Clawing his way up the rough, scaling bark, Norvin didn't stop until the air grew thinner and the stench of the swamp below faded into a dull, rot-filled memory. The Marsh Forest was a living entity, a carnivorous labyrinth that did not take kindly to intruders, and the scent of fresh blood—both the knight's and his own—was a dinner bell he needed to distance himself from immediately.
His fingers were raw, his legs trembling from the adrenaline crash, but fear was a cruel taskmaster. He moved from branch to branch, testing each foothold with paranoid caution, acutely aware of the low, groaning sounds the trees made as they shifted their weight in the dark.
Finally, he found it.
High above the suffocating mist, near the canopy where the moonlight filtered through in pale, ghostly shafts, was a massive ancient oak—or something that resembled one. Its trunk was as wide as a watchtower, and where three colossal boughs twisted together, they formed a natural, moss-lined hollow. It was a cradle in the sky, hidden from the predatory gaze of the ground below.
Norvin collapsed into the alcove, his small frame disappearing into the shadows of the wood. The bark here was dry, a luxury compared to the sludge below. He curled his legs to his chest, his breathing ragged and shallow, his eyes darting around the leaves for any sign of movement.
He checked his pockets, his fingers brushing against the cold metal of his knives. They were clean now, wiped on the moss, but the sensation of them piercing flesh still lingered on his skin.
'I survived', he thought, the realization feeling less like a victory and more like a sentence.
He was safe, for now. But as he leaned his head against the ancient wood, listening to the distant, inhuman shrieks of the Marsh Forest's nocturnal hunters, Norvin knew that sleep would not come easily. He was a child hiding in the belly of a beast, and the night was far from over.
He has killed a man, another guilt that he carried in his heart.
The realization didn't hit him like a blow; it settled over him like a suffocating blanket, heavy and suffocating. It was another sin, another corrosive layer of guilt to carry in a heart already burdened beyond its years.
'Ah... Father... what would you think of me now?'
The thought brought a sting of tears to his eyes, hot and blurring against the cold night air. 'I have taken a life. Your words... are they ashes now?'
The memory washed over him, vibrant and painful, transporting him away from the rot of the Marsh Forest and back to the dusty, golden-hued warmth of the barn. He could smell the dry hay and the faint metallic tang of old tools. He could feel the phantom weight of his father's arms wrapping around him and Yara, pulling them into a protective embrace that shielded them from the cruel world outside.
Norvin remembered looking up, his gaze flitting between Yara's sleepy face and his father's tired smile. Even as a child, he could see it—the raw, unfiltered essence of love that held their small family together.
His father's hands were rough, calloused maps of a lifetime of servitude, yet his touch was always gentle. Norvin remembered the nights when Alden would return from the fields, his body broken and bruised, his skin pale from exhaustion. The cruel masters worked him like a mule, whipping him for the slightest infraction, draining his vigor until he was a husk of a man.
Yet, the moment he stepped into the barn, the pain vanished from his eyes. He never raised his voice. He never let the torture of his day reflect onto his children. He swallowed his agony so they wouldn't have to taste it.
Alden was well-respected by the other slaves, not for his strength, but for his survival instinct.
"Only by submitting ourselves completely can we live a life," Alden would often tell the younger, angrier men around the fire. "Our masters will not punish us if we are invisible. They will not take away our food if we are obedient. They have their strength, their Noble wealth... and we are poor. We are just shadows. How can a shadow stand against a mountain?"
The other slaves knew Alden spoke the cold, hard truth of their world. Wealth dictated reality. Power was absolute. To resist was to die.
But Alden... Alden fought in his own way.
He preached submission, but he practiced a quiet, desperate rebellion. He took care of them. When a fellow slave fell sick or grew too weak to work, Alden would silently step in. He would take on their quota, adding their burden to his own aching shoulders. He would draw the overseer's attention, absorbing the fury and the whip strikes himself, just so the others could survive another day.
He wasn't a warrior of the sword. He was a warrior of endurance. And in the end, that was the only way he knew how to fight.
"Feel the pain of all, Norvin," his father would whisper, his voice rasping but steady, breaking a meager loaf of bread—his own dinner—into two halves for his hungry children. "Carry the pain of your own heart with dignity. But never, ever reflect your pain onto another. We endure, my son. We do not hurt others, we protect and we carry the pain of all we love."
'Carry the pain of all we love.' Norvin looked at his own hands now, stained with the dried blood of the knight. He had failed. He had not endured; he had hurt another. 'I have no one left whom I love.'
'Will he forgive me? Can someone like me be forgiven? A child who had never used the knife to cut bread but to cut down people.'
He took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to force the chaotic rhythm of his heart to slow down. The silence of the canopy was absolute, a heavy blanket that muffled his senses. Because of his internal turmoil, he didn't hear the presence approaching him until the voice cut through the air like a razor.
"You really killed him."
Norvin's eyes snapped open, wide with primal terror.
Panic, sharp and cold, flooded his veins. He couldn't believe it. Someone else had found him. He had just crawled out of the jaws of death, surviving a battle that should have ended him. His limbs were leaden. He didn't have the energy to fight a gust of wind, let alone another enemy.
He whipped his head around, scanning the gnarled branches and the shifting leaves. He couldn't understand where the sound had come from. It lacked direction. It echoed from the bark, rustled in the leaves, and whispered from the moss. It was as if the trees themselves were passing judgment on him.
"Where are you looking?" the voice hummed, amused and ethereal.