The night was still young and daylight wouldn’t come for another few hours at the least. With this in mind Malt shed his boots and laced them to his belt along with his sword and dagger, making sure all three were fastened tightly to his body.

With nothing to protect his feet besides a thin layer of hosen, the foliage ridden earth would rub his feet raw within minutes. Injured feet limits mobility and opens the door to things like infection and putrefaction, both of which would be lethal in a situation like his.

Regardless, it reduced his chances of being discovered and so he took the risk.

Then came the more pressing matter.

He had no clue where Dagridge was.

In the desperate confusion that had led him to the current situation, he’d lost all sense of direction. To make matters worse, there were really no discernable landmarks that he could see, not that the lack of light helped.

He wasn’t an outdoorsman, not by any stretch. Having to sleep on a barren battlefield didn’t hone his survival or tracking skills. He couldn’t read the land nor the stars. In fact he didn’t even know if the sun rose in the east and set in the west like it did on earth.

All he knew was that if he stayed still, he’d die or be captured, one way or another. The only choice was to move forward.

Luckily the khods didn’t seem to be searching the area yet, and so he picked a direction, and began inching his way forward.

He snuck around when possible, using trees and larger obstructions to hide himself. When none of those were around, he had to resort to crawling on his belly.

Within just a few minutes, it became overly apparent that he’d underestimated just how rough the ground was. His palms and feet were already caked black and as rough as parchment. Small cuts were already appearing, most of which were already packed with dirt and grime.

There were thick, cacti like thorns sticking from the pads of his feet. Whenever he moved they would dig in a little deeper, causing him to cringe in discomfort.

But he wouldn’t complain. Or rather, he couldn’t afford to. There were more than a couple instances where a khod strolled within grabbing distance of him, just to walk off unaware that he was quite literally under their noses. On one occasion a khod even wandered close enough to step on the hem of his gambeson.

The only reason he hadn’t been caught yet was because the sun hadn’t risen. Which was all the more alarming because the sky seemed to be growing brighter and brighter as time passed.

Eventually, the edge of the horizon began glowing a faint orange, and his chance of escape slowly, but surely, slipped away.

The adrenaline began to subside and gnawing anxiety took its place. He played out all the worst case scenarios within his head, each outcome turning out worse than the previous. His eyes flickered back and forth from the quickly brightening sky to the enemies that practically surrounded him.

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The panic and desperation clouded his judgement, creeping exhaustion and incessant dehydration were pushing his mind into irrationality.

It was then that he began playing with ideas of turning himself in.

Would he be executed? Maybe imprisonment or torture awaited him. Maybe he’d live the rest of his life as a slave in Khodor’s frigid mainland.

The idea became more and more alluring the more desperate he became, the deeper the thorns in his feet dug into his flesh. He combed his mind to find something, a cause, or a someone that would give him the will to power through.

His classmates immediately came to mind.

But who was he kidding, he’d known deep down how little he cared for the three. There was basically no connection between them besides the fact they came from the same world, in fact he’d only ever exchanged a few words with them in the first place.

He didn’t dislike nor resent them, but he had no real reason to care much for them either.

Then there was Henry and Alyss, who were really the only two people he could talk to at Dagridge. He liked them both quite a lot, but it dawned to him that they were something more akin to comrades than friends. They were people he had endured thick and thin with, people he had enormous trust in. People who’d probably shed a tear or two if he died, assuming one of them didn’t kick the bucket before he did.

But they were bonds he formed out of necessity, bonds that wouldn’t have existed had they not been seeking comfort to distract themselves from the constant battle.

And for what had he been battling for in the first place?

For the kingdom? For the people? As cruel as it sounded, for what reason would he risk his life for a country he barely seen, for a people he barely knew?

He’d endured so much, killed so many, and for what?

No matter how many times he asked himself the same question, he couldn’t find an answer. He didn’t find the grand cause or perfect heroine that would give him the spirit for one last push. He couldn’t find the resolve to beat the overwhelming odds, to aid him in his darkest hour.

But there was one thing that could give him solace. Just barely, he could hear it faintly echoing in the distance.

The sweet sound of running water.

His desire quickly overtook his remaining reasoning as he pushed himself off the mud. Not caring whether he was seen or heard, he used his remaining energy to make a mad dash to the source of the sound.

He stumbled over branches and stones as he ran, breaking enough branches and rustling enough brush to catch the attention of multiple khods around him. They weren’t chasing him, but they were now definitely on edge and searching.

Malt ignored the danger and followed the sound with the same recklessness and vigor, enticed with the promise of refreshing relief.

The sound grew louder and louder the closer he drew, but he seemed to never arrive, as if it was mocking him.

When it reached what seemed like near deafening levels, he finally reached it.

He bursted over the side of a steep ditch, rowling violently down the dirt slope. Each tumble knocked the wind out of him and inflicted another handful of scratches and bruises upon his already thoroughly beaten skin, but at the end of all the pain, was heaven.

A wave of relief washed over him as he splashed into the frigid water. It washed the dirt from his wounds and numbed his aching muscles, inciting from his busted lips a sigh of bliss.

He climbed onto his hands and knees and stuck his mouth into the water, hungrily gulping down water by the mouthful. The icy water burned his throat, but it had to be the sweetest stuff he’d ever drank in his entire life.

The water washed away his exhaustion and hysteria, allowing his reasoning to take hold again.

He quickly realised that his stroke of luck had finally arrived, that he hadn’t been forsaken by whoever made this twisted world.

He waded deeper into the river and allowed the gentle current to sweep him off his knees. If he remembered correctly, there was a stream near Dagridge that flowed north and originated somewhere far south, near where the Khod’s were camping.

He let out a sigh of relief, thinking that the river would carry him to safety.

It wouldn’t.