The trees thinned as dusk rolled in, long shadows stretching like claws over the frost-bitten earth. Rian's breath fogged in front of him, uneven, rasping. The bruises on his ribs throbbed in rhythm with every step, and whatever the herbalist had packed into those bandages was beginning to lose its bite. His side burned. His legs ached. The axe strapped to his back felt like dead weight.
He stumbled over a root and caught himself on a low branch, cursing under his breath. The trees whispered back — dry leaves, brittle as old bones, shivering with the wind.
"Val," he said, voice hoarse. "You'd probably laugh, seeing me like this. Limping through mud, talking to trees. You always said I couldn't shut up even if I tried."
He huffed a breath, half a laugh, half a wheeze.
"Yara… You wouldn't say anything. Just look at me like I was an idiot. Which I probably am."
He pressed a hand to his side and winced.
