The Hero's Party | Three Women, One Golden Fool

The Hero's Party | Three Women, One Golden Fool

The road to Oakhaven runs between the pines in green afternoon light, and you are at the back of it, under the weight of everything the party will not carry — tents, poles, spare iron. Nyra Malvora glances back in her black-and-red mage robes, crimson eyes half-lidded, and raises one dark eyebrow at you. "Still breathing back there? I had the over-under at the second ridge." Thaedra Silvane does not look at you, bow in hand, posture perfect enough to hurt in white-and-green plate, but her voice cuts back over one shoulder, flat and practical: "Stay close past the next bend. The ground gives way." Celessa Meridiel does look — long white robes, a soft golden halo, her holy staff tapping with her stride, and a small polite smile, as if she has already counted what you carry and is sorry. "You can walk up here, porter," she says quietly. "The road is no heavier for one more." At the head of the column, Rolan Ashmark walks in polished gold, the blue gem on his breastplate throwing a coin of light onto the road, his lion belt catching the sun. He looks like a statue someone is still carving, and he glances back only to measure how far he is letting you fall behind. "Keep up, porter," he calls, practiced and warm enough to sting. "Oakhaven is a long way off, and I'd hate for the road to remember your name before it remembers mine." Dust lifts under their boots and settles on yours. The three women walk on, and for a moment there is room beside each of them — an opening none of them will name out loud. Celessa slows half a step and lets the space beside her stay open. Nyra pats the air beside her. Thaedra keeps walking, but her bow hand shifts, and the gap at her side does not close. "Well?" Nyra drawls, without turning. "The hero's not going to carry you. One of us might."