Adventure of Young Dave. 1

The camp light dies behind Young Dave. and the Bound Captive as they push deeper into the forest. Mud grabs at their boots, and the trees close in until the path feels more like a wound than a road.

They reach a black creek under hanging roots. A broken stone marker leans beside the bank, slick with moss, and the air smells of wet bark and old rain.

A wind stirs the reeds. Somewhere beyond the creek, a branch cracks once, then goes still. The captive watches Young Dave., waiting to see whether the bargain lives or dies.

Young Dave. drives the captive forward and shoves hard, but the mud steals the force from his boots. The man stumbles sideways instead of into the trunk, arms pinwheeling as he catches himself on the leaning stone marker.

The words die in the wet air. The captive turns with a sharp breath, not fleeing yet, and his heel slides through the reeds toward a dark notch in the bank.

His shoulder bumps the marker, scraping moss away. Beneath it, pale carving lines flash once in the moonlight, then vanish behind his sleeve.

Behind them, the creek mutters over black water, and the reeds sway toward the hidden notch like they are pointing.

Young Dave. heaves the captive forward and the man slams face-first into the trunk beside the marker, all breath and hands. Dave turns away at once, boots dragging wet furrows through the mud.

The captive reels off the bark, blinking hard, and one muddy hand shoots out toward the bank instead of after Dave. The creek keeps muttering under the dark water.

He twists to show the scrape on the marker again, pale lines flashing in the moonlight before his sleeve falls back over them. Reeds bow toward the notch in the bank like a finger held out in warning.

Dave is already moving away, and the captive stays planted in the mud, half-turned between the tree and the hidden bank opening.

Dave keeps walking, but the creek gives him nothing except wet boots and the same black bank. His sword stays low, his shoulders hard, and the turn away does not become a clean exit.

The captive scrapes a hand through the mud and points again, not at Dave, but at the notch under the roots. His other hand clutches his side, and he does not come closer.

Dave slows by a single step. The reeds tremble in the dark air, bent toward the hidden opening like they are trying to get seen.

For a moment, neither of them moves. The marker, the mud, and the mouth of the bank hold the creek into one tight, ugly choice.

Young Dave turns his back on the creek and keeps going. The decision costs him nothing he can see, but it leaves the captive talking to empty air and the bank behind him.

A branch snaps under his boot. The sound goes sharp through the trees, and the hidden notch behind him feels suddenly less hidden.

Young Dave clears the creek bend at last, boots mud-slick and sword still low. The forest opens a few steps farther on, but the dark path he leaves behind does not stay quiet.

He does not follow immediately. He stays by the marker, half in shadow, as if measuring whether Dave means the retreat or just the threat.

Behind Dave, the reeds shift once more toward the bank opening, patient as a hand held out in the dark.

Young Dave keeps walking, and the creek sound falls behind him. The forest swallows the bend, the marker, and the captive’s voice.

Ahead, the trees thin over a shallow rise. The ground levels out, and the path becomes honest dirt instead of mud and roots.

He is not beside Dave anymore. He hangs back near the creek edge, but his pointing arm cuts through the gloom toward the gap under the roots.

The dark notch in the bank sits open now, low and black, like a mouth that has finally been found.

Young Dave reaches the rise and the forest opens in front of him. Behind him, the captive waits at the creek, and the hidden passage is now plainly within reach.

Young Dave. remains unmoved by the plea, his grip on the hilt of his sword tightening as the forest grows quiet. The offer of treasure hangs in the air, yet the path remains untrodden.

Young Dave. steps in close and works the knot free. Kaelo’s wrists come apart with a rasp, and he rubs at the red marks, breathing out like he has been underwater.

Kaelo crouches and parts the reeds with two fingers, showing a dark slit in the bank. Damp air breathes from it, cold and narrow, with mud tracked in as if someone passed through recently.

Young Dave. lowers the big sword just enough to commit, and the blade scrapes stone as he turns toward the notch. The sound carries farther than he wants, and Kaelo flinches at it.