The forest remained.

Mist clung to the roots. Trees stood unmoving. The illusion had not shattered, nor had the nightmare vanished in spectacle or collapse.

But something had changed.

The pressure was gone.

Kiaria's gaze moved across the group, the Eye of Insight open and steady. The golden strands of will no longer writhed or tangled. They trembled faintly–thin, worn, frayed at the edges–but they held.

Not strong.

Not whole.

Yet no longer breaking.

Kiaria turned his head slightly and leaned toward the Chief, speaking softly–so softly that even those standing closest could not hear.

The Chief listened.

Then he stepped forward.

No thunder followed him. No power answered his stride. His breath uneven, hands still carried the tremor of fear not yet fully spent.

But he stood.

"Listen," the Chief said.

His voice did not echo. It did not command. It simply reached.

"I won't lie to you."

A pause.

"We were weak."

No one protested.

"We failed," he continued. "We froze. We watched the people we love suffer. We watched them die. Again and again. We tasted fear, helplessness, and shame with our own mouths."

Several heads lowered.

"But do not forget who you are."

He looked at them–really looked at them.

"We are not children hiding behind excuses.

We are not civilians praying for mercy.

We are hunters."

The word carried weight.

"Hunters who face death with our whole bodies."

Silence deepened.

"You saw your beloved die in a nightmare," the Chief said. "But listen carefully–

they are not gone."

Somewhere, breath hitched.

"They are alive.

They are waiting."

His jaw tightened.

"And it would be a disgrace–

to surrender here."

He stepped forward again.

"The world calls us cold-blooded criminals. Do you know what that means?"

No answer came.

"It means we survived what others couldn't.

It means we crossed lines others feared.

It means blood, bone, and suffering did not stop us then."

His voice hardened–not with anger, but with memory.

"So why should it stop us now?"

He lifted his shield and let it strike the earth once.

A dull sound. Solid. Real.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked quietly.

"Death?

Pain?

Broken bones?

Blood?"

A breath.

"How many have we already seen?

How many did we bury with our own hands?

How many did we lead into hell–and return without apology?"

No one moved.

"We never fought for praise," he said.

"We never fought for honor.

We fought to fill the stomachs of those waiting for us.

We fought because standing still meant starving."

His voice dropped.

"We will die someday. All of us."

Then he raised his head.

"But to die as a hunter–

is better than living

as a waste."

The forest did not respond.

But the people did.

"So stand," the Chief said.

"If fear remains–stand with it.

If doubt screams–walk through it.

But do not kneel here."

He lowered his guard.

"Not after everything we have endured."

The Chief turned and bowed–not deeply, not submissively–toward Kiaria.

A signal.

Kiaria stepped forward.

Not to dominate.

Not to display power.

Only to answer.

"I could have broken this nightmare at the beginning," Kiaria said calmly.

Several hunters stiffened.

"But if I had," he continued, "you would have carried its fragments with you forever. An eternal trauma."

He looked at them–not as a god, not as a Patron–but as something quieter.

"Fear cannot be destroyed from the outside," he said. "Only endured. Only understood."

The crown above his head shimmered faintly–not blazing, not overwhelming. A soft monochrome light spread outward, touching the air like breath.

"This place fed on helplessness," Kiaria said.

"Not weakness.

Helplessness."

His gaze swept across them.

"And helplessness only survives when people believe they are alone."

The forest trembled.

"None of you were alone," Kiaria said. "You simply forgot that for a while."

He lifted one hand.

No violent surge followed. No shattering roar.

Only release.

The mist thinned.

The trees softened, their edges blurring like fading memory. The oppressive stillness loosened, not tearing apart–but letting go.

The nightmare did not collapse.

It withdrew.

As if recognizing it no longer had permission to remain.

One by one, the hunters exhaled.

Some sank to their knees–not in submission, but in exhaustion. Others closed their eyes. A few laughed softly, broken and breathless.

The forest illusion dissolved like fog under morning light.

And when it was gone–

Only ground remained.

Real ground.

Dirt. Roots. Breath. Weight.

Kiaria lowered his hand.

"We're leaving," he said simply.

No cheers followed.

No celebration.

Only the quiet, profound understanding that they had not escaped by luck–

But because they had stood.

Behind them, the nightmare did not pursue.

For nightmares do not chase those

who no longer believe they are powerless.

And this one–

Had finally been told goodbye.

Morning arrived without resistance.

The nightmare did not retreat in violence or collapse–it simply lost its hold.

The forest stood as it always had, but the air felt different. The pollen that once carried false comfort had thinned into nothing. Night Dream Flowers withered where they bloomed, their pale petals collapsing into ash that blended harmlessly with soil and moss.

Sunlight filtered through the canopy in broken strands, striking the cobweb hanging tents suspended between branches. Dew had gathered along every thread, every knot, every woven strand. When the breeze shifted, droplets fell.

Cold.

Sharp.

Real.

One by one, the hunters stirred.

Breath returned first. Then weight. Then memory.

Eyes opened to the quiet certainty of being alive.

No one spoke at first. No one needed to. Muscles ached–not from illusion, but from endurance. Hearts beat steadily, no longer racing, no longer restrained. Fear had not vanished, but it had been reduced to something familiar again–manageable.

They climbed down from their tents in silence.

Some wiped their faces. Some leaned against tree trunks and closed their eyes briefly, grounding themselves in bark and earth. A few laughed quietly–not from joy, but from release.

They had survived.

Not untouched.

Not unmarked.

But intact.

Hylisi still slept.

Her hanging tent, woven by her own hands, lacked the protective webbing of Kiaria's domain. It was simple cloth and rope, open to the forest like a trust she had never learned to abandon.

No one woke her.

After everything she had guided them through, she was allowed her rest.

Princess Lainsa, too, slept on–undisturbed, her breathing even, expression peaceful. Whatever had walked among the others at night had not reached her.

A bird fluttered down onto a branch above Hylisi's tent.

Moments later, Hylisi stirred.

She woke with a sharp intake of breath, instinctive and alert. Reaching up, she brushed her face–and froze.

Then sighed.

"…Unbelievable."

A ripple of quiet amusement spread through the camp.

Without ceremony, Hylisi accepted the Chief's canteen, rinsing her face thoroughly. She said nothing, only gave him a brief nod before stepping aside.

She knelt and gathered a handful of damp moss from the forest floor, crushing it between her fingers. The scent rose immediately–sharp, acrid, unmistakable.

Moments later–

"Achoo!"

Princess Lainsa bolted upright, eyes unfocused, hair in disarray.

Several hunters turned away, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

Hylisi finally smiled.

Just a little.

Breakfast was simple.

Golden Berry Beads were consumed without comment. Packs were secured. Tents dismantled. No one lingered. No one looked back toward the riverbank where the nightmare had taken shape.

Some things did not deserve remembrance.

When they boarded the Opal Leaf Boat once more, the river carried them forward without resistance. The current felt ordinary again–dangerous, yes, but honest.

Hylisi took her place at the front.

Kiaria stood near the center.

Behind them, the forest receded.

The nightmare did not follow.

Because nightmares only persist where fear remains unspoken–

And these hunters had already paid the cost of facing theirs.

The journey continued.

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