His skin was cold and raw. Lips split. The cruel, unfaltering tormentor keeping him anchored to consciousness was the frigid caress of sea water lapping against his feet. He felt powerless and longed for the kind embrace of death. So tired. His mind had been drifting for what seemed like an eternity.

He heard the voice of a young woman approaching—an ember of hope against a sea of futility.

"We found another one, Captain."

"Add it to the pyre. Tally the rest and have the report ready back at the outpost," droned a muffled, tinny voice. "Twenty minutes to dusk. You know the drill; no spells, no 'little cantrips' either. I don't want to have to deal with another incident," a sigh. "This is big enough as it is."

"Yes, sir."

"See you back at camp. And Jor… be careful, alright?"

"Of course. Thank you, sir."

"Very well. Ah, before I forget. The Councilor requests another report on the sweep tonight."

"Yes, sir," replied the woman, less enthusiastically.

A low exhalation later, the speaker's voice was gone. The young man heard the clinking of metal and boots crunching the wet beach sand. The woman appeared to have several companions; a snort followed the short exchange.

"You got something to say?" said the woman.

"No, ma'am," replied a deep voice.

"I do." Came a reply from a mature-sounding woman. It sounded husky, like the type who smoked a pack a day for twenty years and shot whiskey as espresso in the morning. "We all know you're fucking the Lordling, princess. Anyone else wouldn't be leading a squad after the type of shit you pulled."

"I didn't! What are you-." The Squad leader replied in an outburst that was tempered with barely contained affront. "That's out of line; I could have you lashed for less."

"Yeah, yeah. But we know you won't. And we know that none of us are expected to see the end of the tour. Cunts like us are expendable, you see? Black Swallow is the squad where the undesirables are sent to. For five years, I've never heard a squad fuck off to the Fringe and come back whole. We're just the latest problem that's not gonna be a problem for much longer."

"That's not tr-"

"Ma'am. This one's a breather," interrupted the man.

The young man tried to open his eyes, but the dried mucus and sand felt like cement. He attempted to speak but could only manage a weak wheeze.

"What do we do? It's the first survivor we've found."

"You're the fixer, not me. See if you can save him."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Ainsle, let's continue this discussion at camp. Light the pyre and prepare to head out," said the Squad Leader.

"Yes, ma'am." Ainsle acknowledged laconically.

He felt a low, soothing rumble of an indiscernible chant from above his prone form. A strange feeling of giddiness pervaded his chest. It was invasive, and a deep sense of wrongness sent his mind into a panic. His heart raced and felt as if it were about to burst. Ribs screamed at the sharp intake of air that his lungs stole. Slowly, he began to feel a sense of calm, and profound fatigue set in. He started to drift toward the welcoming embrace of a deep sleep that had, so far, evaded him.

As his body went numb, he made out fragments of the ongoing conversation.

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"…out of his misery…"

"It's not your call…"

"…tall fucker. Gods, I don't know what they put in the water where they're from."

A chuckle.

"He'll be alright?"

"Yes, ma'am. He'd probably be walker food if we hadn't taken that detour."

"May as well be."

"Shut it, Ainsle. You heard the Captain, no mana after dark. Let's get the rest of the bodies on the pyre and light it up."

He heard the grunts of affirmation as he was dragged away from the shoreline. He drifted off once more and woke a while later as he was lifted and slung over a shoulder in a fireman's carry.

Maybe it's going to be okay.

Was the last thing he thought before falling into a deep sleep.

"So, this is what you found on your patrol, Squad Leader?" He heard a new voice—a pleasant baritone with a hint of superiority.

"Yes, Councilor. It was shortly before nightfall when we found him. Black Swallow's fixer managed to stabilize him before then, fortunately." Came the familiar voice of the woman who had been his savior.

He felt sluggish and weak. Yet he was warm, dry, and alive as far as he could tell. If his aching body was any indication. His eyelids were still heavy and unyielding.

"Fortunately? I don't think you understand the situation here. The Empire isn't sending a relief detachment any time soon. And the next supply convoy is due in three months." It came as a reprimand before a subtle shift in tone. "It would've been better to have burned him on the pyre."

"But, sir, we can't-"

"However," interrupted the Councilor. "if you were to reconsider our prior… arrangement, we could surely find it in our hearts to accommodate one pathetic stray. I looked over the books, and it seems that recently, the scout division requisitioned a grant for a healer in this outpost. I assume that was your doing?"

The woman remained silent for a few heartbeats. He heard the rustling of clothes and the clinking of metal falling to the floor. The change of direction of the Councilor's voice suggested that he had approached the Squad Leader. A soft, dejected reply came from the young woman.

"Eric, not here... you promised it'd only be that one time…."

"If I hadn't interceded at the capital, you wouldn't even be breathing, let alone giving me lip. An exile would've been as good as a death sentence, and you know it." A pause. "Think of your poor father. I heard he was deathly ill. It would be a shame if his pretty daughter never had the chance to visit him before something… unfortunate happened."

The Squad Leader hissed. "Fuck… I knew you'd do this. Are there any limits to the lows you'll go to get your way?" her voice trembled. "You promised… What if someone sees us again?"

"Shhh. You know the dance. You scratch my back, and I scratch yours. You owe me. Now it's time to pay up." Eric said in a breathy whisper.

For the rest of the young man's bout of consciousness, he heard the sounds of sobbing and violent, rhythmic knocking against a nearby table. He knew what was happening, but his slipping grasp on coherent thought wouldn't allow for that kind of internal moral discourse. He didn't know the woman's story, and frankly, he couldn't find the will to care about anything other than not feeling anything.

Darkness took him. The creaking of wooden furniture was a lullaby to his taxed body. He dreamed of falling toward a grey twilight sky.

The young man awoke to the sounds of distant banter. He opened his eyes and saw a tan canvas ceiling above him.

A tent?

He thought to himself.

I haven't been camping since… Wait, have I ever been camping?

His body ached dully, and his eyes were stung by what he perceived to be late-afternoon light. Lying on what he believed to be a block of granite, he clenched his fist and flexed his fingers. His digits' slow, weak response suggested that they hadn't seen use for far longer than was healthy. He felt odd. Disconnected. As if he were wearing someone else's skin. He appeared to have been rescued from the beach and brought to an infirmary of sorts. He turned his head to take stock of his surroundings.

He was indeed in an infirmary, or at least, what he understood to be a med bay. There were two vacant straw cots, apparently not solid granite, to his left. A table with what appeared to be a clay bowl or basin stood roughly in the middle of the tent. Various vials and bottles with riotous-colored swirling liquids were beside the basin.

The smell was foreign, earthy. Not jarringly so, as he had probably grown accustomed during his unconsciousness, but it was not one he could assign a source to. A ray of pale light came from somewhere above his head. He looked down at his prone form and found he had been dressed in a white, loose-fitting shirt that felt coarse.

The young man tried to get up, but his body wouldn't obey him. Only then did he realize he could feel his ribs and pelvic bone through his taut skin. He didn't feel hungry, though. The logical part of his mind told him he was malnourished and that his muscles were most likely atrophied. He tried again and managed to prop himself up on his elbows. The silent scream of his body was deafening. He didn't have the energy or the will to mimic the outcry with his voice. He resigned himself to lying on his cot.

"Well, fuck me." A familiar voice. It was the older woman from the beach. "Didn't think the stray would make it."