Roam Finds Dren

The rocky terrain stretched out in every direction, barren and unyielding. Sparse tufts of grass clung to cracks in the stone, swaying faintly in the dry wind. Dren ran his hand over the hilt of his blade, restless and distracted, as the faint melody hummed in the distance like an almost-forgotten tune tugging at the edges of his thoughts.

They’d set camp early, exhaustion from the day’s travel making further progress impossible. Anora crouched by a small fire, her movements precise as she prepared something edible from their dwindling supplies. “You’re pacing,” she said without looking up.

Dren stopped mid-step, glancing at her. “I don’t—” He sighed. “It’s this place. It feels… wrong. Like something’s watching.”

Anora raised an eyebrow, finally meeting his gaze. “Or maybe it’s you. You’ve been acting strange since Harlen’s trail went cold.”

Before Dren could respond, the hum in the air grew louder, a low, resonant tone that sent shivers down his spine. His hand tightened on the blade’s hilt.

“You hear that?” he asked.

Anora froze, her sharp gaze darting across the shadowy expanse. “I hear something.” She stood, drawing her own weapon—a sleek, balanced staff she carried more for practicality than protection.

Dren didn’t wait. The melody wasn’t threatening; it was calling. He stepped away from the fire, scanning the horizon until a familiar form emerged from the haze. Roam moved steadily toward them, its movements fluid and deliberate, the faint light of its core pulsing in rhythm with the song.

“Dren,” Anora warned, her tone sharp. “What is that?”

“It’s Roam,” he said softly, almost to himself.

“Dren, wait—”

But Dren was already moving, closing the distance between them. Roam stopped a few feet away, its sleek frame tilting slightly, as if studying him. The melody quieted, replaced by an almost imperceptible hum of acknowledgment.

Dren reached out, his hand hovering just short of Roam’s surface. He didn’t know why, but the touch felt significant—like a promise. Roam shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly leaning toward him, and the strange comfort he’d felt since meeting the construct settled over him like a warm mantle.

Anora approached cautiously, her grip on the staff tight. “Dren, what are you doing? You don’t even know what that thing wants.”

“It’s not a thing,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “And it’s not here to hurt us.”

She hesitated, studying the scene in silence. Finally, she lowered the staff, though her wariness didn’t fade. “You’re trusting it blindly,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost an accusation.

Dren turned to her, the faint light from Roam’s core casting shifting shadows over his face. “I trust it because it hasn’t given me a reason not to. Can you say the same about anyone else we’ve met out here?”

Anora didn’t respond immediately, her expression tightening. Roam stood motionless, its presence quietly imposing, as if waiting for the moment to pass.

Finally, Anora stepped back, shaking her head. “Just… don’t let it get you killed,” she muttered, returning to the fire.

Dren watched her go, then looked back at Roam. “It’s good to see you again,” he said softly.

Roam didn’t answer, but the faint pulse of its core light grew stronger for a moment, and Dren swore he could feel an emotion in it—a silent assurance, as if it had been waiting for this moment too.