The breath was shallow now.
Arlen could feel it under his hand—his father's chest rising slower each time, like a fire fading. The blood was everywhere, warm and wet, soaking into the dirt. It clung to Arlen's fingers, sticky and heavy.
He leaned in, shaking. "Don't leave me. Please…"
Gareth opened his eyes one last time. They were dull now, unfocused, but something inside them still burned.
"Listen to me," he whispered. His voice was barely air. "You run. You hear me?"
Arlen shook his head. "No. No, I can't—"
"You can." Gareth coughed, and blood touched his lip. He didn't wipe it away. "You find help. You don't die here."
"I—"
But it was already happening. The last breath. The last blink.
Gareth Ashvale was still.
And Arlen was alone.
He didn't know how long he stayed there, crouched beside his father's body, staring at the bloodstained ground. The forest had gone silent again.
Eventually, the cold pushed him forward.
His hands pressed into the dirt. His leg burned. His side throbbed. His body screamed at him to stop.
But he remembered the words: "You don't die here."
So he crawled.
Through mud and root and fallen leaves. His breath came in short gasps. Sometimes he dragged himself forward on his elbows. Sometimes he rolled over and pushed with one foot. The pain blurred everything. His head pulsed. The trees swayed above him like giants.
He didn't know where he was going.
There was no path. No sound. No reason.
Just the will to keep moving.
He didn't know how far he had gone.
The forest blurred into itself—trees, leaves, shadows. His fingers bled from crawling. His leg burned, swollen and hot. His breath rattled in his throat.
At some point, he stopped feeling his hands.
His mind drifted.
Faces came and went—his father's, the soldier's, the woman's scream. The stars above flickered like distant eyes. Every movement hurt now, even blinking. His mouth was dry. His skin was cold.
Then, a slope—gentle to the world, a mountain to him.
He clawed at the hill, slid back down, tried again. Dirt under his nails. Blood on bark.
Halfway up, he collapsed.
He didn't try again.
His face hit the ground. His body refused to move.
He felt something wet near his cheek—maybe dew, maybe tears.
The forest was so quiet.
Then came the dark.
A voice. Distant. Soft. Almost unsure.
"Hey…"
A pause.
"Hey, wake up."
A small hand touched his face. Then again. Light taps on his cheek. Awkward. Hesitant. Not like a soldier. Not rough.
Arlen's eyes opened, just barely.
A blur of color. Brown hair. A pale face. Eyes—wide, worried.
"You're alive," the voice said. It was young. A girl's voice.
He tried to speak. Only a groan came out.
"I'll help you," she said, almost to herself.
He felt something under his arms. Hands. Weak, but determined.
She pulled.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Over roots. Across stones. Through grass and mud. Arlen drifted in and out—consciousness flickering like a dying flame.
Sometimes he heard her breathing. Fast. Tired. But she didn't stop.
Darkness again.
He wasn't sure when it had taken him. It came softly this time. Not like before. Not like the end.
More like sleep.
Warmth.
A blanket.
He felt it before he opened his eyes. Scratchy wool. Heavy. A fire somewhere nearby. The scent of woodsmoke and herbs.
He blinked once.
A ceiling above him—dark beams, rough and old.
A face moved past his vision. A woman, maybe. Blonde? Or grey? He couldn't tell.
Then everything faded again.
Another time.
A voice whispered near his ear.
"Don't move too much. You're safe now."
He tried to turn his head. Pain flared. His eyes closed before he could see who had spoken.
Again.
Laughter. Quiet. A girl's voice. And another, deeper—stern, unfamiliar.
"...shouldn't have brought him here, Sera. We don't know who he is."
"He would've died."
"You don't know that."
"He's just a boy."
The voices faded.
Then—
Stillness.
Silence.
His eyes opened fully.
This time, the world didn't swim.
He was in a small room. Stone walls, a wooden door, a single window letting in cold grey light. The bed beneath him creaked when he moved. His leg throbbed, wrapped tightly in fresh cloth.
He could hear movement outside the door.
Voices. A fire. Life.
And for the first time in days—
He wasn't alone.
The door creaked.
Arlen turned his head slowly, careful not to shift too much. His whole body ached, but the pain was distant now—muted by sleep, by time.
A figure stood in the doorway.
It was the girl.
Sera.
Her eyes went wide the moment she saw him looking back.
"You're awake," she whispered.
Her voice was soft, almost like she wasn't sure if she should be happy—or afraid.
Arlen blinked. His lips parted, but his throat was too dry for words.
She took a small step into the room. "You've been asleep for days."
He tried to nod, but even that felt like too much.
Sera stared at him a second longer—then turned sharply.
"Mother! Father!" she called. "He's awake!"
Her voice echoed through the small house.
Moments later, footsteps approached.
Heavy ones.
And then two figures filled the doorway behind her. A tall man with a thick beard and broad shoulders—Theon. Beside him, a woman with tired eyes and a calm face—Lira.
They looked at Arlen in silence.
He lay there, breathing shallowly, unsure of what to say, unsure of what they saw when they looked at him.
A boy with blood on his hands.Or just a child who didn't die.
The silence held for a few breaths.
Then Lira stepped forward. Her voice was quiet, careful. "Can you speak, child?"
Arlen swallowed. His throat ached, dry as stone.
"I think so," he rasped.
Theon crossed his arms, his gaze hard. "Who are you?"
Arlen blinked slowly. He looked at each of them in turn. Then at Sera, who hadn't moved from the edge of the bed.
"My name is Arlen," he said.
His voice cracked.
"I'm the son of a knight. Gareth Ashvale. We… we were attacked."
Lira's expression didn't change, but her hands folded tighter in front of her. Sera's eyes flickered with something—concern, or maybe fear.
"By whom?" Theon asked.
"I don't know," Arlen said. "Soldiers. They… they wore no banners. They killed a woman. A child. And then…"
His voice trailed off.
Lira came closer, knelt beside the bed. "And your father?"
Arlen stared at the ceiling. His fingers clenched the edge of the blanket.
"He's gone," he whispered. "He died saving me."
They didn't speak for a while after that.
Just the fire crackling outside the room.
Arlen closed his eyes. He let the stillness take him. Let the warmth of the bed hold him a little longer.
And then it hit him.
His eyes flew open. His breath caught.
"He's still there," he said suddenly, pushing the blanket off. "My father—he's still in the woods."
Sera flinched at the sudden shift in his voice.
"I have to go," Arlen said, swinging his legs off the bed. "I have to bury him."
He tried to stand, but pain lanced through his leg. His knees buckled. Lira caught him before he hit the floor.
"Easy," she said. "You'll tear the wound open."
"I don't care," Arlen gasped. "He's out there. Alone. I have to bring him home."
Theon stepped forward, firm but not unkind. "You're not going anywhere on that leg. Not yet."
"I won't let him rot," Arlen said, looking up at him with wild eyes. "I won't."
Theon looked at Lira. She nodded once.
"We'll help you," she said gently. "But not like this. Rest. Then we'll go together."
Lira brought him a bowl of warm broth and a piece of soft bread. The scent alone made Arlen's stomach twist—he hadn't eaten in days.
He ate slowly, wincing with every movement, his hands still shaking. No one spoke. The family simply stayed close, giving him space but not leaving.
When he was done, Theon stepped beside him.
"Come," the man said.
Arlen looked up, confused.
"We'll take you to him."
Sera handed Lira a bundle of cloth. Theon helped Arlen to his feet, one strong arm wrapped under the boy's shoulders. Arlen winced as his leg bore weight, but he didn't stop.
They stepped out into the cold.
The sky was pale and overcast. The trees stood still and quiet, no wind between them.
Arlen leaned heavily on Theon, limping with each step, but he said nothing. He didn't complain.
Lira walked beside them, holding the bundle—blankets and a spade.
The woods grew darker as they moved deeper.
Arlen recognized the trail.
The broken branches.
The path he'd crawled.
Every step closer made his chest feel tighter. His breathing shallow. His heart heavier.
How did this happen?He had asked himself that question a hundred times already.
Why did I go looking?Why didn't I just stay?
He clenched his teeth, his jaw aching.
They didn't even know we were there... not until me.
They reached the clearing.
Arlen stepped away from Theon's arm, limping forward on his own, teeth clenched. His leg screamed with every step, but he didn't stop.
Not now.
And there he was.
Gareth Ashvale.
Lying still, surrounded by the bodies of the dead.
Arlen dropped to his knees beside him.
He stared. Not blinking. Not breathing.
Then his hands shook.
And the tears came.
Not soft, not slow—they broke out of him like a storm.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracking. "I didn't mean to…"
He touched his father's cloak. Cold. Stiff.
"I shouldn't have gone," he choked. "I shouldn't have gone after the sound."
His fists clenched.
"I heard them. I heard the noise. I should've stayed asleep. I should've stayed—with you."
He hit the ground.
Once.
Then again.
And again.
Until blood smeared his knuckles and the leaves beneath them turned red.
"They wouldn't have seen me," he gasped. "They wouldn't have come if I hadn't—if I hadn't stepped on that branch."
Lira rushed forward, knelt beside him. "No—Arlen, no. You didn't know."
"I should've!" he shouted. "I should've known better! I was stupid."
Theon stood behind them, silent, jaw clenched.
Arlen's hands trembled where they pressed into the earth.
"I brought them to us," he whispered. "They weren't coming for us. Not until me."
Lira gripped his wrist, but gently. "You're just a boy."
He looked at her with wide, broken eyes.
"No," he said. "Not anymore."
The words lingered in the air, cold and final.
For a long time, no one spoke.
The wind moved softly through the trees. Birds stayed silent. The clearing felt like a place the world had left behind.
Then Theon stepped forward.
"We should bury him," he said. Not an order. Just a fact.
Arlen nodded slowly.
No more tears came.
Just silence.
He looked at his father one last time, then reached out—and picked up the sword.
They dug the grave together.
Theon worked in silence, his hands steady, his face unreadable. Arlen helped where he could—kneeling, scooping dirt with bloodied fingers, biting back the pain in his leg. Every handful of earth felt like a punishment. Every breath, a weight.
Lira stood nearby, arms crossed tight against her chest, eyes glassy but dry.
When the hole was deep enough, they laid Gareth to rest.
Lira placed a folded cloth over his chest—clean linen, unbloodied. Theon muttered a short prayer, low and rough, like something half-forgotten.
Arlen said nothing.
He only knelt at the edge of the grave, staring down.
Then, without a word, he slid the sword—his father's sword—into the worn scabbard across his back. The leather strap was too long for him. The hilt stuck out awkwardly behind his shoulder.
It didn't matter.
It was his now.
When the grave was filled, and the earth patted flat, Arlen stood before it.
The wind had picked up again, colder now, brushing through his torn clothes and tangled hair. The pain in his leg had returned, dull but constant. His hands were still raw.
But he didn't feel any of it.
He looked down at the grave.
Not with tears.
Not with trembling.
Just silence.
His fists clenched at his sides—tight, white-knuckled, blood still fresh between his fingers.
His jaw locked.
And his eyes—
They were cold.