The sun was a mocking shade of gold as it rose behind them—blazing with the same fury as the wanted posters plastered across every outpost in a hundred-mile radius.
Damian flicked one of the parchments off a notice board with a smirk. "You look good in ink. They even got your bad side."
Chris scowled and snatched the paper. "That's my good side, thank you very much."
"Explains so much."
They were camped in the edge of a forest, the remains of a stolen loaf of bread between them. A week on the run had stripped Chris of his armor and pride. All that remained was a sword, a snappy temper, and the constant urge to strangle his travel companion.
"You really had to roast me on a wanted poster?" he muttered, trying to fold the paper into something resembling a map. "We're literally being hunted."
Damian stretched out lazily against the base of a tree, shadow magic curling around his fingers like smoke. "We're always being hunted. That's what makes it exciting."
"Oh yes. Exciting. Like stepping on a bear trap. Or diarrhea during sword training."
"That last one sounds personal."
Chris gave him a dark look. "You don't get to be funny. You're the reason we're wanted."
Damian arched an eyebrow. "Correction—you reported me. I didn't ask you to grow a conscience at the worst possible time."
"You're alive, aren't you?" Chris snapped. "I had a plan."
"Your plan was betray me to the Crown and hope they're in a forgiving mood. Bold."
Chris stood up and began pacing, muttering curses under his breath. Damian's smirk faded as he watched him.
The fire between them had simmered since the moment Chris had cut down the Umbraxis agents. Neither had spoken of it—not the look Chris gave before drawing his blade, not the raw edge in Damian's voice when he said, "Why?"
But it hung there.
Heavy. Unspoken.
"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," Chris finally said, running a hand through his hair. "I thought turning you in was the right thing. I didn't think they'd try to kill you."
"That's the only thing they do," Damian replied quietly. "You grew up in a palace. I grew up running from knives."
Chris turned. "Then tell me about it."
Damian blinked. "What?"
"You keep dodging the question. You've got shadows crawling over your arms, a bounty high enough to fund a war, and half the world thinks you're the one the prophecy warned about. So go on. Who are you, Damian Kaelthorn?"
Damian was silent for a long time.
Then, softly, he said, "You wouldn't believe me."
"Try me."
The wind rustled through the trees. Damian didn't look up.
"I was born in Umbraxis, in a town so deep in shadow the sun forgot it. My mother died when I was ten. My father sold me to a cult that worshipped the Old Flame." He paused. "They taught us how to rip shadows from light. How to bleed magic into obedience. We weren't people—we were weapons."
Chris swallowed.
"They put a brand on us," Damian said, voice flat. "Magic that binds to your blood. You either survive the trials or burn from the inside out. I ran before they could finish binding me."
He held out his arm, pulling back the sleeve.
Chris stepped closer, eyes widening.
The brand was still there—half-faded, seared into Damian's forearm. It pulsed faintly, darker than ink, like a wound that refused to close.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Chris asked, quieter now.
"Because the last knight I trusted turned me in," Damian said, standing up. "And the one before that tried to cut off my hands."
Chris didn't know what to say to that.
So he didn't say anything.
They walked most of the day in silence, through backwoods and over rocky hills, avoiding main roads and keeping their hoods low. The tension faded, replaced by something unspoken—something heavier than silence, lighter than forgiveness.
They stopped at a river around dusk, the sound of rushing water muffling the world around them.
Chris crouched near the edge, splashing his face.
"Do you ever stop looking like a hero?" Damian asked, leaning on a nearby tree.
"I try," Chris grumbled. "But my cheekbones won't quit."
Damian chuckled, and Chris turned to look at him. "That's the first time I've heard you laugh."
"I'm not a complete monster."
"I know," Chris said, before he could stop himself.
Damian tilted his head. "Do you?"
Chris looked away. "You saved me from that ghost. You could've left."
"You could've let them kill me."
They stood in silence for a beat too long.
Then—
A crack of a branch.
Chris reached for his sword.
Damian's shadows surged.
Figures emerged from the trees—rough armor, mismatched weapons, cruel smiles.
"Look what we have here," said the tallest one, eyes glinting. "Knight boy and the Shadowspawn. What a pair."
Chris stepped forward. "Bandits?"
"No," Damian murmured. "Bounty hunters."
Ten of them. At least.
Chris drew his sword. "I'm open to suggestions."
"I distract. You stab."
"That's your big plan?"
"Do you have a better one?"
"No."
"Then shut up and stab something."
Damian stepped forward, magic rising like a wave—shadows leaping from his palms, slashing through the trees with precision. The bounty hunters shouted, blinded by sudden darkness.
Chris darted in, blade flashing. He cut down two before they could react, ducked a crossbow bolt, rolled behind a tree, and came out swinging.
Damian moved like water—shadow and fire, hands weaving curses into the air. One man lunged at him, and his shadow turned into a snake, coiling around the attacker's throat.
Chris took a hit to the ribs, knocked the breath out of him, but retaliated with a spin and jab that sent another bounty hunter to the ground.
They moved in sync. Rough. Improvised.
But it worked.
It was chaos—grunts, curses, the clash of metal and the hiss of magic. And somewhere in the mess of it, Chris realized something dangerous:
He trusted Damian to have his back.
It was over in minutes.
The last bounty hunter limped away, Damian letting him go with a glare. "Tell your friends we're not in the mood."
Chris leaned on his sword, panting. "Well… that was awful."
Damian nodded, catching his breath. "You're bleeding."
"So are you."
They looked at each other.
Then laughed. Loud and breathless.
"Are we… good at this?" Chris asked.
Damian smirked. "Gods help us, I think we are."
The fire they built that night was warm, flickering between them. Chris leaned back, watching the stars peek through the canopy.
"You ever think," he said, "that maybe the prophecy's wrong?"
"All the time."
"Maybe it's not about killing each other."
Damian didn't answer right away.
Then, softly, "Maybe it's about saving each other."
Chris blinked. Turned his head.
Damian was already looking at him.
He didn't say anything.
He didn't need to.