CHAPTER 289: COMING TO SEE YOU OLD FRIEND

The convoy moved carefully along the narrow dirt path that curved through the Northern frontier, wheels creaking beneath the weight of what little remained of their supplies.

Ren Harven walked ahead of them, his coat fluttering lightly behind him, one hand gripping the strap of his satchel, the other wrapped around the small brass compass he always carried. The compass had been Wolf’s gift, back when the two of them were still cadets — before war had turned their laughter into whispers and their oaths into graves.

He was not a soldier.

Never had been.

Ren’s mind was his weapon. He mapped enemy routes, intercepted communications, and predicted troop movements with frightening precision. Noah had often said that if the North had ten men like Ren Harven, they could end the war in a week. But here, among the cracked earth and the burning scent of old mana traps, intellect meant little.

And yet, Ren stayed.

He’d volunteered to lead the supply convoy himself after word reached them of the Shadow Fleet’s loss. Noah had argued, of course. "You’re not built for the frontlines," he had said. "You’re our navigator. You guide us from behind, not in front."

Ren had only smiled. "Then it’s about time I see the path I’ve been drawing all this time."

Now, as the sun rose pale and cold through the smoke, Ren stopped.

He crouched, running his fingers across the dirt. "This doesn’t feel right," he murmured. The soil shimmered faintly — almost invisible unless you knew what to look for. A mana ripple, faint but alive.

"Sir?" one of the younger soldiers asked behind him. "Something wrong?"

Ren glanced back at the boy — couldn’t have been more than seventeen — and forced a small smile. "Nothing’s wrong," he said softly, though his pulse had begun to race.

He pocketed the compass, tracing the memory of Wolf’s laughter in his head. "You’d probably call me an idiot for coming out here, wouldn’t you, Wolf?" he muttered under his breath.

The boy frowned. "Sir?"

Ren looked up and smiled faintly. "Just keep the wagons steady."

He stepped forward.

The earth glowed blue.

And then it exploded.

---

When the dust cleared, the forest was gone. Only smoke and shattered trees remained. The convoy had been obliterated — horses torn from their harnesses, men thrown like rag dolls into the burning brush.

Ren lay half-buried beneath a broken wheel, his coat torn and his hair matted with blood. The sound in his ears was a dull ring, the kind that made the world seem far away. He coughed, spitting blood onto the dirt, his vision swimming in and out of focus.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the compass.

Cracked. Spinning endlessly.

He laughed — a broken, breathless sound. "You’d love this, Wolf," he whispered. "Both of us dying in places we shouldn’t have been."

He pressed a hand to his side, feeling the warmth of his blood seeping through his fingers. Around him, the remains of the convoy burned. A few of the soldiers still moved, crawling weakly through the wreckage, calling out for help.

Ren’s heart twisted. He forced himself up, staggering on unsteady legs. His vision doubled, but he could still see them — his men, his responsibility.

He limped toward the nearest one, a young woman with ash smeared across her face. "Easy," he said, kneeling beside her, his voice shaking. "You’re going to be fine."

Her eyes fluttered open, full of fear. "Commander... the mine—"

"I know," he said quietly, brushing her hair from her face. "Just breathe."

But she didn’t. Her body went still in his arms before he could even finish the sentence.

Ren froze. Then he shut her eyes with trembling fingers. "You did well," he whispered.

He looked around. No reinforcements. No sound of friendly banners. Only fire and silence.

For the first time in years, Ren felt fear. Real fear — the kind that crawled up from your stomach and pressed cold fingers around your throat. But he also felt something else: resolve.

He dragged himself toward the overturned wagon where a surviving crate of mana cores lay shattered open, faintly pulsing. The mines had been Central’s trap — triggered by residual mana stored along the path. That meant the enemy was nearby, watching, waiting for scavengers or survivors.

Ren took a long, shallow breath. His head spun, his blood loss worsening. But he pulled open his satchel anyway and retrieved the old map of the Northern routes — the one he’d drawn himself. The parchment was stained, corners torn.

He smiled faintly. "Guess this is where my map ends."

From the tree line, movement — figures in Central armor, their insignias glowing faintly in the smoky dawn. They were sweeping through the wreckage, checking for survivors.

Ren ducked behind the cart, gripping the compass in one hand and a pistol in the other. His breath came out uneven, and his body trembled with pain.

He’d never killed a man before.

He’d always left that part to Wolf.

"Sorry, old friend," he muttered, raising the gun. "Looks like I finally learned something from you."

The first Central scout came around the corner. Ren fired. The recoil nearly threw him backward, but the shot struck true — a clean hit through the chest.

Two more followed. Ren rolled behind the cart, reloaded with shaking hands, and fired again. He missed the second shot, hit the third. A searing pain tore through his side — an arrow grazing his ribs.

He gritted his teeth, pressing the compass into his palm until it drew blood. The needle spun and spun, refusing to point anywhere.

"Figures," he muttered through a weak laugh. "You were always bad with directions anyway."

The soldiers shouted commands in the distance. He was outnumbered, cornered, bleeding out. But Ren didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking of survival anymore.

He thought of Wolf — of the day they’d met at Ravenwood Academy, Wolf with his arrogant grin and Ren with his stack of books. They’d argued about everything: tactics, ethics, even the best kind of tea. But they’d understood each other. Wolf fought because he believed in people. Ren thought because he couldn’t afford to feel.

Now, both of them were gone.

Ren slumped against the shattered wagon, gun resting on his lap. The fires burned lower now, painting the horizon in shades of dying orange. The Central soldiers approached cautiously, weapons drawn, their boots crunching on the dirt.

Ren closed his eyes. "You know, Wolf," he whispered, "I used to think dying was chaos. Unmapped. But this... this feels almost peaceful."

He looked down at the compass. The crack ran right through the center, the needle twitching like a heartbeat.

He smiled faintly and lifted it toward the light. "Guess it’s broken now. Just like me."

Then, in a quiet, almost careless motion, Ren drew the last mana core from the crate. The blue light shimmered weakly in his palm.

He thought of Noah, of May, of Iris — of how tired they all looked lately. How far they’d fallen since the war began. He thought of what Wolf had told him once on a cold night long ago: "When the time comes, Ren, die facing north. Always die facing north."

He turned his body toward the Northern horizon. The wind stirred faintly, as if answering.

Ren smiled one last time, whispered a soft goodbye, and pressed the mana core to his chest.

The explosion bloomed silently — a flower of blue light swallowing the ruins whole.

When the Northern scouts found the site two days later, they found no bodies — only burned wreckage, the scent of ozone, and a single compass half-buried in the dirt.

It was cracked, its needle still spinning endlessly, refusing to rest.

Just like the man who’d held it.