When I woke up, I didn't know where I was.
The roof above me was made of stitched hides, rough and uneven, letting in a light through one loose flap. It was cramped. I couldn't sit up without hitting my head. So I stayed curled, breathing shallow. Everything hurt, but not in the sharp way it had yesterday. More like my whole body had turned to bruises.
My cheek was pressed against something soft and warm. I shifted and realized it was fur. A deer's, maybe. Laid out like a bed. It smelled of smoke and meat and something else—earthy, wet. Not rot. Just the kind of smell that came after rain. My fingers twitched and brushed against something stiff and folded beside me. A note.
It had black ink on it. The lines were clear, unbroken. Someone had taken time writing it. But the words meant nothing. Just strange shapes. Fancy ones. I held it for a while anyway, then crumpled it in my fist and pushed myself up.
The air outside was cold when I crawled out. My hands sank into soft soil. The firepit nearby was nothing but grey ash and a few blackened chunks of wood. I looked around slowly, waiting to hear someone shout at me or see someone return from the trees.
No one came.
There were no voices, no footsteps. The camp was empty.
It hadn't looked like much to begin with. Just three or four small tents made from stitched hides like the one I woke in, all packed tight beneath a cover of trees. Now, even the tents were gone—except mine. Rolled-up spots in the dirt showed where the others had been. They hadn't run. They'd packed everything.
Everything except me.
My clothes were hanging nearby, spread over a tree branch. Still damp. Cleaner than they were, but still stained and torn. A strip of twine tied the sleeves to keep them from slipping off. Below the clothes, resting on a flat rock, was my knife. Dull and short. I picked it up and turned it in my fingers.
Tied next to it was a hard strip of meat. Dried. My stomach growled just smelling it. I hadn't eaten since the day before the ambush.
A leather flask lay nearby. I shook it gently. Water sloshed inside. Not much, but enough.
I looked around again. Still no one.
Why would someone do this? Who helps a stranger, gives them food, water, leaves behind shelter?
I crouched, chewing the meat slowly. It hurt to bite. My lips were cracked. My mouth dry. But it was food. I swallowed it piece by piece, small enough not to choke.
A satchel hung from another branch. I hadn't noticed it before. Rough leather and thick straps. Inside was the small hide shelter I'd just crawled from. Folded tight, with twine and a bit of bone to keep it closed. Next to it was the fur I'd slept on. And a few other things—a piece of flint, a worn cloth, a pouch with crushed herbs I didn't recognize.
No one does this unless they want something. But they were gone. Left without taking anything from me. No words. No warning.
Maybe they were saints.
Maybe they were mad.
Maybe they saw me and thought I was already too broken to be worth stealing from.
I dressed slowly. The shirt clung to my back, still wet in places. The trousers sagged at the knees. My belt was loose. I tied everything down as best I could and slipped the knife back into its place. The flask hung at my side. I put the meat and the shelter into the satchel and threw it over my shoulder.
I stood there for a long time, listening to the woods.
Still nothing.
South was death. Screams. Steel and fire. I didn't care what was north. It had to be better. So I went.
The swamp thinned the farther I walked. The ground was more solid, though my boots were still soaked through. Every step was slow. I didn't have the strength to move fast. My breath came shallow. My legs burned with each step. My shoulder throbbed where I'd landed yesterday.
There was no road, not yet. Just faint trails—places where boots or hooves had crushed the undergrowth. I followed the widest one, unsure if it led anywhere.
A crow called overhead. I flinched.
The sky was turning. Not quite blue. Just less grey. The kind of light that makes you feel tired even when you've just woken up.
I walked until my knees almost buckled, then leaned against a tree. Ate another bite of meat. Drank again.
Kept going.
Eventually the trail opened up into a path. Not much of one, just ruts where wagons had rolled through long ago. Mud had dried in strange patterns. I stepped in one of the grooves and followed it northeast.
It was the only thing in front of me.
I passed a broken wheel, split and leaning against a dead tree. I saw a bit of rope still tied to a branch where someone must've hung something. A torn banner maybe, long gone now. No colors left behind.
The air stank of wet mold and something like iron.
Bug bites itched along my arms. My cheek was swollen where one had gotten me while I slept. I scratched until the skin peeled. Blood dotted my sleeve.
By the time the sun dipped low again, I was dragging my feet.
Then I saw it.
Just over a slight rise, the trees broke. Ahead of me, up a bend in the road, stood sharpened wooden walls—palisades. Tall, thick logs sharpened at the top, set side by side in a wide ring. A moat surrounded it, shallow, but enough to keep someone from charging in easy. The water inside was dark, filled with floating leaves and muck.
Smoke curled up behind the walls. The smell of cooking meat made my head spin.
A wooden gate stood at the front, closed, but not locked. Two men stood beside it, leaning on spears. I couldn't make out their faces from this far. I didn't move closer. Not yet.
Behind the walls, I saw rooftops. Thin and steep, made of thatch and old shingles. Maybe twenty, maybe more. Small homes packed close together. Not a grand place. Not some lord's seat. Just a town.
A quiet one.
I stopped on the trail, just before the gate came into full view. My fingers tightened on the strap of my pack. My lips moved, but no sound came out.
I didn't know what I would say.
I didn't know if they would even let me in.
I only knew I couldn't go back.