The rain came down in torrents, turning the road to mire.
Beads of blood, bright and frail, mingled with the streaming rain, tracing along the length of a sword before spilling at a boy's feet, vanishing into the brown slurry of the earth.
For a long heartbeat, none of the others moved. The boy had driven his blade into a guard—so sudden, so reckless—that even the thunder seemed to halt in disbelief.
"Go!" he cried, voice raw and breaking. "Go, all of you! Because of this damned rain, we'll never reach in time! By the laws of Svemilet, lateness is no sin you can buy your way out of. Ten days—ten whole days! Our lives are already forfeit!"
Through the curtain of rain, their faces blurred, and his too—young, flushed red with drink and fury.
"Life," he shouted, "is lived one day at one time! March to the capital, and you die. Return to Abundarc, and you die. What else is left? Run! Run, and steal one more day of breath. Count the days with your fingers if you must—but live them!"
At last, they understood. The camp stirred, voices rising, but fear still bound their limbs. The other guard who stayed at the rear charged, sword raised high.
"Any man who moves," he bellowed, "dies now!"
He never finished the words. A tall man stepped from behind and wrenched the blade from his grasp, driving it through his lower back. The sound was dull, swallowed by rain.
Then the spell was broken. The others surged forward, kicking, striking, trampling the fallen guards before scattering into the storm like frightened beasts.
Yet thirty or more remained, frozen in place, their eyes fixed on the boy who had struck the first blow.
His name was Crim, seventeen at most, born of no name and no house, in the small and quiet shire of Abundarc. Orphaned young, he was taken in by an old man, befriended a few village youths, and by wit alone rose to serve as village head—a minor post, but a post nonetheless.
For all his sense of justice, Crim was still a servant of the Empire. The Empire that devoured its own sons. Under Svemilet's cruel decree, every commoner at seventeen must register, serve one year as a soldier, and another as a laborer before earning leave to return home.
But the Emperor's hunger knew no restraint. More roads, more palaces, more walls—until few ever returned. Officials, desperate to meet their quotas, forged crimes against the innocent and sent them away in chains.
Abundarc's fields lay near empty, tilled only by women, children and the old. Only its fertile soil kept the people from starving, while elsewhere famine gnawed through the land.
Crim had been spared the draft by his post, yet fate bound him still—commanded to escort a company of conscripts to the capital. Had all gone well, he would have returned home with honor. But the deadlines were merciless, and delay meant death. Men had already deserted. The rain had doomed the rest.
And so, when they passed through a village, Crim bought himself a jug of harsh liquor, drank deep, and with trembling hands drove steel into the guard.
Now the rain cooled his fevered head. He lifted his face to the sky, saying nothing, as the others who stayed, stood and watched in silence.
At last, he spoke, his voice a rasp. "Why are you still here?"
The tall man—the one who had turned his blade upon the guard—stepped forward.
"I have not seen a man like you," he said. "Born for more than mud and chains. A hero. Tell us your road, boy. We'll walk it with you."
Crim's eyes closed, his breath deep and steady. Then he opened them again, and there was fire in their depths.
"To Fairy Mountain," he said. "Be bandits."