He staggered forward, every step peeling another layer of strength from his bones. The knife wound in his side pulsed with every heartbeat, matching his staggered footsteps.

  He couldn’t tell how long he’d been walking. Three hours? Four? Maybe more. It didn’t seem to matter. Time wasn’t real anymore. He just knew he had to keep moving. Not from the pain, for the pain was what was keeping him alive. He was grateful for the pain.

  Voices cut through the haze.

  “I don’t like this, Tam.”

  The speaker was built like a slab of rock, with old scars carved down his face. Kyron clocked the limp in his right leg without thinking. Weak side. Easy to topple.

  “You don’t like anything, Fao.”

  Tam—lean, steady, dressed like a nobody—didn’t carry himself like a soldier, but Kyron had seen killers—hunters from the mountains—with less muscle.

  Their words got fuzzy. The pain in his gut flared, a red-hot punch that curled up his spine and stole his breath. His knees buckled, and he bit down hard to keep from crying out.

  The men kept talking. Determining his fate.

  “A lone survivor. First day of the new Resolution. Doesn’t sit right with me. Seems a bad omen.”

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  “He came to us. He’s bleeding. We don’t turn away the broken. Not at Avarith.”

  “Avarith is hardly a place for the broken.”

  “It is our way, Fao.”

  Fao scowled, but turned to him “What’s your name, boy?”

  The boy opened his mouth, but the answer caught in his throat. His vision blurred. “My name is—”

  Then came the coughing. Violent. Raw. Something tore loose inside him and splattered red across his cloak and the floor.

  Everything tilted.

  He was still upright, but barely. Shadows moved around him. Voices sharpened into shouts. He flinched, tried to raise his arms, but someone grabbed him—not rough, not gentle. Just firm. He blacked out for a second, maybe longer. The only thing that kept him semi-conscious was the pain in his side. The thing that had kept him alive for the past twelve hours

  Then he was indoors. Warmth hit him like a slap. He was lowered onto something soft—a cot, maybe. Something that didn’t bite into his ribs.

  “Sleep.”

  Something foul pressed up against his nose. He gagged, but it was too strong.

  He tried to fight it. He growled, half-conscious, teeth grit, body twitching like a cornered animal. He didn't want to give in. He didn’t want to be weak. He didn’t want to be powerless in a strange place. To be powerless was to die.

  Someone cursed and pushed harder, grinding against his resistance.

  So he fought. But he was empty.

  And when the grip tightened and the darkness came, he had no choice but to let it take him.