I let myself fall.
The ferns caught me, sort of. Wet and soft and cold. My face pressed into the dirt and I didn't move. Not even when something crawled across my arm. Not when my toes cramped in my boots. I just stayed there, listening to the swamp breathe.
I waited.
I don't know for what. Maybe for death. Maybe for the gods to come down and end it all. Maybe just for the noise in my head to stop.
Eventually, I must've fallen asleep.
It wasn't restful. I dreamed of drowning. Of hands dragging me under. Of laughter. When I woke up, the sky was dark. The swamp was darker.
I was shivering.
My clothes clung to me like skin. My limbs ached, every part of me sore like I'd been beaten with clubs. My mouth was dry. My stomach cramped with emptiness. The bugs had found me—my face, my hands, my neck. Every part that wasn't covered was swollen with bites, red and itching and raw.
I rubbed my eyes. Sat up. The ferns rustled around me.
The moon barely showed through the trees. Just enough to see my own breath.
I stood. Or tried to. My knees buckled. I caught myself on a low branch and forced myself upright.
There was no path. No torches. Just more swamp. Trees and water and roots.
So I walked.
I didn't know where I was going. I didn't care. One foot in front of the other, over logs, through puddles, past thick clumps of reeds. I walked because I had to. Because if I stopped, I'd die right there. I was sure of it.
The cold sank in deeper with every step.
My fingers had gone numb. My teeth chattered. I couldn't stop scratching the bites, even when they bled. I started muttering to myself. Nothing that made sense. Just words to keep me from losing my mind.
Then—light.
Flickering, faint. Orange and low, just over a ridge of mossy ground. I stopped. My heart skipped.
I crept closer.
The trees thinned a little, the mud turned to wet soil, and I saw them. About ten of them, maybe more. Men, but not like the ones I'd seen before. No banners. No horses. Just a tight ring of figures around a campfire. Their clothes were strange—loose, heavy, all covered from head to toe in thick fabric and leather wraps. Only their eyes were visible, narrow slits in dark cloth.
They didn't look like soldiers. They didn't look like nobles. They didn't look like anyone I knew.
I hesitated.
But my legs moved anyway.
I stepped out from the brush, dragging myself through a shallow trench of standing water. Each step sucked more of the strength from me. My knees barely lifted. My arms shook. I couldn't even lift the dagger anymore—it hung from my belt like dead weight.
They saw me.
One of them stood, drawing a short sword with a sharp ring of steel. Another raised a spear. Someone else reached for a bow.
They pointed. They shouted something I didn't understand. Not Empire-tongue. Not anything I'd heard before.
I raised my hands.
"I need help!" I called out, voice cracked and hoarse. "Please!"
They didn't move. Not at first.
I stumbled forward, out of the last patch of water, my foot slipping on a rock. I hit the ground hard, shoulder first. Mud splashed up across my face. My body groaned like it belonged to someone else.
"I'm not… with them," I muttered, barely loud enough for myself to hear. "I'm not anyone."
One of the men stepped closer. His weapon still raised.
I tried to lift my head, but everything spun. The fire blurred in my vision, and the trees leaned sideways.
My body gave out.
My face hit the ground again.
And this time, I didn't move.