Chapter 59: Combat-Free Routes
They left Marren at dawn.
Halden was at the communal house entrance when Nathan and Liaraen loaded the cart. He didn’t say anything. He only raised a hand in a farewell gesture—the same one Nathan had seen from Tomen, apparently the standard greeting of Veil coordinators. Nathan returned the gesture. Ilena, behind Halden, inclined her head. Liaraen responded with the formal elven bow.
The cart rolled forward.
Marren receded into the morning’s low mist.
Nathan drove this time. Liaraen had insisted he take the reins so she could review the map in detail. She was unfolding it over her knees, the wooden comb tucked behind her ear as a marker.
"Twelve hours," Liaraen said. "If we maintain a steady pace and don’t stop."
"We’re going to stop."
"I know we’re going to stop—just in case you decide to go fast."
"Then it’s fifteen hours split over two days."
"Thirteen if you leave at five."
"We leave at six."
"Fourteen."
"Fourteen."
"Acceptable."
"Maybe twenty... Ouch, apparently not, but everything still hurts."
Nathan rubbed his head when Liaraen rolled up the map and used it as an anti-joke weapon.
Liaraen folded the map, cheeks puffed in annoyance. Put it away. Took the comb from behind her ear. Started brushing her hair with mechanical efficiency.
Nathan glanced at her.
"Sprout."
"Yes?"
"I want to ask you something."
"Go ahead."
"What do you want to do when you grow up?"
Liaraen stopped brushing for half a second.
Then continued.
"As a profession?"
"As whatever you want. Profession. Life. Path. Whatever definition of ’doing’ you want to apply."
She thought for a few seconds.
And then, with her carefully calibrated aristocratic smile:
"Nathan. Elves live approximately eight hundred years. I’m sixteen, theoretically. I have, specifically, all the time in the world to decide what I want to do."
"That’s aristocratic evasion."
"It is."
"It’s not an answer."
"No, it isn’t."
"Try again."
"No."
"Sprout, don’t try to act like me—that’s not good for your health."
"No."
"Sprout."
"Fine." Liaraen lowered the comb. "I’ll be honest. Honestly, I don’t know. And that’s the real answer. It’s not evasion. It’s the truth. I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up. I’m sixteen. My life until eight days ago was completely defined by other people. My instruction. My rank. My obligations. My sister. My father. The court. None of that ever included a discussion about what I specifically wanted."
"Good."
"It’s not ’good.’ It’s an unresolved problem."
"It’s ’good’ because it means you can start resolving it now."
"I have, specifically, all the time in the world to start resolving it."
"You’re back to evasion."
"Yes. It’s a reliable technique."
Nathan laughed briefly.
He was quiet for a few seconds.
Then, in a tone specifically different from someone who’d thought of something while the conversation paused:
"Have you ever seriously considered doing anything?"
"Yes. Several things."
"Name one."
"Expedition botany."
"Boring, but explain."
"Official botanical expeditions leave Aelthoren approximately once every fifteen years. They study flora in regions of the continent no elf has ever catalogued. I would go, if family permission existed. But as the second daughter of a major house, permission probably won’t exist. It’s considered excessively dangerous for someone of my rank."
"And yet you considered it?"
"I consider it every time I see the published expedition catalog. Every fifteen years."
"Good. Another?"
"Intercultural diplomacy. I could be an ambassador from Aelthoren to one of the southern human kingdoms. It requires additional training I don’t have. But it’s a realistic option for second daughters."
"Do you like the idea?"
"The idea, yes. The specific execution, I’m not sure. Elven ambassadors spend decades in a single posting. Forty years, fifty. It’s too long a commitment to make without more information."
"Another?"
"Writer."
Nathan looked at her.
"Writer?"
"Writer, yes. Aelthoren has an ancient literary tradition. Traditional poetry. History. Natural philosophy. I’ve written some things. Short texts. None published. But I’ve seriously considered at some point presenting my work to the capital’s editorial court."
"I didn’t know you wrote."
"It’s information I don’t share widely. Most noble house daughters don’t write, or don’t publish. It’s considered somewhat inappropriate. Elven writers are mostly men or middle-rank women without aristocratic obligations."
"Sprout."
"Yes?"
"You should show me something you’ve written."
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because it’s not ready for outside reading. And because you probably wouldn’t read with the specifically literary attention an elven text requires. And because your commentary, though well-intentioned, wouldn’t be useful to me."
"That stung a little—technically you called me stupid."
"I know. It was intentional."
"Acceptable."
Liaraen smiled slightly. Returned to her comb. Nathan looked at the road.
Silence for a few seconds.
Then Liaraen spoke again, in a tone specifically different from someone who’d decided to continue the conversation on her own initiative:
"Nathan."
"Yes?"
"You."
"Me what?"
"What do you want to do when you’re older?"
Nathan thought for a moment.
"I’m already older."
"You’re twenty-two."
"Yes."
"I’m sixteen. You’re twenty-two. In the human frame of reference, you’re still young."
"Alright. When I’m older."
"When you’re old. In human terms."
"When I’m old." Nathan thought about it. "Honestly? I don’t know."
"Ah."
"Yes. Ah."
"You evade too?"
"It’s not evasion. It’s a real answer. My life until eight days ago was also completely defined by external circumstances. Carrying boxes. Surviving. Not thinking too much. The question of what I want to do when I’m old never comes up when you’re calculating whether you can pay next month’s rent—basically I lived day to day."
"Acceptable."
"Now that I apparently have a Seal, a Class, a rank that’s going to rise over time, and a lifespan probably extended by using not-quite-natural abilities, the question starts to make sense. But I still don’t have an answer."
"Preliminary considerations?"
"Some."
"Go ahead."
"One. I probably want a house. With a room specifically mine. With walls that don’t have to be shared with noisy neighbors. With a kitchen where I can cook without rationing. With a big bed."
"Aristocratically humble."
"Yes."
"Two."
"Two. I probably want to see more places. Not as a Hunter necessarily. As a visitor. Without a schedule. Without a client. Just going to places that exist and seeing them."
"Tourism."
"Tourism. Yes."
"Three."
"Three. I probably want, at some point, to learn something specifically useless. Something that doesn’t help me survive or make money or be a Hunter. Something purely for the sake of learning it."
"Like what?"
"I don’t know. Specialized cooking. A musical instrument. Writing. Astronomy. Anything. Something like that."
Liaraen nodded slowly.
"All of that is specifically reasonable."
"Yes."
"None of those three things require you to remain a Hunter."
"No, none of them do."
"Do you think you’ll stop being a Hunter at some point?"
"I don’t know."
"Why not?"
"Because the Seal can’t be removed. Because the Class remains regardless of whether I work as a registered Hunter. Because the things the Class exists for will probably keep happening around me even if I try to ignore them."
"So you can’t really retire."
"So I can’t really retire."
"Acceptable."
Silence.
Nathan looked at the road.
They continued for several more minutes without speaking.
---
The sun rose.
Around midday, when the road passed through a denser forest area, Soul Sense reported something.
Presences.
Ahead.
Three.
C-Rank.
Nathan processed them with the specific calm of someone driving a cart after a morning of quiet conversation.
*C-Rank.*
*Good.*
*I can handle C-Rank.*
*Especially if there are only three.*
*No problem.*
He kept driving.
Approximately two hundred meters from the detection point, the road passed through a small open area between trees. And in the center of that open area, distributed in a pattern suggesting a specifically organized ambush, were the creatures.
Bipedal. Shoulder-height to Nathan. Their skins covered in metallic spines on the back and arms. Elongated snouts ending in irregular teeth. And with the specific posture of creatures that had been waiting for hours for something to appear on the road so they could attack.
All three turned at once when the cart appeared.
They emitted coordinated guttural sounds.
They arranged themselves in a frontal attack formation.
Nathan looked at them from the cart.
They looked at him from the road.
And for approximately three full seconds, neither side did anything. Nathan kept holding the reins. The creatures kept their formation. The chestnut horse, apparently oblivious to the potential tension, slowed down because the creatures were in the middle of the road and he, a reasonable animal, wasn’t going to crash into them.
Liaraen turned to Nathan.
"Nathan?"
"Yes."
"Creatures on the road."
"Yes."
"Aren’t you going to do anything?"
Nathan thought for exactly one second.
"No."
"Nathan."
"I’m going to go around them."
"You’re going to go around them?"
"Yes."
"The C-Rank creatures in the middle of the road in ambush formation?"
"Yes."
"Nathan."
"Sprout."
Liaraen looked at him.
Nathan gently pulled the left rein. The chestnut horse adjusted its trajectory. The cart moved laterally about two meters to the left of the road, looking for space between the trees to pass around the clearing’s edge without crossing the creatures’ formation.
The three creatures in the center turned their heads to follow the movement.
They emitted guttural sounds again. Now with a different cadence. Less coordinated. More confused.
Nathan ignored them.
He continued driving along the clearing’s edge.
The cart passed approximately ten meters from the creatures’ formation.
None attacked.
They stood still. In formation. Watching the cart circle around them without engaging.
Nathan maintained the pace.
And about halfway through the loop, specifically as the cart was passing right in front of the creatures, Nathan raised a hand.
"Sorry," Nathan said in a normal voice, addressing the creatures specifically. "But I’m not in the mood for that right now."
The creatures stood still.
No response.
No attack.
With the specifically confused expression corrupted beasts can have when the ambush script they’ve been preparing for hours completely collapses for the least anticipated reason of all.
The target simply passed by.
Without combat.
Without negotiation.
Without even registering them as a threat.
Without even registering them as something worthy of attention.
Nathan kept driving.
About twenty meters past the clearing, when the cart was back on the main road, Nathan glanced back for half a second.
The three creatures were still in formation.
Still in the center of the clearing.
Still having not processed exactly what had happened.
Nathan smiled.
He turned to Liaraen.
"Apparently," Nathan said, "you can’t have a successful ambush if the target simply decides not to participate."
Liaraen looked at him for a full moment.
Then, with her carefully controlled voice:
"Nathan."
"Yes?"
"You just humiliated three C-Rank creatures without touching them."
"You think?"
"Without drawing a weapon. Without using a skill. Without combat. Without anything."
"I’m audacious."
"Just passing by and saying ’sorry.’"
"Maximus Romanus."
"Nathan."
"Yes?"
"That was specifically cruel."
"Cruel?"
"They were waiting for combat. They prepared. They coordinated. They adopted formation. They made guttural threat sounds. The whole ritual. And you denied them even the validation of a response."
"Yes."
"That’s specifically cruel."
"Yes, Sprout. A little, I guess. They won’t die today."
"Acceptable."
Liaraen laughed.
A broad, uncontained laugh that Nathan had been hearing more and more often since they’d left the dungeon.
Nathan drove with specific calm.
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