Siege awoke to the rhythm of hooves.
His body jolted with each step of the horse beneath him, a slow, gait that sent waves of pain rippling through his nerves.
He lay draped across the saddle like a discarded sack, heat and dampness clinging to him with the faint, sour stench of urine.
His body had betrayed him during unconsciousness, relieving itself without permission.
Yet any humiliation Siege may have felt was drowned out by something far stronger—fury.
There were names etched in his mind. Three marked for death.
The first was the fae. That wretched thing had to die. It was a creature born from the forest's oldest nightmare, and Siege would see its blood on the soil before the end.
Then, Sir Eric and Gallan. Their betrayal gnawed at him like a maggot within rotting flesh.
The others? He wouldn't mind if they died. But these three... these three he would kill with his own hand.
Edwin, he wasn't sure about. That boy sat in a strange corner of his thoughts, neither condemned nor spared. Perhaps silence was best—for now.
The sun glared through the canopy, high and unrelenting, casting blades of light through the dark, ancient foliage of Mortar.
The forest groaned around them, each twisted root and crooked branch like a finger of the dead grasping at life that dared to pass through.
Siege now perceived time differently. His thoughts were clearer, distances more precise. The passage of hours no longer muddled into blur, as if some deep instinct within him had sharpened.
[Stalwart] kept his soul tethered to life, and [Journeyman]... it whispered in the back of his mind, measuring paths and warning of missteps.
It was the only comfort he had—the quiet awareness that something inside him worked, even if the world outside did not.
The group trudged on in silence, too tired or too ashamed to speak. Some cast glances at Siege, their eyes heavy with guilt.
He ignored them. What good were their pitying stares? No hand had stayed when it counted.
His left side burned with a phantom ache. The place where his arm had been was wrapped in a tourniquet barely worthy of the name.
Infection should have taken him already, but somehow... it hadn't.
The trees here were impossibly old—colossal towers of bark and shadow, their twisted roots weaving through the undergrowth like serpents. Even daylight seemed afraid to dwell here, scattering instead in fleeting shards that barely touched the ground.
Sir Eric led the horse, his soldier's stride unwavering, his expression like stoic, indifferent. Siege stared at the back of his helm, hate churning.
*He's already forgotten. Already moved on.*
Siege clenched his teeth, jaw aching. He could barely lift a finger, let alone raise a fist, but the rage kept him going.
Eventually, he allowed his eyes to drift closed, giving himself to the slow, rhythmic torture of the trail.
---
Night fell like a shroud.
The party huddled in a clearing. Shadows stretched between the trees like hands trying to smother the fire.
Sir Eric moved with practiced ritual, laying iron shavings and salt around the perimeter in grim silence, his frown etched deeper than ever.
Siege lay crumpled on the dirt like a broken doll. Edwin and Aldur fed him scraps—dry bread, stale jerky, and the last of his water. Their kindness felt hollow, like offerings to a man already buried.
Sleep came reluctantly. The trees whispered. Something out there shifted just beyond the light's reach, and the men knew better than to trust the quiet. Their flasks were nearly empty—still no river in sight. They were sore, afraid, and every snapped twig twisted their guts into knots.
But still, sleep came. Fitful and shallow. No one dreamed.
---
The morning brought a dull, gray light and finally—water.
It wasn't a river. A swollen stream, perhaps. Barely two meters across, but to them it may as well have been a holy spring. Flasks were filled, faces splashed, and some men even dared a grin.
Siege did not smile.
They walked again, always forward, the weight of the forest growing heavier the deeper they pushed into it.
On the fourth day, Siege walked.
It was clumsy, halting, and painful—but he walked. The sight stunned the others. Against all odds, the one-armed wretch had risen. His steps were awkward, his balance unsure without his left side, but his body adapted quickly. It had no choice.
The stump ached, but it did not fester. Some gods—long dead, perhaps—must have cast a small, cruel mercy his way.
The mood of the camp lightened. Men even joked. Siege watched their smiles with suspicion. How quickly they moved on. How fast their fear faded once survival was certain.
But he was still in that clearing, still bleeding, still screaming. And they had all stood by.
The trees thinned by noon. The suffocating canopy broke apart, revealing the bruised sky above. Air began to flow freely, and the scent of decay finally gave way to the earthy scent of wildflowers and grass.
Excitement built in the group.
Even Siege's bitterness wavered. Mortar's forest was behind them. The first signs of civilization would come soon—villages, hot meals, perhaps even soft beds. Men salivated at the thought.
Gallan even laughed, a sound so out of place it might as well have been a gunshot.
Then, at last, the final tree fell away behind them. They emerged into a sea of green, speckled with red, violet, and gold blossoms that swayed beneath a blood-orange sunset. A breeze, pure and unsullied, kissed their skin.
The men surged forward, almost running.
But Siege turned.
He was the only one who did.
The forest of Mortar loomed behind him, gnarled and hateful, its secrets buried in root and bark. No one else looked back. No one else dared. As if to doing so beckon the curse back upon them.
But Siege saw.
A figure—tall, black, and indistinct—stood in the shadows beneath the trees. Not watching. Retreating. Sliding away like smoke into the gloom.
The fae.
Siege's blood burned. His eyes locked on the silhouette until it vanished completely.
"I'll come back," he whispered, low enough that only the dead might hear.
"I'll burn it all."
Then he turned and followed the others.