Their legs hadn’t stopped moving. They pushed Albert until he faltered. Albert's face burned; his breaths scraped.Each step thudded, slower now. He staggered forwards. But their efforts hadn’t been in vain. They were deep in the forest now—the underbrush clawing at their legs, as ancient trees loomed overhead. Good for losing pursuers; brutal to get through.

  Chaos would have erupted back at the academy by now. The Council would be working to piece together what had happened—shaping the story, preparing statements, hunting for someone to blame. River let his shoulder drop. For now they were safe. River held out a hand, signaling a halt. “We can walk now,” he said. Albert looked relieved, nearly collapsing into a brisk walk as he tried to find a stable rhythm for his breathing again. The others still looked nervous, their heads snapping back every few steps, as if expecting something to come tearing out of the darkness behind them. River didn’t blame them. He stretched his consciousness outward, expanding his mind further than ever before. Essence brushed against him, swirling through the air like silent signals. His thoughts wandered… but there seemed to be no trace of pursuit.

  Still, the effort drained him. Fatigue setting in. Even his stomach twisted with hunger, a sharp and unfamiliar sensation. He hadn’t felt this kind of need since the day his powers first awakened. Maybe he had he pushed his magic too far? Used so much essence that his body now needed something more—real food—to survive? He shook the thought away. They kept moving. They had to push further south—put as much distance between themselves and the Academy as possible. It would take weeks to reach the kingdom’s edge. And beyond that… the Wastelands. River’s thoughts drifted to the little he knew of that place—a desolate, brutal stretch of land where food was scarce and clean water even rarer. It was the home of Astra’s people—the Delvers. He hadn’t spoken with her much, but what little she’d shared was enough. The Delvers were a hardened warrior clan, survivors in a place even seasoned knights feared to tread. Where others saw the Wastelands as a death sentence, the Delvers carved out their lives among ruins and monsters, diving deep into dungeons to survive. They thrived where others withered.

  And soon… they would too. Or they’d die trying. River forced himself back to the present. They needed a plan—and fast. After a short, whispered exchange among the trees, they agreed on the basics: keep heading south, avoid the roads, stay off the wide trails. They couldn’t risk being seen. No one knew who the Academy would send after them… only that someone would come. But the question clawing at River’s mind was worse: would the kingdom post descriptions of them? Wanted posters in nearby towns? The thought sent a chill through him. If they waited too long, if they hesitated, it might become impossible to travel without being recognized. The more eyes looking for them, the slimmer their chances of reaching the Wastelands alive.

  By midday, the sun beat down through the forest canopy. They trudged forward in heavy silence, their footsteps dragging through the undergrowth. River’s legs ached with every step. His body felt sluggish, uncooperative. Ahead, Albert’s stomach growled. Beside him, Callum winced, holding his side. Even Amalia—usually composed—looked pale, her jaw tight with effort. They were all nearing their limit—and the road ahead was still long. There were no comforts here. No mercy. They would have to make do. River finally spoke, his voice hoarse and frayed. “Should we rest for a bit? Eat? Maybe travel by night instead? Less chance of being seen.” No one argued. If anything, they looked relieved. “Albert,” River said, dragging himself upright, “help me clear a spot? These shrubs are murder.” Albert nodded silently, though his face showed the same weariness they all felt. Together, they pushed out with their wills, nudging the forest back. The underbrush resisted, but eventually yielded. A rough clearing took shape.

  It was enough. River dropped onto the hard earth. His legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed onto his back, vision swimming as he stared up at the dull grey sky. The others followed, sinking to the ground with no energy to spare. Amalia pulled out their supplies. They had two dense loaves of bread, a wedge of cheese, and four sweating sausages. River stayed where he was, eyes closed, unmoving. He didn’t need the food. He could regenerate his essence. That was what really mattered. If he could recover his strength, he'd be useful again. So he reached inward, trying to will his reserves to refill. Around him, the others at. No one spoke. The quiet sound of chewing and labored breathing were the only signs of life. River’s eyelids grew heavy. The forest faded. The world slipped away.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Sleep took him. But it wasn’t like before. There were no dreams. No memories. No visions. Only a cold, endless void—essence raging within him like a storm. A torrent that offered no peace. No rest. As River stirred from the deep nothingness. The hollow ache and gnawing hunger that had plagued him earlier were gone. The sky above was a dark canvas, the edges of the clearing lined with the last traces of fading twilight. They would need to move soon.

  River glanced around. Albert, Amalia, and Callum were still sound asleep, sprawled across the rough grass, their limbs now protruding from their sleeping bags. Their faces were slack with exhaustion. They deserved the rest, River thought. He wouldn't wake them. Not yet. He couldn’t take the simple pleasures from them as well. Not until he truly needed to. Stretching his sore muscles, River pushed himself upright and leaned back against the broad trunk of a tree at the edge of the clearing. He slipped off his bag, flipping open the clasp with a practiced motion, and summoned forth the books he had taken in such a rush from the restricted section. Until now, he hadn’t even had time to look at them properly. He had trusted Emery’s judgment blindly—but now, curiosity tugged at him. He pulled the books out one by one, running his fingers along their covers. Some seemed obscure, titles that sounded useless to his ears: dusty tomes on ancient laws, alchemical theories older than the current empire.

  But three stood out. "Dungeons and What to Expect in the Wastelands" A black-bound volume, its cover scarred and weathered, but the spine still intact. "The Effects of High-Tier Essence Bands on Essence Signatures" A plain white tome that might have gone unnoticed if not for the way it radiated essence. It practically thrummed against his fingers, thicker and heavier than the others, humming quietly to his senses. And lastly "Echoes of the Mind: A Study of Magical Memory Techniques" Which was a purple book, its surface almost shimmering faintly under the moonlight. It felt almost alive. River’s heart picked up slightly. These books... these were important. He could feel it in his bones. River tucked the last book back into the bag, feeling the faint thrum of essence against his fingertips as he did. Above him, the sky had darkened completely, the jagged outlines of trees sharp against the starlit sky. It was time. They’d slept long enough. Their missing hours of rest seemingly taken up in a single, dreamless stretch. River pushed himself off the ground. His muscles protested. Stiff but still cooperative.

  Thank the gods. The last thing he needed tonight was another problem. He crossed the clearing quietly, nudging Albert first, then Callum, then Amalia. They stirred sluggishly, blinking into the void.

  “We need to move,” River said, voice low and rough. No one argued. But no one seemed glad at the prospect either. They packed without a word, exhaustion hanging heavy between them like a storm waiting to break. The forest had gone eerily still. No birds. No insects. Only the crunch of boots through underbrush and the occasional ragged breath breaking the quiet. As they continued, the ground sloped steeply upward, forcing them to scramble over roots and loose stone. Albert lagged behind, flushed and heaving, his breathing loud in the silence. Trying to help, Callum called out, “Grab the branches first—it’ll help steady you.” But Albert wasn’t in the mood. “Mind your own business. I’ve got this,” he snapped, his voice sharper than intended. The tension was thick—no one had the energy left for patience. River noticed Amalia biting her tongue. She clearly wanted to say something, but didn’t want to add to the mood. The climb drained them quickly—more punishing than expected. The forest resisted them at every turn. The physical effort had worn away all niceties. On the descent, Callum stumbled on a hidden branch, barely catching a low-hanging limb before tumbling down. Even Amalia muttered darkly when River suggested pushing a bit further. No one was in a good mood. They were tired. Hungry. The trees stretched endlessly, swallowing the horizon. No goal in sight. No sign of how far they'd come—or how much farther they had to go River said nothing more. He just kept walking, the ache in his chest growing heavier with every step. The sky was beginning to brighten again. It was time to rest. River stepped ahead, already clearing a spot for them. He could’ve asked Albert to help—but he didn’t.

  No point in adding more pressure.

  Not now. They couldn’t keep this pace much longer.

  He feared that either their soul, body, or mind would give. And that none of them would return the same.