Night deepened—and the wind shifted.
Arthur's eyes snapped open.Something was wrong.The air smelled scorched.
He'd been resting beside a rock, just trying to catch his breath. But the burning in his nose dragged him upright in an instant.
He turned toward the town.
A faint orange glow had crept into the sky.Not the sun.Fire.
He narrowed his eyes, watching it flicker.
It wasn't a single house.Not even a street.
Whole districts were burning.The wind carried ash and the stench of charred wood, growing thicker with every breath.
Arthur instinctively took two steps back.
He didn't know what had started the blaze.But he knew—this wasn't random.
Rustling came from the underbrush.He dropped into a crouch.
Two men in guard cloaks pushed through the trees, talking fast.
"You see the forge? That place went up too."
"I just came from the Madd estate. The back wing's already collapsed. Fire started there."
"They said to write it straight into the report. Blame Arthur."
"What? The whole town? You think he did this alone?"
"Doesn't matter what I think. Orders are orders. The evidence is in place. Word is he's got heretic fire in his blood—can burn half a town just by thinking about it."
"Shit. He's screwed now."
Arthur heard every word from behind the rock.
He turned back toward the flames, eyes narrowing, hands clenching.
This wasn't just a manhunt.
This was erasure.
He didn't move as the guards vanished down the slope.He knew exactly what would happen if he showed his face now.
There'd be "witnesses."There'd be "evidence."
And there'd be no one left to argue the truth.
The wind picked up.The fire spread faster.
Arthur turned, trying to circle away from the chaos—when a figure stepped into his path.
A town guard. Alone.Holding a short spear, eyes tired but firm.
"You're Arthur Raine."
Arthur didn't deny it.He stared back, calm.
"You need to return to town. Face judgment."
The man's voice wasn't harsh, but his grip on the spear tightened.Ash clung to his uniform. He'd come from the fire.
Arthur didn't speak.
He took one slow step back.
The guard lunged—not fast, but sharp. Testing.
Arthur twisted aside, grabbed a rock from the ground, and hurled it at the man's knee. The guard shifted to block—And Arthur pounced.
They crashed together. Dust and leaves exploded around them.
The guard was stronger. He forced Arthur down, trying to drive the spear toward his throat.
Arthur twisted, slammed a knee into his gut, bought himself an inch of space.
Both men hit the ground again, gasping.
The guard pushed up—Arthur rammed into him, knocking him backward.
His hand closed around the spear.
He didn't think.
He thrust.
The spear sank into the guard's chest with a dull crunch.
The man's eyes widened.He gurgled, lips twitching, but no words came out.
Arthur let go of the spear and stumbled back, chest heaving.He leaned against a tree, blood roaring in his ears.
First kill.
Not training.Not defense.
He had driven steel into a living man.
He didn't throw up.But his body felt ice-cold.The man's fingers twitched—then stopped.
Arthur stood still for a long moment.
Then dropped to one knee.Took the man's rations and a small bottle of water.Unclipped the crossbow from his back and pocketed three bolts.
No time to freeze.No time to grieve.
He glanced through the trees.The town was chaos—fires raging, people screaming, some running for safety.
Others didn't run.Plainclothes riders combed the streets, eyes sharp, sketches in hand.
His face was on those pages.
He'd never be allowed back.No one would believe a word from his mouth.
Arthur tightened the straps on his stolen pack, wiped the sweat-and-blood-soaked dust from his face, and started walking.
Up the other side of the mountain.
This time—he didn't look back.
Arthur moved along the mountain trail, the fire's afterglow flickering through the trees.
The ration pouch on his back was nearly empty. His waterskin, half full.The short crossbow stayed hidden beneath his cloak.He'd left the spear behind—it was too obvious. Too heavy.
He kept close to the edge of the woods, moving slow.Search patrols still roamed the area.
Twice he saw groups combing through abandoned huts, holding sketches up to terrified villagers.The fire had spread eastward. People were fleeing over the stone bridge, sobbing, some covered in burns.Others looted the chaos—only to be caught, beaten, and dragged off by guards.
Arthur circled around it all.Didn't watch.Didn't think about it.
Whatever had started the fire didn't matter anymore.
The blame was his now.The town was no longer a place he could return to.
A loud crash echoed from ahead—a supply cart tipping over.A crowd of refugees fought over spilled food.Someone stepped into the flames and screamed.The voice was swallowed up in the shouting.
Arthur ducked low and veered away, skirting the rock wall until he reached a mountain stream.
He wrapped his waterskin in cloth and refilled it carefully.Tied it shut.Then started moving again, following the stream downhill.
The slope steepened.Roots and broken stone littered the path.More than once he slipped, catching himself on branches and brambles.
His old ankle injury flared with pain.He ignored it.Kept moving.
After what felt like an hour, he stopped to rest in a hollow between the rocks.
The night wind still smelled of ash.Even here—far from town—he could see the orange glow in the west.The sky above the ridge still burned, like a fire that refused to die.
He sank down beside the stone and opened his ration pouch.
A crust of dried bread.Three slices of smoked meat.A few scattered berries, half-crushed.
He split the food, ate half in slow bites, and wrapped the rest for later.
Halfway through, he paused.Turned his head toward the forest.
Nothing.
Just leaves rustling in the breeze.No movement.No footsteps.
Still, he watched for a few seconds longer.Then lowered his gaze.
He'd learned not to trust silence.
He chewed a tiny piece of meat, swallowed—
And heard it.
A short, sharp whistle—almost like a birdcall.
Then the snap of twigs.
He didn't move.Just slid his hand toward the fold in his robe, where the crossbow waited.
A few heartbeats passed.The sound faded.
He eased his fingers back.
It wasn't a bird.It wasn't the wind.It was a signal—one used by search teams.
They'd guessed the right direction.But they hadn't found him yet.
Arthur let out a slow breath.Pressed his body lower.
He'd killed a man.Even in defense, no one would care.
The Church wanted him dead.The nobles wanted a scapegoat.The townspeople wanted someone to blame.
Arthur wiped the sweat from his face and clipped the waterskin to his belt.
Staying here was suicide.
He stood, adjusted his straps, and looked south—toward the next mountain path.
That road led to the outer wilds.Some said exiles and bandits lived there.Others whispered of ruins—ancient places even the Church feared to touch.
Arthur didn't know what was true.
He didn't care.
There was no going back.
A sudden gust swept through the forest, carrying blackened ash to his feet.He glanced down.The bits of charred debris looked just like the fire he'd left behind.
Everything he had once been—gone, burned, scattered in the wind.
He looked back one last time.
Behind him: nothing but a wall of dead shadows.
Then he turned away.And walked.
The wind pushed at his back.His pace quickened.
No one saw him go.No one called after him.
Arthur left behind the town.The pyres.The hunters.The lies.
He had no home now.No destination.
Only a pouch of food.A half-awakened miracle.
But for the first time—he wasn't just running.
He stepped into the dark.Into the unknown.
And that's when exile truly began.