The dream of peace ended before dawn.
Ahayue stirred first, his eyes snapping open while the world still lay in darkness. He lay still for a moment, listening. The cave breathed its familiar quiet—embers crackling low in the hearth, the soft whistle of wind threading through stone crevices. Yet beyond that quiet was a pulse, something heavier than night air, a rhythm not of nature but of men.
He rose silently, careful not to wake Alusya, and began to gather.
His movements were deliberate: dried strips of meat bundled in cloth, water-skins filled from the stone cistern, small jars of herbs tied shut with sinew. From the shelves carved into rock he took Andalusia's relics—a leather-bound journal with pages inked in a hand that had trembled through centuries, a small talisman etched with runes that hummed faintly with power. He wrapped them carefully, almost reverently, in deer hide.
When Alusya's eyes fluttered open, she watched him in confusion. His back was turned, shoulders taut, hands moving with quiet urgency.
"What are you doing?" Her voice was thick with sleep, but laced with unease.
Ahayue paused only a moment, then answered, his tone as calm as he could manage. "Preparing."
She sat up, hair spilling messily over her face. "For what?"
His gaze flicked to her—sharp, weary, burdened. "We cannot stay."
Her heart lurched. "What do you mean? This is—this is our home!"
Ahayue turned away, binding the last of the supplies. His silence was worse than any argument.
Alusya scrambled from her bedding, rushing to his side. "Ahayue!" She grabbed his wrist. He stilled, though his eyes never softened. "Tell me why."
Finally, he said, "The forest has gone quiet. Too quiet. It is not beasts this time."
She swallowed, remembering the night before—the weight in the air, the silence pressing like a held breath. She had tried to push it from her mind, but he had felt it too.
Her grip on his wrist loosened. "You think… someone's coming."
"I know they are." His words were carved stone. "And when they arrive, they will not stop until blood is spilled."
The hours that followed were heavy with silence. Together they packed, though Alusya's hands trembled with every item she folded away. The cave—dark, familiar, warm—watched them in silence, its walls etched with the ghosts of Andalusia's laughter and grief, with the weight of five long years Ahayue had carved into survival.
For Alusya, the cave had been her refuge, the first roof that had not condemned her since her exile. Every corner carried comfort: the low shelf where she learned herbs, the firepit where she had told stories with Ahayue, the mark she had scratched into the wall to measure her days of healing. To leave it was to uproot herself once again, cast into a world that seemed to only want her gone.
She lingered, fingers brushing the smooth stone near the hearth. "I don't want to leave."
Ahayue, tightening the strap of his pack, didn't look up. "Neither do I."
"Then why—"
He cut her off gently. "Because home is not walls. It is survival. And survival means moving when death draws near."
Her throat closed. She wanted to scream, to cry, but his voice was too steady, too final.
By the time the first light of dawn bled into the mouth of the cave, they were nearly ready.
That was when the forest broke its silence.
At first it was faint: a rustle not of deer hooves, but of many feet. The creak of leather, the whisper of metal. Then voices, low and harsh, drifting between trees.
Alusya froze where she stood, clutching her half-packed bundle. Her stomach knotted as if the air itself turned to stone.
Ahayue's eyes snapped to hers. "Stay behind me."
The first arrow struck the tree trunk outside the cave with a solid thud, quivering where it stuck.
Alusya gasped.
Shouts followed—harsh, guttural, too close. Shapes appeared between the trees, painted in streaks of ash and blood, armed with bows and spears. Warriors, their eyes burning with vengeance.
"Out!" one bellowed. "Out, witch-spawn!"
Another voice rose, cruel and sharp. "The cursed boy lives! The witch's cave burns tonight!"
Alusya's legs nearly gave way. They had come. Not beasts, not spirits. Men. Men with hate sharpened into weapons.
Ahayue stepped forward, blade drawn, his presence filling the cave mouth like a wall of iron. "Stay back," he warned, his voice like flint.
The warriors answered with a volley of arrows.
Wood splintered. Sparks flew as arrowheads struck stone. Alusya screamed, ducking low. Ahayue's stance did not waver—he batted one arrow aside with his blade, the others clattering harmlessly around him.
Then came the charge.
Warriors stormed the cave mouth, shouting, blades flashing. Ahayue surged forward, meeting them with fury that seemed to spill from the curse itself. His blade whirled, cutting through spear shafts, slashing open the unguarded arm of the first attacker. The man fell back with a howl.
But for every warrior he struck down, three more pressed forward. Their numbers swarmed, their hatred feeding their strength.
Alusya scrambled to the herbs, fumbling with jars. Her breath came ragged as she mixed pastes with shaking hands, remembering Andalusia's lessons through Ahayue's voice. When Ahayue stumbled back with a gash along his side, she leapt to him, smearing the poultice against his wound.
"Go!" he barked, shoving her toward the rear of the cave. "Run!"
"No!" she cried, tears streaking her face. "Not without you!"
But he was already moving, blade cleaving another spear in two, his eyes burning. The cave shook with the clash of steel, the echo of shouts, the scent of blood and smoke.
It was then that Ahayue realized the truth: they could not hold this place.
The warriors were endless. They would pour into the cave until nothing was left but ruin and ash.
The cave was no longer sanctuary. It was a tomb waiting to seal.
He turned, eyes meeting Alusya's, voice raw with command. "We leave. Now."
She hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded, grabbing her pack.
Ahayue struck the nearest warrior with a vicious blow, buying them space. He seized Alusya's wrist, dragging her toward the narrow side passage that wound out of the cave like a secret vein.
Shouts followed them. Torches blazed behind. Arrows clattered off stone.
The passage spat them into the cold embrace of the forest. They ran, branches tearing at their skin, roots clawing at their feet. Behind them, the glow of fire began to rise, orange and furious, as the warriors set torches to the cave.
Alusya dared one glance back. Her chest seized.
The cave—their home, their hearth, their fragile peace—was burning. Flames licked hungrily at the stone mouth, smoke coiling into the dawn sky like a signal of loss.
She stumbled, but Ahayue pulled her onward. His jaw was set, his eyes ahead. "Don't look back," he said.
But tears blurred her vision anyway. She couldn't stop.
Everything they had built together—every memory, every scrap of comfort—was being devoured.
And yet, hand in hand, they lived.
When dawn fully broke, they collapsed at the edge of a river, breaths ragged, bodies bruised and cut.
Ahayue dropped his pack and leaned against a boulder, chest heaving. His wound seeped, but he pressed a hand to it with stubborn resolve.
Alusya fell beside him, hugging her knees. She stared at the rushing water, at the bruises blooming across her arms, at the smoke still faint in the distance.
The silence stretched, heavy as stone.
Finally, Ahayue spoke, voice hoarse but steady. "The cave is gone."
Her throat clenched. She nodded, unable to form words.
"But we are not." His eyes, fierce even through exhaustion, met hers. "Remember that. As long as we live, the fire is not gone."
She swallowed hard, wiping her face with the back of her hand. Slowly, she reached out, fingers brushing his. He didn't pull away.
They sat like that as the river roared beside them, two exiles bound not by walls but by survival, their past burning behind them, their future uncertain as the dawn.