Arthur had been following the stream for three days.
No map. No signs. Just water, flowing somewhere—anywhere that wasn't behind him. Twice he made a wrong turn and ended up near the edge of a swamp. One time he slipped and got tangled in roots, half-sinking into the mud before he could crawl out.
By the second day, his rations were gone. He started picking at forest roots and bitter berries, roasting tiny bits over fire, tasting them slowly. One wrong bite had him puking into the dirt for hours, curled up with his guts in knots and bile in his throat.
His cloak was torn to ribbons. His shirt ripped open. His trousers caught on every thornbush and hung in shreds. Scratches laced his arms and legs, and dirt clung under every fingernail. He didn't count steps. Didn't count days.
He only knew the nights were colder now. The fog in the mornings heavier.
Sometimes he found shelter beneath tree roots or pressed into cracks in the stone. He built crude lean-tos out of branches and prayed they held through the wind. They didn't always.
Once, he heard something circling his camp—low growls, heavy paws. Another night, something climbed above him into the tree. He didn't move. He didn't breathe.
By morning, there was a bird lying a few feet away. Its feathers were half-burnt. Its eyes were gone.
He didn't touch it. He didn't speak. Just walked on.
On the third day, he slipped on a hidden rock and slammed his ankle against the edge. Blood seeped through his wrappings. The skin split. The bone might've cracked. He didn't stop.
He wrapped it with bark, tied it down with twine. Every step after that made his jaw clench. That night, he built a fire and fell asleep curled around the heat, leg stiff and burning.
In the dark, something stung.
He felt it in his sleep—just a numb tingle in his leg, like his injury had worsened. He didn't bother to check.
But in the morning, his calf was swollen, blue-green and tight with pain. He unwrapped it and found two small punctures, ringed in purple. A bite. Snake, maybe. Or worse.
He stared for a long time. Then bound it again, tighter.
That afternoon, he sat on a rock, gripping a walking stick like a lifeline. His breaths came too fast. He stood, walked three steps—and almost collapsed.
He caught himself against a tree. Shaking. Teeth clenched.
"Can't stop here," he muttered, voice dry and cracked.
He hadn't spoken in days. Part of him needed to hear his own voice, just to be sure he was still alive.
That night, the wind was brutal. His shelter blew apart. He curled against a slick boulder, rain soaking into his sleeves. He held his crossbow tight to his chest and waited for morning.
He heard animals in the dark. A distant snarl. Wings beating against the sky. Branches snapped by something big.
He didn't get up. Didn't even open his eyes.
The fever hit by midnight. His lips cracked. Tongue heavy like ash. He drank the last of his water and lay there, blinking up at a sky he couldn't focus on anymore.
Clouds drifted like smoke. Fog crept into his lungs. He didn't know which way the wind was blowing.
His breathing slowed.
He leaned against the stone, eyes half-lidded, heartbeat shallow. Somewhere, something howled—but it felt miles away.
"Can't stop," he whispered again.
But this time, no one answered.
"You're still holding on."
The voice came softly, brushing his ear like breath in the fog.
Arthur's eyelids were heavy. Too heavy. He couldn't open them. He still felt the rock at his back—but the wind was gone. No insects. No rustling leaves. Just white mist all around. Endless. Soundless.
"Can you hear me?"
The voice asked again, light and patient.
He wanted to answer, but his throat was dry, sealed shut. All he managed was to crack his eyes open just a sliver.
There—light. Blurred and pulsing. A fragment floated in the fog before him, wrapped in veins of golden light, like the rhythm of a beating heart.
He tried to lift his arm. Nothing moved. His body felt pinned down by something vast and invisible.
"Your blood hasn't gone cold. The light inside you hasn't died."
The voice was steady now. Not commanding—more like watching. Waiting.
"You've killed. You've been hunted. You've burned. You've been poisoned. And still... you're alive. Because you're not ready to give in."
Arthur let out a low sound. A grunt. Half denial, half acceptance.
The golden fragment spun slowly in front of him. A fine crack ran down its center, shimmering faintly. The voice echoed through that glow—soft, but unwavering.
"We've slept for a thousand years. But now, we choose to answer you."
He tried to speak again, but only air moved past cracked lips.
Still, the fragment listened.
"You want to live."
"You want to know who you are."
"You want to know why they want you dead."
Arthur couldn't nod. Couldn't speak. But his brow tightened, a flicker of resistance.
"Then carry me."
"Take me with you. And don't stop walking."
The fragment drifted forward and sank into his chest like a breath of fire. Warmth bloomed in his core—like heat and water together, flowing into bone, cooling the fever, stilling the poison.
"This is only the beginning."
The voice faded, withdrawing deep inside.
"Don't die here."
Darkness swallowed everything.
Arthur didn't know how long he was out. Minutes? Hours? Days? Time dissolved.
But the pain dulled. The cold lifted. The wind came back, whispering through the leaves.
He opened his eyes to pale light brushing the sky.
He flexed his fingers. They moved.
He rolled onto his side. Joints cracked. Muscles screamed. He pulled himself upright, using the stone for support. Took a step. Then another. Still shaky—but better than before.
He looked down at his chest. No wound. But beneath the skin, faintly glowing, was a golden mark.
He placed a hand over it, murmuring, "I remember what you said."
Then he looked ahead.
The forest stretched before him, dappled in newborn sunlight. Through the trees, a path revealed itself—narrow, winding, faint.
Arthur slung his pack over his shoulder. The crossbow still hung at his side.
His steps were slow, but steady.
He didn't look back.