The next day broke slower than the last.
Mist clung to the ground like a dying thing, curling between blackened roots and skeletal trunks. The ash never stopped drifting—thin veils of it twisting through the branches, settling into my clothes, my hair, my lungs. You start to taste it after a while. Bitter, like burnt copper and old smoke.
Agro stood beside me now, barely, ribs still sharp beneath faded muscle, but his legs held better than yesterday. His eyes tracked the treeline like something might crawl free from it—and honestly, maybe it would.
We weren't safe yet.
Not here. Not in this world.
I adjusted the makeshift wrappings across his flank, tightening the last of the bandages. Supplies ran low. My rations were gone. Water too, save for what little runoff I could find in the broken hollows of slagglass and moss. Agro's breathing still came hard—chest hitching every few exhales—but his stance was stronger.
The stubborn bastard wouldn't lie down again even if I asked.
Good.
I brushed a hand along his scarred neck, eyes drifting to the horizon—a faint line beyond the ash-choked woods, barely visible through the skeletal canopy. Roads waited out there. Roads I hadn't walked in years. Roads I probably shouldn't.
But the crown pulsed faintly in my pack—a steady pressure under the canvas, a whisper curling through marrow, threading into my bones. Every breath, every heartbeat, it pulled.
The world beyond called.
But I wasn't walking into it unarmed.
I cursed under my breath, fingers tightening around the old belt at my waist. No sword. No knife. Bare hands and grit. Brilliant. Wandering into a fractured world full of relic-hunters, ash-born horrors, and whatever zealot patrols still roamed the wastes.
I needed steel.
Even rusted. Even broken.
The forest stretched quiet around me—deceptively still. But I'd scavenged ruins long enough to know the patterns of abandonment. Sometimes the bones of old roads hid more than forgotten ghosts.
I found it near a cracked stone marker—half-buried beneath ash and creeping moss, the old empire's crest eroded to a jagged smear. The sword lay beside it, warped, rust gnawing along the blade's edge, but intact.
I knelt, brushing soot from the hilt. The grip was worn smooth, leather long decayed, but the balance…
Still good.
I straightened slowly, testing the weight. Not much reach left, the blade jagged near the tip, but it was steel. And steel, even corroded, still cuts.
"Good enough," I muttered, sliding the blade through the old loops of my belt, letting it settle against my hip.
Not perfect. But neither was I.
The saddle came harder.
I found remnants of one near a twisted thicket—leather straps frayed, stirrups missing, padding chewed through by weather and time. But the frame held. Enough for a temporary fix. Enough to get Agro moving.
I patched it together with scavenged rope, old cloth strips, and sheer spite—rigging it loose across his back, careful over the still-healing wounds.
Agro huffed once, ears flicking, eyes narrowing like he wasn't sold on the idea.
"Yeah," I exhaled, tightening the last strap. "Me neither."
He didn't bolt. Small victories.
The day dragged on—a slow crawl through dying woods and fractured ground, ash clinging to every step, the horizon staying maddeningly distant. But the crown's hum never faded, threading whispers into the edges of my thoughts.
Visions came with it—faint, broken flashes of forgotten cities, towering walls, banners burned black, faces I didn't recognize staring down from crumbling statues.
Not mine.
But they filled my skull like old scars.
I shook the memory loose, focusing on the task—the next step, the next breath, Agro's footing steady beneath the makeshift saddle, my grip tightening around the reins.
We didn't rush.
Survivors never do.
The sun bled toward dusk, sky cracking with faint crimson against the ash-grey clouds. I made camp near a low ridge, shielded by slagglass formations warped from forgotten fires.
I shared what little scraps I could with Agro, brushing soot from his mane, eyes drifting to the world sprawled beyond the treetops—the faint glow of distant cities, the scar of old roads, the jagged outline of the unknown bleeding into the horizon.
Tomorrow… we moved.
I didn't sleep much that night.
The crown whispered too loud. The wind howled through the skeletal woods. But dawn still came.
Brighter this time.
Gold bleeding through the ash-veiled sky, streaking firelight across the ruined landscape. The mist curled low, burning away under thin rays of sunlight that cracked through the treeline like blades.
I stood, boots grinding through ash and gravel, Agro steady beside me—coat dull, eyes sharp, legs braced against the world.
My hand rested against his scarred neck, breath curling faint in the cold morning air.
This was it.
No more ghosts.
No more waiting.
The journey began now—not a run from the past, not a chase for salvation. A walk into something raw, something unknown. Power. Memory. Blood. Whatever the gods left behind when they burned the world.
The road ahead stretched wide.
And for the first time in longer than I could remember… I smiled.
Genuine. Thin. Scarred.
But real.
My fingers curled around the reins, the crown's weight pressing faint against my spine, the horizon gleaming in the distance—vast, dangerous, alive.
I exhaled, voice low, steady.
"The horizon is calling for us, Agro."
And we stepped forward.