The sun rose pale and reluctant beyond the ruined farmhouse. Its light crept across the dead assassins outside, gilding their blood with a false warmth.
Ruvan sat by the cold hearth, knees drawn up to his chest, Solrend resting across his lap. The blade felt heavier this morning, as if it too bore the weight of what had almost happened.
He watched Kellan and Elion silently. The healer had fallen into a fitful sleep before dawn, his staff cradled in his arms, golden embers still pulsing faintly within its rune-etched wood. Kellan sat propped against the doorframe, chin resting on his chest, sword laid across his thighs. Even in sleep, his grip on the hilt was tight.
Ruvan's eyes burned with exhaustion. His body ached from yesterday's sparring, and his shoulder throbbed where the assassin had kicked him down. But worse than any of that was the cold, festering pit in his chest.
Because he'd almost run.
When the killers closed in last night, every fibre of him had screamed to flee – to vanish into the forest, to survive alone. It was instinct, primal and overwhelming. Even now, in the dawn's thin light, he could feel that pull deep in his bones.
Leave them behind, it whispered. You are not strong enough to protect them. You'll only get them killed.
He shut his eyes and clenched his fists around Solrend's grip until the cracked leather bit into his skin.
Echoes of Shame
Images from the village burned through him – his master pinned under flaming beams, the little girl's screams as rubble crushed her chest. His cowardice that night felt the same as now: heavy, choking, shameful.
He pressed his forehead to the sword's cold edge, breathing shakily. The prophecy haunted him:
The blade that saves is the blade that devours.
What did it matter if he lived, if everyone who tried to help him died in his wake?
A quiet rustling broke his thoughts. Kellan stirred, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He glanced at Ruvan and gave a small, tired smile.
"You're awake," he said hoarsely. "Good. Was starting to worry you'd died sitting up."
Ruvan tried to smile back but his lips wouldn't move. Kellan's smile faded as he studied him closer.
"Nightmares?" he asked.
Ruvan shook his head. "No. Just… thoughts."
Kellan stretched, joints cracking. He stood and walked over, sitting down cross-legged in front of Ruvan. For a moment, neither spoke. Dust motes drifted between them, catching the morning light like falling ash.
Finally, Kellan said softly, "You thought of running last night."
It wasn't a question. Ruvan flinched as if struck.
"I… I thought if I left, they'd follow me. You and Elion would be safe."
"Maybe," Kellan said. "Or maybe they'd have slit our throats while we slept and chased you after. You can't know."
Ruvan swallowed hard. "It doesn't matter. I thought it anyway. I wanted to. That makes me a coward."
Kellan tilted his head, studying him with eyes that were far older than his boyish grin suggested.
"Wanting to run doesn't make you a coward," he said quietly. "Running does."
The Weight of Choice
Elion stirred behind them, waking with a soft groan. He sat up slowly, blinking sleep from his eyes. His golden hair fell in tangled strands around his narrow face. Despite his exhaustion, there was calm strength in his gaze as he looked at Ruvan.
"I heard what you said," he murmured. "That you're a coward."
Ruvan's shoulders hunched. Elion reached out and placed a warm hand on his arm.
"Do you think courage means never feeling fear?" Elion asked. "It doesn't. Courage means acting despite your fear. You stayed. You fought. That is courage."
Ruvan shook his head, tears burning his eyes. "I stayed because I froze. If I'd moved, I would have run."
"Then freeze again next time," Kellan said with a faint smirk. "Worked out fine for us."
Ruvan let out a choked laugh despite himself. Elion squeezed his arm gently before withdrawing his hand.
"You are not bound to be what you were yesterday," the healer said. "If you regret almost running, then choose differently next time. That is all any of us can do."
The Ashen Resolve
They buried the assassins behind the farmhouse, marking their graves with unmarked stones. Ruvan wondered if they deserved it. Murderers sent to kill him in the dark… yet they had once been boys like him. Had once learned to walk, to speak, to dream.
Now they were nothing but silent corpses rotting under the morning sun.
As they packed their gear, Ruvan paused by the graves. Kellan and Elion were already by the horses, checking saddlebags and tack. Ruvan knelt, pressing a hand to the disturbed earth.
"I don't know your names," he whispered. "But I will remember your deaths. I won't waste them."
The wind rustled the grass in response, carrying the scent of dew and old blood.
He rose and walked to his companions.
Onward with Heavy Steps
They set out westward, avoiding the main roads. Kellan rode ahead, eyes scanning the horizon, one hand never far from his sword. Elion rode beside Ruvan, his staff strapped across his back, faint glimmers of golden magic swirling around his fingers as he whispered quiet prayers to the Lightfather.
Ruvan rode silently, Solrend sheathed across his back. The blade pulsed faintly, in rhythm with his heartbeat. It felt like a living thing, aware of his turmoil, feeding on it.
At midday they paused under a broad oak. Kellan tossed Ruvan a strip of dried venison. He chewed it without tasting, staring at the dappled sunlight on the forest floor.
"Why did you take up the sword, Ruvan?" Kellan asked suddenly.
Ruvan blinked at him. "I… didn't. It was just there. I picked it up."
"Not what I meant," Kellan said. He wiped sweat from his brow and leaned back against the tree trunk. "You could have run from the shrine, left it behind. But you took it. Why?"
Ruvan was silent for a long time. Then he whispered,
"Because if I didn't, I'd still be running. From everything. From myself."
Kellan smiled, not his usual smirk but something small and genuine. "Good answer."
Distant Smoke
They rode until the sun dipped low, painting the sky in bruised purples and sullen reds. Ruvan's thoughts circled endlessly – about the assassins, about his shame, about the quiet pride in Elion's eyes and the approval in Kellan's faint smile.
He thought of his village, of his master's forge burning, of the little girl trapped beneath the rubble.
I ran from them. I almost ran from these two. If I keep running, I'll never stop.
That night, as they made camp in the shelter of an ancient stone bridge, Ruvan stood alone by the riverbank. The moonlight turned the water to liquid silver. He drew Solrend and studied its broken edge. The blade pulsed softly in his grip.
"I don't know what you are," he whispered to it. "I don't know why you chose me. But if you did… then you're stuck with me. Because I will not abandon them."
The blade thrummed in his hand, silent and cold.
The Oath of Ash
He raised it before him, letting the moonlight catch its chipped surface.
"I swear," he said, voice shaking with the force of his words. "I will not run. Even if it kills me. Even if it damns me. I will not run from them."
The river whispered against the stones. The trees stirred overhead. And in the depths of his soul, Ruvan felt something shift – a door unlocking, a chain falling away, a faint warmth blooming in the hollow of his chest where shame had lived.
He sheathed Solrend and turned back toward the fire. Elion sat reading by its glow, while Kellan roasted thin slivers of rabbit over the flames.
"Welcome back," Kellan said lightly. "Took you long enough to piss."
Ruvan snorted and sat down beside him. Elion glanced up, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"You seem lighter," the healer observed.
Ruvan nodded. "I made a choice."
"Good," Kellan said, handing him a skewer of sizzling meat. "Because tomorrow, you're back to sword drills. No running allowed."
Ruvan accepted the food, feeling the warmth of the fire seep into his bones. For the first time in days, the knot in his chest eased.
No running allowed, he thought.
And for the first time, he felt ready to live by it.