only words, like crumbs already scattered by a cruel wind. Dylan scanned the ground for tracks, but the thick carpet of pine needles swallowed any sign. He did find a flattened embankment, grasses bent low near the bank, but that could as easily have been a deer’s passage as that of his improbable companion.

The current, however, remained relentless. Stones made the water sing, a whisper mingling with the rustle of leaves. At times, that murmur changed, taking on an irregular rhythm, as if something — or someone — moved against the flow. Dylan would pause, tilt his head, let his senses drift toward the sound... then resume his walk, more cautious still.

He skirted a cluster of rocks where moss traced dark arabesques. Here the light wavered between two moods — dull grey beneath the canopy, almost golden where the sun broke through. The alternation toyed with his nerves, making it feel as though time itself hesitated to move forward.

Then, down below, he finally spotted a clue: a scrap of dark fabric, caught on a low branch overhanging the bank. He descended carefully, fingers gripping roots to keep from slipping.

The fabric was soaked, frayed at the edge. He knew it by its near-black hue and its tough weave: Julius wore exactly this kind of coat.

A chill, colder than the damp air, ran down his spine. This was no accident — the cloth hung there like a desperate signal on the low branch, just above the tumbling water.

He crouched, scanning the bank below. The earth was gouged out by the current, the birch roots bare and slick like bones.

"Where’d you fall, you fucking hulk?" His eyes searched the mud, the slick pebbles, the foam-churned eddies. Nothing. Only the inexorable movement of the water swallowing all in its path.

Then he caught sight of something off — lower down, almost at the water’s edge: a fresh gouge in the soft earth, wide as two fingers, plunging into the current before vanishing beneath the foam. As if something heavy had dragged, slid violently. Or someone had fought not to be swept away. His heart thudded harder. Julius, with that stiff leg... a fall here would be fatal.

A sharp crack rang out behind him — clean, like a bone breaking.

Dylan froze, the wool scrap clenched in his suddenly burning fist. It wasn’t a branch groaning under wind, nor an animal’s muffled step. It was a placed sound, precise, from the dark treeline he’d come from.

He didn’t turn. Not yet. Slowly, noiselessly, he slid down along the earthen wall, using exposed roots like a ladder, until he was half-hidden behind a mossy boulder jutting from the water. Pressing against the cold stone, he risked a glance toward the top of the bank.

The fickle grey light played hide-and-seek between the birches. Nothing moved among the lattice of trunks and trembling leaves. No figure. No fleeting shadow. Only the green curtain, unmoving yet vibrating with sudden menace. Even the air seemed thicker, charged with hostile attention. The river’s roar, amplified by the hollow bank, hammered in his skull, masking all other sounds.

Holding his breath, Dylan counted the seconds the way one braces for the snap of a trap. His fingers tightened around the sodden cloth, the wool sticking to his palm like a cold leech. He dared not move, fearing the faintest rustle would draw what was already measuring him from above.

A trickle of mud slid down the wall, splattering his bare shoulder. He glanced up just in time to catch a flicker of movement — tiny, quick — retreating behind a trunk. Too deliberate to be a startled animal. Too patient for a clumsy hunter.

His muscles tensed, not to strike — he had neither the strength nor the advantage — but to leap into the water at the first hint of approach. The river, cold and brutal, would be a cruel ally but more reliable than the open ground.

A figure finally emerged — tall, draped in a coat with damp folds, motionless on the bank. The face was hidden, drowned in the hood’s shadow. Not a word. Not a gesture. Only that vertical presence, standing over him like a sentence waiting to be spoken.

The current pounded the rock, and Dylan realized he wouldn’t know if it was Julius... or someone else entirely. Not until he risked showing himself.

He drew in a breath, the cold air biting his lungs, and clenched the scrap of cloth until his knuckles whitened. Then, in a calculated motion, he rose halfway from cover, ready to leap either way.

"Julius...?"

The word drowned in the river’s roar. But the figure tilted its head slightly.

"Missed me that much? Touching. I might almost fall in love."

The voice — unmistakable — sliced through the noise like a fine blade. Not a shout, not a call, just that calm irony that, in Julius, always felt like a way of reclaiming the space around him.

A strange warmth climbed Dylan’s spine — a sharp blend of relief and raw irritation. He pulled himself fully from hiding, boots slipping in the mud, heart still pounding as if an arrow were lodged in his chest.

"You could’ve answered before I imagined a hundred ways to fish your corpse out," he growled.

Julius stood on the bank, stiff leg planted like a stake, water dripping from the coat’s folds. A dark stain marked his temple, but he was smiling — that smile that never quite said whether he was mocking or dead serious.

"And ruin the suspense? Come on, bag of bones, you know I like my grand entrances."

Dylan rolled his eyes, but his hands had already unclenched. He tossed the scrap of fabric to Julius, who caught it effortlessly.

"I thought you’d left this as an offering to the fish."

"Maybe I did... but I’m an expensive gift, you know."

The current slapped against the rocks, at times covering their exchange. Dylan scanned the bank behind Julius — no movement, no sign of pursuit. But that coiled sense of threat refused to fade.

"We shouldn’t stay here," he said at last.

Julius gave a brief nod, then extended a hand. His palm was rough, warm despite the damp. Dylan took it, let himself be pulled up the bank, his still-bare feet unsteady but his balance returning.

There were still questions to ask. Many. But for now, the fact that Julius was alive was enough to push the most urgent ones down his throat.

They followed the path along the river, avoiding open stretches. The water still caught shards of light like broken coins, but the sky was already darkening, pulling the forest toward a dirty grey.

Julius walked ahead, his coat leaving a dark trail in the mud. Dylan, quieter, watched every shadow in the undergrowth, but gradually vigilance gave way to the kind of nervous fatigue that forces words out.

"I work for Gael," he said without preamble.

Julius didn’t slow, but tilted his head slightly — listening.

"A high-ranking man in the county of Martissant." Dylan hesitated, as if the name alone might spring a trap. "I was sent on a mission with a woman named Alka. She betrayed me."

Julius gave a short, dry laugh. "Charming crew."

"Yeah... but I think Gael was in on it." The words tumbled out faster than he’d intended. "He gave me just enough information not to compromise the mission if I got caught... or to keep me from understanding anything until it was too late."

The silence that followed felt like a taut rope. Julius finally spoke:

"And despite that, you want to go back to Martissant? Or worse — show up at the front to give him your report?"

Dylan shrugged. "I still have to—"

"Bad idea." Julius stopped abruptly and locked eyes with him. "The second phase of the war’s about to blow. Over there, it’ll be a grinder. You want to go like this? With your pretty fugitive’s body half-starved?"

Dylan met his gaze, irritation sparking. "So what? I hide forever?"

"No. You get dangerous." Julius’s smile was like a promise. "Three months. I’ll train you with the sword. You’ll be able to face down any of Pilaf’s dogs."

"Three months is long," Dylan protested.

"Three months is the time you have before Alka, or Gael, or any of their friends, decides you’re still breathing too much." Julius resumed walking, as if the matter were settled. "And besides..." he added lightly, "you’ve already got the frame for a blade. We’ll just have to put some meat on it."

Dylan sighed, but his steps fell into rhythm with Julius’s. The river flowed at their right like a clock ticking down the seconds to the next storm.