Indeed, the tyrants are the companions of Hellfire. Be patient, for the promise holds true. Endure hardship with patience and maintain.
-From later testimonies, The Undisputed
Elias ran.
He ran as if the world had finally opened its doors to him, as if the promise of a new life lay just beyond his reach, waiting for him to seize it. The night air was crisp, electrifying against his skin, but he welcomed it, embraced it like an old friend. Every footstep against the damp earth was a declaration of his resolve. He felt his tongue getting tingly and becoming numb. He felt his pulse race through his ears.
Peeking from their abodes, the villagers saw him—a blur of motion, a boy possessed by desperate purpose, his feet striking the cobbled path with reckless abandon. The village had hardly known Elias, he was the orphan boy with no family, no title, no place in their neatly ordered world. They had neither watched him grow nor watched him toil in fields that would never belong to him. No soul watched him sit alone at the edges of market days, his eyes always drifting toward the road leading away.
Tonight, they saw. There was no hesitation, no melancholy in Elias's steps. His breathing was fast his chest constantly rose in and out, desperately trying to get the rest of his body much needed air. His limbs were eager to make just another inch towards his home, and his mind alight with something rare—hope.
He said to himself that he was not fleeing; he was chasing a future, one that waited just beyond the village’s border. But, as the hope existed, so did the horrors of self-doubt. Thoughts lingered in his head, constantly mocking him and making him doubt that if he was making the right decision.
He did not stop to acknowledge the quiet village around him—the dirt paths, the sagging wooden fences, the houses with thatched roofs standing in weary silence beneath the midday sun. A few villagers moved about their daily routines, hanging laundry, tending to animals, repairing tools. The air was thick with the scent of dry earth and distant woodsmoke, the smell of manure permanently stuck on the air. The only sounds were the occasional bark of a malnourished dog or the creak of an old cart being pushed along the road. Most barely noticed, or pretended not to notice him, Elias as he ran past. A few eyes tracked his movements behind the shadows casted by their brows, momentarily distracted by his urgency, but they did not call out to him. They would never call out to him, not because that he was an outsider because they were smart enough to at least pretend to busy even if they were not.
Elias burst through the warped wooden door of the shack he called home, kicking up a dust of rotten wood and dirt. The dim interior, bathed in dusty midday light that seeped through the cracks, felt smaller than ever—just four walls of practicality and smudged in regret. His hands moved frantically, picking up and throwing his few possessions on to his bed.
He did not own much, a few pieces of clothing, a half of a candle and a piece of flint that he won on a game of climb with the townsfolk boys a few years back. His fingers trembled as he picked up maybe his only real valuable item, a small jar of dried herbs that caused irritation and itching. He and Aela had stolen that jar from a wandering healer back when he was dating her.
Aela. Her name surfaced unbidden, a whisper of a summer that had slipped through his fingers like water. To Elias, their time together beneath the great oak had been everything—his heart had bound itself to her in a way he could not shake, even now. But to Aela, he was nothing more than a companion, a friend with whom she shared carefree moments, nothing more than a fleeting distraction from the life she was destined to lead. She never saw him the way he saw her. Her affection had always been platonic, and despite the depth of his feelings, Elias had remained nothing more than a friendly face in her eyes. When the ceremony came, marking her passage into adulthood, Elias's heart broke in silence. The future he had once dreamed of—one where they could walk side by side—was not to be. She was swiftly wed to a man of the village's choosing, the bond forged not in love but in tradition. Elias stood on the periphery, watching helplessly as Aela was swept into a life that no longer had room for him. He never protested. What power did a boy with nothing have to fight such a fate? Even if he had, what could he offer her that was of any worth? She was already slipping away, already part of a world that would never include him. Now, Aela was a mother, her life woven tightly into the fabric of her arranged marriage, and Elias was left with the echo of a love that could never be returned.
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Such was the custom of the village—when a girl completed her coming-of-age ceremony, she was swiftly wed to a suitor deemed appropriate, her future decided not by love or longing, but by tradition and necessity.
Elias yanked the corners of his bedsheet, making a makeshift satchel. He twisted the corners and tied it across his back, and spun toward the door, he knew that this—this moment—may be his own actual last moment on his home. Aela had been swept into the future chosen for her, but he would carve out his own. The world was waiting, and he was ready to seize it.
A smarter boy would have given up then, he would stay and would have stable life, he would have work to carry out but bread on his table, and who know maybe he would even get a wife. A wiser but lazier boy would have returned to bed, resigned himself to another day of drudgery, and pretended that he had never dared to dream. But Elias was neither smart nor wise.
He ran.
He was so close to the Cutter's House. By trade they lived on the outskirts of the village, being woodsmen and lumberjacks. He pushed forward, mind set aflame by nostalgia and the possibities of the future. The image of the carriage was almost tangible in his mind. His breath came in ragged gasps, his legs burned with the effort, but he had to reach it—he had to catch it before it vanished, before his last chance slipped through his fingers.
He took the corner going as fast as he humanly was able to.
The clearing before him was empty, save for the remnants of the path the carriage had taken. There was no sign of the timber-laden cart, no horses grazing at the edge of the forest, woodsman counting their cargo. Nothing. Just the razor-sharp whispers of the wind and the hollow ache in his chest.
Elias froze, his body a statue caught in the throes of disbelief. His mind raced, searching for a reason, some explanation for the absence before him. He was sure he had been close, so close. The forest had seemed to stretch on forever, but he had been certain—the carriage had to be right here, just ahead.
But it was gone.
His pulse slowed, the excitement that had propelled him forward crumbling into something darker. He had been too slow, too late. The hope that had driven him now felt like a cruel mockery. He had run for nothing. The world had already moved on without him.
The clearing seemed larger than it had moments before, the space between the trees endless. The echoes of his footfalls faded, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the forest. The weight of reality pressed down on him. His chest tightened as he found himself having a hard time breathing. And now, this too—this fleeting chance—had vanished, just as everything else always did.
The carriage was gone, and with it, his last hope for escape. The forest that lay beyond the village was a thing of tangled roots and ancient shadows. It had always been there, dark and looming at the edges of their fields, a place spoken of only in whispers. The elders warned of spirits that walked between the trees, of strange figures glimpsed through the mist. Hunters who strayed too deep returned with wild eyes and hushed voices, and some never returned at all. But fear was a thing for those who had something to lose, and Elias had already cast his old life aside.
He had no map, no guide, only the direction in which the carriage had gone and the desperate hope that he could catch it before it disappeared forever. The sun, slowly being half-buried behind heavy clouds, offered little light, promised of the bleak future.
He still had a last gambit. The village and the nearby areas were notoriously hilly, lots of ups and downs which meant that dirt roads that carriages use was full of twists and turns.
Maybe, just maybe, he would be able catch the carriage if he ran through the forest, there was bound to be some trail paths that lead to the road.
He started running again, was much slower this time. He was drained and it felt as if fingers were going numb. His breath came in ragged gasps, his legs burned, but still he pressed on. The trees whispered as he passed, their gnarled branches like reaching hands, their roots twisting beneath him in unseen traps. The path, if ever there had been one, had long since vanished beneath layers of dead leaves and thick undergrowth. The further he ran, the less certain he became that he was still heading in the right direction.
He slowed.
The realization crept upon him like the cold bony fingers of the death himself on the back of his nape.
He was lost.
Panic rose in his throat, bitter and suffocating. He turned in place, trying to retrace his steps, but every direction looked the same. The trees loomed impossibly tall, their silhouettes twisting against the sky. He called out—a foolish, desperate thing—but his voice was swallowed by the vast empty shadows around him.
Except the shadows were not so empty.
You look up to the night sky, what do you see?
