Namur's face was no longer his.
His eyes—once warm, almost too gentle for a soldier—were empty now. They reflected no firelight, no recognition. Just a void, cold and absolute.
My voice sounded fragile and distant, even to me.
"Why?"
He didn't even blink.
"Uruk has no place for what the gods have rejected. Not when a true king is about to rise—one worthy of leading it to what it was always meant to become."
There was no malice in his voice—only conviction. Cold. Final. And that made it worse. Not hate, not fury… just certainty. As if my death was already history.
I laughed softly, bitterly, each breath a painful labor.
"Kudur, huh?"
Namur remained silent. His expression unchanged, his stare relentless.
The fire beside us hissed, spitting sparks into the dark. The silence that followed stretched unbearably—heavy, suffocating, born from inevitability.
I drew a shallow breath and forced myself upright. Every movement felt foreign, like I was dragging a borrowed body that no longer obeyed. My legs trembled beneath me, weak and unsteady, and the world swayed as I stood. Pain surged from my shoulder in sharp, rhythmic pulses, radiating down through every muscle and nerve like fire. My arm hung limp—a dead weight, dragging at my balance. The bandages clung to my skin, dark and soaked through. Blood still leaked in slow, steady warmth, thick and stubborn, trailing down my ribs.
Namur watched without a word as I moved, every slow step like walking through quicksand. Each stride heavier than the last, each breath shorter. The world around me grew hazy at the edges.
I reached the cart and steadied myself, gripping the wooden frame with my good hand. With trembling fingers, I pulled myself up just enough to look inside.
Gamir lay there—eyes wide, staring blankly into the void above. His throat had been slit clean. Blood still pooled beneath him, dark and steady.
My gaze fell to the faded red scarf around his neck, now soaked in deeper shades. He'd never taken it off. Not even in battle.
I swallowed, pushing down grief and fear. I couldn't afford to mourn him.
Not yet.
Beside Gamir's body rested my sword—worn, weathered, but solid. I reached for it. The grip settled into my hand with unsettling ease, like it had been waiting. In that moment, it felt less like a weapon… and more like the last familiar thing I had left.
Now that I had my weapon in hand, there was only one thing left to do—run.
My mind raced, clawing for options—any way out. Fighting Namur meant death. Even at full strength, going up against a chosen was suicide. In my state—injured, drained—it wouldn't even be a fight. Just an execution.
But where could I flee? Against Namur, running seemed pointless. He was faster. Stronger. I'd seen it when he fought—quick, efficient, lethal.
Unless… I ran somewhere even he wouldn't dare follow.
A sharp image cut through my mind—the Child of the Guardian.
Namur had tensed just at their mention. I'd seen it—the flicker in his voice, the unease he couldn't quite mask. He feared them.
So did I.
But maybe—just maybe—they were the only thing he'd hesitate to face.
And now they were behind us—left somewhere along the path we'd just come from.
I turned slowly, forcing my weary body to obey. The plains stretched vast and ominous, illuminated by starlight that made the waving reeds look like silver blades. Wind whispered through them, cold and foreboding, bringing nothing but dust and silence.
This was my route—my only possible refuge.
This is my only option. Risky enough to make even him pause.
Clutching the sword, my fingers slipped on the hilt—slick with sweat and blood. I dragged myself forward, one unsteady step at a time. The blade felt heavier with every breath, like it was trying to pull me down. My legs trembled beneath me, barely obeying. Each movement was a fight. My shoulder throbbed in sync with my heartbeat, and my vision swam—edges darkening, pain gnawing at my focus.
But I kept going.
Because stopping meant dying.
Namur's silence followed me, a weight more oppressive than any chains. Yet he remained still, abiding by his twisted code, his Edict. I had my chance—slim and fragile, but still real. He had granted me a token opportunity to escape.
I moved slowly, each step echoing through the wreckage of my body. The night stretched on without end, and every gust of wind felt like a whisper meant only for me. The tall reeds grew nearer—swaying shapes sharpening in the dark, their rustling louder with every breath. Fear clawed at my insides, raw and constant. But I didn't stop. I couldn't.
The moment I reached the edge of the reeds, the air shifted—colder, heavier. The image came back—those jagged teeth, and that second mouth in its chest, twitching, wet and vile.
I hesitated for only an instant.
Then, without looking back, I stepped into the tall grass.
The reeds swallowed me whole, rustling softly—like they were whispering secrets to each other.
Darkness pressed in from all sides, heavy and absolute. My sword hung low in my grip. My breath came in ragged bursts, loud in the silence.
I was alone.
Bleeding.
No longer a prince.
Just prey now—hunted, wounded.
Yet a spark remained within me, stubborn and bright, unwilling to be extinguished.
I moved deeper into the cursed land, driven by a simple, desperate hope—to find a way out, even if it meant facing horrors unknown.
Even if it meant embracing something far worse than death.