The spear came first.
Julian barely had time to move before the armored rider thundered through the trees, the weapon's steel tip gleaming in the torchlight. He threw himself sideways on instinct, crashing into the mud as the spear tore through the space where his chest had been.
The rider wheeled his horse around in a spray of wet dirt, the beast snorting, its eyes wild and red in the glow of fire.
Julian scrambled to his feet, mud clinging to his clothes, his lungs burning. His heart slammed like a drum, a wild, erratic rhythm that drowned out thought. His body was alive, but every instinct screamed that it would not be for long.
The soldier lowered his spear again. Behind him, more shapes emerged from the treeline—torches bobbing, the glint of metal, the guttural shouts of men closing in.
Julian had no weapon. No training. Nothing but raw, animal desperation.
The rider charged.
Julian ran.
He tore through the underbrush, branches whipping his face, mud sucking at his boots. His breath came ragged, his chest screaming with each inhale. Behind him, the thunder of hooves shook the ground. The shouts grew louder.
"Seize him!"
"He's a deserter!"
"Run him through!"
Julian didn't understand their words fully—the language twisted, archaic—but the intent was clear. He was prey.
A spear hissed past his ear, embedding itself in a tree with a sickening thunk. Another rider cut through the foliage ahead, sword flashing in the firelight. Julian skidded to a stop, his feet sliding in the mud, heart leaping into his throat.
The soldier snarled, raising his blade.
Julian grabbed the nearest thing his hands found—a fallen branch, thick and jagged. His fingers clenched around it, knuckles white. He raised it clumsily, chest heaving.
The sword came down.
Julian swung.
Wood met steel in a jarring crack that rattled his bones. Sparks flew as the branch splintered, but it held enough for him to shove the blade aside. The soldier cursed, stumbling forward.
Julian didn't think. He rammed the broken branch into the man's face.
The crunch was wet, horrible. The soldier reeled, clutching his shattered nose. Blood sprayed, dark and hot. Julian gagged at the sight, but survival drove his arms further. He swung again, and again, until the branch snapped in two.
The soldier collapsed, writhing in the mud, helmet torn away. His screams were muffled by the blood gushing from his ruined face.
Julian staggered back, chest heaving. His stomach twisted violently, bile burning his throat. His hands trembled, slick with blood that wasn't his own.
He had never killed before. Never even come close. Yet here he was, standing over a man who might already be dead, the weight of it pressing into his lungs until he could hardly breathe.
The sound of hooves snapped him back.
There was no time.
He grabbed the soldier's sword with trembling hands. The blade was heavy, too heavy, but it was steel, and it was all he had.
Another rider burst through the trees. Julian barely raised the sword before the spear lunged for his chest. He twisted aside, but the tip scraped across his shoulder, tearing through flesh. Pain exploded white-hot, ripping a scream from his throat.
The soldier swung his spear again, the horse rearing high. Julian ducked low, mud splashing across his face. Blind instinct guided him—he thrust upward with the sword.
Steel tore into horseflesh.
The beast shrieked, a sound so piercing it ripped through Julian's skull. The rider toppled, crashing into the mud with a scream as the horse collapsed, thrashing in agony. Blood sprayed across Julian's hands, hot and steaming.
He stumbled back, horrified, the weight of the sword dragging his arm down. The soldier scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with fury. His spear was gone, lost in the chaos. He drew a dagger from his belt and lunged.
Julian's grip tightened. His body moved before his mind could stop it. He swung wildly.
The blade bit into flesh.
The soldier froze, mouth open in shock. The dagger slipped from his fingers as he clutched at his throat, blood gushing between his hands. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed beside his dying horse.
Julian stood trembling, chest heaving, sword dripping red. His vision blurred, his stomach lurching at the carnage around him. He wanted to vomit, to scream, to wake up from this nightmare.
But more torches blazed through the trees. More shouts. More soldiers.
They were coming.
Julian ran again, the stolen sword dragging in the mud, his body screaming with pain and exhaustion.
The forest broke open into a clearing.
Julian stumbled into it, his boots sinking into churned earth. The scene before him froze his blood.
Two armies clashed in the valley below. Thousands of men in steel and leather, banners torn and burning, the night alive with fire and death. The clash of steel rang like thunder, the screams of the dying echoing across the hills. Horses charged through ranks of spearmen. Arrows blotted out the stars. The ground was slick with blood.
Julian staggered back, heart hammering. This wasn't a skirmish. This was war.
Behind him, the riders burst from the forest, torches blazing. Their shouts carried on the wind, pointing at him, calling him prey.
Julian's legs buckled. His shoulder burned, blood seeping through his torn shirt. His lungs heaved, his vision swam.
The sword slipped in his grasp. He couldn't do this. He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't strong.
He thought of his mother. Of her scarf, soaked in blood. Of her words—you're stronger than you think.
Julian grit his teeth, dragging the sword back up. His body screamed, but his heart burned.
If the world wanted him to die here, he would not die quietly.
Not again.
He stumbled down the slope, every step jarring his injured shoulder, the stolen sword feeling heavier with each heartbeat. The riders' torches flickered at the edge of the treeline, shadows stretching long like claws reaching for him. Their shouts rose, urgent, echoing across the clearing.
Julian's boots slid in the mud as he half-ran, half-fell. The battlefield below seemed to tilt, a sea of armor and blood crashing against itself. He wasn't supposed to be here. This wasn't his world, his time—he didn't even know how he'd gotten here. The last thing he remembered before waking in this nightmare was—
No. Don't think about that now.
An arrow hissed past his ear. Another tore into the ground at his feet, splattering mud across his legs. Someone had seen him. Someone was aiming.
Julian ducked low, stumbling behind a shattered cart at the edge of the clearing. The wood reeked of pitch and blood, splinters jutting out like teeth. He pressed himself against it, gasping for air, the roar of the battle ringing in his skull.
Above the clash of steel and screams, he heard a sound that froze his blood: the long, keening note of a horn. It rose and fell, a mournful wail that rolled across the hills like thunder. The soldiers in the valley below shifted, banners turning. The horn was a signal. Orders were changing.
For a heartbeat, everything slowed. Julian peered over the cart, eyes scanning the chaos below.
On a rise at the far end of the battlefield stood a figure unlike the rest—tall, cloaked in black and crimson, their face hidden behind a helm shaped like a skull. They raised a hand, and the armies seemed to bend, to pivot like a tide at their command. Even at this distance, Julian felt the weight of that gaze sweep across the field, as if it could see him.
The figure's head tilted.
Julian ducked back down, his breath catching.
What was that?
The torches behind him flared brighter. The riders were closing in, their voices sharper now, closer. He could hear the creak of leather, the jingle of metal, the wet snorts of their horses.
He had nowhere left to run.
Julian's fingers tightened around the sword hilt until they ached. He was shaking so badly the blade quivered in his grip. He shut his eyes for a heartbeat, forcing his breath to steady. His mother's words echoed in his skull, soft but unyielding.
You're stronger than you think.
He opened his eyes.
The riders burst into the clearing, fanning out, torches casting writhing shadows across the churned earth. The man at their head—broad-shouldered, helm crowned with black feathers—drew a long blade from his side.
"There!" one of them barked. "The deserter!"
Julian stood, sword raised. His arms felt like lead, his knees like water, but he stood.
The feather-helmed leader urged his horse forward, eyes burning in the torchlight. "Drop the weapon, boy," he growled, his voice low, almost amused. "You'll live longer."
Julian's mouth was dry. His heart thundered. But his voice, when it came, was steady.
"No."
The leader chuckled, dark and low. "Then die screaming."
He raised his blade.
Julian braced himself. He didn't know how to fight. He didn't know if he'd survive even a single blow. But as the leader spurred his horse and the other riders closed in like wolves, a strange calm settled over him—cold, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks.
And then—
The horn blew again.
Louder. Sharper. Different.
Everything stopped.
The riders reined in their horses, heads turning toward the battlefield. Even the feather-helmed leader hesitated, blade hovering midair. The sound rolled over them, not just a call but a command, heavy and absolute.
From the far side of the valley, a new banner rose—black and silver, catching the firelight like a blade. The armies below shifted again, a ripple of movement spreading outward like a living thing. The skull-helmed figure raised their hand once more, and this time Julian swore he could feel it—a pressure, a weight in the air, pulling at his chest like a tide.
The riders began to back their horses, glancing at one another. Unease flickered in their eyes.
Julian lowered the sword slightly, panting. His shoulder throbbed, his blood slick on his arm. His vision swam. He didn't understand what was happening, but for the first time since the chase began, the noose around his throat loosened.
The feather-helmed leader looked back at him, eyes narrowing. "You're not worth this," he spat. "Not tonight."
He yanked his reins, turning his horse. The others followed, their torches vanishing one by one into the trees, swallowed by darkness.
Julian staggered, the sword tip sinking into the mud as his strength gave out. He watched them go, chest heaving, barely able to believe it.
The battlefield below roared on, but something was changing. The horn blew a third time. The black-and-silver banner crept closer, and closer, like a shadow spilling across the land.
Julian swayed on his feet. His shoulder burned. His head spun.
And then, at the edge of his vision, he saw her.
A girl standing on the slope just beyond him, barefoot in the mud, her dress tattered but white as bone. Her hair was dark, her eyes catching the firelight like a predator's. She said nothing. She only watched him, tilting her head the way the skull-helmed figure had.
Julian blinked.
She was gone.
His grip on the sword slackened. His knees hit the mud. The roar of the battlefield faded, replaced by a low, whispering sound he couldn't place, like distant voices speaking his name.
And then everything went black.