The city swallowed him whole.
One moment he was in the alley, shadows clinging to him like shrouds; the next he was lost within the great machine of the human world. Neon bled across glass, painted streets in hues of violet and electric green. Tires screeched, horns blared, and a hundred conversations overlapped in a chaotic chorus. Smoke rose from carts of roasting meat, mixing with the acrid sting of gasoline.
He staggered through it like a ghost. His bloodied form vanished into the press of bodies, his foreign garments hidden beneath a silk cloth torn from a laundry line. His face was pale, hollowed, yet no one looked long enough to see. Humanity, in its endless hurry, glanced past him as though he were nothing more than another beggar, another shadow limping through the avenues.
But the bundle against his chest made him different. Made him dangerous.
The infant shifted, a soft whimper escaping its lips. He pressed it closer, feeling the faint rise and fall of its breath, the fragile warmth of its body. That warmth was the only anchor keeping him upright, the only reason his legs did not buckle beneath him.
Each step was agony. His ribs ground like broken stone, his breath came ragged, his vision blurred until the lights of the city ran like rivers. More than once, his knees struck the pavement, and only the instinctive tightening of his grip kept the child from slipping. Yet he forced himself onward.
He could not fail. Not after the vow.
In his mind, the vow replayed with cruel clarity.
The battlefield had been red with dust and blood. The air had screamed with the clash of iron, the thunder of spells tearing the sky apart. He remembered bodies falling, comrades screaming his name before silence claimed them. And amid it all, she had come to him. The woman with eyes like a stormlight, her arms trembling as she held the infant.
"Take him."
He had shaken his head, even as his sword dripped crimson. "I cannot. My place is here, with…"
"There is no place here anymore," she had cut him off, her voice breaking, raw with grief and defiance. "They will come. They will burn this last stand as they burned all the rest. But this child…" Her gaze fell to the ring around the infant's neck, its pulse faint but steady. "He carries more than blood. He carries hope. If he dies, all dies. Take him."
He had looked at her, at the way the firelight painted her features in gold and shadow, at the wounds already spreading across her body. She would not live. She knew it.
"Run," she whispered. "Protect him. No matter the cost."
And he had sworn. With his blade still wet, with the blood of his kin staining his hands, he had sworn. Sworn by his name. Sworn by the graves of his people. Sworn by gods who had long since turned their faces away.
He would not fail.
Now, in this world of neon and laughter, he clutched the child as though his oath was carved into his flesh.
Hours passed. Each one dragged like a century. His body screamed for rest, his wounds begged for mercy, but he pressed forward. The rhythm of the city blurred into meaningless noise. He saw faces, but they were masks. He saw shops, but they were hollow shells. He felt only the pull, a thread of instinct, a whisper in his blood guiding him through streets he did not know.
At times, he staggered against walls, smearing them red with his hand. At times, he collapsed onto steps, his vision blackening, only to claw his way back upright. Always, the child's breathing tethered him. Always, the faint pulse of the ring reminded him: not yet. Not here. Keep moving.
Night fell at last.
The city softened beneath silver and shadow. Windows glowed with warm light, laughter drifted from taverns and apartments, while above, the moon gazed down in silence. The man's pace slowed. His strength was failing. Each breath burned like a brand pressed into his chest. He could no longer tell whether the blood dripping from him belonged to fresh wounds or to the same gashes reopening with every step.
But he walked still.
And then he saw it.
Rising from the darkness ahead was a spire. Stone. Old, though its edges had been worn smooth by time. Candles glowed behind stained glass, painting the ground in fractured colors of red, blue, and gold. A church.
The sight struck him like a blow. Not because he knew the building, but because of what it was: sanctuary. Holy ground. A place where even his enemies might hesitate. A place where a child could vanish into arms not marked by blood.
He staggered forward, his body near breaking. At the courtyard's edge, he fell against the wall, breath sawing in and out, eyes fixed on the wooden doors carved with symbols he did not recognize. Within, he could hear voices. Footsteps. The rustle of robes.
Life.
Safety.
He looked down at the child. Its small face was serene now, eyes closed in fragile sleep. The ring at its throat glimmered faintly, pulsing in rhythm with the infant's breath.
"This is the only way," he whispered.
The words cut him. They were a blade sinking deep, twisting. Every instinct in him screamed to keep the child, to shield it himself, to honor the oath by never letting it from his grasp. But he knew better. He was hunted. He was marked. As long as he lived, danger would follow.
His throat tightened. His knees shook. Blood dripped onto the child's swaddling cloth like a seal upon his decision.
He leaned down, pressed his lips to the baby's brow, and whispered in the old tongue words that were more than blessing, more than farewell. Words that bound his soul to the oath he had sworn.
The ring glowed in answer, faint but true.
The man sank onto the cold stone steps, rocking the infant gently, soothing not only the child's tiny cries but the thunder breaking in his own chest. He brushed his thumb along its cheek, smearing away a trace of blood.
"This world… is not ours," he murmured. His voice was so soft that the wind almost carried it away. "But perhaps… it is your salvation."
The doors loomed before him. Tall. Wooden. Carved with symbols of a god he did not know. Would these gods understand the weight of the life he now placed at their threshold? His own gods had abandoned him. Or perhaps they had died alongside his people, bleeding out upon the battlefield like the rest.
It did not matter.
Only the child mattered.
Only the oath.
He shifted the chain, ensuring the ring lay hidden but secure against the infant's chest. Then he whispered words of power, syllables no human tongue could form. The ring pulsed in answer, glowing softly, spreading a veil of silver across the child for a heartbeat before fading back into silence.
"May it shield you. May it hide you," he whispered. His eyes burned, but no tears came. "And may it one day lead you home."
His strength was failing fast. Every second was agony. And yet, he hesitated still. His arms trembled as he lowered the bundle to the steps, setting it against the door. His hands lingered, unwilling to release. Every fiber of his being screamed to snatch the child back, to run into the night, to defy fate itself.
But oaths are not broken. Not when sworn in blood.
Not when sworn before gods, whether living or dead.
He forced himself to rise. He forced himself to step back into the shadows.
And he watched.
The infant stirred. A thin cry pierced the silence of the courtyard.
The doors opened.
A woman appeared, a nun, her robes plain, her veil fluttering in the night breeze. She lifted a lantern, its golden glow spilling across the steps. Her face was lined with years, but her eyes were kind, searching.
The cry sounded again. Her gaze fell to the bundle.
She gasped softly. "Oh, child…"
The man pressed deeper into the dark, his breath ragged, his hand against his ribs. He could not move. Not yet. Not until he saw.
The nun knelt, setting her lantern aside, and gathered the infant into her arms. She rocked gently, shushing. "Hush now. You are safe."
Her gaze swept the courtyard, searching the shadows. For an instant, her eyes lingered near where he crouched. He held his breath, his heart thundering. If she saw him….
But she turned away.
"God has brought you to us," she whispered.
The man closed his eyes. Relief crashed over him, nearly knocking him to the ground. His body trembled, his wounds flared, but his oath was whole. The child was in arms that would shield it, at least for now.
He turned away. His voice was little more than breath, broken, hoarse.
"Good luck, little one."
And then he vanished into the night.
But the oath still bound him. And oaths, when sworn in blood, echo beyond worlds.
Even as he faded into the shadows, the air at the edge of the courtyard rippled. A whisper, faint but sharp, like cloth tearing. A trace left behind by the rift. A mark that others might follow.
The man felt it in his bones.
The hunt was not over.