The path climbed sharply.
The ground was steep and slick, riddled with roots like veins through old stone. Every step was heavier. Every breath shallower.
By the time they reached the ridge, the group was strung thin — tired eyes behind visors, armor clanking low and heavy with dried river water and old blood.
Phoenix stumbled again.
He caught himself on a tree, one gauntleted hand digging into the bark. The flamberge on his back scraped the trunk as he swayed. His breath came in sharp gasps, unsteady and fast.
Ryliegh was beside him before he could fall.
"You're getting worse," he said flatly.
Phoenix didn't deny it.
"It's just the climb," he muttered. "Breathing too fast. Armor's heavy."
"Your blood's through the bandages."
Phoenix looked down. The side of his chestplate had darkened again — not fresh red, but the deep brown-black of soaked-through gauze and reopened wounds.
"I'll keep up."
"You can't."
Phoenix looked up at him, golden eyes dim behind the visor slits. "You want me to lie to you, Ray? I thought you liked honesty."
"I do," Ryliegh said. "That's why I'm saying stop."
The rest of the group had noticed now. Vale and Elric had paused ahead, watching. Bram leaned against a boulder, his sling dark with sweat. Soren looked between them, unsure.
"We're burning daylight," Vale called down the slope. "If we stop too long, we lose advantage."
"If we don't stop, we lose him," Ryliegh replied, not raising his voice.
Phoenix leaned harder against the tree. "Just give me a minute."
Elric started back down the hill. "You'll need more than a minute if you keep moving like that. Cracked ribs don't fix themselves."
Phoenix looked at him, then at Ryliegh.
"You going to order me to stop?"
"No," Ryliegh said. "But if you collapse again, I'm taking the damn armor off and carrying you."
"Please don't," Phoenix groaned. "That's how legends die."
They set up a quick perimeter. No camp — just a break. Helmets off, weapons near.
Phoenix sat, finally, back against the roots of a massive, split tree. He winced as he pulled the side of his cuirass open. Beneath the layers of bandaging, angry red bruises bloomed over his ribs, spreading like storm clouds. The wrappings were too tight — or not tight enough.
He tried to breathe slowly.
Ryliegh crouched beside him, unstrapping a satchel.
Phoenix glanced over. "I thought you weren't the nurturing type."
"I'm not."
Ryliegh pulled out a small vial. The liquid inside was dark, thick, with a smell like burnt mint and iron.
Phoenix stared at it. "What is that?"
"Painkiller. Numbroot tincture. Tastes like regret."
Phoenix took it anyway. Drank half, gagged, coughed — and muttered something that sounded like, "I hate your everything."
Ryliegh stood and walked a short distance uphill, sword in hand, posture still like iron.
Elric sat beside Phoenix now, helmet in his lap. "He's not as cold as he pretends."
"I've noticed."
"Still thinks like a sword. But he watches like a shield."
Phoenix nodded slowly. "That's the problem with Ray. He sees everything. But never lets himself feel any of it."
Elric was quiet for a moment.
Then: "You do enough of that for both of you."
Phoenix didn't argue.
He just leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the numbroot dull the edge of pain — but not the truth of it.
He was slowing them down.
And he wasn't sure how many more hills he had left in him.