Outside—boots crunch gravel. Low voices. The rustle of cloaks.
Then that familiar hum—magic in the air. Faint, golden, heavy as sun on skin.
I lift the tarp.
Seven of them.
Lanterns raised. Armor etched with holy script. Cloaks white, spotless, untouched by dirt.
The Radiant Order.
They call themselves protectors.
But I've seen their kind before—dragging screaming children into the light and calling it mercy.
Not holy. Just killers with clean hands and practiced smiles.
One gestures with a gauntlet.
"Step out. Hands raised."
I freeze. Breath locked in my throat.
The boy stirs in my arms, soft and warm and far too trusting.
My instinct snarls—Drop him. Run. Live.
I could make it. I've slipped past worse in tighter spaces.
But then—
A flash.
Kaelen's laugh.
His stupid flower crown.
Reyda's voice: "Give him a world worth growing up in."
I grit my teeth.
I look at the boy. "Hold on. Don't let go."
I don't give him a chance to react.
I scoop him up, his arms barely wrapped around my shoulders, my grip locking around his legs.
Then I jump.
We hit the ground running.
My boots splash through shallow water, crush grass underfoot.
"South!" someone shouts. "They're running!"
Lanterns whip around. Firelight cuts across the fog.
I veer into the dark, ducking low, every breath loud in my skull. The field stretches ahead—wild, overgrown, perfect cover if we're fast.
The Order shouts spells. Gold arcs across the sky like thrown stars.
A burst of flame ignites behind us—too close. I push harder, legs burning.
Another voice cries: "Don't kill the child!"
So they will kill me.
Figures move in the dark—white cloaks flashing between stalks of grass. One passes within a breath of me, blade raised, eyes forward.
I keep moving.
My lungs scream. My body begs me to drop him. Just once. Just long enough to vanish.
But I don't.
I cut left through a ditch. Mud splashes. A root catches my heel—I stumble, recover, keep running.
The treeline looms. Just a little farther.
Then—
THUD.
White.
Pain.
A blow cracks across my skull—
Blunt. Fast.
My knees buckle.
The world spins.
The boy—
He slips from my arms.
I reach for him, but the light's already gone.
And then—
Nothing.
I wake choking.
Dirt in my mouth. Blood on my tongue.
Gagging.
Everything hurts. Everything's wrong.
I try to sit up—
No.
Too fast. Too much.
The world spins again, and I'm back on my side, coughing into the earth like it owes me something.
The pain doesn't hit all at once. It drips in—slow, deliberate.
My skull throbs like someone drove a railroad spike through it. My limbs are stiff. My throat's dry enough to crack.
For a second, I don't remember where I am.
Then I try to move.
The chains remind me — biting into my wrists.
I try to sit up, but the collar tightens, humming low with some kind of magic. Not pain. Just... pressure. Like I'm being pressed into the earth, reminded of what I am.
Scum.
The camp flickers around me in orange and gold—the Sacred Flame, they call it.
Sanctified fire, tended by the faithful. But to me, it just looks like kindling waiting for a body.
White tents rise in sharp lines. Cloaks pass by in pairs, boots muffled in the dirt. Silent. Precise. Everyone moving with purpose—like ants in a nest built of ash and obedience.
I turn my head.
And I see him.
The boy.
He's lying on a stone slab maybe twenty feet from me. Draped in a too-thin blanket, curled up small. His chest rises and falls, slow, steady, glowing faintly with that same cursed warmth.
He's still alive.
But barely.
A ring of them surrounds him—robed acolytes, armored guards, one in gold-trimmed cloth standing closer than the rest. They don't touch him. They just watch. Waiting. One mutters something. Another nods.
They're whispering like he's sacred. Or dangerous.
Maybe both.
I rest my head back against the cage wall.
My mouth tastes like rust. My hands ache. And for a moment—just one—I wish I'd let them take him.
No.
That's not true.
I wish I'd left him in that room.
That's the real truth, isn't it?
I could've walked away. After I took the bread, after I left Reyda bleeding. I could've turned, vanished, never looked back.
I almost did.
But I didn't. Because I was weak. Because I let her words wrap around my throat like a chain. Because I looked at him and saw my brother's face and thought—just for a moment—maybe I could be better.
Maybe I wasn't too far gone.
What a joke.
Look where it got us.
He's chained by silence. I'm caged like an animal. And any minute now, they'll figure out who I am—or worse, who he is.
And when they do?
They'll burn him.
And maybe me, too. Just for touching him.
I shut my eyes.
And the darkness welcomes me like an old friend.
I don't know how long they've had us.
Could be an hour. Could be three.
The sky above the treetops is starting to bleed orange, like the gods forgot to blot it out.
The boy hasn't moved in a while. They laid him on a slab like they're waiting for him to bloom or burn.
I watch the firelight crawl across his face.
And I wonder if this is it.
If this is the end of the road.
A shadow falls across my cage.
A tall man stands there—robes scorched black at the hem, face half-covered by a gilded mask shaped like a flame. A commander, maybe. Or a priest. Or both.
"Is he yours?" the man asks, voice low. Calm.
I don't answer.
He doesn't wait.
"He glows even in his sleep," he murmurs. "The Light wants him."
He steps closer, metal boots crunching gravel.
"But you…"
He crouches to my level, eyes catching the firelight through the slats of the cage.
"You're filth. A roach that crawled too close to something sacred."
His hand drifts to the hilt of a blade at his side—carved bone, wrapped in gold thread.
"You shall be graced with the fire of our lord" he says. "But him..."
He leans in, voice dropping lower.
"He'll be carved. Slowly. We'll peel away every layer until we can touch his light, until it becomes ours to take, and when it does… we'll see what his insides pray to."
Then he smiles—serene, devout.
"You should be honored. Death by the Flame shouldn't be wasted on the worthless."
He stands. Walks toward the altar without looking back.
"You'll hear the bells when it begins."
I press my back to the bars.
My breath shakes.
I've been beaten. Hunted. Starved.
But this—
This feels like death with a sermon.
Then something changes.
The world stills.
Like someone snuffed out the air itself.
No wind.
No footsteps.
Even the fire seems to burn quieter.
I've lived my whole life surrounded by noise—screams, shouting, rats in the walls. But this… this is wrong.
It's the kind of quiet that only means one thing.
Something's about to die.
A guard stiffens. Cocks his head. Turns—just slightly.
Then he drops.
No cry. No warning. Just a sharp twitch, then crumpling to the ground like someone cut his strings.
Another follows.
And another.
One by one.
Gone.
The rest don't notice yet. They're still murmuring over the boy like priests at a shrine.
I press myself back against the cage wall, breath held, eyes scanning.
And that's when I see it—just a flicker.
A shadow, moving where it shouldn't.
Too smooth.
Too fast.
Then hell erupts.
Steel flashes. Firelight catches on red.
A body slams into a tent pole and splits it in two. Someone screams.
The camp explodes into chaos.
Screams. Shouts. Firelight flaring against moving shapes.
One man sprints for the boy—cut down before he takes two steps. His throat opens like wet paper, blood catching in the torchlight.
Another lunges with a blade—his arm bends the wrong way, then he's crumpled.
What the hell am I watching?
There's no spell. No chanting. No glow.
Just motion.
Fast. Precise. Brutal.
Whoever this is… he's not just killing them.
He's dancing with death and leading.
And death's struggling to keep up.
"That's not a man. That's a trick. No one moves like that."
I press my back against the cage wall, breathing shallow.
Footsteps now—closer.
Then the cage lock clicks. Just like that.
No key. No tool. Just click.
I flinch.
The flap pulls back.
He steps in.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hair streaked with gray but still thick. Beard trimmed short. Eyes like cut stone under heavy brows.
Maybe forty. Maybe more. Handsome in a way that's too rough to be vain.
Like a knife that's been sharpened too many times but still cuts cleaner than anything else.
He glances at me. Smiles.
"Evening."
I don't speak.
A bit stunned. I'm still not used to seeing faces again—especially one like his.
He steps away, crouches beside the boy. Lifts him with care—gentle, practiced. The boy barely stirs.
I stagger to my feet, unsteady.
"Who the hell are you?"
He glances over his shoulder. That same easy smile.
"Name's Gil."
"That supposed to mean something to me?"
He shrugs. "Not yet."
And I hate how calm he is.
Like the world isn't burning. Like death isn't bleeding out behind him.
I narrow my eyes. "Why help us?"
"Because I don't like what they do to kids." His smile fades—just a flicker. "Never have… and I'm done watching."
I say nothing.
Don't trust it. Don't trust him. Never trust anyone.
But I follow.
Because he has the kid.
Because he opened the cage.
Because I don't have a better option.
We step into the dark.
The camp lies in ruin. Tents still smoking. Bodies cooling in the grass.
He moves like he's done this before.
Gil kneels to check the boy again. Still breathing. Still faintly glowing.
I drift to bodies.
Old habits.
Hands move without thinking—pockets, belts, coin pouches. One of the bodies had a silver chain tucked in his boot. Another had a flask. I take both. Can't help it.
Survival's a reflex.
I turn toward Gil.
He's watching me. Not judging. Just watching.
"You always loot the dead?" he asks.
I meet his gaze, deadpan. "They don't need it."
A flicker of something behind his eyes—amusement, maybe. Or understanding.
"You're not like most kids," he says.
"Most kids don't last long enough to become like me."
"The strong ones always carry the sharpest edges."
We fall into silence.
The wind moves through the grass. The fire pops and hisses. Somewhere in the distance, a crow screams once, sharp and lonely.
It almost feels over.
I almost let myself believe it.
That's when I feel it.
The pressure shifts. Like a weight settling on the back of my neck.
I look up.
Figures step from the treeline—twelve, maybe more.
No torches. No clatter.
Just presence.
Cloaks trimmed in gold. Rings glinting. Firelight dancing at their heels like obedient dogs.
Soldiers.
Gil's jaw tightens.
The one in front steps forward, arms spread like a preacher welcoming a lost soul.
His flame mask is familiar, it's him, the one from camp.
"Gil of the Hollow March," he says, rich with mockery. "At last."
Gil doesn't flinch.
"You've been a thorn in our side for too long. But even thorns can be plucked."
His smile widens, teeth white in the dark.
"Tonight, I, Oren of the Radiant Order, will end you."
Gil exhales. Glances at me.
"Well," he mutters, "Didn't think they'd send the choir."