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Chapter 4 - Like Clay

Arno's grip hadn't eased up, and Haise was starting to think the man had no intention of letting him walk under his own power. His shoulder ached from the pressure, ribs jolting every time Arno's pace picked up. Adrian, the archer, apparently, trailed a little behind now, his breathing heavier than before, but his steps stayed sharp.

"Think we lost 'em?" Adrian's voice broke through the quiet, still tight with caution.

Arno's gaze flicked back over his shoulder, scanning the thick walls of green that still stretched behind them. "They won't follow us this close to the camp. Not without cause."

Adrian hesitated, slowing his steps a little. "Yeah? You sure?"

"They're smart enough not to be that reckless."

Adrian let out something between a breath and a scoff, then finally let his bow lower against his back. "Fine. I'm taking the other route."

"Do that." Arno's pace didn't falter. His next words landed somewhere between amusement and warning. "Stay sharp. They might outsmart you."

Adrian didn't reply, already drifting toward the far edge of the path.

Haise finally spoke, his voice scraping its way out, half buried under his rattled breaths. "You can put me down now, you know. I can walk. I have legs. Pretty sure."

"You'll slow me down."

"We're not running anymore."

Arno only grunted. "Close enough."

Haise squinted ahead, unsure what to expect. Trees thinned, the air shifting with the faintest hint of wood smoke and something richer, cooked meat, maybe? They crested a small hill, and when Arno finally dropped him onto his feet, Haise stumbled, catching his balance with both hands on his knees.

"Look up," Arno said, already stepping past him. "You've arrived."

When Haise raised his head, the sight waiting for him didn't match anything he'd imagined.

A sprawling camp stretched across the clearing, larger than he'd thought possible. Wooden walls circled the perimeter, tall enough to keep watch over whatever might come through the forest. Tents dotted the ground in loose formations, their cloth worn but sturdy, each one anchored beside rough-built wooden houses. People moved between the pathways, some armored, some not, some carrying crates while others tended fires.

It felt alive. Yet messy. 

Definitely not home.

He let the weight of it settle in his chest, pressing sharp against the inside of his ribs. Wherever this was, it wasn't a dream.

His hands dropped to his sides. "Arno… can we talk?"

"Later."

"No, now," Haise pressed. "I don't know what's going on, I don't know who's chasing you or why I'm-"

"You'll eat first." Arno didn't slow. He hooked his hand around Haise's collar again, dragging him along with no patience for arguments.

Haise groaned, his feet catching awkwardly on the dirt. "Seriously? You can't keep doing this. I can walk, man."

"Then keep up."

The tent they ducked into wasn't anything special. Just enough space for two men and a pot bubbling over a low flame. The smell clawed at Haise's stomach, sharp and greasy in the best way.

Arno motioned for Haise to sit, then sank onto the opposite side of the cooking pot. He poured a thin stream of water into a dented cup, downed it, then leaned his elbows on his knees.

His eyes flicked up. "So. Who are you?"

Haise froze.

Right. This part.

He couldn't just say he was from another world, another life. Even if it was the truth—or whatever version of the truth this was, it'd probably earn him a sword to the throat or a one-way ticket back to the wild.

His fingers tapped nervously against his leg, his mind racing for something believable. "I… I think I hit my head."

Arno's brow lifted, unimpressed.

Haise pressed on. "I woke up in that cavern. I was alone, I had nothing on me, and my head felt like it'd been split open. I don't remember anything before that. Nothing. Not my home, not my family. Just a blank wall."

Arno leaned back a little, his stare weighing the words.

Haise forced a crooked smile. "So, y'know. Best guess? I fell in there, and hit the bottom really damn hard. It scrambled whatever was left up here." He pointed at his temple.

Arno didn't blink. "You remember your name?"

There was a beat of silence where Haise's brain did an awkward, panicked spin.

He wasn't going to use his real name. Not here. Not with strangers who dragged him through the woods like a lost pet.

"Dorian," he said, the word tasting strange on his tongue. "I think… I think it's Dorian."

Arno smirked. "Sounds noble."

"Your guess is as good as mine."

The smirk lingered, then Arno ladled something thick and grayish from the pot into a cracked wooden bowl and shoved it toward Haise.

"You'll eat."

"Not exactly asking, huh?"

Arno grunted. "Not exactly."

Haise dragged the bowl closer, ignoring the way the greasy sheen made his stomach twist in doubt. His hands trembled faintly around the edges of the bowl, but whether it was nerves, adrenaline, or something else entirely, he wasn't sure.

His eyes flicked to his clothes for the first time since waking.

A soft curse slipped out under his breath.

He was wearing a set of street clothes. Modern, familiar, and entirely out of place in a world of leather armor and swords.

His throat tightened.

Of course.

"You're staring," Arno said, his tone dry.

Haise scrambled to cover the crack in his story. "I told you. I don't remember anything. Maybe this is just what I had on me when I fell."

"Strange fabric." Arno didn't press, but his gaze lingered on the folds of Haise's shirt a little longer than Haise liked. "Feels rare. Never seen stitching like that."

"Maybe I'm rich. Or was."

Arno's eyes narrowed, like he was chewing over whether to believe him.

The man didn't push further, though. He seemed to let the lie hang in the air, waiting to see if Haise would trip on it himself.

Arno's hand lifted, fingers curling as a faint orb of light pulsed to life in his palm. It spun lazily, crackling at the edges with a soft hum.

Haise tensed, his grip tightening on the bowl.

Without warning, Arno flicked his wrist and sent the orb flying straight at Haise's face.

"Hey-" Haise flinched, dropping the bowl with a dull thud as the orb stopped an inch from his nose, hovering there, warm and steady.

Arno's voice dropped low, his smirk curling wider. "So. You don't even know the basics of your own existence."

The orb blinked out, leaving only the faint smell of burnt air.

Arno stood, stretching his arms overhead before extending one hand toward Haise. The firelight caught on his brown hair, softening the harsh lines of his face. His grin didn't soften.

"You're no better than a newborn." His palm stayed open, waiting. "Let me help you."

Haise's lips parted, but the words stalled.

For someone offering help, Arno seemed a little too pleased about it. Too eager.

There was always a catch.

"What do you get out of this?" Haise asked quietly, his eyes narrowing.

Arno's grin didn't falter. "You're like a broken pot, Dorian. Cracked all over, leaking. Useless to most. But… you're still soft enough to be reshaped." His fingers curled just slightly. "Opportunities like that don't come often."

Haise stared at him, the weight of the choice pressing in on his ribs.

His hand slowly lifted, hovering over Arno's.

Maybe he didn't have much of a choice after all.

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