The question hung in the freezing air. Kael shifted his weight, his fingers adjusting around the hilt of the dagger. The farmer watched the movement and sighed—a wet, rattling sound.
"Broke it," the man mumbled, pointing a calloused finger at the dead Knight. "My game. Hard shell."
He turned his empty eyes back to Kael. "Now you have to be the toy."
The man moved.
Knees loose, feet springing off the snow in a light, skipping rhythm—left, right—like a child playing hopscotch.
Kael stepped back.
Then the skipping stopped. The heavy axe snapped from a lazy dangle into a blurred arc.
Impossible speed for such bulk.
Kael threw himself backward. His boots lost traction on the ice. He scrambled, kicking up powder as the axe carved the air where his neck had been, the wind of its passage punching his skin.
"Tom!" Kael screamed, his voice raw. "Strike him!"
Silence answered.
Kael risked a glance. The edge of the clearing was empty. The snow lay unbroken except for a set of frantic tracks leading away into the trees.
Abandoned.
The realization hit him a split second before the farmer's boot did.
Air exploded from Kael's lungs. He flew backward, slamming spine-first into a pine trunk. Pain blinded him, greying out the world as he slid down the bark, chest locking tight.
Through the haze, the farmer approached. The skipping was gone. Now, the steps were slow.
"Runners, " the farmer mumbled. He stopped to pick something out of his teeth. "Bad meat."
He glanced at the empty woods where Tom had vanished, scratching his neck violently until he left red streaks.
He raised the axe.
Kael's hand scrabbled in the snow. He needed a second. Just one. "Wait..." he gasped, staying crouched, center low, muscles vibrating.
The farmer paused. He rubbed the side of his head with the axe handle. "Ear," he complained. "Ringing. Shut up."
"Why rush?" Kael pressed.
"Runners get... tough," the man muttered. Annoyance rasped in his voice, like a man with a pebble in his shoe. "Leather. Chewing leather."
He bared his yellow teeth, tapping a rotten molar. "Bad teeth. Soft is better. You sit still. Don't make it leather."
He coiled for the swing.
"Tom!" Kael wheezed. "Now!"
The farmer swung through the plea. "Liar," he grunted.
Kael threw himself sideways. The axe bit into the pine bark—Thunk—sending wood chips flying. It missed Kael's shoulder by an inch.
The farmer yanked the blade free, bored. "Noise," the man sighed. "Just noise."
He raised the weapon again. His eyes stayed on Kael.
Clatter.
A sound behind him. Wood slapping against ice. The farmer froze.
A long wooden shaft spun clumsily past his boots and lay flat on the hardpack. It was Tom's spear. The weapon meant to kill boars lay there, thrown with the weakness of a child.
The farmer blinked. "Stick?" He turned his head.
It was the opening Kael needed.
He lunged, driving the blade forward.The farmer reacted on reflex, yanking his arm up and twisting aside. The dagger flashed up, steel meeting flesh as a red line opened on the man's wrist.
The farmer hissed, jerking his hand back. The axe handle rattled in his grip, blood slicking the wood, but he held on. He kicked out—blindly. Kael twisted, taking the blow on his thigh, and rolled away.
Woof! Woof!
A bark echoed through the trees. Hollow. Deep. Then another. Closer.
The farmer stared at the cut. He licked the blood, tasting it. Then he looked at Tom, who had emerged from the tree line, chest heaving. Tom stood there, pale, eyes wide, like he'd seen a ghost.
"Kael!" Tom shouted. "Hide! The Steward's men—they're coming!"
The farmer looked at the boys, then at the woods where the dogs were barking.
"Crowded," he muttered. "Too loud."
He wiped his nose with the back of his bleeding wrist.
He backed away, already listening for a way out. He turned and vanished into the snowfall. A slow, silent exit.
Kael sagged against the tree. His vision pulsed. The world narrowed to breath and bark and the taste of iron in his mouth.
Tom stood a few steps away, bent over, hands on his knees. He straightened, taking a hesitant step closer.
"I didn't run," he said quickly.
Kael stared at the snow.
"I went the other way," Tom pressed. His voice rose, then dropped. "I heard dogs. I thought—" He reached out. Fingers hovered, uncertain, then touched Kael's arm.
Kael's stomach lurched. A hot wave climbed his throat. He slapped the wrist away—weak.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Tom snapped, his voice sharp with anger. "They're coming because of me. I brought them. You'd be dead if I hadn't—"
Kael dragged himself upright, fingers tearing at the bark. His breath whistled, broken and loud in his ears. He looked at Tom. Really looked at him.
"Did they see you?" Kael asked, breath rough. "Tell me the truth."
Tom swallowed, not meeting Kael's eyes. "I—I don't think they did,"not meeting Kael's eyes. "
"If they saw you, then we don't have a choice. "
"No," Tom insisted. "I heard dogs and ran straight back."
Kael had his answer. He limped toward the ridge, blood marking the snow.
Tom stood where he was. He opened his mouth. Closed it. He followed.
Cowardice. Or luck? It doesn't matter.
Kael pushed the thought aside and kept going.