Sweat clung to his skin like a fevered second layer, the bandage at his side soaked and sticky with blood. Excalibur rested across his lap. He couldn’t see it, but his fingers brushed its frame.

  Can you do it?

  He shifted slightly, lifting the weapon with trembling arms. The length made it impossible to reach the trigger. He couldn’t even angle the barrel under his chin or against his heart. So if he wanted to end it—he couldn’t.

  A dry laugh scraped its way out of his throat. “Of course.”

  He set the weapon down and leaned his head back. The pounding in his side dulled to a throb, but he could feel it beneath the bandage—those black veins still spreading, branching like roots.

  Maybe a bullet wasn’t what he needed.

  He moved Excalibur again, trying to angle the bayonet to end it all. But his body betrayed him. His muscles trembled, arms wobbling under the strain. The pain stole the last of his strength, and the tight space made it impossible to maneuver the long gun.

  The idea slipped from his hands.

  Maybe I’ll respawn at the tower.

  “I’ll choose something… with a lot of bullets,” he said.

  His hand reached into his vest and found Carlos’s round. Smooth brass, worn from being held so many times. A bullet meant for the end.

  Carlos’s end.

  Maybe it was Swift’s end too.

  Wait a minute.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  Swift pulled back the bandage with clenched teeth, exposed the blackened flesh, and placed the tip of the round directly on the edge of the infection.

  His thumb hovered.

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  One shot.

  He pressed it in.

  Pain, white-hot and lancing, shot through him. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The bullet seemed to dig on its own, guided by some unseen force. He tried to remain conscious, but his vision failed.

  A flickering fire.

  Carlos sat near it, legs crossed, cleaning White Feather in silence.

  He looked up, gave Swift a nod—calm, unreadable, like always.

  Swift tried to speak, but no words came.

  The fire popped once, then vanished.

  Daylight bled through the edges of the tarp. Thin rays lit the interior of the den like a cathedral through stained glass. Swift groaned and shifted upright, his back screaming in protest.

  I’m alive?

  He blinked the fatigue from his eyes and glanced down. His side was still raw, but the black web was gone. The wound looked clean—angry, but human.

  Something metallic glinted on the ground next to him.

  Carlos’s bullet casing.

  The tip was gone. The bullet had dissolved, almost like it had burned away. The air around it smelled faintly of copper and ash. He picked it up and held it for a long time.

  No words came. None were needed.

  He slipped it into a pouch on his vest.

  A reminder.

  A gift.

  It took a snack and a full canteen before Swift could think straight again. He stepped outside the den and blinked at the brightness. Morning, maybe close to noon. The sun’s warmth felt like a lie after the night he’d survived.

  He gathered his gear in a daze and began to walk. Not fast. Not with confidence. But with purpose.

  Southward. Always south.

  Time passed. The wind tugged at his flight suit. His boots kicked up powder-fine dust that clung to his legs. Somewhere in the distance, he saw the glint of metal—wheels turning slowly on a path he couldn’t see before.

  A military convoy.

  They stopped when they saw him—half-limping, half-dragging and using Excalibur like a walking stick. Soldiers spilled out, one holding up a hand, the other checking the surroundings.

  “Name?” a grizzled gunner asked.

  “Swift,” he rasped.

  “You clean?” the man asked, pointing at his wrist.

  Swift lifted it. The tattoo shown clearly— no corruption signature…

  Why the wrist and not the wound?

  The gunner nodded and gave a wave. “Hop in. We’ll get you back.”

  Swift climbed into the wagon bed, leaning back against a crate. He clutched his pack in one hand, Excalibur on his lap, and an empty canteen resting in his palm.

  Something about the soldier’s tone stuck in his head.

  Not “back to the capital.”

  Just… “back.”

  Swift narrowed his eyes as the wheels started to roll.

  This isn’t the road home, is it?

  When he opened his eyes, the setting had changed.

  He wasn’t in the wagon anymore. Stone walls surrounded him—smooth, unnaturally pristine. The air smelled of incense and sterilized fabric. He lay flat on a clean cot, too clean. Swift tried to sit up but found resistance—a leather strap secured across his chest.

  He looked around some more.

  His gear was gone.

  Footsteps echoed beyond the curtained doorway. A shape entered, clothed in the pale garb of the Church, face young but eyes old. There was a soft green trim along the robe’s edge.

  The figure smiled with calm, clinical interest.

  “You are finally awake.”