"Let them take me in chains. I've worn heavier ones, forged from loyalty and bound by blessing."
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"Fucking... bastard."
The words came out as barely a whisper, lost in the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing. Kael and his companions were too focused on carrying his weight, too busy watching for pursuit to pay attention to his mumbled curses. But the words felt good to say, a small defiance against the darkness closing in around him.
Tarkun. The massive brute who had taken such pleasure in his pain, who had stolen his sword and left him chained like an animal. The wanderer could still feel those meaty fists connecting with his ribs, could still hear that gravelly voice promising worse torments to come.
"We're almost there. Adnir, you stay here and see if they're still following us."
The movement stopped abruptly, and the wanderer felt himself being lowered slightly as one of his bearers stepped away. Through half-closed eyes, he could make out the dim shapes of buildings around them, the familiar architecture of Baelur's outer district.
"But.....I...." Adnir's voice cracked with fear.
"Just do it. We need to know if we're being hunted."
Footsteps retreated into the darkness. The wanderer tried to lift his head to see where they were, but the effort sent the world spinning around him. His vision blurred, and for a moment, he thought he might lose consciousness entirely.
"He's dying, Kael. We have to go faster." The remaining boy's voice was tight with panic.
The movement resumed, more urgent now. The wanderer could feel his life ebbing away with each labored breath, his strength bleeding out onto the cobblestones below. His body was shutting down, systems failing one by one as trauma and blood loss took their toll.
But somewhere in the fading embers of his consciousness, a spark of curiosity remained. Why were they doing this? Why risk Tarkun's wrath to save a broken deserter? He was nothing to them, less than nothing. A stranger who had brought violence to their town and chaos to their lives.
Yet here they were, carrying him through the night like he mattered. Like his life had value beyond his service to a crown he'd abandoned.
The irony wasn't lost on him, even through the haze of pain. He'd spent nineteen years as the king's weapon, blessed with supernatural strength and bound by unbreakable oaths. He'd been an instrument of divine will, a blade in the hands of righteousness.
Now he was just a man. Broken, bleeding, abandoned by the very gods who had once claimed him. But for the first time in years, someone was treating him as if he were worth saving simply because he drew breath.
The fever was getting worse. He could feel it burning through his veins like liquid fire, cooking him from the inside out. His thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm, memories and present moment blending into a kaleidoscope of confusion.
The blessed ceremony. His father's proud face in the crowd. The weight of the great sword in his 13-year-old hands. The king's voice, speaking words of power and binding. The taste of sacred wine and the feeling of divine force flowing through his bones.
All of it felt like someone else's life now. The wanderer closed his eyes and let the darkness take him, trusting strangers to carry him toward whatever salvation awaited in the perpetual twilight of Baelur.
Behind them, in the distance, the sound of war horns began to echo through the night...