The forest slowly let them go. Branches that had seemed endless and grasping now arched overhead, parting like a curtain. Roots that had tangled their steps withdrew, curling back into the earth as if unseen hands guided them forward. Sunlight fell in narrow streaks through the leaves, dust motes floating lazily in its beams. The scent of pine and damp soil filled the air, a faint reminder of life amidst the decay of their journey.

  When the trees finally thinned, the dirt road stretched ahead, open and unguarded. It gleamed faintly with morning dew, the smell of dry earth sharp and clean. To some it was freedom; to others, a trap.

  “We should stay in the trees,” Valerik muttered, arms crossed, eyes scanning the edges of the forest like a predator on alert.

  Kaiya’s gaze lingered on the open road, hands twitching at her belt. “We will never make it to Vayne crawling through brush,” she said, though her eyes flicked nervously over the distant shadows. Something about the open stretch felt… wrong.

  Xander snorted, stamping his hooves against the packed earth. The stone skin that had coated his body in the forest’s magic crumbled in small chunks, falling like jagged rocks to the ground. Dust clung to his fur, but beneath, his muscles were unharmed. Each step now sounded hollow, lighter, as if he carried less burden than before.

  Kaiya gave his shoulder a reassuring pat. “He votes for the road.”

  So they walked. For the first time in days, the air was not so heavy. They spoke little, but their pace quickened, spirits lifting just enough that the silence between them didn’t feel oppressive. Birds chirped somewhere far above, distant and unaware. The breeze ruffled leaves and brushed cool against skin, carrying hints of far-off smoke from village hearths.

  Then they saw it.

  A cart lay broken in the ditch, one wheel snapped through the spokes, the wood splintered and worn. A woman crouched beside it, face streaked with dirt and sweat, clutching a child no older than seven. She waved as they drew closer, voice raw and hoarse.

  “Please. Please, help us.”

  Angel froze. Her chest tightened. The child’s hair was matted, the dress little more than rags. There was something achingly familiar about the desperation etched into their features.

  “No,” Valerik said flatly, refusing even to slow his pace. “Trap.”

  Angel spun on him, eyes bright with indignation. “You do not know that.”

  “I know exactly that,” he shot back, voice low and clipped. “This is how it starts. A cart. A cry for pity. And when you lean in close, someone sticks a knife in your back.”

  Kaiya frowned, glancing between them. “They look desperate, not dangerous.”

  Valerik did not meet her eyes. “Desperate is dangerous.”

  Angel’s fists clenched, nails digging into her palms. “You’ve lost all faith in people.”

  “And you’re going to get us killed because you still believe they deserve it,” Valerik countered.

  Dante shifted uncomfortably, the tension settling into his shoulders. “Maybe we can just… check? If it’s fine, we help. If not, we move on.”

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  Valerik growled, jaw tightening, but kept walking. Angel and Dante ignored him as they approached the cart, their boots crunching softly on the dirt. The woman’s relief came too quick, too practiced. Angel felt a flicker of doubt—too late to retreat.

  And then they moved.

  Figures emerged from the hedges lining the road. One, then two, then five. Hunger and desperation shone in hollowed eyes, a glint of steel catching the sunlight. The open road, once a promise of freedom, had become a cage.

  Valerik stopped, hand already on his weapon. “Oh, look. Knife,” he muttered, voice low and weary.

  Kaiya and Xander instinctively stepped back, the forest’s edge suddenly seeming miles away.

  Angel’s breath hitched as the crowd swelled. The child clung to the woman’s skirts, but even his wide eyes felt… wrong, strange and unfamiliar in some way. The trap had been set, and the road offered no shelter.

  Then the gruff man at the forefront stepped forward, knife raised. His intent was clear. Dante’s heart thudded as all eyes fixed on him.

  The man leveled the rusted blade at Dante, the edge glinting in the sunlight. His grip was steady, though his eyes flickered with a mix of anticipation and caution.

  “We don’t have to hurt you, kid,” he rasped, voice low, a threat wrapped in false mercy.

  Dante’s eyes widened. Slowly, deliberately, he raised a single finger, brushing it against the blade. “Boop,” he said, the faintest chuckle escaping his lips.

  The man jerked, reacting instinctively, pushing the blade forward. But the metal crumbled to dust in a whisper of wind, scattering across the dirt road before ever touching the ground. Shock flitted across the man’s face, quickly replaced by pain as a ripple of force radiated from Dante, scattering leaves, pebbles, and the loose remnants of the cart.

  He staggered backward, landing hard in the dirt. Around them, the crowd paused, torn between awe and rage, fear and fury.

  Then the silence collapsed. A young man with a horned helmut yelled out a war cry. He charged in towards Dante with an old sword over head.

  He didn't make it very far.

  Angel’s fists were a blur. She turned on the man, pulling her arm back for a strike meant to cave in his jaw.

  Then the helmet slipped. A dented, ill-fitting thing, knocked loose as her blow grazed him. It hit the dirt with a hollow clang.

  The boy’s face beneath was gaunt, pale beneath the grime, blood running from his split lip. His eyes blinked up at her, unfocused but startlingly familiar.

  Angel froze. Her chest locked tight, fist still raised.

  The thought was too sharp to be real, like a shard of glass buried in her skull. She stumbled a half step closer, disbelieving, staring.

  “…No.” She whispered.

  He blinked again, slower this time, struggling to focus. When he finally found her, his lips trembled into something like a smile.

  “Angel?” The word cracked in his throat, high and fragile, like it belonged to the boy she remembered and not the half-starved youth before her.

  Her knees gave out. She caught him as he sagged, her arms trembling as though she were lifting something impossibly heavy. His weight was wrong. Too light. She remembered him heavier when he’d climbed her shoulders years ago, laughing, his tiny hands clutching her hair as he begged her to race down the alleys of Vayne.

  Not this. Not like this.

  She pressed her forehead to his, tears burning hot and blinding. Around her, the clash of blades and screams dulled, muffled, until all she could hear was the ragged wheeze of his breath.

  “Caleb, no.. Why are you here?” she whispered, though she didn’t know if she wanted the answer. “Why did you..” Her voice cracked, breaking apart.

  The boy coughed, his chest hitching. His hand twitched against hers, feeble, a child’s gesture in a broken body.

  “Stand… down..” Caleb wheezed, raising his arm towards his allies.

  The request was barely needed, as the fighting spirit had already left all who were watching.

  His mouth moved as though to say something more, but the only thing that came was a faint, pained smile. A flicker of the boy she had known, the boy who had trailed her through the streets like a shadow, always laughing, always looking up at her like she was something more than she was.

  And then he was gone.

  His chest stilled. His eyes dimmed.

  Angel did not move. Could not. She clutched him as if holding on tighter might drag him back. Tears streamed unchecked down her face, soaking into his hair.

  The chaos around them sputtered and died. One by one, the remaining attackers faltered, staring. Clubs, knives, rusted swords all clattered to the dirt as silence overtook the road. None dared to break it. None dared to move.

  When it was done, they buried him at the edge of the road.

  Angel laid him down with her own hands. The dirt was hard, unyielding, and at first she dug at it with her bare fingers until the nails cracked and blood streaked her skin. Her breaths came in harsh sobs that broke into growls.

  “Shovel,” she rasped. No one moved.

  Her head snapped up, eyes blazing, voice ragged and raw. “Shovel! Give me a fucking shovel!”

  Someone scrambled to hand one over, and she seized it, driving the blade into the earth again and again. Each heave was violent, her grief tearing its way through her muscles. Every chunk of dirt flung aside was another scream unsaid, another memory she could not bear.

  No one tried to stop her. Valerik stood nearby, jaw clenched, watching with the hollow stillness of a man who understood that this was not his to share, not his to ease.

  When the grave was finally deep enough, Angel lowered the boy in herself, her arms shaking with exhaustion. She did not let go until the first shovelful of dirt hit his chest. Then she pressed her forehead against the shovel’s handle and breathed like she might shatter.

  Only when the mound was complete did she stop. Her hands trembled as she pressed two of Reyha’s gemstones into the palms of a grieving woman and child who had stood silently, tears streaking their faces.

  “Take them,” she said, her voice hoarse, hollow. “Eat. Live. Do not do this again.”

  And without another word, she turned. The road stretched ahead, endless, merciless. Her steps were heavy, each one dragging with the weight of memory, of guilt, of a burden no forest, no monster, no curse could ever rival.

  Silently they trudged towards Vayne.

  Is it wrong to kill to survive in this accursed world?

  Follow Xavier's journey. Discover what it means to survive… or to live.

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