They kept riding as soon as they regained their energy.
Axiomel didn't know how many hours had passed. He stopped counting after the sun climbed high enough to make his eyes ache. Every part of him hurt now. The pain had spread, anymore and he might die from infection.
The horse under him was tired too. He eased the reins just a little, then tightened them again when that same feeling twisted in his chest.
Not yet.
Behind him, Thyrion coughed and spat to the side. "We're going to kill the horses if we keep this up."
"I know," Axiomel said.
"You don't sound like you care."
"I care," he replied. "I just don't want to stop."
That ended the conversation.
They rode on.
The land slowly changed trees thinning, the ground leveling out. Fields appeared, then fences. When the town finally came into view, Axiomel almost missed it. It wasn't much. Just stone houses clustered close together, smoke rising lazily, people moving about like it was any other day.
He slowed at last.
Relief didn't come. Not really. Just… less pressure.
They entered the town quietly. No one challenged them, but plenty of people stared. A group of armed, blood‑soaked riders didn't blend in anywhere.
Axiomel swung down from his horse and nearly fell. His leg gave out without warning. Myris caught his arm before he hit the ground.
"Careful," she said.
"I've got it," he muttered.
She didn't let go until he was steady.
They led the horses to the inn's side yard. One of the stable hands wrinkled his nose at the smell of blood but didn't comment. Coins changed hands. The horses were taken away.
Inside, the inn was quieter than the last one. Cleaner too. Someone had scrubbed the floor recently. The smell of bread made Axiomel's stomach twist unpleasantly—he realized he was starving.
The innkeeper took one look at them and sighed.
"Sit," he said. "You guys look like hell."
No one argued.
Axiomel leaned forward, elbows on knees, breathing slow until the room stopped tilting.
"You need a healer," the innkeeper said.
"Yes," Axiomel agreed immediately.
"I'll fetch one," the man said, already turning away.
Food came first. Bread. Stew. Water. A cup of wine was set down in front of each of them.
Axiomel ate slowly. He didn't enjoy it. It was just fuel.
The healer arrived not long after—a woman in simple white robes marked with gold thread. She looked them over without much reaction.
"You rode too hard," she said.
"We didn't have a choice," Thyrion replied.
The healer shrugged. "Most people think that."
She worked methodically, not asking questions.
When she got to Axiomel, he clenched his jaw as she cleaned his side. It stung badly. He hissed despite himself.
"You'll live," she said. "But you won't like it."
"That's fine," he said. "I don't like much right now."
She snorted and continued.
The warmth of her healing helped, but it didn't erase everything. Some pain stayed. Some injuries were just… there.
When she finished, exhaustion hit him like a wall.
They ate again. Drank. Someone laughed weakly at something Kastor said, though Axiomel didn't catch what it was.
Eventually, the innkeeper cleared his throat. "Rooms are ready."
They split up without discussion.
Axiomel lay on the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.
Sleep didn't come.
He kept thinking of his mother.
Not in pictures. Just the feeling of her worry. The way she always looked at him when he left. Like she wanted to say something but never did.
His chest felt tight.
I should've sent word, he thought. I should've turned back sooner.
He rolled onto his side, then back again.
Nothing helped.
Sleep came in pieces.
Axiomel would drift for a minute, maybe two, then snap awake like someone had called his name. Each time, the room was the same—low ceiling, rough wood beams, a single shuttered window letting in a sliver of moonlight.
Nothing wrong.
And still his chest felt tight.
He stared at the ceiling, counting breaths again. In. Out. Slower this time. The healer had done her work well enough that the pain wasn't sharp anymore, just heavy. Like a reminder he couldn't shrug off.
He turned onto his side and winced.
She's fine, he told himself. She's always fine.
The thought didn't stick.
He heard footsteps in the hall. Soft. Careful. Someone trying not to wake the others. The sound stopped outside his door, hesitated, then moved on.
Axiomel frowned.
After a moment, there was a quiet knock.
He sat up. "Yeah?"
The door opened just enough for Myris to slip inside. She didn't close it fully behind her, like she didn't want to trap the air.
"Sorry," she said quietly. "Did I wake you?"
"I wasn't asleep," he replied.
She nodded, like she'd expected that. She leaned against the wall instead of sitting, arms folded loosely, eyes a little tired around the edges.
"Same," she said.
They stood there for a moment, neither sure what to say.
"You okay?" she asked eventually.
He shrugged. "I should be."
"That wasn't the question."
He sighed and rubbed his face. "I don't know. I feel… late."
Myris tilted her head. "Late for what?"
"That's the problem," he said. "I don't know."
She didn't push. She never did. She just watched him for a second, then nodded slowly.
"You've been riding like you were running from something," she said. "Or toward it."
He looked at her. "Does it show that much?"
She smiled faintly. "A little."
Silence again.
"I checked on the others," she added. "They're asleep. Or pretending to be."
"Good."
She hesitated, then straightened. "You should try too. Tomorrow's going to suck."
He snorted softly. "You're optimistic."
"Someone has to be."
She turned toward the door, then paused. "Ax?"
"Yeah?"
"If you need to leave early—before the others—I'll come with you."
The words landed heavier than he expected.
"I don't even know where I'd go," he said.
She met his eyes. "I know."
That was enough.
She slipped out, closing the door quietly behind her.
Axiomel lay back down.
The room felt emptier somehow.
He stared at the ceiling again, listening to the inn settle. A laugh from downstairs. Someone coughing. The normal sounds of people existing.
His chest tightened.
I should be there, he thought. Wherever there is.
He turned onto his side, then onto his back again.
Sleep finally crept in.
The last thing he thought before he dosed off was his mother's face