The leaf drifted steadily, cutting through the river without sound.

Water rushed beneath them, unseen yet constantly felt, its presence heavier than its noise. No one looked down for long, and no one let their gaze linger where reflections waited. The river moved forward without hesitation, and with it, their thoughts were forced to follow.

Fear did not press from one direction alone. It seeped in through silence, through breath, through the awareness that something ancient flowed beneath them and did not care whether they crossed safely or not.

One of the younger hunters broke the rhythm first, his voice low, almost apologetic for existing.

"So… the dead can listen?"

The question hovered briefly, fragile and exposed. No one laughed. No one scolded him immediately. Fear, after all, often asks questions before it screams.

"If that's true," he continued after a swallow, "then what's the point of talking at all? If they can hear us… they already know everything."

A woman seated across from him stiffened at once. Her spine straightened, fingers curling slightly against the leaf's surface as if grounding herself.

"Shut up," she said sharply, her words not loud but edged enough to cut. "Maybe that sounds clever to you, but if they can hear–pissing them off won't help anyone."

She exhaled slowly and turned her face away from the water.

"Say less. Think less. Survive more."

Silence threatened to follow, heavy and dangerous. Before it could settle, a senior hunter leaned back slightly, forcing casualness into his posture as if the river were no more than a lazy stream under spring light.

"Listening doesn't mean understanding," he said. "Dogs listen too. Doesn't mean they judge us."

The words landed unevenly–not comforting, but grounding. They did not ease fear, but they gave it shape.

No one replied immediately. After a moment, someone farther back spoke quietly, almost to themselves.

"…I still won't talk about my regrets."

No one asked whose regrets. No one needed to.

Mu Long shifted subtly, placing himself half a step closer to Hylisi. His voice, when he spoke, was steady, measured like a blade kept sheathed rather than drawn.

"Hylisi," he said, neither loud nor soft. "You can rest assured. Whatever happens–Chief won't let anything touch you."

Chief did not turn his head, but his hand tightened briefly against the leaf, knuckles paling for a heartbeat before relaxing again.

Mu Long continued, his tone firming–not defensive, simply factual.

"He'll protect. That's not a promise. It's habit."

Hylisi inclined her head once. Her gaze remained forward, fixed on the river's unseen path.

"I know," she replied. "That's why I'm not afraid of enemies."

A pause followed, deliberate and heavy.

"I'm afraid of mistakes."

The leaf drifted on, unhurried and indifferent.

Someone nearer the back whispered, unable to keep the question contained.

"Then… what should we talk about?"

The question carried no sarcasm. Only need.

"Anything that keeps your mind here," someone answered immediately.

"Anything except the past," another added.

"And anything except the water," a third murmured, almost reflexively.

Soft agreement spread–not spoken aloud, but felt in shifting posture and steadier breathing.

Princess Lainsa tilted her head slightly, her eyes unfocused as though listening to something far away rather than the river beside them.

"If the dead are listening," she said calmly, "then they're very patient."

A hunter swallowed hard. "Why?"

She glanced at him, expression unreadable. "Because we're still alive."

No one laughed. But no one panicked either.

Kiaria finally spoke, his voice level and unaddressed, as though meant for the air itself rather than any individual.

"Talk like you would," he said, "if tomorrow was guaranteed."

The meaning did not strike immediately. It settled slowly, like sediment sinking beneath clear water.

Conversation resumed–not boldly, not comfortably, but steadily. Someone complained quietly about numb toes. Another asked how long until sunset. Someone volunteered to keep the conversation going if others ran out of words. They spoke of trivial things and necessary things–anchors for the mind when fear tried to drift.

The river did not grow louder.

The water did not stir.

And the voices that crossed the leaf remained human.

Sleep came in fragments, neither deep nor shallow, but permitted. Golden Berry Beads dissolved slowly within them, dulling exhaustion without inviting dreams. Bodies rested while minds hovered close to waking, as though afraid that fully letting go would invite something else to take their place.

Three hours passed. No one counted them. They knew only because the bead's warmth faded.

When eyes opened again, the river had changed.

Trees along the banks leaned inward, their trunks angling toward the water as though drawn by gravity or reverence. Branches interlaced overhead, forming a long, uneven arch that followed the river's curve. Sunlight filtered through it at a slant, breaking into ribbons of gold and ember-red as the day began its slow surrender.

The sunset was beautiful–dangerously so. The sky burned in layered hues of amber, violet, and bruised blue, stretching endlessly toward the horizon. Far ahead, the river caught the moon's reflection before the moon itself had fully risen, silver trembling on black water.

No one commented on it. No one looked long enough to admire.

Beauty reflected here was not meant to be felt.

Night arrived without ceremony. It did not fall or descend. It simply settled.

With it came the smell–not fresh blood, not rot, but something older. A copper tang carried by the wind, faint yet persistent, threading itself through breath and cloth. It drifted in uneven waves, sometimes strong enough to wrinkle noses, sometimes distant enough to doubt its existence.

No one spoke of it.

Then the voices began.

At first, they were indistinct–wind curling through branches, water striking stone. A howl that might have been air passing through hollow trunks. A murmur that could have been leaves brushing bark. Neither pleasant nor unpleasant. Just present.

One by one, hunters noticed them. No one reacted outwardly. No one broke rhythm.

The leaf shifted course, slowly and subtly drifting away from the river's center toward the edges where roots and broken trunks pierced the water. No one guided it. No one spoke a command.

Something else did.

The thought surfaced–and dissolved–before it could be examined. Their minds refused to hold it. Rules echoed instead, remembered, repeated, internalized.

When the leaf touched the bank, no one hesitated. They jumped–not to the ground, but onto the remains of fallen trees. Thick trunks lay half-submerged, stripped bare by time and current. They landed lightly, spacing themselves without instruction.

Only once everyone was clear did Hylisi speak.

"Do not light a fire," she said, her voice carrying easily through the night. "No tents. No meat."

She let the words settle.

"These three," she continued, "are the worst foolishness in this terrain."

They waited.

"Firelight and smoke attract things that do not hunt by sight alone," Hylisi said calmly. "The scent of cooked flesh–and raw flesh–travels farther than you think. It doesn't just draw beasts."

She glanced briefly toward the river.

"It draws memory."

She gestured upward. "Hanging tents. High branches only. Sleep above, not beside."

Several hunters followed her gaze, testing strength with touch and instinct.

"The river at night is not consistent," Hylisi continued. "It may shrink. It may expand. It may do neither. That is why I warned you not to step on the ground earlier. The reason hasn't changed."

She looked at them one by one.

"Tree trunks don't move. Swamps do."

The wind shifted. The voices carried closer, curling around the edges of hearing without crossing fully into understanding.

No one responded.

Ropes were secured. Hanging tents took shape among the branches. Bodies rose into the trees, leaving the river below.

And beneath them, unseen and unacknowledged, the water continued to listen.

Above the riverbank, where hanging tents swayed faintly between interlaced branches, Kiaria stepped forward. He did not raise his voice, nor did he draw power outward in display. There was no warning ripple, no pressure that announced intention.

He simply opened his palm.

Space tightened.

Not collapsing–

contained.

From the hollow between breath and shadow, something unfolded.

The Mythical Ghost Prison Hollow Face Spider emerged.

The land accepted it before the mind could. Eight massive limbs settled without sound, anchoring themselves with quiet certainty. Invisible threads spread outward, brushing trees, soil, and shadow, stitching the entire area into a single, unified sensing field.

Several treasure hunters staggered back instinctively.

Before the spider, breath grew heavy. Thought slowed. Fear did not spike into panic–it sank, settling deep into muscle and bone like a remembered truth that had never truly left. This was not a creature merely standing within a domain.

The domain was the creature.

Bodies trembled. Knees weakened. Hands clenched hard enough to ache.

Only two did not react.

Diala and Princess Lainsa watched the others instead, their expressions calm–almost pitying–as though this fear was expected, even inevitable.

Kiaria turned toward the group.

"There's no need to panic," he said.

His voice did not compete with fear.

It replaced it.

"It's my servant."

For a heartbeat, silence held. Then it shattered into murmurs.

A Patron…

With a mythical predator as a servant?

Fear twisted into disbelief, and disbelief into something worse–comparison.

Everything they had endured so far–the river, the voices, the buried dead–shrank before this presence. Those horrors now felt distant, almost small.

Kiaria's gaze sharpened.

"Enough."

The murmuring died instantly.

He turned back to the spider. "Set the perimeter," he commanded. "Predatory range. Full coverage."

The beast moved–not fast, not slow, but correctly. Webs formed midair, weaving themselves into meticulous patterns. Invisible traps anchored to trees, stone, and shadow, layering over one another with precise intent.

Hanging tents were reinforced–higher, stronger, bound to the tallest and most resilient branches. Every approach was mapped. Every weakness sealed.

"Concealment," Kiaria added.

The spider bowed.

The forest dimmed.

Web channels multiplied, spreading outward like veins beneath skin. Shadow-skulls dissolved into hundreds of small spiderlings, dispersing silently along the web's intersections, anchoring sight, sound, and intent.

Nothing hostile would pass unnoticed.

"Guard until morning," Kiaria said.

Acknowledgment rippled through the domain.

Only then did Kiaria turn back to the group.

"Rest."

No one argued.

One by one, they climbed into the hanging web tents. Fear remained–but it was held now, contained by something far more frightening than the river below.

Hunger surfaced quietly.

Hylisi opened the casket.

Golden Berry Beads were distributed in silence, each person stepping forward in turn. They took only one, bowing instinctively–not to her, but to the night that had not yet claimed them.

Above the canopy, wings stirred.

Diala had already moved.

She flew low through the forest, her summoned beast gliding beside her. An open book rested in her hand, her eyes flicking between illustration and ground as she searched methodically within the marked region.

"Triple-Needle Goose Plant," she murmured. "Freshly uprooted… burned root repels insects and masks body scent."

They searched with care. Correct terrain. Proper range.

Nothing.

Not even residue.

Diala exhaled. "Not here."

She turned back.

When she returned, the forest was silent–but not empty. The web domain pulsed faintly, alive with vigilance. Kiaria stood below, unmoving, as though night itself had accepted him as a fixed point.

The camp held.

And for the first time since entering the river's shadow, everyone understood something fundamental.

They were not surviving by luck.

They were surviving because something far worsehad decided to protect them.

Diala descended quietly and approached Hylisi's hanging tent. Her steps were light, deliberate, careful not to disturb the fragile calm that had settled after fear was restrained.

"Lady Hylisi," she said softly, "do you know a plant called the Triple-Needle Goose Plant?"

Hylisi looked up.

"If it grows in this land," Diala continued, respectful and measured, "do you know where I might find it? Burning its freshly uprooted roots can repel insects–and mask the scent of living bodies from beasts."

For the first time that night, surprise crossed Hylisi's face.

Brief.Unmistakable.

She studied Diala now–not as the Patron's companion, but as an individual.

"Who… are you?" Hylisi asked slowly. "How do you know that plant? Are you truly a foreigner?"

"Yes," Diala replied without hesitation. "I am."

Hylisi exhaled, then smiled–small, restrained, genuine.

"Then you are not ordinary," she said. "And you are not ignorant."

She paused.

"That plant does exist here," Hylisi admitted. "But you will not find it now. It grows only during the rainy season. This land is transitioning–from winter toward summer."

She shook her head once.

"No matter how sharp your eyes are, there is no chance."

Diala accepted this calmly.

"Rest," Hylisi said more softly. "For tonight, leave the rest to luck."

Then she looked at Diala again, longer this time.

"But remember this–knowledge like yours, if sharpened and trained, does not remain small."

Her voice carried quiet weight.

"You would become formidable."

"…Thank you," Diala said sincerely.

Around them, the camp settled further. Quiet greetings passed from tent to tent–muted wishes of safety, just enough to keep minds anchored in the present.

No one spoke of fear.

No one spoke of death.

Eyes closed.

Breathing slowed.

Bodies rested.

And far beyond the reach of web and vigilance, something watched.

It did not howl.

It did not whisper.

It waited.

Patiently.

For nightmares do not rush.

They only approach–

when invited.

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