Merlin drew his blade, hands slick with blood and sweat.
A head peeked over the ridge.
For half a second, he thought maybe, just maybe—
Then the figure's face peeled open down the middle. Not skin. Not muscle. Just rot. Teeth like pebbles. Eyes that weren't eyes.
Blade sank halfway through its throat.
He fell backward, gasping, shaking.
So was the clearing behind it.
Just broken branches and blood soaking into the moss.
He just lay there. Staring at the sky. Not night. Not day. Just red. Always red.
Even the quiet girl. The one who made tea in the corner.
And he was still breathing.
The system flickered.
[The First Lawkeeper is silent.]
[The Smiling Witness says: "Keep watching."]
[Memory Progress: 68%]
And when he opened them again, the sky hadn't changed.
He was the only one left.
And he still had to keep moving.
He didn't last the night.
The ankle wasn't broken, but it might as well have been. Every step sent a fresh shock of nausea crawling up his spine. He tried tying it with strips of his sleeve. That worked for an hour. Then the pain came back.
The monsters didn't chase him.
That almost made it worse.
They'd gotten what they came for. The ones who screamed. The ones who didn't run fast enough. The ones who made noise.
Now he was just a leftover.
He stumbled through the woods. No direction. No light. His breath felt too loud. His heart thudded like a drum someone forgot to muffle.
'They're still out there.'
He didn't think he was bleeding anymore, but it was hard to tell where the dried blood ended and the dirt began. His shirt was stiff. His palms were raw. His boots were full of mud.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because it felt too loud.
The ridge ended at a cliff. Not high. Maybe ten feet. But steep. Craggy.
The forest stretched below like a wound. Torn trees. Broken paths. What had once been a trail was now just churned soil and blood. So much blood.
He leaned back. Closed his eyes.
A twig snapped behind him.
"You're the last one?"
Plain. Male. Young. Just… normal. Like someone talking at the end of a long shift.
Merlin opened his eyes.
Two figures stood above him. Not masked. Not monsters. Just men.
One had a sword. Still sheathed. The other had a bow, unstrung, resting across his shoulders.
The one with the sword looked him over. "You're not bleeding much. Lucky."
Merlin didn't say anything.
The other one stepped forward. "Then get up."
Merlin stood. Slowly.
No struggle. Just quiet compliance.
He wasn't afraid of them.
They didn't tie him. Didn't shove him. Just walked ahead, assuming he'd come.
The camp wasn't far. Hidden between two slopes. Lit by green torches, the kind that smelled like old oil and sulfur. A handful of tents. A pit fire. Weapons stacked against a tree.
He counted twelve people before they stopped walking.
"You were with the Westward group?" the sword one asked.
Merlin looked at him. His mouth moved before he thought about it.
The man nodded like that was expected.
The man didn't blink. "Of course it is."
They led him to a tent. Empty. Cold. Just a mat on the floor and a chain loop in the ground.
The sword man dropped a water skin in front of him.
"Don't try to run. If you do, we'll know. If you fight, you'll die."
Merlin didn't answer.
The water was stale, sour, but it didn't burn. He downed half before stopping. Let his hand fall to the floor. His fingers brushed the mat.
By the ones who watched it happen.
Maybe even the ones who sent them in the first place.
He rested his head on his knees.
Tried to slow his breath.
The system flickered again.
[The Crownless Mother is quiet.]
[The Devourer whispers: "Let him feel it."]
[Memory Progress: 73%]
He sat there a long time.
Then the tent flap opened again.
A new man stepped in. Older. Hard eyes. Rank stitched into his collar. Two black pins. One silver. His boots didn't carry dirt.
"Rethan Everhart," the man said.
Merlin's head snapped up.
"You've been requested."
His voice came quiet, rough.
The officer shrugged. "Doesn't matter."
Two more guards entered. Didn't speak. One grabbed his arm. Not hard. Not gentle.
They pulled him to his feet.
Outside, the camp moved in silence. Everyone working. Everyone watching. No one smiling.
The king's tent was bigger. Black and green. Marked with a single sigil: a hand holding fire.
They pushed him inside.
It was warm. Too warm. The air smelled like incense and steel.
The man inside didn't look up right away.
Just sat at his desk, writing something.
And his eyes locked on Merlin like a weight.
The king leaned back. He wasn't old. Just… worn.
The king watched him a moment. Then said, flat:
"You're not supposed to be alive."
Merlin didn't flinch.
Then the king chuckled. Dry.
"You look like hell."
Took two steps forward.
Merlin felt it before he saw it. Pressure. Not air. Not weight. Just… intent. Like the man had reached into his chest and grabbed something soft.
"Mana," the king said. "Strong."
Merlin grit his teeth.
The king studied him.
Then said, casual, "You know what happens to those with power around here?"
Merlin didn't answer.
Then came the next line. Quiet. Final.
"Prove you're worth it, or we break you."
The king waved him off.
The guards dragged him back.
The first strike came fast.
Not from a blade, not a spell, just a fist. Broad. Callused. Unreasonably hard. It caught Merlin under the ribs and knocked the breath from him before he'd even realized someone had moved.
He buckled, gagged, hit the stone floor with a hollow slap. Dirt scraped his cheek. His vision flickered. Not from the hit. From the heat behind his eyes.
'That one broke something,' he thought, too calmly. 'Maybe a rib. Or whatever passes for one in this body.'
"On your knees," said a voice. Not yelling. Not amused. Just tired.
Merlin didn't move fast enough.
They kicked him in the back.
His shoulder clipped the wall and he dropped hard onto both elbows. Skin tore. Blood beaded. The air smelled like ash and old iron.
The man crouched. His breath was sour. He grabbed a fistful of Merlin's hair and yanked his head up.
"You're not dying today," he said. "That's the one good thing. You get to live long enough to scream."
Merlin exhaled, low. Not a groan. Just something to prove to himself he still could.
'This body's young. But it doesn't bounce. I feel every nerve like it's waiting to betray me.'
A second man stepped into view.. Thinner. Laugh in his teeth. Knife in his hand.
Merlin didn't answer.
He wasn't sure if he could.
"Name," the man repeated, quieter.
Another hit. Flat palm across the face, but fast, practiced. Blood spattered sideways from his lip. Merlin's head hit the floor.
Something sharp jabbed his ankle. The chain there hissed with metal friction.
The first man pulled him up again.
"Don't know how many your side sent. Don't care. You'll tell us who's left."
The knife slid under Merlin's collarbone. Just enough to break skin. It wasn't about hurting. It was about proving they could.
Merlin blinked slowly.
'I've been through this,' he told himself. 'Not me-me. The person whose life this is. Rethan. They called him that, didn't they?'
The pain still hit like it was his.
They dragged him to the center of the cell. Sat him on his knees. Let his arms hang loose.
The third man entered next. Cleaner. No blood on his shirt. Gold chain tucked into a vest like he'd dressed for dinner. His eyes were bored. Pale blue. Not cruel, just empty.
He crouched next to Merlin.
"Tell me," he said, soft. "How long do you think before I stop asking nicely?"
Merlin looked at him.
"Guess we're already there."
The man smiled. "I do like the brave ones."
The pain came fast after that.
Knuckles. Boot heels. Burning metal.
He didn't have breath for it.
He stopped counting how many times he hit the floor.
The ceiling spun in too many directions.
The system pulsed faintly.
[The Smiling Witness tilts their head.]
[The Devourer is watching closely.]
'I'm not supposed to survive this part,' he thought. 'No wonder the memory ends soon.'