The days no longer felt like days.
Aelric walked until his legs trembled beneath him, until his chest heaved as though his lungs were filled with ash. Roads blurred into one another. Villages became shadows he passed through without leaving a trace.
Coins were gone. Bread turned to crusts, then to nothing. Hunger dug into his ribs, hollowing him from the inside out.
The faces of his wife and son lived in him still, sharp and alive. But the world around him only grew duller.
At night, when the fire failed to catch, he cupped his hands around the cold earth and whispered to the soil as if it might answer.
"Janne. Arran. Can you hear me?"
Only silence answered.
He tried. Gods, he tried. Every rumor, every fraud, every cruel laugh and empty promise—he chased them all. Each one ended the same.
One night, in a nameless stretch of forest, Aelric sank to his knees. His throat was dry, his lips cracked. His body screamed at him to stop. His oath burned against his chest, but for the first time since that day, doubt crept in.
What if the priest was right?
What if they were gone, and he was chasing ghosts?
The thought stabbed through him. His vision swam. His chest tightened until he thought it would burst.
He clawed at the soil, fists tearing at roots and stone, his nails breaking, blood mixing with dirt. His face pressed against the earth, wet with tears.
"I promised you," he whispered, voice raw. "I promised…"
But the words fell hollow.
For a moment—just a moment—he kissed despair. His head bowed, his body trembling, he almost let the silence take him.
Almost.
And then—wind shifted.
He raised his head. In the distance, beyond the trees, he saw faint firelight flickering. Movement. Shapes. Voices carried in a tongue unlike any he had heard before.
Aelric staggered to his feet, his breath ragged. His heart thudded with the faintest, most fragile ember of something he had nearly lost.
Not hope. Not yet. But something like it.
And with what little strength he had, he stepped toward it.