After the bandits fled, Old Shard retrieved his cauldron.
Which somehow survived being weaponized.
I suppose artifacts are sturdier than ordinary cookware.
The camp gradually settled again.
People returned to eating.
Conversations resumed.
And eventually Old Shard continued his story.
Or at least he tried to.
According to him, Grace spent most of her time doing the same thing.
Protecting people.
Watching people.
Worrying about people.
Making certain everyone reached the next morning alive.
Then Caravan Master arrived.
I had not even noticed him approaching.
He sat beside the fire.
Looked at Old Shard.
And immediately started laughing.
I was completely lost.
Without explaining anything, he poured a small amount of liquor onto the sand.
Then shook his head.
"Grace is crying in heaven."
Everyone laughed.
Even Old Shard.
A little.
I looked around.
Then finally asked the obvious question.
Why?
Old Shard sighed.
Then explained.
Grace was forbidden from drinking alcohol.
According to the rules of her order.
I blinked.
Several times.
Because that only created more questions.
If she could not drink—
why were they pouring liquor for her?
Master Grim answered that one.
Apparently it started as a joke.
When Grace joined the caravan, she was sixteen years old.
Sixteen.
I nearly dropped my journal.
When I began traveling, I was twenty.
Grace had already been fighting monsters, surviving burning monasteries, and joining wandering caravans before reaching adulthood.
That felt unfair somehow.
Master Grim continued.
When Grace turned seventeen, the caravan collectively informed her that she was now old enough to drink if she wanted.
Grace admitted she wanted to.
Very much.
But the rules of her order forbade it.
Therefore she would not.
No exceptions.
No compromises.
No excuses.
Simply because those were the rules.
At this point Caravan Master shook his head.
"Girl was an idiot."
Everyone laughed.
Then he continued.
"If she'd known she was going to die young, she should've drank as much as possible."
The laughter stopped.
Immediately.
The silence afterward felt strange.
Not uncomfortable.
Just... familiar.
The kind of silence shared by people who have remembered something at the same time.
Then Caravan Master spoke again.
Still looking into the fire.
Still smiling faintly.
"She was an idiot."
A pause.
"Held onto her beliefs all the way to the end."
Another pause.
"If she wasn't such an idiot, she'd still be sitting here with us."
Nobody laughed.
Nobody argued.
I finally understood.
Not everything.
But enough.
Enough to know Grace had not simply died.
She had chosen something.
Something the others still carried with them.
Old Shard immediately looked annoyed.
He told Caravan Master to take those words back.
Caravan Master refused.
Without hesitation.
"I won't."
Another pause.
"One day when I die, I'll find her."
The smile remained.
Small.
Tired.
Affectionate.
"And then I'll tell her exactly how stupid she was."
A pause.
"And thank her for the extra years she gave me."
Nobody interrupted him.
Nobody needed to.
Everyone understood.
Then Caravan Master poured the rest of his drink onto the sand.
One by one, the others followed.
A quiet toast for someone no longer present.
Old Shard sighed.
A very long sigh.
Then rubbed his face.
"I don't want to tell stories about how Grace died."
His voice sounded tired.
Older.
"Everyone dies eventually."
He shook his head.
"I want the girl remembered for how she lived."
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Caravan Master immediately ruined the atmosphere.
"Dwarf's getting sentimental again."
Old Shard threw a spoon at him.
Caravan Master dodged.
And just like that, the argument resumed.
Apparently grief and bickering are not mutually exclusive.
Master Stonefist watched the exchange with a small smile.
Then he looked toward me.
"Old Shard treated her like a daughter."
The words were spoken gently.
For the first time that evening, his voice carried no teasing.
Only warmth.
"He worried about her constantly."
Stonefist glanced toward the giant cauldron.
"The reason he bought that thing was Grace."
I blinked.
"The cauldron?"
Stonefist nodded.
"Girl kept surviving on dried bread."
A pause.
"Old fool wanted her eating proper meals."
I looked toward the artifact.
Toward the soot.
The dents.
The scratches.
For the first time, I stopped seeing a magical cooking pot.
And started seeing something else.
An old man trying to take care of someone.
By the time I turned back, Old Shard and Caravan Master were already arguing about something completely different.
Neither appeared to remember how the argument started.
Which honestly seemed normal.
Eventually I asked about the final name.
Kasper.
The reaction was immediate.
Master Blackthorn looked up.
Then toward Old Shard.
"Let him tell that one."
The others agreed.
Nobody elaborated.
Which naturally made me even more curious.
I suspect that was intentional.
The fire is beginning to die down now.
The caravan leaves again soon.
Three journal pages in a single night feels excessive.
Even for me.
So I should sleep.
Tomorrow we continue west.
Toward Vaultreach.
And perhaps—
toward the rest of Grace's story.
Or Kasper's.
At this point, I am no longer certain where one ends and the other begins.
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