When Qen slowly opening his eyes, the first thing Qen noticed when he opened his eyes was the heavy ache in his shoulder. His vision swam for a moment, ceiling shadows blurring into one another until the faint light of the hearth steadied his senses. Slowly, he realized he was lying on a mat inside the hut. His upper body was bare, and his left shoulder was wrapped tightly with torn cloth—rudimentary but firm enough to keep the wound closed. The faint smell of herbs lingered on the bandage, mixed with the sharper scent of dried blood.
He exhaled slowly, pushing himself halfway upright despite the weight of fatigue pressing him down. His sword leaned nearby against the wall, cleaned but not polished, as though someone had made sure it was safe yet deliberately left it within his reach.
"You're awake."
The voice came from the corner. It was Hert, crouched by the fire with a small pot simmering gently. His wolf ears twitched slightly, relief passing his face though he masked it with his usual steady tone. "You've been out for hours. We thought you wouldn't wake until morning."
Qen touched his shoulder lightly, wincing as a dull throb shot through him. "Who did this?" he asked, nodding toward the bandage.
"That would be me," another voice answered. Keir appeared from behind Hert, holding a bowl of water and strips of cloth. His hair was a mess, and his hands still smelled of crushed leaves and bark. "I—I remembered some poultices my master used to talk about. Not perfect, but it should help against infection. Hert and I tore some old cloth for bandages."
Qen gave a short nod, his lips curling into the faintest smile. "Good work. I owe you both."
Keir's shoulders straightened at the praise, though he looked down quickly, embarrassed. Hert simply stirred the pot, his golden eyes flicking toward Qen with quiet approval.
Across the hut, the two fugitives sat close to the wall. The long-haired swordsman, Chren Gomez, had his armor stripped to the side, his abdomen hastily bound where he had been cut. Beside him, the girl in the tattered red dress—her face pale but composed—sat with her knees pulled close. She had been quiet through the night, yet her eyes never left Qen when he stirred awake.
"You fought like no one I've ever seen," Chren finally spoke, his voice low but heavy with sincerity. "If not for you, the masked ones would have ended us all. I owe you my life, Qen Tavious."
Qen's brow furrowed slightly. "No need for thanks. Protecting others—that much, I can do. But I need to know what we're stepping into. Those assassins weren't ordinary mercenaries. Whoever sent them won't stop easily."
The girl lowered her head. "My name is Elira… Elira Fin," she said, her voice carrying a quiet strength despite her trembling hands. "I'm the daughter of Baron Fin, of Touran City. We don't know who wants us dead, but… I can't go back alone. If we try, they'll finish what they started."
Qen studied her closely. She couldn't have been more than sixteen, yet there was a steadiness in her gaze—fear, yes, but also the sharpness of someone who had seen betrayal firsthand.
Keir set the bowl down and spoke cautiously, "Then you'll need protection on the road back. Qen… we can't just send them off alone, right?"
Hert crossed his arms, thoughtful. "It's risky. Whoever targeted them may send more men, maybe stronger than the last group. But if we do nothing, they'll die before reaching Touran. And if we help…" He paused, glancing at Qen. "We might be dragging ourselves into politics far above our heads."
The fire popped, scattering small sparks, as silence weighed over them.
Qen finally broke it. "Whether politics or not, I won't leave people to be hunted like animals. If we choose to escort them, then we see it through." He turned his eyes to Chren. "But once we reach Touran, the responsibility is no longer ours. You understand?"
Chren bowed his head. "Understood. You've already done more than I had hoped for."
Elira's voice wavered, but she forced out the words. "Thank you. I'll never forget this kindness."
Qen leaned back against the wall, exhaustion creeping into his bones again. "We'll leave once I can use this arm without tearing it open. A day or two at least. Until then, we prepare."
---
The next morning dawned clear, the air damp with the aftertaste of last night's storm. Qen woke earlier this time, the ache in his shoulder persistent but dulled. Outside the hut, he found Keir sweeping away leaves and debris from the clearing, while Hert sharpened his dagger on a flat stone. Freon lay stretched near the camp's edge, ears flicking at every distant sound.
Qen stepped out slowly, testing his footing. Keir immediately turned. "You should be resting," he said, concern plain in his voice.
"I am resting," Qen replied dryly, though he allowed himself a small smirk. "Just not lying down."
Keir shook his head but said nothing more.
Together they cleared the camp, setting logs aside, stacking what remained of the cut trees for firewood. Even Elira insisted on helping, though Hert frowned at first. She gathered smaller branches and swept the inside of the hut, determined to show she wasn't helpless. Qen noticed, silently impressed by her resolve despite her torn dress and weariness.
Chren, though wounded, insisted on standing guard with his sword in hand. "If they return," he muttered, "I'll not be caught sitting."
By midday, Qen called them together. "We'll need supplies for the road. Food, water, and some basic gear. We've cleared enough of the land here—it won't vanish while we're gone. Hert, Keir, you'll come with me tomorrow to Guana to gather what we need. Chren and Elira will stay hidden here with Freon."
Elira's lips parted as though to protest, but Qen raised a hand. "You'll be safer here. The fewer eyes on you, the better."
She nodded reluctantly, trusting his judgment.
That night, as they shared a simple meal of roasted roots and dried meat, there was a sense of quiet unity in the camp. The fugitives no longer looked like outsiders; around the fire, their stories began to weave into the group's own. Elira spoke softly of Touran's bustling markets and high stone walls. Chren reminisced about his days as a mercenary before swearing loyalty to her father. Keir listened with wide eyes, enthralled, while Hert remained cautious yet attentive.
When the fire had dimmed to embers, Qen found himself staring at the flames, lost in thought. For the first time since leaving the battlefield months ago, he felt the stirrings of something beyond survival—responsibility, perhaps even purpose. He did not know what awaited them in Touran, but he knew this: their small band, unlikely as it was, had already begun to trust one another.
And in that trust, he felt a weight on his shoulders heavier than any wound.