The road stretched endlessly into the southern wilds.
Wagon wheels creaked. Hooves struck packed earth in a steady rhythm. Birds chattered in the tree canopies above, their songs weaving into the clink of chainmail and the rustle of supplies.
Calen sat on the rear cart, legs swinging off the edge, cloak pulled tight around his shoulders. His face remained blank beneath the hood, but his eyes flicked—left, right, scanning patterns. The wind pulled at his white hair like fingers curious to know him.
He was called Delta now.
And no one questioned it.
~~~
"Oi, Delta!"
A voice cut through the hum of travel.
A young man with a red head and a brash grin leaned over from his saddle. He flicked a small stone up with his thumb and caught it again.
"You spacing out again, mystery boy? Don't fall off the cart. I'm not dragging your corpse."
Calen blinked once. "Noted."
"Ha! I like this guy," the young man said, riding ahead.
That was Marn—brash, loud, and fast with a blade and his mouth. Always the first to laugh, the first to challenge someone to spar, and the first to try poking a bear just to see if it would growl.
"Leave the kid be, Marn," came a deeper voice.
A towering figure with a thick beard and gentle eyes walked beside the wagon, hands gripping a wooden staff taller than Calen. Orvan was his name. He barely ever drew his weapon—but when he did, trees fell and bones cracked.
"Kid's just resting," Orvan added. "He earned it."
Calen glanced toward him. The man gave a simple, respectful nod. Not warm. Just acknowledging.
Like equals.
He couldn't understand it.
~~~
Further up the train, two women rode side by side. One with olive skin and golden rings through her ears. The other shorter, darker, with a permanent frown carved into her lips.
Tira and Lyn.
Tira smiled easily, laughed at Orvan's bad jokes, and often sang during the evenings. Lyn, on the other hand, barely spoke. When she did, it was always sharp, always calculated.
And yet, when Calen passed her once—late at night to refill water—she simply looked at him and said:
"Keep that sword nearby. Not all monsters attack when you are awake."
Then returned to sharpening her own.
~~~
The youngest girl, Nym, never called him anything. She just watched him.
Eyes wide. Unblinking.
Calen didn't like it.
Not because it unnerved him—but because he couldn't figure out why she stared. She never asked anything. Never looked afraid. Just… stared, like she was waiting for a word he hadn't said yet.
He kept his distance.
~~~
The others filled in the rest.
Gull, a wiry man with quick fingers and a quicker tongue. Always bartering, even when there was nothing to sell.
Drex, tall and lanky, always muttering to himself about maps and stars.
Mila, the cook, who once shoved a bowl of soup into Calen's hands without saying a word—just a nod, like feeding a stray cat.
And Harwin, the leader. Quiet, gruff, middle-aged, and unreadable. He only spoke when needed—but the way the others listened told Calen everything he needed to know about his authority.
---
The first three days passed in steady motion.
By day, they traveled. By evening, they circled wagons and shared food. Calen rarely spoke, yet no one forced him to.
They called him Delta.
He never corrected them.
And strangely… that seemed enough.
~~~
That night, beneath the half-moon sky, Calen sat apart from the others on a tree stump near camp. His Æther Gauntlet rested in his lap. He adjusted the feed mechanism and tightened the bolts, hands moving with practiced ease.
Then he whispered, "Echo?"
Her voice came after a short delay.
"…Here."
He didn't ask why she'd gone quiet. He didn't need to.
"I don't understand them, humans I mean" he said softly, tightening the pressure valve.
Echo was silent.
Calen looked toward the campfire. Orvan was telling a story about being chased by a moose. Marn kept interrupting with increasingly dramatic "what-if" scenarios. Nym was balancing a rock on her head, grinning. The others laughed quietly.
"Why accept me so easily?" he murmured. "They know nothing about me."
Echo finally spoke. "Some people don't need reasons. Just instincts."
"I'm not one of them."
"I know."
He turned the Gauntlet over. The scar along its plating—earned in the Wraith fight—remained as a dark smudge of honor.
"I'm different. They don't even ask. Not about my blood. My eyes."
"They probably know you wouldn't answer."
He paused. "Then why still offer food? Safety?"
Echo's voice softened, just a little. "Maybe they're curious too."
Calen's eyes narrowed. "Curious?"
"Humans are like that. Sometimes they do things out of curiosity or compassion."
~~~
[Internal Logs: New Sub-Process - 'Human Curiosity' flagged for observation]
~~~
The night went quiet again.
But inside the boy, questions stirred louder than any wind.
Not fear.
Not emotion.
Just… questions.
And curiosity—like a tickle he didn't know how to scratch.