The village wore its grief like a shroud, shadows stretching long as the sun dipped below the horizon. The clouds, for once, had given way, leaving a silver moon to cast its pale glow over the mud-streaked paths and gutted homes. Fires dotted the scene, torches at the village entrance and a bonfire in the square, the light flickering against weathered faces. Somewhere, the distant chime of temple bells cut through the heavy air, marking the evening prayer.

I’d packed what little was left—two sets of clothes, one on my back, the other tucked in a small side bag. Everything that mattered now lived in memories: my mother’s warmth and Alira’s laughter. They felt heavier than the bag slung over my shoulder.

The path to the village entrance was quieter than I’d expected. Lanterns swung on posts, their light swaying in time with the breeze. Loth and the others stood at the muddy crossroads, surrounded by six wagons. Four were unmistakably of the Ravnvald Tribe, their heavy wheels adorned with animal bones and leather charms. The other two were simpler, lighter—villager wagons, their occupants huddled inside.

As I approached, the scene unfolded like something distant, as though I wasn’t really there. Loth and Bjorn were deep in conversation, their voices a low rumble. Ragna sat on the edge of one of the tribal wagons, Stigr beside her, their closeness a rare flicker of warmth in the cold night. They didn’t notice me until I was closer, the crunch of boots on wet ground pulling their eyes my way.

Bjorn noticed me first, his massive frame shifting as he turned. "There's our fighter," he said, voice gruff but gentle. His eyes lingered on the way I favoured my right side. "Though you look more like death warmed over."

"Death would feel better," I muttered, trying to adjust my cloak without pulling at the wounds. Fresh pain lanced up my arm, and I couldn't quite hide the wince.

Ragna stepped forward, her braids clicking softly in the night air. "Let me see those bandages." She reached for my arm, but I pulled back.

"It's fine."

"Like hell it is," she snapped, northern accent thickening with irritation. "You're bleeding through."

Stigr's quiet voice cut through their argument. "Leave him be, Ragna. Man's got his pride."

"Pride won't stop infection," she shot back, but stepped away all the same.

Loth's sharp eyes took in the cloak draped over me, his brows furrowing. "Been years since I've seen that," he said, his voice low, almost reverent. "Your father loved that cloak like it was part of him. Meant somethin' to him, though he never said what."

I pulled back the hood, letting the light catch on my face. My crimson eyes gleamed faintly in the lantern's glow, ringed with exhaustion and raw grief. The amulet at my neck seemed to pulse with each throb of pain from my arms.

"I thought..." I started but faltered. The words felt like ash on my tongue. "It felt right to wear it now." The sentence hung unfinished. There was no "right" about any of this.

From one of the simpler wagons came the sound of muffled sobbing. A woman clung to a man inside, her grief raw and familiar. I gestured toward them with a faint tilt of my chin, grateful for the distraction. "Where are they going?"

Loth sighed heavily, the kind that seemed to drag years from him. “Leavin’. Many are. That couple lost their only daughter, Lily. Can’t blame them—no protection here, no healers, no laws, just folk holdin’ on until life lets go first.” He paused, his tone darkening. “If I were younger, I’d probably join ‘em. But my woman wants to stay, rebuild.” His lips twitched into a dry smile. “Sometimes I wonder what I saw in her to stick around.”

"Cheerful as ever, old man," Bjorn rumbled, but there was no humor in it.

I shifted my weight, trying to find a position that didn't pull at my wounds. "You should come," I said quietly. "There's nothing left to rebuild."

"And go where?" Loth's voice sharpened. "I've lived in cities. Trust me, they're worse. No peace out there—just different kinds o' lies."

Bjorn's massive hand came to rest on my shoulder, surprisingly gentle. "Get your things in the wagon. Long road ahead, and those arms need rest."

I did as he said, each movement careful and measured. The wagon's floor creaked under my feet as I stored my side bag, and I had to bite back a groan as the motion pulled at my injuries.

“Loth,” I called, my voice quieter now. “If someone comes asking for me… someone with golden hair… a female. Tell her…” I swallowed, the words catching. “Tell her, ‘I will find you, my Karissa.’”

He nodded slowly. "Don't know what that means, and don't care. I'll pass it along."

“Thank you,” I said, the words barely audible.

“Good luck, lad. You’ll need it. Don’t take every burden on your shoulders. Think about what each step costs before you walk it.” He said, his voice steady but rough with emotion. “And remember—what’s outside isn’t what you know. Be careful.”

The wagons began to move, wheels groaning against mud. Each step sent fresh waves of pain through my arms, but I forced myself forward. The night air bit at my skin, and somewhere in the darkness, a wolf howled—long and mournful, like it knew what we were leaving behind.

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The path outside Mistwood fought us every step. Mud sucked at the wagon wheels with hungry mouths, each turn accompanied by the crack of breaking suction. My boots grew heavy with it, each step a battle against exhaustion and pain. The forest pressed in on our right, ancient trees stretching their branches like grasping fingers, while the mountains to our left loomed like sleeping giants against the star-scattered sky.

A misstep sent me stumbling, and fire shot through my arms as I caught myself. The bandages felt warm, wet—fresh bleeding. The wounds beneath pulsed with memories of that fight, of power that had torn through my flesh like lightning through storm clouds.

"Here." Bjorn's voice cut through the haze of pain. He held out a strip of dried meat, his other hand hovering near my elbow, ready to steady me if needed. "Can't heal on an empty stomach."

The meat was tough enough to make my jaw ache, but it gave me something to focus on besides the throbbing in my arms. "How far?" I managed between chews.

"Look who's suddenly talkative," Ragna called from ahead, her braids catching moonlight as she turned. The symbols on her robes seemed to shift in the darkness, though that might have been the exhaustion playing tricks on my eyes.

Bjorn spat to the side. "Leave the boy be, woman."

"I will when you stop treating him like glass." She fell back to walk beside us, her steps silent compared to Bjorn's heavy tread. "Those wounds need looking at."

"They need leaving alone," I muttered.

Stigr's quiet laugh drifted back from where he scouted ahead. "Stubborn as a wolf, the tribe will like him."

"Reminds me of someone else at that age," Bjorn rumbled, giving Ragna a pointed look.

She ignored him, her eyes fixed on my bandaged arms. "That magic you used... it wasn't normal."

The dried meat turned to ash in my mouth. I swallowed hard. "Nothing about me is normal."

"That's not what I meant." She reached into her robes and pulled out her redwood wand. "See this? Most of us need wands. Vessel. But what you did..." She traced a symbol in the air, and brief sparks of blue light followed her movement. "That was raw. Dangerous."

"Like Syrus," Stigr called back, his voice carrying an edge of... something. Fear? Respect?

Bjorn snorted. "Here we go again with another robe-wearing fanatic."

"You must’ve heard of his work," Ragna snapped. The wand disappeared back into her robes with practiced grace. "Everyone know it's different."

"Different doesn't always mean better." Bjorn's voice dropped lower. "Sometimes it means dangerous."

A branch cracked somewhere in the darkness, and we all tensed. Stigr's hand went to his dagger, but after a moment, he relaxed. "Just a rabbit."

The silence that followed felt heavy, heavy with things unsaid. My arms throbbed in time with my heartbeat, each pulse a reminder of that moment when power had surged through me, wild and hungry and dark.

"Tell me about him," I said finally, the words scraping past my dry throat. "About this fellow."

Ragna's face lit up, though the shadows cast by her hood made her expression almost feverish. "Syrus D’Athrin. Headmaster of Zenith. They say he can call lightning from clear skies, turn stone to water, make the very earth dance to his will."

"They say a lot of things," Bjorn muttered.

"I've seen him once," she insisted. "In the House of Shadows, giving a lecture to all the mages and wanderers. No wand, no runes, just... some words and pure power. Similar to what you did but controlled. Mastered."

The wagon wheel behind us hit an intense rut, and the resulting jolt sent fresh pain racing up my arms. I bit back a curse, tasting copper.

"Your arms," Stigr said, falling back to join us. His bearded face was creased with concern. "The bandages are soaked through."

"We need to stop and clean those wounds," Ragna declared.

"We need to keep moving until we reach your camp, tales about these woods are not to be taken lightly. Couldn’t let our guard down at darkness of night." I countered, forcing my voice steady despite how the world swam at the edges.

Bjorn's massive hand caught my shoulder as I swayed. "He's right. Too exposed here with the Pinegrove Forest on the side and Sarvados hills on the other, don’t tell me you have forgotten the tales of frost trolls in the hills and Direwolves in the forest. Camp's not far from here, we’ll find proper healer there."

Ragna made a disgusted sound but didn't argue. Instead, she pulled a small vial of liquid from a pouch at her belt. "Here. Won't heal it, but it'll help with the pain."

I hesitated, then took the vial with fingers that trembled more than I'd like to admit. The liquid burned going down, tasting of honey and smoke and something sharper than the medicinal roots, but warmth spread through my limbs in its wake, dulling the worst of the pain to a manageable ache.

"Thank you," I managed.

She nodded once, sharp and businesslike. "Now stop being so stubborn and let us help if you start falling over."

A laugh bubbled up in my chest, surprising in its genuineness. It hurt, but somehow that made it feel more natural. "Yes, Big Sister."

"Oh, he does have a sense of humour," Stigr called, his own laugh mixing with the night sounds of the forest. "Been wondering about that."

The path ahead curved deeper into the trees, and somewhere beyond, fires flickered—the camp, I assumed. My arms still throbbed, my legs still felt like lead, but the night air seemed less bitter now, the darkness less absolute.

"Almost there," Bjorn rumbled, his voice carrying a gentleness that belied his size. "Then we can see about those arms proper. Get some real food in you."

I nodded, saving my breath for walking. The crimson eyes I'd inherited from my father—curse or blessing, I still wasn't sure—caught what little moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting faint red reflections on the mist that had begun to gather around our feet.

Behind us, Mistwood long vanished into the darkness, taking everything I'd known with it. Ahead, the fires beckoned, promising something new. Whether that something would be better or worse remained to be seen, but for now, one step after another was enough.

It had to be.