James stumbled. The world had dulled to shades of grey. The rain, the cold, the wind, all pressing against him, relentless, uncaring. It pounded into his skin, soaked through his clothes, and pulled at his legs with each step. But none of it truly registered.

  His mind was elsewhere, replaying those last moments on the bridge repeatedly. The cut of the rope. The fall. The roar of the river below.

  Was it a smile or a frown on Ser Edwin's face?

  James couldn't tell anymore. He had been too far, too slow to see.

  It doesn't matter now. He is gone.

  James' breath hitched. He clenched his jaw, shoving the thought away, but it wouldn't leave. It latched onto his ribs, wrapping tight, crushing him from the inside. He knew Edwin was dead. He knew there was no surviving a wound like that. A fall like that. But a part of him hoped. And that was the cruelest part.

  "Get to shelter, boy." James' head snapped up, turning wildly, searching for the owner of the voice. But there was no one there.

  Of course, it was nothing.

  Just a voice in his memory, echoing through the storm. His own mind tormented him with the words Edwin would have said.

  He exhaled sharply, a shuddering breath, pressing a hand against his chest as if that would steady him, but It didn't.

  His eyes burned. But he had already cried himself raw, already screamed into the dark until his voice had turned hoarse. There was nothing left in him. Only an aching silence.

  But I have to move. I have to go.

  Each step forward was a battle. The mud sucked at his boots. The earth itself seemed to be pulling him down, dragging at him, trying to bury him in the weight of everything. The pack on his back felt heavier than before, pressing into his shoulders, threatening to push him into the ground.

  Just one more step.

  Just one more.

  And another.

  And another.

  But no matter how far he walked or how many steps he took, the truth remained the same. Dry, silent tears wrecked his body, and James kept walking, although he wasn't sure why. His feet moved on instinct, dragging him forward through the mire. The weight of the pack bit into his shoulders, and his body screamed for rest, but the storm didn't care. The wind howled through the few remaining trees, the rain battered against him, and the world pressed in from all sides. But he climbed.

  The ground rose steadily beneath his feet, the thick mud giving way to slick, uneven stone. A ridge of jagged rock jutted out ahead, the darkness beneath it deep enough to swallow him whole.

  A cave. Finally.

  James stumbled toward it, slipping, catching himself against the rough stone as he pushed forward. The opening was narrow, half hidden by creeping vines and the gnarled roots of an old, half-dead tree, but it was deep enough to block the worst of the wind and rain. As he passed, he ripped free some vines and dug out some of the driest bark. It would have to do. The thought was slow, like being dragged through mud itself.

  James dropped his pack with a heavy thud, sinking back against the wall. His limbs shook, not just from the cold but from everything. The exhaustion, the weight pressing against his shoulders, the hollow ache in his chest that would not ease.

  I need warmth. A fire. Take care of what you can.

  Ser Edwin would have had a fire going by now. James' fingers fumbled with the pocket as he dug into his pack, pulling out the flint and steel. His body shivered violently as he tried to hold them steady. He reached for the driest bits of kindling he had, hands shaking as he struck the steel against the flint.

  Sparks.

  But no flame.

  Again.

  Nothing.

  His breath came harder, faster.

  Again.

  His hands trembled, his fingers slipping against the tools. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding. The cave was so dark, so cold. He needed light. He needed warmth.

  Again.

  Sparks flickered, teasing, glowing for half a heartbeat before fading into nothing.

  "Fuck." He screamed, his pulse pounding against his skull, frustration coiling in his gut, crawling under his skin like something alive.

  Again.

  The steel slipped from his grip, clattering against the stone.

  His body was trembling too much. He couldn't do it. He couldn't—

  A strangled sound tore from his throat, half a sob, half a growl of rage. The world blurred as he grabbed the flint and steel and threw them.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  They clattered against the cave floor, bouncing once, twice, before rolling into the rain and disappearing into the muck.

  James slumped forward, pressing his hands against his face. His breath came in shuddering gasps, his body curling in on itself. The storm raged outside, the cold creeping in around him. He had never felt so alone.

  Slowly, he pulled his blanket from the pack, and the scent of beard oil and smoke hit him. Like a punch to the gut, he wrapped it around him, like a hug, trying to pull it against him as tight as he could.

  "Eat, boy." He heard the voice again but knew it was just the wind. Still, he pulled some dried meat from his pack and a cut of hard sour-smelling cheese Ser Edwin had loved.

  A new wave of slammed grief slammed into him like a hammer.

  "I'm here, little seed."

  "Fuck you," James screamed into the darkness. "I could have saved him."

  "No, you couldn't. You never could." The voice was firm, confident, steady.

  "Fuck off, and don't come back." The voice retreated. Not gone, but far enough that he could push all traces of it from his thoughts. Soon, the blanket warmed him enough that exhaustion did the rest, and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  James woke to cold. Not the bite of the storm, not the wet chill that had soaked through his clothes the night before, but something more profound. A hollow, aching cold that sat heavy in his chest. For a moment, he stayed still, curled beneath the blanket, breathing in the lingering scent of beard oil and smoke. If he didn't move, he could almost pretend—almost—

  But the ache in his chest, the stiffness in his limbs, the emptiness in the cave. They shattered the illusion.

  James was alone. He forced himself upright, pushing back the blanket and ignoring how his hands shook. He had to move. Sitting here wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't bring Ser Edwin back, and it wouldn't save Max.

  The rain poured down, running off the cave mouth and the tree that hid him in long silver rivulets. James forced himself to eat the last of the trail rations, which were soggy and wet from the endless rain but edible. He couldn't taste the thing, but he chewed it mechanically.

  "Get to the fort, save Max," he mumbled. Nodding as though he was convincing himself of what to do. James forced himself to his feet, shaking out the blanket and shoving it back into his pack. He took a long pull from his waterskin, barely tasting the stale rainwater, before slinging his pack over his shoulders.

  Max was ahead. The thought should have steeled him, given him purpose, but all it did was remind him of the missing weight at his side, the steady presence that should have been there. He glanced at the space where Edwin would have stood, where he should have been, just for a moment. Before he pushed it down and pushed out into the storm, into the climb.

  The terrain grew worse with every step. The muddy path from before was gone, replaced by jagged rocks and uneven slopes, slick with rain and treacherous beneath his boots. Roots jutted from the earth like grasping fingers, waiting to trip him. His calves burned with the climb, his breath coming in slow, heavy pulls.

  The storm had carved the land into something harsher, something cruel. James pressed his hand against the nearest tree to steady himself, fingers digging into the rough bark. No leaves clung to the wicked branches. The world stretched below him, a valley swallowed in dark and rain. He couldn't even find Oakwood anymore.

  Even my home is gone. But I have to keep moving forward.

  James checked the compass. The dial was fixed northbound; it no longer flicked back and forth, just straight ahead.

  As he ascended, the trees thinned even more, their twisted shapes clawing toward the sky. The road, if it could even be called that anymore, was nothing more than broken rock and scattered patches of dead, damp grass. The higher he climbed, the more exposed he felt with each step.

  James tightened his grip on the straps of his pack, his fingers cold and stiff. He forced himself to keep moving, to ignore the way the wind howled like a living thing, pushing against him, trying to shove him back down the mountain.

  His foot slipped, and he barely caught himself, his knee slamming against the wet stone. He bit back a curse, pushing himself up, but the pain was dull and distant, buried beneath the weight of exhaustion. Head down, he forced himself forward, climbing higher, the storm raging around him, the wind screaming in his ears.

  Two figures in thick black cloaks stepped out from the nearest clump of rocks. Brandishing weapons. One had a dagger, and the other had thick brass knuckles. James' hand shot to where the hilt of his sword should have been, but his fingers closed around the air.

  "Fuck." was all he could say before they were on him.

  The first strike came fast. James barely twisted in time, and the dagger's edge kissed his ribs instead of sinking deep. The shock of pain jolted him, his sluggish body. He lashed out, grabbing the attacker's wrist and driving his knee into their gut. The cloaked figure, a woman, smaller but coiled with wiry strength. Let out a sharp grunt but didn't fall back. The second attacker came from behind. James reacted on instinct, pivoting, but he was too slow.

  A fist like a hammer crashed into his jaw. Stars burst behind his eyes as he stumbled backward, boots slipping against the wet stone. He barely kept himself upright, blinking through the haze of pain. The broad-chested man loomed over him, flexing the fingers in the brass knuckles, a predator waiting for the opening.

  James' hand went to his hip again, but his sword still wasn't there. Ser Edwin would have had my back. That single thought, sharp as a blade, nearly undid him.

  The woman lunged. James threw himself aside, rolling into a crouch as her dagger slashed the empty air where his throat had been. He grabbed a loose stone, hurling it at her face. She twisted, the rock grazing her temple, but it gave him the second he needed to scramble back to his feet. His footing was unsteady. The man didn't wait for him to recover. A second blow slammed into James' stomach, knocking the wind from his lungs. He gasped, doubling over, but before he could react, a hand seized his cloak, yanking him forward. The hand came for his throat.

  James caught the wrist at the last moment, the fingers trembling inches from his skin. Rain dripped from the hood, covering the man's face, but James could see his mouth. It was twisted into something between a smirk and a snarl.

  "Not bad," the man grunted, his strength creeping his hand closer. James gritted his teeth. His body screamed to move. With a desperate twist, James drove his elbow into the man's ribs. He felt the breath rush out of him, and he felt the grip on his cloak loosen just enough. James shoved hard against the attacker's chest, breaking free. Staggering back, slipping on the rain-slicked stones. His heart pounded. His breath came fast.

  He had nothing. No sword. No Edwin. Just himself.

  Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the fight for a heartbeat. The woman circled to his left, the man to his right.

  I'm trapped.

  James swallowed the coppery taste of blood. His fingers curled into fists.

  He was not going to die here. With a roar, he charged. James tucked low, driving his shoulder into the man's stomach. The force sent them both hurtling sideways, slamming hard against the thick stone of the path's edge.

  Crack.

  The sound was sickening, like a melon smashing against the stones of a market floor. The man went limp in his arms, but James had no time to process it. The woman struck. A flash of silver in the dim light, then fire along his arm.

  James hissed, pain erupting from the gash she carved into his flesh. The pain was sharp, real, grounding. The first thing he had genuinely felt since yesterday.

  Lightning split the sky, illuminating her face in a flickering, ghostly light. For a moment, just a moment, James thought he saw something wrong, an apparition lurking beneath her skin. Her blade moved. A feint—low, fast.

  James saw it too late. His hand shot forward, trying to grab her wrist—only for her other hand to whip around, dagger flashing toward his eye. He twisted, but exhaustion slowed him. The blade caught him across the temple.

  A shallow cut but deep enough that blood poured before his magic could seal it. She didn't stop. The dagger dragged downward, splitting skin from temple to chin.

  James roared. The pain was blinding, white-hot. His vision blurred red.

  He lashed out, instincts overriding thought. The soul of his boot, slick with mud, crashed into her chest.

  The woman staggered, arms windmilling as she fought for balance. Her dagger slipped from her grip and vanishing into the rain.

  Then her boot skidded. And she was gone.

  Thud.

  Crunch.

  Splat.

  Each sound hit James like a hammer to the gut. Slowly, breath shaking, he stepped forward and peered over the edge. Far below, barely visible through the sheets of rain, lay her broken, misshapen body sprawled against the jagged rocks. He swallowed hard, bile rising in his throat.

  "Scarlet!" The man's voice was raw, cracked with anguish.

  James spun just as heavy arms lunged for him. Instinct took over. He rolled aside, his hand landing on something sharp as it sliced across his palm.

  The dagger. He gripped it tight, coming up to face the man. There was something in the man's eyes. A look James knew too well, loss.

  Hesitation spells death. Ser Edwin's words burned through his mind, sharp and undeniable.

  James struck like a coiled viper, fast and lethal. The dagger sank between the man's ribs. A sickening pop jolted up James' arm, the resistance breaking as the blade found its mark. The man coughed a wet, ragged sound. Blood spilled from the edges of his mouth.

  "Good one." He swayed with a ghost of a smile. Then his foot slipped. And he was falling. James didn't watch him hit the rocks. Didn't even look back.

  The rain pounded against him, every raw edge of his fraying soul, and he wiped the blood from his face. Then he turned, forcing his feet forward.

  The fort couldn't be far now.