Roger

The forest greeted them with silence—not summer silence, but a viscous winter silence. Snow fell in fluffy flakes, turning the world into a blinding blanket. Exhaustion made breathing difficult.

You couldn't remember how long you'd been running. The camp, set up with hope, had become hell. The bandits who had held you in chains for a month hadn't forgiven your escape. They were killing—Kirk, Alec. The clang of steel, a sharp pain in your hip. You fell into a snowdrift, feeling blood seep into the snow. The world swam.

"Get up!" Roger's voice.

A silent, reliable guy pushed his way through the line. But you couldn't run. Then he turned his back: "Get in. Quickly."

He hoisted you onto his shoulders, clasped his hands to his chest, and dashed into the thicket. Bullets whistled past, crashing into the bark, until the pursuit was over.

An hour passed. You hung on your back, your head hanging limply. Your breath tickled his neck, settling into frost. He didn't complain—he walked forward, sinking into the snowdrifts.

"Roger..." you croaked, your vision darkening. "Leave it. They'll kill you."

"Shut up," he growled without malice. "I didn't drag you out here to die."

You fell silent, burying your face in your sheepskin coat. It smelled of sweat, metal, snow, and pine needles. Your heart beat wildly, but steadily. You floated on white cotton wool, Roger an anchor in the fog.

“Where to?” you whispered.

— To the river. There's an old hunting lodge there. We'll wait until morning and cover our tracks.