Ronan managed to crawl out of the cave, each movement excruciating. He dragged himself until the hard stone ground gave way to soft grass beneath his fingers.
He collapsed, the spear still impaled in his chest.
His body couldn't take any more. The pain finally silenced everything. His eyes fluttered shut. But just then he heard distant voices.
"Is that a human being?" a man's voice asked, shaken and uncertain.
"I think it is!" a woman replied, her tone filled with panic.
The voices were muffled—like echoes underwater. Footsteps approached. Through half-lidded eyes, Ronan saw the blurry forms of a man and a woman hovering over him.
"Gods… he's alive!" the man muttered in disbelief. "How the hell is he still breathing? And who could've done this to him?"
"It doesn't matter," the woman said quickly, tugging at his arm. "This isn't our concern. We need to leave—now."
"You're not suggesting we just leave him to die?" the man snapped, looking from her to the terribly wounded man on the ground.
"From the looks of it, he'll be dead soon anyway. Don't make this our problem," she said, pulling at his shirt again, desperate to flee.
"Have a conscience, Lucy." The man—Victor—knelt beside Ronan. "Help me lift him. The village isn't far."
Lucy glared at him like he'd lost his mind.
"You're impossible. And what exactly are we going to tell the villagers when they see us carrying a half-dead man with a spear sticking out of his chest? Not to mention what they'll say when they see us together. You'll be more dead than him once my father finds out."
Lucy's father was the head of the village While Victor was the son of a poor baker. They'd been sneaking out here for months, hiding their affair. Helping a stranger in this condition would draw too much attention—and possibly destroy both their lives.
"But we can't just leave him," Victor pleaded, eyes locked on Ronan's dirt-covered, barely breathing form.
"Well, I can," Lucy snapped, spinning around and running off into the woods.
"Lucy!" Victor called after her, but she didn't look back.
He groaned, torn between chasing her and helping the dying man before him.
He looked down at Ronan again—bloodied and covered with dirt but still breathing.
Victor cursed under his breath.
And made his decision.
He grunted under Ronan's weight as he threw the man's arm around his shoulders. Ronan's body sagged heavily against him, dead weight, like carrying a soaked sack of grain—except this one bled and moaned. Every step was a battle.
"You better not die on me," Victor muttered, teeth clenched. "Not after all this."
He took slow, staggering steps, his boots slipping in the dew-damp grass. The spear jutted from Ronan's chest, brushing against Victor's side with every movement. Blood had soaked through both their clothes, and the metallic scent made Victor gag more than once. Still, he pushed on.
The village wasn't far—but with a nearly dead man in his arms, it felt like a journey across kingdoms.
Victor stumbled again, knees hitting the dirt, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
When the first glow of firelight peeked over the trees, he almost cried in relief.
The village was alive tonight. A gathering, it seemed, around the large central bonfire. Families huddled together in cloaks, children chasing each other, old men smoking pipes and arguing over stories. And seated proudly in his carved wooden chair—just beside the fire—was the Head of the Village, Lucy's father, Marlo.
Victor emerged from the darkness like a ghost.
The laughter stopped.
Mouths opened.
Eyes widened.
Gasps rippled through the crowd like a wave as they saw him—Victor, the poor baker's son, dragging a bloodied man whose chest bore a massive, grotesque spear.
"What in the—?"
"Gods above—look at that!"
"Is that… a man?!"
Two of the village men broke from the crowd and rushed toward him, their expressions grim.
"Victor?" one of them barked. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"I found him—outside the woods, near the cliffs," Victor panted. "He's alive—barely. We have to help him."
"You dragged a corpse into our village?" the other snapped, disgust in his voice. "Are you insane?"
"He's not dead!"
"Oh, really? He looks one foot in the grave, if not both! And with a spear through his heart? Who survives that?"
"I'm telling you," Victor said, nearly dropping to his knees, "he groaned. He's alive. I heard him."
"Don't lie just to make yourself feel useful, baker boy," the first man growled. "No one asked you to play hero."
"I didn't do it for you," Victor shot back. "I did it because it was right!"
"Right?!" the second man scoffed. "Dragging a dying stranger with gods-know-what plague into the heart of our village? You could've doomed us all."
"Take him back where you found him," the first man said coldly, "and hope your madness didn't bring a curse on our heads."
"I won't!" Victor shouted, voice breaking. "I won't leave him to die!"
Another groan left Ronan's lips, soft but unmistakable.
Everyone froze.
Heads turned. Eyes narrowed. Even the skeptical men stiffened.
Victor looked up, breathing hard. "You heard it. He's alive."
A silence settled.
Then Marlo, the head of the village rose from his chair slowly, staff in hand, his weathered face shadowed by the firelight.
"Move," he said to the men. His voice was commanding.
They parted, and Marlo stepped forward, robes brushing the earth as he approached Victor and the dying man. His stern eyes dropped to Ronan's face, coated in sweat and blood. He studied the wound. His face, the shape of his jaw. His hair.
And then—
Marlo staggered back.
"No…" he whispered, the color draining from his face. "It can't be."
The villagers leaned closer, trying to hear.
"He is the King," Marlo breathed.
Gasps erupted again—but louder now. A woman screamed. Children clutched their mothers. Even the men who had insulted Victor paled.
Victor blinked in disbelief. "The… King?"
Marlo dropped to one knee beside Ronan, eyes wide with reverence. "This is Ronan Dain. The King of the Seven Kingdoms."
"He's alive?"
Victor looked down at the man he'd nearly left in the grass.
"I saved the King?" he whispered to himself.
One of the men who had mocked him moments ago stepped back in horror. "Gods… Victor. You—you brought the King into our village."
Another stammered, "W-we told him to take the body back…"
Shame washed over their faces.
For once, the village was silent—not because Victor had nothing to say, but because everyone was looking at him differently. Not like the poor baker's boy. Not like the fool in love with the headman's daughter.
They looked at him like a man who had just altered the course of history.