He didn't remember the road back.
His boots were soaked in blood—some of it his, most of it Aron's. The weight on his shoulders wasn't from wounds or gear.
It was guilt.
He replayed it over and over. The shove. The spear. Aron's trembling voice, forcing a laugh even as he bled.
"If I let you kick the bucket, how would I ever face Ariel again?"
Ron gripped the Guild card in his hand so tightly it crumpled.
The village gates came into view through a blur of tears.
A familiar tree.
A crooked training post.
The house.
Their house.
He stood outside the door for too long.
His hand refused to knock...