Chapter 6: 06 : A Soldier’s Blade

Fire-glow flickered against the inside of Will’s eyelids—warm, rhythmic—until a boot drove into his gut and turned the light red.

Pain ripped him awake. Air fled his lungs in a stunned wheeze as he curled around the blow. Another kick followed, ribs this time, snapping him open.

Garret stood over him, a drunken silhouette limned by coals. His breath steamed in the cold, sharp with sour spirits. Words slurred from his lips, half mutter, half growl.

“—ruined me… keeping you ruined everything—”

He lashed out again. Will rolled; the heel thudded into his back instead of spine. Straw and dirt grated between his teeth as he hit the ground. He tasted iron and ash.

“You want to destroy my family?” Garret punctuated the question with a boot to Will’s chest. “It ends tonight, bastard.”

Will tried to crawl, but dizziness warped distance; the campfire stretched and shrank like a bellows. He dragged himself over gritty soil, breath stuttering, head pounding. A shadow fell across him—Garret had circled.

“I should have left you to rot.” A savage kick clipped Will’s temple. White heat bloomed, then ringing silence, as though the world had dived underwater.

No wind, no crackle, only the slow pound of his own heart.

In the hush, he heard a whisper—soft, inevitable:

“Fight.”

Will blinked. Vision cleared enough to find shapes: his father looming with arrows in hand; the short sword—Garret’s soldier blade—lying abandoned near Will’s outstretched hand, moonlight sliding along its edge.

A decision older than thought snapped into place.

With a burst of raw survival he kicked at Garret’s shins—one strike, then another. The surprise staggered the larger man just enough. Will seized the hunk of sharp metal and rolled onto his back.

The point struck cloth, then flesh.

Garret froze, eyes wide, mouth forming a question that never left his lips. Heat spilled over Will’s fists—thick, wet, frighteningly warm. Garret’s breath hitched; a soft cough sprayed scarlet across Will’s cheek.

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“I saved your life,” the man whispered, voice suddenly boyish with wonder. His knees buckled. All weight collapsed onto Will, driving the blade deeper.

For a heartbeat they lay fused—father and not-son—until instinct shoved Will sideways. Garret toppled to earth, sword still housed in his stomach. Blood pooled black beneath him, hissing when it met hot stones.

Silence swallowed the clearing.

Will scrambled back, palms slipping. The world tunneled: the ruined man gasping; the small fire crackling; the night forest watching. Garret’s chest hitched once… twice… then sagged. His eyes, still open, reflected firelight like chips of glass.

Will’s own pulse hammered louder than the flames. He pressed shaking hands to the dirt, smearing blood through grit, unsure whose body it belonged to anymore.

I killed him. I killed him.

The phrase tried to rise, but shock flattened thought into blank roaring. He stared beyond the corpse, and the flickering orange lined every tree with bronze.

Then movement—quiet, deliberate—materialised at the edge of light.

A stag stepped forward.

Not merely a stag: the elder deer, larger in nearness than memory should allow. Crystalline antlers climbed toward the treetops, each tine refracting moonlight into ribbons of soft blue that danced across the blood-wet ground. Steam drifted from its nostrils with each breath, mingling with the woodsmoke.

Will could not move. His heartbeat slowed, stilled, as though the animal’s ponderous calm imposed order on chaos.

The stag gazed at the body between them. Its dark eyes reflected neither pity nor judgment—only fathomless depth, as if the creature stood apart from mortal reckonings. A low grunt rumbled through the clearing, vibrating in Will’s bones. He tasted copper and ash.

Slowly the animal dipped its head, antlers ringing faintly like distant chimes, then turned. Hooves made no sound on leaf-litter as it walked back into the forest. The glow on its rack shrank, shimmered, vanished among trees.

Cold rushed in. The moment shattered.

Will sagged to hands and knees. Blood—Garret’s blood—soaked his shirtfront, sticky as tar. He wiped at it, smearing dark streaks across his forearms. The corpse lay inches away, face slack, eyes fixed forever on some riddle he would never voice.

The fire popped. Sparks lifted in a brief, sorrowful flutter.

Will’s lungs seized. He could not keep breathing, could not stop; each inhale felt heavier until the night tilted. Darkness rimmed his sight. His hands trembled uncontrollably. Numbness crept from fingertips toward his heart, not cold but hollow.

A roar like surf filled his ears. The campfire blurred into a golden haze. He swayed, reached for something solid, found only air—and toppled beside the corpse he had made.

The earth was hard. The stars above spun lazy circles behind torn clouds. He watched them dance until the black between them grew deeper, until even the ringing in his ears slipped away.

When unconsciousness claimed him, he carried the echo of antlers made of crystal mineral, receding into shadow.