The first time Aros opened his eyes, the world was made of blur and breathing.

  He didn’t know where he was, only that someone was humming, a soft, aimless tune that seemed to belong to the walls themselves. The smell of herbs hung heavy in the air: mint, ashroot, and something bitter that clung to the back of his throat. Every breath made his ribs ache. Every heartbeat seemed to echo in the deep pit of his abdomen where the pain lived.

  When his vision steadied, he saw a face above him. Sandra. Her sleeves rolled to the elbows, hair tied messily, eyes rimmed with the red of exhaustion. She noticed him stirring and leaned closer, her hand firm on his shoulder.

  “Don’t move,” she said softly. “You’ll tear the stitches.”

  Her voice was quiet but sure, and for a moment it anchored him in a place that felt halfway between waking and a dream.

  Aros blinked slowly, tried to speak, but what came out was a rasp.

  “How… long?”

  “Six days,” Sandra said, brushing a damp cloth across his forehead. “You lost a lot of blood. You’re lucky it didn’t get worse.”

  He tried to lift his head; the pain struck like fire: sharp, immediate, unbearable. It was as though something inside him had been replaced with molten metal. His hand shot to his abdomen, where thick bandages wrapped him tight. He could feel the pulse of his heartbeat against them, a steady throb of pain.

  Sandra pressed a hand against his chest to stop him from rising. “Rest,” she ordered. “Talk later.”

  He wanted to argue, but the effort wasn’t worth it. Her face was already drifting, his thoughts scattering into the dark. He heard her hum again, a tune without words, and then the world fell away.

  The second time he woke, the light was different: duller, cooler. Rain whispered against the canvas roof. There was another voice now, young and nervous, muttering half to itself.

  Renn.

  The boy sat by the cot, a half-eaten apple in his hand, armor unfastened and streaked with mud. When Aros stirred, Renn looked up, startled.

  “You’re alive,” he said quickly, then flushed. “I mean...of course you’re alive. Broko said you would be.”

  Aros’s lips twitched into a faint shadow of a smile. “He’s an optimist.”

  “Don’t tell him that,” Renn said. “He’ll start giving speeches.”

  The rain’s rhythm filled the silence between them. Aros tried to sit again, slower this time. The pain was still there, deep and coiled, but not as sharp. It had settled into something constant, like an ember glowing under his ribs.

  “How’s the others?” he managed.

  Renn hesitated, eyes flicking to the ground. “Holding together. Talon says we’ll move again soon. We… we didn’t think you’d wake so fast.”

  Aros nodded faintly, not sure he had. His throat was dry. His hand trembled as he reached for the water beside the cot, but Renn helped him steady it.

  “You scared the hell out of us, sir.”

  Aros took a sip and let the coolness burn down his throat. “Not the first time.”

  Renn gave a weak grin. “Try not to make it a habit.”

  Aros closed his eyes again. The rain became part of his breathing, and the world dissolved into gray.

  When he woke the third time, the thunder had moved on, leaving the camp heavy and damp. The smell of blood, mud, and smoke hung over everything. The pain greeted him immediately, the kind that had no edges, no mercy. Every inhale scraped against it; every exhale reminded him he was still alive.

  He turned his head slightly and saw Talon sitting by him, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on something distant.

  “You picked a good time to wake up,” Talon said without looking up. “We were starting to plan your funeral.”

  Aros’s voice was a whisper. “I would’ve skipped it.”

  Talon gave a short laugh. “You’ll be fine. The blade missed what it needed to miss. It’s a miracle, they say.”

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  Aros shifted, grimacing. “Miracles don’t stab back.”

  “True,” Talon said, finally turning toward him. “But sometimes they bleed. You’re proof enough.”

  He stood, brushing off his knees. His expression softened for the briefest moment. “You did well, Aros. We all got out because of you. Now rest. You’ve earned at least that.”

  As Talon left, the flap of the tent swayed with the wind. Aros tried to breathe deep, but the air caught halfway through his lungs. His stomach throbbed violently, the memory of steel still burning in him. He pressed his hand against the bandages and felt warmth spreading under his palm, fresh blood seeping through. The pain spiked again, hot and merciless, and he had to bite down hard to keep from crying out.

  He fell back against the pillow, his skin clammy, his heartbeat wild in his ears. And then, mercifully, the darkness came.

  The fourth awakening came with the taste of iron and smoke. The tent was quieter now, emptier. He could hear the wind outside brushing the grass, and the distant clatter of soldiers training.

  The pain had changed again: it no longer screamed. It ached. It lingered like an echo that refused to fade.

  Broko was there this time, sitting backwards on a chair, arms crossed over the backrest, knife in hand, whittling a stick.

  “Well, look who’s finally decided to stop dying,” Broko said. “You had us worried, Kingslayer.”

  Aros blinked blearily. “You sound disappointed.”

  “Nah,” Broko said, shrugging. “You’re more fun alive. Dead men don’t argue back.”

  He grinned, and for a moment the camp didn’t feel so heavy. Broko leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded arms. “You scared us, you know. Sandra said if you didn’t wake soon, she’d start yelling prayers to the Light. I told her that’d kill you faster.”

  Aros managed a weak smile. “She’s the one keeping me stitched together?”

  “Her and Talon. Mostly her. He just yells at everyone else to give her space.”

  Silence settled for a while. Broko worked at the stick, shaving thin curls of wood onto the floor. Outside, the wind rattled the tent ropes.

  “What day is it?” Aros asked.

  “Day?” Broko looked up, scratching his chin. “Let’s see… ten since Sbelto. Maybe eleven. Hard to tell anymore.”

  Aros’s stomach twisted, not just from the wound. “Gemma?”

  Broko’s expression shifted. The humor faded, replaced by something quieter. “She’s fine,” he said after a pause. “She got out of that mess thanks to you. You took the blade for her, remember?”

  The memory came back in flashes, Gemma’s pale face, the chaos, the scream, the heat in his side. He swallowed hard. “She’s alright?”

  “She was,” Broko said slowly. “Last anyone saw her.”

  Aros frowned. “What does that mean?”

  Broko exhaled, setting down the knife. “You’ve been out cold. Things moved fast after the fight. We got word from some of Alexander’s men, extra support from the east. Talon took them to Hasville a week after Sbelto. Thought he could keep momentum, hit the Custodians before they regrouped.”

  He hesitated. “Didn’t go well.”

  Aros stared. “How bad?”

  “Bad,” Broko said. “Ambush on the way back. Custodians, Hollows, maybe thirty of them. Lost a dozen men before we could break through. Half of them were recruits.”

  The words hit harder than any wound. Aros closed his eyes, the ache in his chest tightening. “Who’s left?”

  “Enough,” Broko said quietly. “But not enough to fight again soon. They’re tired, Aros. We all are.”

  Aros forced himself to sit up, gritting his teeth through the pain. The movement tore at his abdomen, but he needed to feel the ground beneath him again. “You shouldn’t be the one leading them.”

  Broko gave a half-smile. “Believe me, I agree. But someone had to fill the silence. Talon’s been managing the outer defenses; I’ve been pretending I know what I’m doing.”

  “You did fine,” Aros said.

  Broko’s grin faltered. “Don’t lie to me, Kingslayer. I’m good with a blade, not with plans. We need you back.”

  Aros’s breathing slowed. He felt the old soldier’s guilt creeping back in, the kind that never left him, the kind that whispered you should have died instead.

  He stared at his hands, the veins pale against the bandages, and asked softly, “And Gemma? Why hasn’t she come?”

  Broko’s eyes shifted away. “Because she’s gone.”

  Aros froze. “Gone where?”

  “We don’t know,” Broko said. “A month now. We’ve searched as far as the river paths. No tracks, no letters, nothing. Talon thinks she’s hiding, maybe frightened. Candriela’s been missing too.”

  He looked at Aros with the same weary sadness soldiers get when they’ve run out of explanations. “It’s like the forest swallowed them both.”

  The tent was silent except for the wind sighing through the seams.

  Aros leaned back slowly, his body trembling with exhaustion and disbelief. “Candriela and Gemma… both?”

  Broko nodded. “Yeah, not together, but both are gone.”

  Aros tried to speak, but no sound came. The thought of Gemma, of her laughter, her frustration, her stubbornness, being gone carved something open inside him.

  He looked down at the scars beneath the bandage, at the wound that had nearly killed him, and felt the hollow space where everything that mattered had slipped away.

  Broko stood, stretching. “Don’t do that to yourself,” he said. “You’ll break before you’re healed.”

  Aros managed to lift his head. “I should’ve protected her.”

  “You did,” Broko said. “You’re just not done yet.”

  He picked up his knife again, sliding it into his belt. “Rest, Aros. Talon’s going to want you up soon. We need you. The camp’s slipping.”

  Broko moved toward the tent flap but stopped before stepping out. “She’ll come back,” he said without turning. “That girl… she’s too damn stubborn not to.”

  The flap fell closed behind him.

  Aros lay there, staring at the faint light creeping through the canvas, the flicker of the campfire outside shaping shadows on the walls.

  He let his hand drift to his abdomen. The pain was steady now, deep and alive, a reminder of what he still carried. He thought of Gemma’s voice, her determination, the way she always wanted to mean something. He thought of Candriela’s quiet grief. Of the faces they’d lost in Hasville. Of Lexordo’s promised aid.

  And then, for the first time in many days, he forced himself upright, wincing but refusing to stop.

  Outside, he could hear Talon barking orders, the clang of steel, the murmur of rebuilding. The rebellion was still breathing, but just barely.

  Aros touched the edge of the tent flap, staring at the gray dawn beyond it. His hand trembled from weakness, but he steadied it.

  “I’ll find them,” he whispered.