I walk toward the town with my head down, arms stiff, the dried clothes scratching at my skin with every movement. They were left out overnight, but still damp in spots. Not soaked, just uncomfortable. My boots squish in the shallow mud. The leather is torn near the toes, but it holds. It has to. My legs are stiff. My back aches. I've been walking since before dawn. Maybe longer. I don't know the time anymore. My body's too cold and hungry to keep track.
The swamp behind me still clings to the edges of the woods, but here, things flatten out. The trees thin. The smell is still bad—like rot and wet leaves—but it's better than it was. My hands are bitten raw by bugs. My lips are cracked, bleeding. I haven't spoken in hours. Not since the fire. Not since the screams.
The town comes into view ahead, its wooden palisade standing crooked and dark like an old man's ribs. It surrounds the place completely, though not well. There's a shallow ditch in front, filled with water and weeds. I guess it's supposed to be a moat. It wouldn't stop a goat from crossing. Let alone men with torches. But it's there. And maybe someone lives inside. Maybe they'll help. Or maybe they'll kill me. Either way, I'm too tired to care.
I step closer, dragging my feet through the grass and muck. My stomach growls so loud it hurts. The knife is still tied to my side. The leather flask too. I haven't touched either since this morning. I'm not sure I'll be able to keep walking much longer.
I reach the gate. It's made of thick wood. Rough and old. I knock. First soft, then harder. The sound echoes a little.
Nothing.
Then, suddenly, a voice from the other side—raspy and sharp.
"Leave now or death comes for you!"
I step back. It wasn't a warning. It was a promise.
"I'm not with anyone," I yell. "I'm not a soldier. Just a boy. Please, I need help. Just water. Or food—"
"Go!"
Another shout. I try again but the only reply is silence. Not even footsteps. Just quiet, and the creak of wood shifting in the wind.
They're scared.
Not of me. Of something else.
I look up at the gate one more time. Then I turn. I walk away, my steps slow. Limping. I don't have energy to be angry. Not even sad. Just tired. The path curves a bit as it leads away from the town, cutting through tall grass and back toward the trees. I keep going until the walls are behind me, and the forest is close again.
That's when I hear it.
Marching. Not distant. Not hidden. Loud. Steady.
I crouch down and slip behind the nearest tree, peering out past the trunk.
They come from the south. An army. No banners. Around fifty of them, maybe more. Their numbers don't matter as much as how they move—every step in perfect rhythm, each man holding his place like parts of a clock. Their armor isn't mismatched like ours was. It fits them. Red and green cloth, clean and sharp under their gear, like they want you to know they're different. Better. Every face is hidden behind iron and polish. They look like they were born for war.
Some of them carry clay pots, sealed with wax. I've seen those before. They hold pig fat, or something worse—oil maybe. Meant to burn. Meant to stick.
They don't knock. They don't call out. No one tries to speak.
One man throws a container.
It smashes against the palisade, splashing liquid across the wood.
Another. Then another.
Then the torches come.
Flames burst along the wall. It catches fast. Too fast. Dry timber, maybe soaked in something flammable. Within seconds, fire spreads across the whole gate, up the sides, over the walkways. The heat reaches even where I'm hiding.
Then the screaming starts.
Voices from inside. Men yelling. Women. Maybe children. The town is dying and no one is going to help.
The army just waits.
They stand there, watching. Torches lowered. Weapons ready, but unused. They aren't here to fight. Just to destroy.
One of them steps forward, closer to the burning gate. He removes his helmet.
I see the blue hair. No beard. The man who grabbed me by the face. The one who tried to drown me in the swamp.
He laughs.
Loud. Real. He looks up into the fire like it's a festival. Like he enjoys it. His teeth flash in the firelight.
I feel my hands shake.
I turn and slip deeper into the forest, moving fast now. My legs tremble but I don't stop. I don't want to see more. I don't want to hear more. I want to vanish.
Then—
Crack.
A sound behind me. Sharp. Sudden. Like wood snapping in two.
I freeze. I turn slowly, breath held.
Something moves behind me in the trees.
Then I see her.
A woman—on fire. Flames cover her back, eating through cloth and hair and skin. Her face is blackened. Her eyes open but empty. She stumbles through the trees, arms cradled around something pressed tight to her chest.
She doesn't cry out. She doesn't scream. She just walks. A few more steps.
Then she falls.
Her knees give out. Her hands shove something ahead of her, out of the flames.
A bundle. Wrapped in cloth.
Her body hits the dirt. Fire takes her completely.
The bundle rolls a little. A sound comes from it.
A cry. Weak. High-pitched.
I run.
My feet pound the soft dirt. I grab the bundle. It's small. Warm, but not from the fire. A baby.
The cloth is slightly singed, but the child inside is alive.
I don't think.
I turn and run. Holding the bundle tight against my chest.
Deeper into the forest. Away from the fire. From the army. From the blue-haired man.
Branches whip my face. Roots trip my feet. I don't stop.
Not for anything.
Not until I can't hear the screams anymore.