Arthur woke with his hand already on the sword.
The forest was still, damp with early mist. His cloak was heavy from dew, his shoulders sore where he had slept against stone. He pushed himself upright and listened—wind through leaves, distant birds, nothing else.
He packed without lingering. No fire pit. No marks left behind beyond flattened grass already darkening with moisture. He adjusted the straps on his pack and stepped back onto the road.
————±————±————
The weight followed him.
Each step pressed it deeper—not the pack, not the sword, but memory. The village. The graves. The boy he had pulled free from the wreckage of fear and blood. And behind all of it, the narrow forest path where three bodies had fallen and stayed down.
Arthur flexed his fingers. They still remembered the resistance. The way steel bit. The way it ended.
He did not slow.
He told himself again what he had already decided: he had done what he needed to do. He had survived. That was not the same as being clean of it.
And threaded through that heaviness was her.
Not her name—he didn't have one for that yet—but the calm she had brought with her. The way her presence had pressed against the chaos inside him and refused to be shaken loose.
He shook his head once and focused forward.
————±————±————
The forest thinned as the road climbed into open ground. Wind carried farther here, tugging at his cloak, cooling the sweat at his back. That was when he heard it—the strained creak of wood grinding against stone.
Arthur slowed.
Ahead, a cart labored up the rise, one wheel bent inward and scraping hard enough to throw sparks. A single mule pulled it, head low. Two men walked alongside, leather-clad, hands resting near their swords more out of habit than intent.
They noticed him at the same time.
The guards stiffened. Not hostile—just alert.
Arthur stopped well short of them and kept his hands visible.
The merchant lifted a hand first. "Traveler," he said. His voice carried fatigue more than caution.
Arthur inclined his head. "Your wheel's failing."
The merchant huffed a dry laugh. "You have good eyes. We're hoping it holds until the next crossing."
Arthur glanced at the guards, then back to the cart. "It won't."
One of the guards sighed under his breath. The other relaxed his grip slightly.
Arthur stepped aside, giving them the road. "I won't interfere."
"That's appreciated," the merchant said after a beat.
Arthur passed them without another word. The sound of the cart faded behind him, replaced by wind and the slow crunch of his boots against dirt.
————±————±————
By the time clouds gathered overhead, his legs had begun to ache in earnest.
Rain came shortly after—heavy enough to soak, light enough to sting. Arthur scanned the roadside and found the broken remains of an old waystation. The roof was gone, but one stone corner still stood against the wind.
He took shelter there, sword resting across his knees, back against cold stone.
This was where the weight settled.
Not all at once. It pressed down in layers—the village, the dead, the fight. The way his body had moved without hesitation when blood was on the line.
And her eyes again, watching him as if none of it disqualified him.
Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose.
"I won't turn away," he said quietly. The words were for himself.
Rain answered by drumming against the stone.
————±————±————
When the worst of it passed, Arthur stood and returned to the road. Mud clung to his boots, slowing his pace, anchoring him to each step.
The road stretched on, indifferent.
Arthur followed it anyway—heavier than before, steadier too—toward whatever waited next.
A/N: Yeah i know i know the chapters a bit short and technically nothing happened but next chapter would be good so just wait and I have just write this chapter 3 hours ago and I have just finished the laundry manually so my hands hurt a lot so sorry for the short chapter.