CHAPTER 34: CAMPFIRE ETIQUETTE

When they broke from the trees, Apollo didn’t see the fire first or the people around it, but the river, earthy red in the predusk, grazing its way around the half-circle of tents and lean-tos like a barn cat hoping to be invited in.

The encampment was just tight enough to look temporary but too meticulous to be abandoned soon: wooden stakes in an uneven ring, canvas patched with three colors of resin and whatever rags were cleanest, racks for drying meat, and signaling twine strung from branch to branch in a language only birds could read.

No livestock, no grandstanding. Hunters, then. Or people who wanted to be less noticed than they were.

The man tending the fire had the air of someone who’d known what every part of this land tasted like, smoke, clay, maybe even a little feather.

He was tall, shoulders built out like the crossbars of a gallows, and his hands were busy with a wire triangle and a pair of flat stones he flicked into a rhythm. His hair was short, gray at the temples; his face might have been handsome, but it was worked over with scars and patience.

What caught Apollo was not the face, though, but the way the man sat: as if sitting was something he had been specifically commissioned to do, and anything else would be a violation of contract.

The others at the camp waited their turns to look. Two more, one a woman, deliberate in the way her arms crossed and recrossed, and the third a younger man or teenager, wiry, burned on the backs of the hands, a fidgeter with something that could have been a child’s toy or a trap trigger.

All three had the set of people who measured even a gnat’s shadow before letting it pass.

"A welcoming committee," Nik said, stage-whispered, as if the cleverness might earn them a discount on whatever came next.

Lyra said nothing. She scanned the perimeter twice, hand flexing on the bow she wore more as jewelry than threat. Thorin just hiked up the last bit of shale slope and planted himself, breathing hard, like he’d rather die here than go another step.

The man at the fire raised one hand, not a greeting, exactly, just an acknowledgment, and waited.

Apollo wiped the back of his wrist over his mouth, hoping to clear the taste of old city from his tongue. He stepped up, catching the man’s gaze.

The eyes were dark; not black, but a sort of brown so dense it refused to reflect the flame. "Evening," Apollo managed, pitching the word somewhere between announcement and apology.

The man nodded. He ran his finger over the wire and stone, then set it aside. "You lost?"

It was not a question, but Apollo fabricated an answer anyway. "Making for the glass fields. Need a place to sleep that isn’t waterlogged."

The woman shifted her weight, triangular face highlighted in the fire. Her eyes were the washed-out blue of sky hours before a storm. She wore a spear slung across her back, the tip rag-wrapped but crusted in something black.

"You can share the fire," the man said. "If you trade for it. We’re short on stories or salt, whichever you think is worth the most."

Nik was about to offer a punchline, but Lyra shut him up with a look.

The third, the wiry one, grinned with too many teeth. "Or maybe you got news from Varnwick," he said. "We heard there was trouble there."

Apollo watched the stranger’s hands, nicked, splintered, the nails chewed to pink. "Nothing but the usual. We’re not anyone’s message runner."

The man at the fire grunted, accepting the deflection. He turned his attention to Thorin, who’d dropped to a crouch and was now poking at his ruined boot with the end of a stick.

The silence stretched, but not the uncomfortable kind: just the slow calculus of strangers testing for softness, or places to wedge a knife.

"I’m Cale," said the man, then motioned at the others: "Renna, and Yiv. Don’t worry about the dog. He’s seen worse company."

Apollo did not introduce himself. Instead, he let the name settle into the marrow of the moment.

Lyra finally sat, and Nik, sensing the edge had dulled, angled for the leftovers near the fire. The dog inched forward, nose twitching. Apollo followed a step behind, ignoring the throb in his leg.

Someone had made stew, roots, jerky, bitter wild peas. Cale ladled out portions; he did not offer bread or hard tack, but watched like a hawk as each of them took a bowl. His hands, Apollo noticed, were rock steady.

The first round of questions was always tactical: where are you headed, how many days’ rations, who’s after you, who do you owe.

Cale asked none of this. Instead, he told a story about a drowned city two weeks east, and how the ice there never melted, even in the belly of summer.

Renna listened, but her face never softened. Yiv piped up with a theory about the aquifers underneath, how they forged glass pillars that wormed up through the frost; when he grinned, Apollo could see the red gaps where teeth had been traded for luck or ransom.

Nik responded, as Nik would, by turning every question into a riddle. He bragged about once eating a crow egg that hatched in his stomach, and how he coughed up a blackbird three springs later. Cale found the joke funny, but only in the way someone finds a familiar disease both tragic and inevitable.

Lyra spent the meal sharpening a knife, her eyes tracking Renna. Those two were predator and predator, equal and opposite.

Apollo watched their conversation unfold in silence, each wordless glance a feint or a mapped strike. He waited for the moment one of them would break form, but neither did.

Thorin, however, fell easily into the role of tired survivor. He asked about the river and the traps set along its banks, about which side of the woods still had edible game, and how the salt lines were holding up against the black rot.

He let Cale lecture, which seemed to please both of them; men who’d lived hard could always recognize each other, and the language of shared misery was as intimate as any tongue.

After a while, the talk shrank down. Yiv went to tinker with his trap thing; Renna cleaned her spear, the rag moving with a violence that told its own story.

Apollo stayed at the fire, sipping the dregs, watching the way Cale adjusted the rock ring around the flame as if he expected someone to steal it the second he turned away.

It occurred to Apollo, not for the first time, that the world ran on this kind of vigilance: the idea that even friends, or the closest thing to them, might one day come back for the thing you valued most.

He waited until the others had drifted off. Cale lingered, staring into the fire with the patience of an unpaid debt.

They sat in the hush, listening to the crack and spit of pine. Apollo’s arm ached; he flexed the hand, watching the gold shimmer nearly invisible now beneath the healed skin.

"You’re a quiet sort," Cale said without looking up.

Apollo shrugged. "Nothing worth saying."

Cale nodded once, as if this were proof of a philosophy he’d always believed. "The river here takes things," he said.

"Names, memories, sometimes bodies. I’ve seen it twice, maybe three times. The first, it left the body but took the name. The second, it left the name but took everything from the neck down. Third—" He broke off, then laughed.

Apollo waited. "You keep count?"

Cale’s eyes flicked over, black pools in the reflected firelight. "Someone should," he said.

Apollo rolled a pebble under his boot. "What’s the tax on passage?"

Cale held up two fingers. "Two questions, or two truths. Ask or answer, but not both."

It was a game, and Apollo respected it. "All right. First: Why are you out here?"

Cale considered him, then answered: "Not safe to be in the cities, not safe to stay outside. Out here’s the only place I ever knew how to be." He nodded at Apollo. "Your turn."

Apollo weighed his answer. "I’m running out of time."

Cale accepted this without sarcasm, only the barest flick of eyelid to telegraph agreement. "Second question?"

"Why did you let us in?" Apollo cut to it.

This time, Cale smiled for real; it was thin, but not unkind. "Because you’re not the first ones to pass this way. And you won’t be the last." He paused, then: "But you’re the first I thought might make it past the fields."

Apollo wanted to ask what was waiting in the fields, but the rules of the game said two and done.

He felt the weight of the fire, the river, the night, and his body. Something passed between them, a recognition, old as hunger.

Apollo watched the flames and considered the geography of trust: how easily it burned, how quickly it turned to ash in the wrong hands.

He left for the edge of camp, found a patch of soft ground beside the dog. The animal did not acknowledge him, but when Apollo lay back and matched his breathing to the rise and fall of the distant water, he somehow felt less alone.

He listened as one by one, the others laid down: Nik’s snores, Lyra’s slow, methodical unpacking of every single pouch and strap.

Thorin’s mumble, the incongruity of Renna humming an actual song as she cleaned her weapon. In the end, only the crackle of embers, the grind of river stone, and the slow, careful heartbeat of the man called Cale.

Sleep came late, but when it did, Apollo dreamed of nothing but the hush between two questions, and what it meant to have someone else count your days.

–

He woke before sunrise, but Cale was already at the river, sleeves rolled, hands cupped. He did not call out; Apollo joined him, feeling the air tense and electric, as if the world was about to nod in either approval or regret.

"Did you ever think," Cale said, "the butchers and the saints are just men who made different bargains with the same god?"

Apollo tried to smile. "That’s what the old priests said." He crouched, let the water run over his fingers. It was brain-cold, but clean.

Cale stood. When he did, the surface of the river leveled just a little, barely more than a sigh. "It’s easier to start over if you never had anything to begin with," he added, then walked back to camp.

Apollo watched him go, feeling the gold in his arms answer the new morning, prickling with a familiar ache. He wondered, as always, if this was the bargain he meant to make, or if he’d been tricked into it by inertia.

He decided, as he always did, to keep walking.

When the dog finally decided to follow, Apollo rewarded it with half a strip of dried fish, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and prepared to head east.

Behind him, the river resumed its shape, the sun not bothering to rise fully but only loaning its light to the world for one more day. The camp faded behind the next curve, but Apollo could still taste the memory of salt, smoke, and unfinished questions on his tongue.

He walked into the dawn, which was never gold, but always just enough.