As Noah sprinted through the dense forest, leaves and branches slashed at him like whips, but he forced himself to keep going. His lungs burned, desperate for air, but every breath felt shallow, as if he were drowning on dry land. The cold bit at his bare torso, his soaked pants clinging uncomfortably to his skin. But he couldn’t stop. Not with them chasing him.

  He stumbled over a root, his knees buckling, and for a moment he thought that was it—his body would give out, and they’d have him. But he caught himself, one hand clawing at the rough bark of a tree, and forced himself forward. His vision blurred, and he blinked hard, trying to focus on the uneven forest floor ahead. Rocks and sticks dug into his leather boots, the thin soles made him feel every sharp edge through them.

  Behind him, the sound of boots crashing through the undergrowth grew louder. The men. He didn’t need to look back to know they were gaining. Their shouts echoed, sharp and angry, cutting through the pounding in his ears. They were close. Too close.

  Something blunt and painful slammed into his back. The force sent him flying forward, his chest hitting the ground first, the air exploding out of him. He skidded on his belly, rocks scraping his bare skin through his torso, dirt grinding into his palms. Pain flared everywhere—his ribs, his arm, his face where a twig had scratched him close to his eye. He gasped, trying to suck in air, but his lungs were as exhausted as he was.

  He lay there for a second, dazed, his cheek pressed against the cold, damp earth, tasting dirt and blood on his lips. His mind raced, sluggish but desperate.

  I can’t stay down. They’d be on me in seconds.

  Noah gritted his teeth and reached back with his good hand, wrapping his fingers around the thing, sharp pikes pricking his palm.

  The pain was so bright that his vision went white for a second. He pulled the ball off, and dropped it beside him, panting, his hand shaking as he pressed it to the ground to steady himself. His back felt like someone had taken a hammer to it—every twitch sent a jolt of pain ripping through him.

  One of the men must have thrown the spiked ball at him. Footsteps crunched closer, deliberate now, not hurried. They knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

  He couldn’t just stay like this, belly-down and helpless; he had to move, had to see what was coming. Gritting his teeth, he planted his left forearm into the ground, and pressed hard, dragging his chest up a little. His right arm dangled useless, so he leaned heavy on that left elbow, sucking in a sharp breath as his back burned with pain. No way he was letting it touch the ground—that’d be agony he couldn’t take.

  He twisted his hips slow, careful. Sweat stung his eyes, and a groan slipped out, but he kept pushing, lifting his chest higher. Finally, he got himself propped on his left elbow, sort of half-sitting, face up—his back hovering just off the dirt, trembling from the effort. He could see ahead now, panting through the pain, he saw one of the men charging toward him. The man had a long, read beard; he was twice his size, his face was filled with smug satisfaction at the blow he had landed. In his hands, he raised a club high, a nasty weapon studded with spikes like the ball’s.

  Noah's body screamed at him to move, but he knew escape was impossible. Time had run out. He didn’t even have a moment to brace himself. The man’s heavy, crushing weight slammed Noah into the dirt. One moment, he was propped on his elbow; the next, he was flat on his back, wracked with agony from where the spiked ball had struck. The impact sent new waves of searing pain through him, each gash burning as rocks ground into the wounds. The air was forced from his lungs, leaving him disoriented and overwhelmed.

  The man pinned him down. One knee was pressed hard into Noah’s chest, making it difficult to breathe, while the other knee was on his injured arm, sending sharp pain shooting through it. The man held Noah’s left arm tight with one hand, and with the other, he had a knife right at Noah’s throat.

  Noah squirmed, trying to twist free, but it was like fighting a wall. The man’s weight was crushing, his breath hot and reeking of rancid ale as he leaned in close, eyes narrowed and boiling with anger.

  “Got you now,” the man growled.

  The other man, who had been chasing him, closed in. He was wiry, with a permanent scowl on his face, and circling him like a vulture. "Look at the lordling squirm," he said, glaring. "Like a worm on a hook."

  “We’ll sell you piece by piece, like the House pig you are. Your imperial guts are gonna get us some good coin,” the read bearded man said.

  Noah’s thoughts raced as he searched desperately for an escape, but he was pinned with no way out. He couldn’t fight—the man was too strong, too heavy. He couldn’t cry for help—he barely had any breath to keep himself from passing out.

  I’m not going to lie here and take it.

  Just buy another minute, he told himself.

  Maybe if he stalled, he could figure out another escape. His options were fading fast, but he will never surrender.

  Then it hit him: the man’s face was so close. If he could catch him off guard, even for a second, it might buy him a shot. It made no sense, but it was all he could think of. Noah gathered what saliva he had left in his sandpaper-dry mouth, aimed straight for the man’s eyes, and spat. The spit hit him dead-on, and the man flinched back, a rough yell of surprise and anger ripping out of him.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Noah tried to twist free, but the red-bearded man tightened his grip, shoving him harder into the ground. The pain was so intense that Noah thought his bones might crack.

  "You little shit" the man growled, his voice thick with rage as he raised the knife to plunge it into Noah’s chest.

  Noah’s heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst.

  I can’t die now. This was supposed to be my last shot to start over. Why drag me back just to kill me off again? This doesn’t make sense. Panic surged through him, a tidal wave of fear, but there wasn’t time to think. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the worst. He could almost feel it, the cold blade slicing through him, but instead, a loud shout cut through the air, raw and startling enough to freeze the red bearded man in place. For now, at least, he was still alive.

  The scream came again, loud and clear: "Let the boy go!"

  Noah turned his head, and winced as the movement sent a sharp pain through his neck. There, a few feet away, stood an old man, leaning on a gnarled wooden staff like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His gray robes were patched and faded, hanging loose on his skinny frame, and his face was lined with deep wrinkles. His eyes were watery, tired, like he’d seen too much. He looked like he could barely stand, let alone do anything to help.

  Noah’s stomach sank. Great. Now he’s gonna get hurt too, because of me.

  The red-bearded man laughed, a deep, ugly sound that echoed through the trees. “Mind your own business, old man,” he said, not even bothering to look up. “Unless you want to join him.”

  The wiry man smirked, stepping closer to the old man. “Yeah, go hobble back to whatever grave you crawled out of. This ain’t your problem”

  But the old man didn’t move. He just stood there, his hands trembling on the staff, his voice now quieter but steady enough. “My name is Hesjevik. I’m asking you to let him go. He’s no threat to you.”

  Noah wanted to yell at him to run, to get out of here, but his throat felt tight, the words stuck. The red-bearded man finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. “You deaf? I said get lost.” He let go of Noah and stood, brushing dirt off his hands like he was getting ready for something. The wiry man cracked his knuckles, grinning like this was going to be fun.

  Noah tried to sit up, but the red-bearded man kicked him back down, his boot slamming into Noah’s ribs. Pain exploded, hot and sharp, and Noah gasped, curling in on himself. Through the blur of agony, he saw the two men closing in on Hesjevik, their shadows stretching long and dark across the forest floor.

  Hesjevik didn’t flinch. He just stood there, his voice still calm, as if he weren’t about to be beaten to a pulp. “I have something you’d want,” he said. “Something valuable. If you let the boy go, I’ll give it to you.”

  The red-bearded man sneered. “What’s a broke old fool like you got anyway? You’re lying.” Suddenly, he swung a fist, smashing it into Hesjevik’s jaw, making him stumble back, staff clattering, then the wiry man grabbed him by the robes, yanking him up just to slam a knee into his gut. The old man wheezed, doubling over, blood trickling from his lip.

  Noah’s chest tightened. They’re gonna kill him. But Hesjevik just coughed, spitting red, and steadied himself with the staff. “I’m not lying, I swear it by the tide,” he said, with a hoarse voice. “It’s worth a lot. Let the kid go, and it’s yours.”

  Hesjevik’s oath seemed to change the red-bearded man’s mind, because he paused, tilting his head. “Valuable, huh?” He exchanged a look with the wiry man, who raised an eyebrow. “What kind of valuable?”

  Hesjevik reached into his robes, moving carefully. He pulled out a small box, about the size of his palm, made of dark metal. It didn’t look like much, but the way he held it—like it weighed more than it should—made Noah’s skin crawl. “This,” Hesjevik said. “It’s worth more than you can imagine. Take it, and let the boy go.”

  The wiry man snorted. “A small box? You think we’re stupid? What’s in it?”

  “See for yourself,” Hesjevik said with a coy smile.

  The red-bearded man stepped closer, his eyes locked on the box. He reached out, but Hesjevik pulled it back slightly, shaking his head.

  “Not until you let the boy go,” he said.

  Noah pushed himself up, ignoring the screaming pain in his back. “No,” he said, his voice scratchy. “Don’t give them anything. They’ll just take it and kill us both.”

  The red-bearded man turned, his face darkening. “Shut up, kid,” he snapped, but his eyes flicked back to the box, greedy and hungry. The wiry man snatched the box from Hesjevik’s hands, and the red-bearded man crowded in, both of them fumbling with the latch.

  Noah’s chest tightened. He couldn’t let this happen. Hesjevik was trying to help him, and now he was going to lose something important because of it. Noah knew what that felt like. His dad’s pocket watch—the only thing he had left of him—gone because Noah had tried to do the right thing. He’d died for it, and now he was here, in this world, with nothing to show for it. He couldn’t let Hesjevik feel that same pain. Not for him.

  I won’t let him die for me.

  Noah drew strength from somewhere deep inside, though he didn’t know where it came from. He pushed himself up, his legs shaky, his ribs screaming in protest, but he staggered to his feet anyway.

  I can’t let them take it. I can’t let them hurt him.

  His back was on fire, the wounds burning as if someone had poured acid on them. His right arm was worse, with the huge gash, it was probably infected by now. It hurt so bad he could barely think, but he kept going, pushing through the agony. His whole body was shaking, sweat pouring down his face, mixing with the blood and dirt.

  Noah lurched forward, his whole body screaming at him to stop. His vision was blurry, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Every step felt like he was dragging himself through quicksand. He was exhausted, every muscle screaming, but he couldn’t stop. He had to get to that box before they opened it, before they hurt Hesjevik.

  What am I even doing? he thought, his mind racing. They’re gonna kill me. I should just run. Save myself. But he’s trying to help me. He’s gonna die because of me. I can’t let that happen.

  Hesjevik’s eyes widened when he saw what Noah was trying to do, and he shouted, “No! Don’t touch it!” His voice was sharp now, a tone completely different from before, almost as if it belonged to someone else—someone strong and authoritative. He raised his hand, palm outstretched, as if that alone could stop Noah, his fingers steady and sure.

  Then, with a sudden, startling agility, Hesjevik lunged forward, his movements too fast, too confident, so strangely different from the frailty he’d shown moments ago. His body seemed to have shed its age, his steps precise and forceful as he tried to reach Noah, to physically pull him back.

  But it was too late.

  Noah’s hand was already reaching out, his fingers brushing the edge of the box just as the red bearded man started to open it.

  And then there was a sound—like a thunderclap—and everything went white.