Chapter 46: Of Mornings, Mockery, and Mountain Lakes

The soft rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds heralded the morning. The first rays of dawn filtered through the dense northern canopy, casting a cool, bluish light over the camp.

Dorian groggily opened his eyes, blinking against the sunlight. The smell of dew-soaked earth filled his nostrils, mingling with the lingering scent of last night’s campfire. Stretching out from his bedroll, he glanced around.

Ralnor was already awake, perched on a rock near last night campfire, his massive shield resting beside him. His helmet was off, revealing his calm, youthful face as he silently sharpened his knife with slow, methodical strokes.

Selyse stirred next, groaning softly as she sat up, rubbing her eyes. Her hair, usually pulled back in a tight braid, was now loose and slightly tangled from sleep. Tache, on the other hand, was sprawled on his back, snoring softly with one arm draped over his face.

Dorian smirked, then gave himself a quick jolt of lightning magic to shake off the remnants of sleep. The spark sent a sharp tingling through his body, making him sit up straight with a gasp.

Tache grumbled from his spot. “Damn bard, could you not electrocute yourself first thing in the morning?”

Dorian chuckled, rolling his shoulders. “It’s called efficiency, my friend.”

“Efficiency or insanity,” Selyse mumbled, rubbing her temples.

Ralnor simply gave Dorian a slight nod of acknowledgment, his focus never leaving his blade.

“Morning, everyone,” Dorian said cheerily, standing up and stretching his arms above his head.

“Morning,” Tache muttered, finally sitting up and ruffling his messy hair.

After a quick breakfast of leftover bread and jerky, Dorian dusted off his clothes and looked around. “Hey, Ralnor, is there a stream or something nearby? I could use a good wash.”

Before Ralnor could respond, Tache yawned and stood, slinging one of his swords over his back. “I know a spot. C’mon, I need to wash off the stink of mercenary life too.”

As Dorian followed Tache through the forest, he couldn’t resist a playful jab. “Honestly, I was hoping Selyse would be the one to offer a joint bathing session.”

From behind, Selyse’s dry voice shot back, “Little too young for me, bard.”

Tache burst out laughing, and even Ralnor cracked a rare, silent grin. Dorian rolled his eyes, but a grin tugged at his lips as they continued down the narrow path.

As they walked deeper into the woods, the sounds of birds and rustling leaves surrounded them. The crisp northern air was refreshing, and Dorian took a moment to soak it in before glancing sideways at Tache.

“So…” Dorian began casually, “you and Selyse… you two together?”

Tache snorted. “Of course. She’s my sister.”

Dorian sighed, exasperated. “No, not like that. I mean—like, together together?”

Tache stopped dead in his tracks. For a moment, he stared at Dorian with a completely blank expression, as if processing the sheer stupidity of the question. Then, without warning, he erupted into loud, raucous laughter, doubling over as he clutched his stomach.

Dorian felt his cheeks flush, his face turning a shade that rivaled his crimson hair. “Oh, come on!”

“You’re so obvious,” Tache wheezed between laughs, wiping tears from his eyes. “Aren’t bards supposed to be smooth? You meet one pretty woman, and you’re already head over heels. You’ve got to work on your subtlety, my friend!”

Dorian groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I am subtle!”

Tache just shook his head, still chuckling. “Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, bard.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the only sound being Tache’s occasional chuckle. Finally, Tache calmed down and gestured ahead.

“Here we are,” Tache announced, spreading his arms wide.

Dorian’s breath caught in his throat. Before them lay a pristine lake, nestled between snow-capped hills and rugged mountain peaks. The water was impossibly clear, reflecting the morning sky like a polished mirror. The entire scene looked like something pulled from a painting—so serene and untouched that Dorian felt like an intruder in a sacred place.

“It’s beautiful,” Dorian whispered, taking a step forward, his eyes wide with awe.

Before he could soak in the tranquility any further, there was a sudden rustling beside him. Dorian turned just in time to see Tache strip off his clothes without a second thought and sprint toward the lake.

With a loud whoop, Tache launched himself into the water, creating a massive splash that shattered the stillness.

Dorian blinked, the majestic scene completely ruined by the sight of Tache’s bare ass disappearing beneath the surface.

“Seriously?” Dorian muttered, staring at the ripples spreading across the lake.

Tache resurfaced, shaking water from his hair and grinning like an idiot. “What’s the matter, bard? The water’s perfect!”

Dorian sighed, realizing there was no winning this battle. “If you can’t beat ‘em…” he muttered, stripping down and wading into the cool water.

As the cold bit into his skin, Dorian couldn’t help but laugh. Despite the embarrassment, the chill of the water and the camaraderie of unexpected friends warmed him in a way no hearth ever could.

And as he swam alongside Tache, with the northern mountains towering above and the sky stretching endlessly beyond, Dorian felt something he hadn’t expected on this journey—belonging.

The cold water bit at Dorian’s skin as he dove beneath the surface, letting the chill clear his head. When he resurfaced, he found Tache floating lazily on his back, his eyes half-closed, enjoying the brief moment of peace in the otherwise harsh northern wilderness.

As Dorian swam closer, something caught his eye—the jagged outline of a large burn scar etched across Tache’s back. It was an ugly mark, the kind that spoke of deep pain, not just from battle but something far more personal. The scar was uneven, stretching from his left shoulder blade down to his lower back, as if fire had tried to consume him but failed.

Dorian treaded water for a moment, debating whether to ask. But curiosity had always been his guide, and he knew scars, like songs, always had a story behind them.

He grinned, keeping his tone light and teasing. “You know what they say about scars, right? Knights wear them like badges, but bards? We collect the stories behind them.”

Tache’s eyes flickered open, and for a moment, Dorian saw something unguarded in his expression—a flash of hesitation, of something unspoken lurking just beneath the surface. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by Tache’s usual smirk.

“This one?” Tache asked, tilting his head back toward the burn scar, his voice casual but noticeably distant. “Not that great of a story. Kind of ironic, actually. The biggest scar I’ve got has the lamest story behind it.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but willing to let it slide—for now. “Oh yeah?” he pressed, though with less intensity.

“Yeah,” Tache said quickly, as if eager to move on. He turned, lifting his right arm slightly, revealing another scar, smaller and cleaner, running from his bicep down toward his forearm. “Now this one has a story.”

Dorian chuckled, recognizing the deflection but playing along. “Alright, let’s hear it then.”

Tache grinned, his eyes lighting up as he launched into the tale. “Got this during a duel with two knights at the same time. Eastern border, near the front lines. The idiots thought they had me cornered, but, well… turns out two swords beat two knights.”

Dorian laughed, imagining Tache weaving through the duel with his usual reckless flair. “Sounds like you just wanted an excuse to show off.”

“Maybe,” Tache admitted with a wink. “But I won, didn’t I?”

They both chuckled, the tension from earlier dissipating in the shared laughter.

…

After a while, they climbed out of the water, the cold northern air biting at their damp skin. They dried off with the help of Dorian's wind magic, slipping back into their clothes. Dorian adjusted his black cloak and secured his lute over his shoulder, his mind still lingering on the burn scar.

There was more to Tache’s story—Dorian could feel it in the way the man had brushed off the question, in the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes when the scar was mentioned. But Dorian knew better than to press. Stories, like songs, needed the right moment to be told. And when Tache was ready, he’d share it.

For now, Dorian was content to wait.

As they made their way back to camp, the sound of Selyse’s voice drifted through the trees, barking orders at Ralnor about their packing placement. Ralnor, true to form, responded with nothing more than a grunt.

When Tache and Dorian emerged from the trees, Selyse glanced up from where she was sharpening her lance. “Took you two long enough,” she muttered, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward in amusement.

“Blame the bard,” Tache shot back. “He’s the one who got distracted by the scenery.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his chest was undeniable. This wasn’t just a random group of mercenaries. This was a makeshift family. And somehow, he was becoming part of it song.

As they settled back, Dorian’s fingers instinctively found his lute strings. He strummed a soft melody, letting the notes drift into the morning air. The sound blended with the morning bird, the rustle of leaves, and the distant calls of adventure.

And though he still wondered about the story behind Tache’s scar, Dorian knew one thing for certain: every scar, every song, every story had its time.

And this was just the beginning.