CHAPTER 120: IN THE RIVER WITH HER(1)

The ghost and Steve both held still in that eerie silence, two figures caught in a moment suspended outside of time. The ghost’s hollow gaze bore into him, and in that frozen breath, Steve could feel his thoughts scatter like ash in the wind.

’Don’t do anything rash.’ he told himself firmly.

’ I have to keep her alive. No matter what happens... if she can find Maggie... there’s no way in hell I’m going to let her die.’

He held that thought tight like a shield and stared deeper into the specter’s vacant eyes. There was something mournful in them, something ancient and patient — like it had seen lifetimes before this one, and Steve was only another blink.

Then, suddenly, it shifted — just a flicker — as if the ghost had missed him in time, like it had peered too far ahead and found something it didn’t expect.

And then... a strange sensation rolled down his spine. A puff — soft and ghostly — pressed into the base of his back.

Steve’s breath hitched.

"I hope..." the ghost whispered.

"...I hope you know what you’re doing. Because if you don’t... you’re gonna regret this..."

And then—

Snap.

Just like that, the ghost was gone.

It didn’t fade or scream or shatter into light. It simply curled inward, like a leaf folding in the wind, and vanished into a thin stream of vapor — gone as if it had never been there at all.

Steve stood frozen.

The air was still.

Then —

A long, soft sigh slipped from his lips as he relaxed his grip on the hilt of his tug. His knuckles had gone white.

His eyes flicked toward the guard— Sarah— still lying on the ground, pale and wide-eyed, her chest heaving in quick, shallow breaths. Her terror lingered like a veil over her features. She wasn’t just injured — she was shaken to her core.

Steve stepped forward, voice low.

"Are you alright?"

She didn’t answer. Not with words. Her eyes just stared at him, silently pleading, trembling with the remnants of fear.

Gently, Steve crouched beside her. He didn’t press. He didn’t need to. His eyes flickered down her body, catching the angry bloom of purple around her left hand — swollen, bruised, likely fractured.

She was hurt. Not critically. But hurt all the same.

And Steve’s thoughts spiraled.

’She’s injured. But she’s alive. If I can just get the Author’s Notebook... I can get the magic healing spell. I can treat her. I can treat Ser Ira. And I’ll be closer to Maggie.’

’Everything’s lining up for me. All I need now... is that notebook.’

With careful hands, he helped the magic guard sit up. She groaned softly, pain threading through her voice. He murmured calming sounds under his breath, steady and reassuring, and slipped an arm under hers to help her stand. They both wobbled, struggling to walk, but he guided her to the base of a large tree and slowly eased her down, setting her gently against the bark.

The ground beneath her was cold, but he made sure she was comfortable, checking her posture, adjusting her coat. She gritted her teeth but nodded as he settled her down.

"Okay." he whispered, crouching low in front of her.

"Here we go. I need you to do me a favor, alright? Just... stay put. Right here."

He met her eyes — wild, vulnerable, glassy with pain and fear.

"I know the forest seems dangerous. But can you do that for me? Can you stay?"

Her lips trembled. Her voice came out in a whisper, broken and shaky.

"N-No... please... don’t go." she begged.

"What if... what if the monster comes back?"

Steve hesitated. The raw fear in her voice gripped him. Her body trembled beneath her uniform, and her eyes searched his face like he was the only thing anchoring her to sanity.

"Don’t worry." Steve said softly.

"I won’t be far. I just need to find the carriage — in case there are other magic guards. Then we’ll meet up."

Her fingers reached for him weakly.

"No... please..." she whispered again.

"Don’t."

Steve’s jaw clenched. Then, gently but firmly, he moved her hand down and met her eyes.

"Just trust me." he said. His voice had weight now — steel wrapped in silk.

"Be quiet. And nothing will happen to you."

She stared at him for a long beat. Then slowly nodded.

Steve rose with a grunt, the tension leaving his back one vertebra at a time. With a final glance, he turned and began his trek toward the carriage.

The forest swallowed him.

***

The day had been long. Too long.

The sun had crept into the sky, stretched out across its zenith, and now began to descend into warm hues — shadows lengthening, the forest growing denser and more unpredictable.

Steve moved carefully. He avoided goblet plants and watchful branches, weaving through thick roots and moss-covered ground. His breathing stayed shallow, his ears sharp. The deeper he moved, the more he felt it — the weight of something wrong.

But in due time, He emerged into a clearing, and as he did so, he stopped.

Eyes wide.

"No..." he whispered.

Gigantic footprints — deep, wide impressions left by massive, clawed feet — littered the ground. Dozens of them, scattered in erratic patterns.

Only one clan left tracks like that.

The Goblin Clan.

His stomach twisted.

Then the blood came into view. Pools of it, some dried, others still sticky. The carriage was overturned and broken into splinters. The horses — dead, torn open at the sides, their eyes lifeless. Bags ripped, tools snapped, the whole scene ravaged like a storm had torn through it.

And yet...

Steve bolted.

He rushed forward, slipping through blood and debris, falling to his knees at the shattered remains of the carriage. His hands clawed through wreckage, tossing aside torn cloth, broken wood, crushed supplies.

’The notebook. The notebook. The notebook.’

It beat like a chant inside his head, drowning out everything else. If he lost this, if it was truly gone—

’Do I even have another chance at all?’

He shoved aside a broken lantern. Ripped open a sack of ruined clothes. Panic coiled in his chest like a viper.

And then...

His fingers brushed something smooth.

Brown. Soft. Leather.

He paused.

Slowly, Steve pulled it free from under the collapsed beam. At first, it looked like just a bag — worn, old. His heart sank.

No...

But then he opened it.

And there it was.

The Author’s Notebook.

Still intact. Still real. Still his.

He let out a ragged, almost disbelieving chuckle. His hand clutched the notebook tightly, pulled it to his chest, hugging it like a lost child.

A single word slipped from his lips.

"It’s Still....it’s still here...thank the heavens..."

A smile ghosted across his face — thin, tired, but real.

And then—

"Is that...S-Steve?"

The voice froze him.

He turned slowly, notebook still held tight against him.

And there she was.

A familiar face. A voice like honey and home. A voice he had long awaited to hear.

"Tonya?" Steve breathed, his voice cracking on her name.