I stare. I touch nothing. I drink in this moment like I’ve been starving, like it might be my last taste of peace.
The spear lies across my thighs. The Spiritslayer’s shaft, once solid with light and purpose, now pulses weakly—like a heart with exhaustion. In my grip it trembles. Its magic bleeds through this land. I can feel the tether to the Veil loosening. Every hour here, every confrontation, every stride through corrupted land… I fear what will happen if I lose it completely.
My mission demands sacrifice. I promised vengeance. I promised justice. But this—her—is tearing at those vows. Because to go back, to leave her behind… my oath would feel hollow. My home would cost me everything I love.
I exhale, a low rumble. The cabin creaks. Olivia flinches in her sleep. I shift, careful not to wake her.
Dawn breaks with gray skies. I rise, boots pressing into cold floorboards, soft boards creaking beneath my weight. I take the spear, sling it over my shoulder, and step outside. The forest waits, damp with dew, wings and leaves dripping, the air tight with possibility and fear.
“Olivia,” I whisper, stepping back inside. She’s sitting up in bed, eyes hooded with sleep and questions.
“Going out?” she asks, voice husky.
“I must.” My voice is solemn. “The Rot spreads. The land bleeds in more places now.”
She swings her legs out, pulling herself up with quiet strength. “Teach me,” she says.
“Teach you?” I echo, surprised.
“Yes.” She rubs the sleep from her cheeks. “If the worst happens, if you can’t return, I need to know how to protect myself. How to fight. Maybe even help finish this—whatever this is.”
I pause. Her gaze meets mine, steady and vulnerable. Her request is more than practicality—it’s trust. Sacrifice. Something intimate.
“You want this?” I ask.
“I… yes,” she says, swallowing. “I want you to stay. But I want a chance—not just to survive, but to stand.”
So I do.
We move into the woods, scent of moss and damp bark strong in my nostrils. Early light through laced branches, dew like millions of tiny stars upon ferns. My feet crunch on fallen leaves and brittle twigs. Olivia beside me, breathing in and out, trying to mimic the old ways.
I teach her stances. The grip. How to hold the spear—not heavy, not timid, but alive. How to place her feet, rooted in earth, shoulder width, grounded as a tree. I demonstrate a thrust, then a parry. My voice rough with exertion, calling theold orc battle chants beneath my lips—low drone, rising cadence, rhythm in my muscles.
She listens. Tries. Fumbles. Her first thrust wobbles. She stumbles. I catch her elbow, steadying. She catches her breath, cheeks pink.
“Again,” I say. “Slow. Feel the weight. Let the spear become part of you.”
Her eyes blaze with determination. “Like you taught me.”
We practice until sweat bead at our brow, until her muscles burn, until the dawn sky is pale and the forest is humming with birds waking up.
Later, back at the cabin, I return with limbs aching, hands smelling of earth and metal. Olivia is waiting at the door, towel wrapped around her, hair wet, curious light in her eyes.
She watches me set the spear down, pulse of magic fading, but still there. I stay quiet.
She steps forward. Places her hand on the spear. “You did good,” she says. “I did good.”
I nod. Touch her wrist. “You are strong.”
“Stronger than I thought I could be.”
Her words land like soft rain.
For a moment I imagine staying. Not going back. Not fulfilling the old vow. Just staying. Building something here—something fragile but ours.
But then the spear pulses in my hand, weak, quivering. I remember the brother. The promise. The smell of red snow. The weight of my home on my shoulders.
Duty calls.
