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Torric

It’s been three days since the quiet started feeling wrong.

The weight of dry wood presses against my shoulders as I make my way back to camp, my fire rune pulsing warm beneath my shirt.

Three days of travel with Callum, three days of watching him weave himself into our group like he’s always belonged.

Three days of small wrongnesses that stack up like kindling, waiting for a spark.

Which is probably why it takes me a moment to realize one of them is a voice.

I freeze, letting the bundle of kindling settle against my back as I strain to listen. There—beyond the cluster of pine trees that marks the edge of our camp. Low, urgent whispers that don’t belong to anyone who should be awake at this hour.

“…won’t be a problem,” the voice continues, and my blood goes cold as I recognize Callum’s cultured tones. “Not once we reach the valley.”

I step forward, careful to keep my movements silent, but a branch snaps under my boot like a gunshot in the stillness. The whispers cut off instantly .

By the time I round the trees, Callum sits alone beside his pack, calmly adjusting the straps on his travel gear. His movements are unhurried, casual, like he’s been sitting there for hours instead of seconds.

“Torric,” he says without looking up, his voice carrying just the right note of mild surprise to make me doubt what I heard. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

I scan the area around him, looking for any sign of who he might have been talking to. Nothing. Just shadows that could hide anything, and the lingering sense that I’ve missed something crucial.

“Thought I heard voices,” I say carefully.

Callum’s smile is perfectly calibrated—not too innocent, not too knowing.

“Ah, that would be me. I was practicing a long-distance communication spell. Old Guardian trick for coordinating with advance scouts.” He taps his temple.

“Easier to practice the verbal components aloud, though I suppose it must sound strange to anyone overhearing.”

The explanation is reasonable. Plausible. The kind of thing a competent tactician would do to keep his skills sharp.

So why does every instinct I have scream that he’s lying?

“Right,” I manage, hefting the wood higher on my shoulder. “Communication spell.”

“The acoustics in these mountains play tricks on the ear,” Callum continues, his tone conversational as he stands and brushes dirt from his pants. “Sound carries strangely, echoes in unexpected ways. Easy to imagine conversations where there are none.”

The words feel like a warning wrapped in casual observation. I force myself to nod and walk back toward the dying embers of our fire, but I can feel his eyes tracking my movement until I’m out of sight .

The next morning—the fourth since Callum joined us—brings no relief from the wrongness that’s settled in my bones.

If anything, it gets worse as I watch how naturally he’s inserted himself into our routines.

Kaia actually asks his opinion about the terrain ahead.

Kieran defers to his route suggestions without question.

On the second day, he’d ridden near Malrik, and I’d caught fragments of their conversation that made my jaw clench even then.

“You’ve done well to hold her loyalty this long,” Callum says, his tone carrying just enough admiration to mask what feels like a probe. “I imagine it’s not easy with a mind like hers—always looking for the next move, the next advantage.”

Malrik’s shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly, but his voice remains level. “Kaia’s loyalty isn’t something that needs to be held. It’s earned.”

“Of course,” Callum agrees smoothly. “Though I’ve found that even the most genuine loyalties can shift when circumstances change. When new information comes to light.” He pauses, then adds with what sounds like casual wisdom, “Power without control is chaos, after all.”

The phrase hits me like a half-remembered dream, familiar in a way that makes my skin crawl. I can’t place where I’ve heard it before, but something about those exact words, spoken in that exact tone, sets every nerve on edge.

The comment hangs in the air like smoke, and I watch Malrik’s hands tighten on his reins. Whatever game Callum’s playing, he’s trying to plant seeds of doubt. Make Malrik question Kaia’s commitment, or maybe his own position within our group.

The realization sits like lead in my stomach. This isn’t casual conversation. It’s reconnaissance .

I guide my horse closer, close enough to catch Malrik’s eye. When he looks at me, I see my own suspicion reflected there, controlled, but present. He knows something’s off too.

That should be reassuring. Instead, it makes me more nervous. If both of us are picking up on Callum’s manipulations, why isn’t anyone else? Why does Kieran still defer to his tactical expertise? Why does Kaia listen to his route suggestions like they’re gospel?

By the third day, Patricia’s formations have broken rhythm entirely.

Instead of her usual methodical note-taking, she’s scribbling furiously, symbols appearing and disappearing in her wake like smoke.

Her patterns don’t match anything I’ve seen before—erratic, desperate, like she’s trying to document something that keeps slipping away.

I edge closer, trying to get a better look at what she’s writing, but the moment I approach, the symbols evaporate entirely. Patricia jerks back into formation like she’s just surfaced from deep water, her movements guilty and sharp.

Even Bob pauses beside me as the last of Patricia’s symbols dissolve, his form stiffening like he’s noticed something too, but he says nothing (obviously). Just hovers there, radiating the same unease that’s been eating at me all day.

“Patricia,” I say quietly. “Everything alright?”

She nods too quickly, then begins documenting the landscape around us with forced normalcy.

But I catch the way her attention keeps drifting toward Callum.

Not like she’s suspicious, but like she’s…

waiting. Tracking. Her usual precision wavers whenever he’s in her line of sight, like she’s following something only she can see .

Even Kaia’s shadows sense something wrong. They’re just not sure what it is.

I’ve spent these four days watching, cataloging small inconsistencies that individually mean nothing but together paint a picture I don’t like.

The way Kaia now echoes phrases Callum used the day before.

How Finn nods along to suggestions that sound reasonable but feel wrong.

The subtle way Callum undermines confidence in any decision that doesn’t align with his preferences, always with such perfect logic that arguing seems petty.

By evening, when we make camp in a sheltered valley, I’m certain of two things: Callum is not who he pretends to be, and whatever his real agenda is, it doesn’t align with ours.

The question is what to do about it.

As the others settle into their bedrolls and the fire burns down to embers, I volunteer for first watch. Let them think I’m being paranoid. Let them assume I’m seeing threats where none exist. I’d rather be wrong about Callum than right about what his presence might mean for all of us.

But as I sit with my back against a boulder, eyes scanning the darkness beyond our camp, I can’t stop glancing back at the sleeping forms of my companions. At Callum’s bedroll, positioned just close enough to the center of camp to seem protective while maintaining easy access to the perimeter.

At Patricia’s empty shadow, nowhere to be seen among the others clustered around Kaia.

I’m not sure who I’m watching anymore. Only that something is very, very wrong .

And after four days of watching it happen—little shifts, familiar phrases in unfamiliar mouths, trust given too easily—I’m the only one who seems to see it.