Echoes of Ossian
The night was thick with the scent of rain and earth, the damp forest closing in around me like a predator waiting to strike. My lungs burned, my limbs screamed for rest, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
Cassian's footsteps pounded behind me, relentless. The weight of his presence, the cold certainty of his pursuit, was suffocating. He had always been faster, always stronger, every time I died by his hands. But strength meant nothing if you knew how to turn it against your enemy.
This time, I wouldn't run blindly. This time, I wouldn't let desperation cloud my mind.
I had studied these woods countless times now, death wasn't worthless, memorized their twists and hidden dangers. While others saw nothing but a tangled maze of roots and thorns, I saw paths, escape routes—traps.
Cassian didn't.
I veered left, lungs heaving, slipping through a gap between two fallen trunks. The ground here was deceptive, covered in a thin layer of moss over loose, shifting stones. A single misstep, and you were at the mercy of gravity.
I barely made it across.
Behind me, Cassian wasn't as lucky. His foot hit the unstable rock, and in the split second of imbalance, I struck. Spinning, I grabbed the nearest branch and swung my weight forward, driving my knee into his chest.
Cassian grunted as he stumbled back, his balance faltering.
I didn't wait for him to recover. I sprinted deeper into the forest, ignoring the sting of branches clawing at my skin. My escape route was just ahead—the river.
I reached the cliff's edge just as Cassian closed in again. The river churned below, its current fierce from the recent rains. The drop was high enough to break bones if I landed wrong. And it hurt like hell.
Cassian slowed, his blade glinting in the moonlight. "This is where you stop," he said, voice calm, measured. "No more running."
I met his gaze. His eyes were unreadable, but his grip on the sword was firm. He was prepared to cut me down if I so much as twitched.
Good.
I took a step back. "You're right," I panted. "No more running."
And then—I leaped.
The world tilted as I plummeted, wind howling past my ears. For a moment, there was only weightlessness. Then the impact—cold, crushing, unforgiving. The river swallowed me whole.
Darkness. Silence. Then pain.
The current slammed me against the jagged rocks beneath the surface, tearing the air from my lungs. I fought to keep my head above water, the force dragging me downstream. My body twisted and rolled, but I didn't resist.
I let it take me.
Cassian wouldn't follow. He was precise, calculated—he wouldn't risk an unpredictable death. That was my advantage.
When the river finally spit me out into calmer waters, I clawed my way to the shore, coughing and gasping. My body ached, my mind screamed at me to rest, but I forced myself up.
I was out.
I had done it. Finally.
For the first time in my life, I was beyond the walls. Beyond the prison.
But I wasn't free yet.
Not until I broke the curse. Not until I shattered the cycle.
And for that, I needed to disappear before Cassian found me again.
I lay there for a while, breathing in the night air, my heart pounding against my ribs. I don't know how long I stayed there, staring at the sky. The clan felt far away now, like a dream. But the question hit me immediately. Where do I go now?
I had no answers. Just the cold, wet clothes clinging to me and the empty streets ahead. I knew what the city was—how it chewed you up and spit you out—and I knew I wouldn't last long. But there was nowhere else.
So, I kept moving.
Days turned into weeks. The streets became my world. I learned quickly—how to slip through shadows, how to steal when I needed to, how to survive without getting caught. Hunger was my constant companion, and so was the guilt. It gnawed at me, telling me I wasn't doing enough, that I was less than what I wanted to be. But there was no room for that. The city didn't care about my conscience. It only cared if you could keep your head above water.
Months passed before I found a rhythm. The work didn't come easy, but it was honest. Errands, carrying goods, whatever I could get. Slowly, I started to feel like I had something—a little bit of pride in my hands, in what I could do.
Then came her.
The old woman.
She wasn't kind. I could tell the moment she looked at me. But she saw something in me, something useful. She offered me work, the kind I couldn't refuse. I wasn't the only one. There were others, kids like me, their eyes empty, as though they'd seen the worst of everything already. They worked for her too. The older ones? They were gone. War, probably.
I did what I had to. The heavy work. The errands. Anything to get by. When I could, I used what little I had to buy food for all of us. It wasn't much, but when I saw those kids—those lost, hollow eyes—soften just a little, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Relief.
Belonging.
Maybe I couldn't save myself, but for those moments, I didn't feel so alone. And maybe, just maybe, I could make their lives a little better.
Today was cold, the kind of chill that cuts straight through you. That meant it was time to gather some wood to sell in the city. I took two younger kids with me on a walk to the nearby forest, our footsteps crunching in the frost. We didn't talk much—the silence between us was comfortable, but the warmth of their hands gripping mine meant everything. They didn't want to lose me. And I didn't want to lose them either.
When we returned, the old woman was already standing at the entrance of the house, her figure stiff and unmoving. She watched us approach, her sharp eyes scanning the kids around me. They quickly pulled their hands from mine, scattering to find something to do, anything to avoid her gaze.
She never smiled with her eyes. Not once. Not from the beginning. I had always known that, just as she had known what I was—a tool, nothing more. She needed help, and I needed somewhere to stay. That was the deal. It was an unspoken truth between us.
But today… today was different. She seemed… happy.
It was strange.
"Come inside," she called, her voice softer than usual, almost like she was trying to put on a show. She motioned for me to follow her inside. I did, the unease settling in my stomach. The dim light inside the house flickered as we entered.
I lost my balance. My foot caught on something, and before I could react, the ground rushed up to meet me. My arms were bound behind my back before I could even gasp.
I struggled—desperately, angrily—but the chains were already cold, biting into my skin. I twisted and fought, but a soldier appeared from the shadows, moving with swift precision. His hands were rough and strong as they shackled me in place.
I cast a glance back toward the woman—the one I had trusted, the one who had promised safety—only to find that her eyes glinted with something cold, something calculating. She had betrayed me. Sold me to the highest bidder.
A sick, sour feeling spread through my chest. She was grinning. Holding money in her hands, her smile was wide and wicked. And I realized, too late, that I had been nothing more than a pawn in a deal I never knew existed.
Fear tightened its grip on me, my heart pounding as if it wanted to tear itself from my chest. I fought the chains again, but it was useless.
I was already being led away.
And just like that, I was back in those nightmares.
I was thrown to the ground, the cold biting at my skin, my breath shallow and panicked. I tried to move, but the chains held me in place, leaving me weak, vulnerable.
I didn't want to look up.
I didn't want to meet his eyes.
But I had no choice.
The monster—the one who had destroyed everything I once had—was already standing there. He didn't even look at me, as if I was nothing more than a piece of dirt beneath his boot. Instead, he spoke to the armed man in front of him, the soldier who had taken me. Their conversation was distant, muffled by the fear ringing in my ears.
Then the words cut through.
"Need more recruits for the war," the mercenary said, his voice flat. "Any child who can wield a sword will do."
I understood, then.
I was being sold to become a soldier.
My father, had made the choice. He had decided I was the perfect candidate. A troublesome child, someone who could be disposed of with little effort.
The king's command had been clear: every family had to send a soldier to the war effort every year. It didn't matter who. It didn't matter what. If you had a child, you gave them up.
For men like my father, it was the perfect opportunity. Merchants had long sold soldiers to the king's mercenaries, and money could buy anything. For a substantial sum, they could rid themselves of a useless child while gaining favor with the crown. It was simple. Cold. Efficient.
My father wasn't a warrior. He had never fought a day in his life. But he didn't care. The king's men had come, and in his eyes, I was the easy solution. He wouldn't fight. I would.
I was nothing but a tool to be discarded.
I could feel the weight of his decision bearing down on me. He hadn't even looked at me.
For him, this was the chance to be rid of me for good, to bury whatever secrets I carried with me. I was a problem, an inconvenience. And now, I was someone else's problem.
And as I lay there, bound, I realized just how little my life had ever meant.