I woke screaming.
The sound tore from my throat like something being ripped away—raw and animal and utterly without control. Around me, the camp stirred uneasily. Voices called out in the darkness. Someone cursed about nightmares and lost sleep.
Elisabeth's hand found my shoulder, warm and alive and impossible.
"Erik! Erik, it's all right. You're safe."
Safe. The word was meaningless. I'd watched her die twice now. Held her lifeless body in my arms once and abandoned it the second time. How could either of us ever be safe?
I sat up too quickly, my head spinning. The movement sent fire racing down my left side—a burning agony that made me gasp and clutch at my ribs.
"You're hurt," Elisabeth said, reaching toward me.
"Don't." The word came out sharper than I intended. I couldn't bear her touch right now. Couldn't handle the kindness in her voice when I knew exactly how it would sound as she died.
I pulled up my shirt with shaking hands, expecting to find some wound from the dream. Instead, there was another handprint. This one seared into the skin over my ribs, perfectly mirroring the position of my heart.
But unlike the first mark on my arm, this one still burned. The flesh was angry red around the edges, radiating heat like a fresh brand. And beneath it, deeper than skin, was a pain that felt like it would never fade.
"Erik, what is that?" Elisabeth's voice was tight with concern.
I looked at her face in the dim light filtering through our shelter. Brown hair mussed from sleep. Eyes wide with worry. Exactly as she'd looked two—three?—nights ago when this had started.
How many times was I going to watch her die?
"It's nothing," I lied.
"That's not nothing. That looks like—"
"A burn. I know what it looks like."
But it wasn't just a burn. The handprint was perfect in its detail, just like the first one. Every line and whorl etched into my flesh with impossible precision. As if someone had pressed their palm against me while it blazed with otherworldly heat.
Someone. Or something.
"How did you get burned?" Elisabeth pressed. "There's been no fire near us. No hot metal. Nothing that could—"
"I don't know!" The words exploded from me louder than I'd intended. Around us, other camp followers muttered complaints about the noise.
Elisabeth pulled back, hurt flickering across her features. In all the time she'd known me, I'd never raised my voice to her. Never been anything but careful and controlled.
But I wasn't feeling very controlled right now.
I was feeling like a man slowly losing his mind.
"Head count! Everyone up! Movement begins in one hour!"
The familiar call cut through the pre-dawn darkness like a knife. The third time I'd heard those exact words in what felt like as many lifetimes.
Elisabeth automatically reached for her hidden knife, the same gesture I'd watched her make twice before. The same quick glance around to orient herself. The same practiced efficiency.
Everything was happening again. Exactly the same.
Except for the burning pain in my side that refused to fade, and the growing certainty that I was trapped in some kind of nightmare that wouldn't end.
"We need to get ready," Elisabeth said, her voice carefully neutral after my outburst.
I watched her pack her few belongings in the same order as before. Watched her smooth her hair back and check her hidden weapons. Watched her prepare to walk toward another death she couldn't see coming.
This time would be different. It had to be. I couldn't watch her die again.
I couldn't stay passive and I couldn't abandon her. Which meant I had to act.
The question was how.
We joined the forming column in our assigned positions. Elisabeth disappeared toward the kitchen staff while I found my place with the supply wagons. Thomas appeared beside me with his usual complaints about early marches and tired horses.
But this time, instead of walking in silence, I began asking questions.
"Thomas, how well do you know the route we're taking?"
The stable master grunted. "Well enough. Been this way before with other campaigns."
"Ever had trouble? Bandits? Ambushes?"
"Nah. This is friendly territory. Baron's allies control everything from here to the rendezvous point. Safest road in the kingdom."
The same false confidence. The same assumption that allied territory meant safety.
I tried a different approach. "What about the forest we'll be passing through? The old one with the big oaks?"
"What about it?"
"Seems like the kind of place where someone could hide. Set up an ambush."
Thomas looked at me like I'd grown a second head. "Boy, you've got too much imagination. That forest's been peaceful for decades. Nothing there but trees and deer."
Nothing there but professional archers and coordinated soldiers, I thought. But I couldn't say that without sounding insane.
By the second day, my attempts to raise awareness had grown more desperate.
"Sir Marcus," I called as the armored knight passed near the supply wagons during a rest stop.
He turned toward me, his visor reflecting the afternoon sun. "Yes?"
"I... I had a dream. About an ambush. In the forest ahead."
Even through the helmet, I could feel his attention sharpen. "What kind of dream?"
I took a breath, knowing how this would sound. "Professional soldiers. Hidden in the trees. Crossbows. They hit us on the third day, right when we reach the old forest."
For a moment, Sir Marcus was silent. Then: "Dreams are not intelligence reports, boy."
"But what if—"
"What if the moon fell from the sky? What if water ran uphill? We deal in facts, not the fantasies of nervous camp followers."
He walked away before I could respond, leaving me with the bitter taste of failure.
By the third day, I was frantic.
I tried warning other soldiers. They laughed at me. I tried talking to the officers. They threatened to have me flogged for spreading panic. I even attempted to reach Elisabeth, to convince her to stay back when the attack came.
"You're acting strange," she said during our brief moment together at the midday rest. "Ever since that first night, you've been... different."
"I'm trying to keep us alive."
"From what? We're in the safest part of the kingdom."
The same blind confidence. The same inability to see what was coming.
We entered the ancient forest as the afternoon sun slanted through the canopy. The same peaceful cathedral of oak and ash. The same false sense of security.
I walked beside the supply wagon with my heart hammering against my ribs. Both handprints burned with increasing intensity, as if responding to the approaching violence.
Any moment now. The first arrow would come from nowhere. The man ten feet ahead would drop with a crossbow bolt in his throat.
I opened my mouth to shout a warning—
The arrow sprouted from the throat of the man walking ten feet ahead of me.
Too late. Again.
But this time, I was ready.
The forest exploded with death, and I was already moving. Not toward Elisabeth—that had failed twice. Not away from the battle—that had saved no one.
This time, I went for the source.
While soldiers scattered and died around me, I sprinted toward the tree line where the arrows were coming from. My knife was in my hand before I'd taken three steps. Five years of training with the Guardian had prepared me for this moment.
The first archer never saw me coming. He was focused on his targets in the column, drawing another bolt for his crossbow. I opened his throat before he knew I was there.
The second archer turned just in time to take my blade between his ribs. He dropped his weapon and fell backward into the undergrowth.
The third one got off a shot that passed so close to my head I felt the fletching brush my ear. Then I was on him, and he joined his companions in death.
Three archers down. How many more were there?
I could hear fighting deeper in the forest. The coordinated soldiers who'd poured from the trees were engaged with the survivors of the column. But there had to be more archers. The volleys had been too coordinated, too precise.
I moved through the trees like a ghost, using every lesson the Guardian had taught me about moving silently. About reading terrain. About becoming invisible when you needed to kill.
I found two more archer positions. Four more men who died without ever seeing their killer.
By the time I made it back to the road, the main battle was nearly over. The enemy soldiers were regrouping for their final assault, just as I'd seen twice before.
But something was different.
More of the Baron's men were still alive. Not many—the ambush had been devastatingly effective—but more than in my previous experiences. Sir Marcus was still standing, his armor bloodied but intact. A handful of soldiers maintained a defensive formation around the overturned wagons.
And Elisabeth...
I found her crouched behind the kitchen wagon, alive but pale. No arrow in her chest. No blood on her lips.
She was alive.
"Erik!" She reached toward me as I approached. "Thank God. I thought you were dead."
"Not yet," I said, dropping to my knees beside her.
But even as relief flooded through me, I could see the enemy soldiers preparing their final charge. We'd bought time, nothing more. The outcome would still be the same.
Unless...
"Listen to me," I said urgently. "When they charge, stay low. Don't try to fight. Just survive until—"
The attack came before I could finish. Professional soldiers hitting the scattered defenders like a hammer blow.
I fought beside Sir Marcus this time. Two trained warriors back-to-back against overwhelming odds. We carved through the first wave with brutal efficiency.
But there were too many of them.
A spear point found the gap in Sir Marcus's armor. He went down hard, blood pooling beneath his helmet.
An axe blade split the skull of the soldier to my left.
A crossbow bolt punched through the chest of the man behind me.
One by one, the defenders fell.
Until it was just me, standing over Elisabeth's crouched form, facing the enemy commander with his graying hair and intelligent eyes.
"You fought well," he said, raising his sword. "All of you. But this ends now."
I looked down at Elisabeth. Still alive. Still breathing. But for how much longer?
"Is this how it ends?" I asked.
But this time, I already knew the answer.
This time, I'd fought harder. Killed more enemies. Saved more lives.
And it hadn't mattered.
The sword came down.
The darkness came.
But it wasn't gentle this time. It was cold and hungry and filled with the bitter knowledge that even changing tactics hadn't changed the fundamental outcome.
The burning pain in my side intensified as consciousness faded. Both handprints blazed with otherworldly heat.
And somewhere in the darkness, I heard laughter.
Not human laughter. Something else. Something that found my struggles amusing.
Something that was enjoying watching me fail over and over again.
This is how it ends.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But not how it would end forever.