I barely survive—again.
My sword, battered and stained, has been at my side for two years. Tonight, as I limp back toward camp, I wonder if it's time to let it go. The blade's edge is chipped, the hilt slick with sweat and old blood. My armor, what little is left, hangs from me in tatters—leather and iron worn thin by too many close calls. Every step aches, every breath is a reminder that I've outlasted death once more.
It's midnight. The battlefield behind me is silent, save for the distant crackle of burning wood and flesh. I decide to wash up at the river, hoping to scrub away the grime, if not the memories.
As I make my way down the path, I pass a group of soldiers huddled around a makeshift pyre. Their faces are hollow, eyes sunken and vacant, their spirits as battered as their armor. They don't speak. They don't need to. The war that was supposed to end in months has dragged on for years, grinding us all into dust.
Among the bodies waiting for the flames, I spot Old Man Jack. He was one of the last to laugh, even as we retreated, bleeding and beaten. Now he lies motionless, his skin pale and waxy, his eyes staring blankly at the night sky. No one bothered to close them. I stand there, watching as the fire consumes him and the others. I don't cry. I don't pray. I've seen too many friends turned to ash to mourn each one. I can't even remember how many anymore. All that matters is that I'm still standing.
At the river, the world feels wrong—too peaceful, too quiet. The water glimmers in the moonlight, a sharp contrast to the carnage behind me. I strip off my ruined armor, piece by piece, until I'm left in a sweat-soaked, blood-caked shirt. I peel it away, wincing as it tugs at half-healed wounds.
Kneeling at the bank, I let the cold water wash over me. It bites at my skin, stinging where it finds cuts and bruises, but I welcome the pain. It reminds me I'm alive. As I splash water on my face, I catch a glimpse of my reflection—a gaunt, scarred boy with haunted eyes. For a moment, I don't recognize him. My body is a patchwork of scars: knife wounds, burns, jagged reminders of every fight I should have lost. Each one is a memory—a kill, a loss, a night I survived when I shouldn't have. They're ugly trophies, but maybe I can be proud of them. Maybe they mean I still have something left to fight for. Or maybe I just haven't died yet.
The river flows on, indifferent. I scrub the blood from my arms, but the heaviness in my chest remains. I pull my shirt back on, grab my sword—still unable to part with it. It's the only thing that remembers every kill with me.
As I head back toward camp, the air shifts. A faint rustle, a sudden hush. I freeze, hand on my sword, eyes searching the shadows. There—a figure crouched behind the trees. I move closer, blade half-raised.
It's a girl. No older than thirteen, with tangled hair and dirt-smudged cheeks. Her clothes are torn, her arms thin as reeds. She glares at me with wild, sharp eyes—like a cornered animal, ready to bolt or bite.
I should walk away. Orphans don't last long in war. They die, or worse—they become someone like me. But she doesn't beg, doesn't cry. She just stands there, silent, as if she's already lost everything worth begging for.
"…You alone?" I ask.
She nods, barely moving.
I hesitate. I don't save people. I kill them. But I lower my sword anyway.
"Come on," I say. "Before someone worse finds you."
She follows, keeping her distance. We don't speak. The wind stirs the ashes, carrying the scent of death through the trees.
I find a hollow at the forest's edge, hidden from the road. It's quiet, safe enough for now. I sit first. She stands a few meters away, eyes never leaving me.
"Sit," I mutter.
She doesn't move.
"I'm not gonna kill you," I say. "Not unless you give me a reason."
Finally, she sits—not beside me, but close enough. The silence stretches between us, thick and uneasy. Her presence unsettles me—not because she's dangerous, but because I recognize the look in her eyes. It's the same one I used to see in the mirror: no one's coming to save you.
– • –
"Get up."
The voice echoed in the dark. I was nine, maybe ten. My ribs ached from my father's boot. My mistake? I asked for food.
"You think the world owes you something, brat?" Another kick. My mother watched, silent. I curled up, too tired to cry. That was the day I stopped believing anyone would love me. Or save me.
– • –
I blink, dragged back to the present. The girl sits with her knees to her chest, staring at the dirt as if she could disappear into it. I don't even know her name. She feels more like a ghost than a person.
"What's your name?" I ask.
A pause. "Melissa," she whispers.
"Family?"
She shakes her head.
I nod. No more questions. She deserves the silence. We both do.
I reach into my pouch and pull out a hunk of stale bread. It's hard as stone, but it's all I have. I toss it toward her. She flinches, eyeing it warily.
"Eat."
She hesitates, glances up at me. I meet her gaze, cold and steady.
"Eat it. Or I'll kill you and take it back."
She moves, brushing the dirt off before taking a tentative bite. I nod. "Smart choice."
Leaning back against a tree, I stare up at the sky. I don't care if she thanks me. I just don't want to watch someone starve tonight—not someone who looks like I used to, abandoned and unwanted.
The night passes in silence. No dreams, no rest. Just the sound of breathing—hers and mine. She falls asleep with the bread clutched in her hand, curled up like something discarded. I stay awake. That's how I survive.
Dawn creeps in, gray and cold. The wind stirs, brushing ash and dew from our skin. She wakes, silent. We sit together—a broken soldier and a broken girl—sharing one last quiet moment.
I stand, brush the dirt from my coat, and grip my sword.
"Go west," I say. "There's a village a few days from here. Might still be standing."
She watches me, silent, but I know she hears.
I turn to leave. Then pause.
"Don't follow me."
It's not a threat—just the truth.
I walk away, back to the mud, the blood, and the only life I know.