When I came to again, I was lying face-down in the grass. My eyelids were stuck together from salt, lips dry, throat burning as if I'd been screaming all night. Maybe I had. I didn't remember. Only the cold, the silence... and her.My body didn't move at first. Every muscle felt numb, every bone laced with ice. I tried to sit up, collapsed onto my side instead. I lay there, staring at the sky, breathing. Quietly. Evenly. The only thing that mattered was not forgetting—I was alive.
And then, suddenly, a flare.Not pain. Not magic. Not anything from outside. From within—as if someone had opened a hidden door deep inside my chest, and a warm light burst out. It spread through my ribs, collarbones, heart. Not burning. Not illuminating. Filling.And I felt—stronger. Just slightly. Like what I had done had been seen.Like the world itself whispered: "You passed. Now—step forward."
It was the blessing that always came after a battle. But this hadn't just been a fight. It was a trial. A trap. A choice. And I had survived. Foolishly. Bravely. Stubbornly. But survived.When I was able to rise, the first thing I did was look at the river. And... it had changed.No longer black. No longer flowing like thick oil. It moved again. Gentle ripples, a clear current rushing fast and free, as though a mountain had shrugged off its burden.Sunlight danced on the surface. The banks were lined with wet grass, trembling in a breeze I hadn't felt since the moment I arrived.The Nereid was gone. And the river was alive. I stepped closer. Cautiously.The water touched my feet and, for the first time in what felt like forever, it was just cold. Normal. Real.
"Alive. Confirmed. Hard to write—left hand won't obey, right hand's shaking.I stabbed myself with two daggers. Let me repeat that:I. Stabbed. Myself. With daggers.And it worked.Note to self: never do that again. Even if it seems like a 'brilliant maneuver.'Results:– Been lying here for days now, barely able to move– Gash under ribs—deeper than I'd like– Muscle tear in my shoulder (thanks, tree branches)– My spine sounds like stale bread when I movePros:– Not dead– She's dead– River flows again– No one's draining my life force– No more ghost kids whispering in my earsCons:– Literally everything else."
"Think it's Day Seven."
Made bandages from an old shirt. Disinfected wounds with what's left of the alcohol tincture from my kit.It burns, but bearable. I've seen worse—not on me, but still.Didn't bother with the tent—no strength. I'm lying under a tree root canopy. Minimal fire. Making noise to scare off the local fauna, but nothing's come near. Even the mosquitoes must know I'm not in the mood. Or maybe I just reek too much of blood and swamp.No appetite. Drinking river water—doesn't drain me anymore, which is already a miracle.Food? Ha. I've got a piece of dried bread and a couple nuts.Rationing for two days. Survival first.
"Day Eight."
Pain's fading. Or I've grown used to it.I can walk. Slowly. No urge to go anywhere. This journal's my only companion.Hi, journal. I didn't die today. Proud of me?No answer. Figures.Shoulder's swollen. Gotta limit movement. No potions left. Maybe I should've saved one. Then again—I could've died.Rebinding wounds every few hours.Supplies are low. I'll scout tomorrow. Time to stand again.Don't care. You wanna live—crawl. Limp. Or just curse and keep going.
"Day Nine."
Stood up.I limp like a crooked witch. But I breathe. Heart still works. Hands still grip a blade. Even tried stretching—just pain. But familiar pain. Almost comforting.Birds are back. That's the strange part. It's been silent, but today—I heard a sparrow. A real one.Then insect chirping. A beast's distant cry—not dangerous, just alive.Life's returning. Slowly.Just like me.
Morning. A short, stubborn entry:
"Day Ten."
I'm leaving.I've been alone too long. Time to return. Report. Record.Not for glory. Not for a badge.For memory.
The way back wasn't short, but it wasn't hard—aside from the pain in my ribs and the constant creaking of my back like an old door.Ellie walked slowly, leaning on a stick that looked more like a root than a staff. Daggers at her belt, the medallion in her pocket, the journal clutched to her chest.The river whispered goodbye with its ripples. The forest didn't groan or hide.It just… walked with her.She walked alone.No voices. No shadows. And she didn't know how she felt about that.
By evening on the twelfth day—city gates. Mud-caked boots, dried blood on her shirt, cloak streaked with grime and tears.The guard looked at her like a ghost, not recognizing her at first. Only when she held up her token did he react.– You made it back?She nodded.– Alone.
She didn't return to the guild as a hero, but as someone who knew where every stitch on her body was. Ellie smelled of swamp, dust, and victory—but walked like she'd just gone out to get bread.And the guild greeted her with its usual noise: tables, papers, scribes, adventurers, snoring at the front, laughter in the back.No one noticed her right away. Good. She didn't like "hero returns."The report room passed by, and now her goal was just: make it to a bed without collapsing.
On the second step up the stairs, a wooden stick jabbed her in the face.– So you're alive, huh, – said Guildmaster Holt, leaning on the railing. – Thought the dead marked you down already.Ellie raised an eyebrow.– Didn't see any lists. But your hearing's sharp as always.– Yeah. Got hearing, but no explanations. Did you pull a spirit out of a river or what?– Almost. But she asked first, – she replied, limping past him.
Holt watched her go.– If you go solo into another 'empty' sector, I'm kicking you out of the guild. Or marrying you—just to keep an eye on you.From upstairs:– Marry her! At least she doesn't scream like your ex!– Or throw fireballs in the kitchen! – someone added from the back table.– Anyway, Ellie, – Holt called again, – after you log your report, come straight to me.– I…– No arguing.Ugh. I want to sleep. I want food. Leave me alone.
Same scribe—old, dry, with round glasses. He looked up, not surprised, not smiling. Just pulled out a pen.– Sector and result?– East, G-4. Confirmed anomaly. Contact with local entity—Nereid. Combat engagement. Target neutralized.The pen paused.– Alone?– Yes.– Documents, map, report?Ellie pulled out the scroll and journal. Unfolded the map. Showed the updated river path, symbols marked.– Here. Encounter was here. Entry point—there.– Medallion?She nodded, took it out. The scribe didn't touch it. Just looked. For a long time.– Want this logged as a discovery?– No, – she said. – Not a discovery.– Then what?– A warning.He logged it anyway.– The seniors will review it.– Doesn't matter. I did my part.– And you're… sure you handled it?She looked him in the eye.– Would I be back if I hadn't?He didn't answer. Just passed her the form.– Sign here.– That's it?– That's it.She signed. Name. Route. Date. Mark.
She turned away from the desk, scanning for the Guildmaster—but many eyes were on her.Not as a "hero," but as some strange girl with a hawk's stare and a fighter's limp.Same cloak—now stitched at the shoulder. Boots—cleaned, but cracked. Face—like she'd fine you for tracking mud on the floor.
– Look, it's the one from the swamps.– Yeah, they say she whispered to spirits.– Or fought them.– Went mad and came back a winner.
She heard them. Pretended not to.Her head throbbed from old bruises. Her side itched. The wound had reopened yesterday when she reached for a jar on a shelf.Main thing—don't cough too loud. Or they'll think you're plague-ridden too.
At the table sat Holt—massive like a bear, bald head polished, eyes forever squinted like everyone was doing something shady. Even if they were just standing.He didn't look up as she approached. Just set aside his papers, pulled out half a meat pie, and nodded at the stool beside him.
– Sit. Talk.– I'd rather stand. It's all in the report.– I'm not a scribe. I listen. You made contact with an anomaly. You survived. I need to know—do we send people there or just bury the map?Ellie shrugged.– Target's gone. Terrain's unstable, not dangerous. No residual effects.– Wildlife?– Coming back.– People?– Not yet. Keep them out.Holt looked at her, intrigued.– You're starting to scare me. I like that.
He chewed. Crumbs fell on his papers. He didn't notice. Ellie watched.He didn't say "well done" or "get some rest." He said:– Need regen?– Got my own. Salves, tinctures. I suffer silently.– With that face, you don't have much choice, – he muttered, digging into papers again. – Sit for a sec.– …You're one to talk, – she muttered, collapsing onto the bench, which creaked like her knees.– What's with your shoulder?– Dislocated. Fixed it. Crooked, though.– Yep. I can tell. You once "fixed" your head too, and now your neck's always tilted.– Maybe it's a style. They say lopsided stares are mysterious.– You look like someone who hasn't slept and fell face-first into a pit.– Not a pit. A mud bath. Therapeutic immersion.– Therapeutic, huh. Should I pour boiling tea on your face, see if that "revives" you?Ellie smirked.– If it's with love—maybe.
Holt sighed, slid her a mug.– Drink. It's cold. Like you, stubborn ass.
He rummaged in his bag, pulled out a small bundle wrapped in cloth.– Here. Salve. New batch. Smells like a dead cat but heals better than prayers. Just don't lick it. You're quiet enough—you die, no one'll know.Ellie took it. Smiled faintly.– Thanks.– Get outta here, – he grumbled, burying himself in paperwork. – And eat. Don't die heroically on me, got it?She didn't answer. But paused at the door.– You too.– What about me?– Don't die. Not without permission.Holt snorted loudly and, without looking back, grunted:– Scram, runt. I'm working.But he was smiling. With his back.
At the exit, Lida—the archivist, skinny as a stick, voice like an anxious seagull—barreled into her.– Ellie! Ellie! It's really you?!– Nope. You confused me with a swamp corpse.– Did you really write it all down? Like… everything?!– There's a lot of personal stuff there – Ellie smirked.– Can I read it?!– Sure. If you want to go insane with me. – she pulled a face, trying to scare her.– That's so cool! You're a legend now, you know?! – Lida still bounced next to her like a kid near a campfire.– I'm a bruise with legs, Lida. Legends don't smell like wound salve.
In the mess hall, Ellie sat at a table with a bowl of soup and bread that looked like a brick.Someone joined her. Someone left. Someone winked. Someone avoided eye contact.A normal morning. A normal guild. Someone at the next table giggled.And Ellie, finally, allowed herself to relax—just a little.She placed her journal on the table. Covered it with her hand.And for a moment, just sat there. Not alone.Not with spirits. Not with shadows.With people. Loud. Living.And, gods damn it… a little bit warm.