Ash chewed like a corpse gnawing through dirt, it was dry, mechanical, unfeeling. The apple pulp clogged his throat, heavy as clay. He didn't stop. His jaw moved, cracking through skin and flesh as his hollow eyes stared into nothing.
The apple lodged itself there.
He blinked once.
And then everything blurred, a jolt of pain twisted up his windpipe, his chest spasmed, his hands clawed at his throat in sheer instinct. But no breath came, no air followed. Just silence and the frantic thunder of his pulse.
His knees collapsed beneath him.
A few feet away, the assassin watched him with horrified eyes. The quiet was cut short by a strange, guttural gag— and then a thud.
She froze.
Ash was on the ground, body jerking, mouth agape, the apple still wedged inside.
Her lips parted.
Her heart thumped in her chest.
For a moment, the forest seemed to hold its breath with her. She didn't think— just sprinted. When she moved, it was like watching the wind change direction. Silent. Deadly. Untouchable. Wind shredded through her hood as she fell to her knees beside him, her hands already at his jaw.
"By Selunara's grace," she whispered, voice shaking. "What on earth did you—?"
She pried his mouth open and jammed two fingers down his throat. He gagged, then heaved— a wet, violent retch. Apple chunks burst from his lips in a streak of bile. His body convulsed once more before slumping limp, panting, wheezing.
She caught him before his head struck the ground. Her hands were slick with spit and tears but they were not hers.
"Stupid brat…" she whispered.
Ash whimpered, barely conscious. His cracked lips trembled.
"Don't you ever pull that again," she hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes betraying something raw. She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time— not just a broken boy. Not just cargo. A mirror she hadn't wanted.
But then her focus was cut off by voices.
It sounded male and gruff. But they were too many.
She stiffened for a moment.
Her head snapped toward the sound, it was a rough laughter filtering through the trees, then the shuffle of boots over leaves. Then came the groan of wheels.
A cart?
She swore under her breath and yanked Ash into her arms, dragging him off the path into the dense underbrush. She knelt, covering his mouth with one hand and cradling the back of his head with the other, burying him beneath her cloak.
"Don't make a sound," she breathed into his ear. "Please."
The sound of the cart grew louder.
From their hiding spot, low in a bush shrub, they could see shapes emerge. There were five, no, six men. One of them had a woman slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Her limbs dangled limp. Her face was swollen. Blood streaked her legs.
"Reckon she's still breathin'?" one of the bandits laughed.
"Don't matter," said another, spitting into the grass. "She'll serve 'til she breaks."
Ash flinched at the sight, his senses had just returned to him partly. The assassin's grip on his face tightened.
The cart came to a stop no more than fifteen feet away. One bandit pulled a wineskin from his belt and took a swig. His eyes scanned the clearing.
Then he froze.
"Oi," he said, pointing. "What's that?"
The others followed his gaze.
A half-eaten apple lay in the dirt. Still wet. Bite fresh.
Every muscle in the assassin's body clenched.
"Someone's here," the man said. He drew a blade.
"You sure it ain't the girl? Before she ran off?"
"She ain't eatin' nothin'. I fed her my boot this morning."
They snickered. Then their leader ordered.
"Search the trees. I wanna know if there's another cargo for the grabbing."
Boots crunched through underbrush.
They were coming.
Ash's breathing turned erratic. She could feel his chest heaving against hers, panic seeping out in trembles. She pressed his face deeper against her neck and whispered through grit teeth, "Breathe quieter. I'm not losing you now."
Somehow that did not give Ash any comfort. It made him even more paranoid.
Leaves rustled above them. A shadow loomed just beyond the bush.
One of the men had found the bramble.
He stepped closer.
The assassin's free hand slowly reached for the blade beneath her sleeve. Her grip was so tight her knuckles turned white.
The bush was parting—
Ash's body jerked. A sneeze escaped his nose, it desperate and silent, barely suppressed.
The man's head tilted. "That you, Bren?"
But no response came back to him.
He stepped into the hollow.
For half a second, they locked eyes. The man and the two young individuals in the forest.
Then steel flashed in the air, it was fast, quiet and efficient. Her blade slit his throat before he could suck in air to scream. Blood sprayed her cheek, hot and fast.
He collapsed in a heap inches from Ash's foot. Ash's face went white from terror.
But the thud wasn't soft enough.
"What was that?"
Another bandit shouted.
"Bren? You find somethin'?"
The assassin shot up like a wraith, dragging Ash by his collar. She didn't care about the noise now. They'd been made.
"MOVE," she snarled.
They bolted.
Behind them, chaos erupted— shouts, curses, steel drawn.
Through twisted roots and thorn-laced bushes they ran, branches slashed their faces so hard it stung, mud choking their feet. Ash could barely keep up, his legs failing him, but she wouldn't let go.
He ran faster than he had ever done in his life. The sound of their pursuers grew distant.
When they finally stopped, it was beneath the roots of a massive tree, its gnarled trunk hollowed by time and rot. She shoved him inside and crouched by the entrance, dagger drawn, breath wild.
Minutes passed. The forest remained deathly still.
Eventually, silence won.
Ash coughed once— a weak, broken sound. She turned to him. His face was pale, his eyes hollow, like they were vanishing.
"Why?" he croaked.
She stared at him. Her chest rose and fell, her heart still pounding.
"You're not dying," she said. "Not like that."
"I wanted to."
"I don't care what you wanted."
Ash's lip trembled. "Then why save me?"
She leaned closer, voice like smoke in the air. "Because if you die here, I'll have to carry the guilt— and I already carry too many corpses. Besides, if you really do die, I might as well die with you."
She turned away, wiping blood from her blade.
"But…" he tried to speak.
She cut him off.
"Sleep, Ash. Tomorrow we run again." It was the first time she called him by name, her tone this time was weaker and more broken. Hard to decipher.
As she sat at the hollow's mouth, watching the night settle, she didn't realize she was still shaking.
And Ash, buried in the roots, clutched his ribs— not from pain, but the strange echo of warmth…
The kind that came from being held.
The elf thought to herself. "My work just got a hundred times harder."