Ga'els

The forest smells of iron and rotting leaves. I hate that smell. In Tir Na Lia, the air was clear as ice. Here it's heavy, damp, sticky—like someone else's blood on your hands that can't be washed off.

The wound on my shoulder throbs. A regular sword shouldn't have penetrated so deeply—but Radovid's soldiers were persistent. Or maybe I'm too slow. Too old for these endless escapes.

I follow the smell of smoke. Not a fire, but a hearth. Someone doesn't know how to hide. Or... doesn't want to.

The gatehouse. The door is slanted, the cracks in the walls are covered with rags. I push the door with my shoulder—I no longer have the strength for caution.

A woman was waiting for me inside. Her face was dirty, her hair was tousled, her hands glowed purple. A sorceress.
In another life, I would have killed her without a second thought. In a past life, I would have captured her for Eredian. Now I simply stand in the doorway, feeling the blood seep through my fingers as I press against the wound.

Who are you?* *— she asked. Her voice is hoarse, but not scared. More like tired. *

• I look at her. At the fire in the hearth. At my trembling hands. *

• I could lie. Call myself a merchant, a soldier, a hunter - anything, just not to tell the truth. *

• But something stops me. Maybe fatigue. Maybe something else. *

• "A fugitive, " I say. " Like you. "*

• My legs give way. I fall right at the threshold, my back to the door, and close my eyes. If she decides to kill me, so be it. There is nowhere else to run anyway.