The crack of the branch echoed louder in Arlen's mind than it had in the forest.
For a moment, nothing happened.
No shouting. No movement. Just the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears and the cold air biting at his face.
He crouched lower behind the tree, eyes wide, breath held so tightly his chest began to burn.
Maybe they hadn't heard. Maybe the wind had covered it. Maybe—
A voice cut through the dark.
"There's someone out here."
Low. Calm. Confident.
Another answered, sharper this time. "Where?"
Arlen didn't wait to hear more. He turned and ran.
His feet hit the earth hard, each step jolting pain through his already exhausted legs. The cold branches whipped against his face as he ducked beneath low limbs, the trees closing in around him like a cage. Panic clawed at his throat. He had to get back. He had to make it.
The fire. He could see it now—just a faint glow between the trees. Warm and small and fragile. His father was there. He had to be. If he could just reach it—
"Don't let him get away!" a voice shouted behind him.
Arlen pushed harder. His breath came in ragged gasps. The pain in his side sharpened. But he didn't stop.
Then it happened.
A heavy thud behind him—then a sharp, searing pain shot through his thigh. His leg gave out.
He hit the ground hard, face-first, the impact driving the air from his lungs. He tried to scream, but the pain was too sharp, too sudden. He gasped for air, his fingers clawing at the dirt.
A spear.
It had struck deep. He could feel it, hot and cruel and wrong inside his leg. Blood soaked his trousers, warm against the cold night air.
Before he could move, strong hands grabbed him and yanked him onto his back.
The soldier above him was tall, face hidden beneath a battered helmet. He didn't speak at first. Just stared.
Then, with a grunt, he ripped the spear from Arlen's leg.
Arlen screamed.
The soldier crouched beside him, face still unreadable in the dark. "Not a sound from you until now. Brave little bastard."
Arlen trembled, fists clenched against the pain.
"What are you doing out here, boy? Hmm?" The man tilted his head. "You lost?"
Arlen didn't answer.
"No?" The soldier leaned closer, his voice lowering. "Then maybe you're a scout. Or bait."
He stood, raising the spear above his head, the point angled down toward Arlen's chest.
"You're nothing now."
And then, from the dark—
A flash of steel.
The spear never came down.
A streak of silver flashed through the dark. A single, fluid motion—quiet as a whisper, fast as lightning.
The soldier's body jerked once. Then his head rolled from his shoulders.
It hit the ground with a dull thud.
For a moment, the body remained standing, as if confused. Then it crumpled beside Arlen, lifeless.
Gareth stood behind it, sword in hand, breath low and steady.
His cloak fluttered faintly in the cold breeze, and blood dripped slowly from the edge of his blade. His white-grey hair, unbound now, hung loose over his shoulders, catching the firelight like strands of steel.
He said nothing at first.
His eyes went to Arlen.
He dropped to one knee beside him, already pressing a cloth against the wound in Arlen's leg, his movements precise, practiced—calm, but urgent.
"You're alright," Gareth said, not looking up.
Arlen tried to speak, but the pain in his throat and leg left him breathless.
Gareth took off one of his leather straps and tied it tightly above the wound, cutting off the bleeding. Arlen gasped, his back arching slightly as the pressure bit in.
"You're alright," Gareth repeated, more to himself than his son. "You're with me now."
Arlen reached up, gripping his father's arm. "They... they killed them. The child. A woman. I saw it."
"I know," Gareth said softly. He looked into his son's eyes now—really looked. "You saw too much. That's on me."
Arlen shook his head weakly. "They didn't see me. Not at first. I just... I had to know."
A flicker of something passed over Gareth's face. Not anger. Not even fear. Something quieter. Sadder.
"I told you once," he murmured, binding the cloth tighter, "the world's not fair. But you—"
He looked up as movement stirred in the trees. Leaves shifted. Shadows approached.
His voice changed instantly.
"Don't move," he said, rising to his feet.
Arlen turned his head just enough to see what his father had already sensed.
Three soldiers.
They stepped into the firelight, weapons drawn. One of them stepped over the fallen body of their comrade without even looking down.
"Well," the lead one said, resting his sword on his shoulder. "Looks like we've found something interesting."
Gareth moved forward, sword already raised.
"I'll give you one chance," he said. "Turn around."
The scarred soldier laughed. "You think we're afraid of one man?"
Gareth's eyes narrowed. "No. I think you're about to be."
The first soldier came fast, sword high, charging with a wild yell.
Gareth stepped forward to meet him.
No wasted motion. No warning. His blade moved like water—fast, sharp, silent.
He parried the first strike with a heavy clang, twisted his wrist, and slammed the pommel of his sword into the man's face. Bone cracked. Blood flew. The soldier stumbled back, stunned.
The second came in from the side.
Gareth ducked low, sweeping his leg and knocking the man off balance. Before the soldier could recover, Gareth rose and drove his blade upward, straight through the gap beneath his armplate.
A wet gasp—and he dropped.
The third was more careful. He circled, eyes flicking between Gareth and the other two bodies now lying motionless on the ground.
"I don't know who you are," he growled, "but you're going to bleed for this."
Gareth didn't answer.
He stepped forward.
Their blades met, hard and fast—blow after blow ringing through the night. Sparks flew in bursts. The soldier pressed hard, forcing Gareth back, trying to overwhelm him with brute strength.
And then—Gareth misstepped.
Not by much. But enough.
A sword tip grazed across his ribs, cutting deep through cloak and flesh. Gareth grunted, staggered, but didn't fall. He blocked the next strike, barely.
Then he countered.
His sword came around in a wide arc, smashing the man's blade aside and slashing across his thigh. The soldier screamed and fell, clutching his leg.
Gareth stood still for a moment, breathing hard.
Blood ran down his side now. His shoulder burned. His sword felt heavier in his grip.
But the forest was not quiet.
More footsteps.
More voices.
Two more soldiers emerged from the trees—taller, older, their expressions harder than the last. Their boots crushed fallen leaves beneath them. Their blades were already drawn.
Gareth didn't hesitate.
He turned to face them, sword raised, blood dripping onto the dirt.
"You don't know who you're fighting," one of them said, voice grim.
"I don't need to," Gareth replied. "You brought this."
They attacked together.
This fight was different. Slower. Measured.
Gareth blocked one strike, deflected the second—but the third sliced across his back. His body jerked. He spun, slashing wildly, and caught one man across the chest. The soldier stumbled back, coughing blood.
The other came in fast, too fast. Gareth barely turned in time—the blade ran across his forearm, opening skin. His grip faltered. The sword in his hand felt like lead now.
He grit his teeth.
He pivoted—forced his weight forward—and drove his shoulder into the soldier's chest, knocking him off balance. Then he brought his sword around, low and vicious, and cut into the man's gut.
The soldier collapsed.
Now only one remained.
Gareth stood hunched, blood dripping from too many wounds. His cloak was torn, his breathing uneven. But he still stood. Still held his sword.
The final soldier circled him. His leg was bleeding. His breathing ragged. But there was hatred in his eyes.
"You'll die here," he spat.
Gareth didn't blink. "Maybe. But not alone."
They moved at the same time.
Gareth's blade came low, slicing clean through the man's knee—bone and flesh parted with a crack. The soldier screamed and fell.
But in that same instant—his blade struck.
A short, brutal thrust.
Straight through Gareth's chest.
Both men collapsed.
The soldier let out a hoarse grunt as his body slammed into the dirt beside Gareth. His sword clattered from his hand, and blood poured from the gaping wound where his leg had once been.
Gareth fell to his knees, then onto his side.
His breathing was shallow. His eyes fluttered. Blood soaked his chest, warm and dark, spreading beneath him like a growing shadow.
Arlen saw everything.
He couldn't move at first.
He lay where his father had left him, the cloth still tied around his leg, sticky with blood. His arms trembled. His vision blurred with tears he didn't remember letting fall.
He tried to speak, but no words came. Only the sound of his father's labored breathing. Slow. Fading.
The soldier on the ground groaned. His hand twitched. Then another. He began to push himself up, gritting his teeth, dragging his ruined body toward Gareth.
Arlen's heart seized.
He looked to the fallen bodies. The blood. The weapons.
He had no sword. No strength. No plan.
But he had to do something.
Gritting his teeth, he turned his body, dragging himself across the cold earth. Pain flared in his wounded leg with every inch. His hands clawed through leaves and mud and blood until he reached one of the soldiers Gareth had killed earlier.
The man's body was still warm.
Arlen forced himself not to look at the face.
He reached for the soldier's belt. His fingers closed around the hilt of a dagger—short, worn, but sharp. He pulled it free.
It felt heavy in his hand.
He turned.
The surviving soldier had risen to one knee. His sword was gone, but the hatred on his face was as sharp as any blade.
He saw Gareth lying still, barely breathing.
And he smiled.
Arlen's chest burned. His fingers tightened around the dagger.
The soldier limped forward, dragging himself toward Gareth, raising a hand, ready to finish it.
But then—Arlen screamed.
The soldier turned, startled.
What he saw stopped him cold.
A twelve-year-old boy—bloodied, limping, face twisted in pain and fury—charging at him with a dagger in hand.
He couldn't move fast enough.
Arlen slammed into him with everything he had.
The blade drove straight into the man's face—through his eye with a sickening crunch.
The soldier screamed—a short, broken sound—then crumpled backward, his body twitching once before falling still.
Arlen stood over him, panting, trembling, his hands slick with blood—some his own, most not.
The dagger slipped from his fingers.
And then he dropped to his knees, beside his father.
The forest was still.
The soldier lay dead at Arlen's feet, blood pooling beneath his head. The dagger had slipped from Arlen's hand, but his fingers still trembled, curled as if clinging to the moment.
He turned slowly.
Gareth lay a few steps away, half on his side, one arm beneath him, the other limp. Blood soaked the front of his tunic, deep and dark. It spread across the ground beneath him like a shadow trying to claim him.
Arlen crawled to him, pain screaming in his leg with every movement.
When he reached his father's side, he hesitated.
Gareth's eyes were half-closed. His face, usually so hard and unreadable, looked softer now—slack with exhaustion. But he was still breathing. Shallow. Uneven. But breathing.
Arlen leaned closer, afraid to speak, afraid even to blink.
His father's chest rose once. Then again.
There was so much blood.
Arlen pressed a hand to Gareth's shoulder. "I'm here," he whispered. "I got him."
No answer.
He swallowed hard, his voice breaking. "You're gonna be alright, okay? You always are."
Gareth's eyes opened, just slightly. His gaze found Arlen's—and for a moment, he focused.
"Boy…" His voice was rough. Barely a breath.
"I'm here," Arlen said again, kneeling closer, trying not to cry.
Gareth didn't smile. But something in his eyes shifted. Pride, maybe. Or sorrow.
Then he closed them again.
And Arlen stayed there, hand on his father's shoulder, holding the silence.