I didn't think.
I just moved.
The broken dagger was still in my hand, wet with swamp water and trembling in my grip. I raised it, fast as I could, and jabbed at the man's neck. I didn't even aim—I just wanted to hurt him, kill him, die trying. Anything. Anything was better than chains.
But he was faster.
His hand caught my wrist before the blade touched him. My arm twisted sideways with a pop, pain shooting up to my shoulder. I gasped, nearly dropping the knife.
"Well now," he said, still holding me. "Aren't you one full of spirit."
Then he let go—just like that—and grabbed a fistful of my hair.
I shouted, but it didn't matter.
He yanked me forward and shoved my face straight into the swamp.
Water filled my nose, my mouth, thick and sour like rot and old blood. My hands scrabbled at the mud, but I couldn't get any grip. My legs kicked, but they were too weak.
He pulled my head up just long enough for me to cough.
And then he laughed.
"Lucky little bastard thinks he can scratch," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Gods, they send us dogs now. Mangy little land-believers who think a blade makes 'em strong."
I spat swamp water and tried to breathe.
"You scum!" I shouted. "I'd rather die than be sold as a slave, you dirty moss-blood!"
His eyes lit up.
"Oho?" he grinned, teeth sharp behind his cracked lips. "What's that, little rat? You got a tongue after all?"
He shoved my head back into the water.
Everything went dark and silent. The cold stabbed into my ears. I kicked again. A root scratched across my cheek. I thought I might vomit.
He let me up just to do it again.
His metal gauntlets clanked each time—lift, shove, lift, shove. My ears rang. My eyes stung. The swamp filled every part of me. He was laughing between insults, each one louder than the last.
"Filthy little tree-worshipper," he growled. "Your god give you that butter knife? Hah! Pathetic. What do you think this is? A story?"
I coughed, choking. My head was spinning. I didn't want to cry, but the tears came anyway. My mouth tasted like mud and blood and shame.
Then, from somewhere behind him, a voice shouted.
"That's enough."
The mercenary didn't stop right away. He gave me one last shove before glancing back.
A man rode up behind him on a pale brown horse, dressed nothing like the others. No armor. No bloodstains. He wore frilled sleeves and green velvet, his coat marked with gold trim and sharp-angled embroidery. His boots were clean.
He didn't even look at me. Just flicked his fingers.
"Leave it. We're behind schedule."
The mercenary grunted. "Just giving the boy a lesson."
The nobleman finally glanced my way—just once. His lip curled.
Then he spit.
"You're a lucky one," he said. "Run off. We don't have time to waste playing with you."
He turned his horse without waiting for an answer.
I didn't hesitate.
I scrambled up, legs shaking under me, and bolted into the trees, away from the road, away from the armor and the shouting and the sound of steel in the muck. I ran as fast as I could. Didn't look back.
Didn't stop till I was behind a tree thick enough to hide my whole body. My breath was loud in my ears. My ribs hurt. My eyes scanned behind me, expecting to see a bolt flying through the fog. Nothing came.
They weren't chasing me.
The sound of marching picked up again. Sharp. Tight. They moved like they hadn't even noticed I was gone.
I sank to my knees, half hidden in ferns, and watched them fade into the trees, red and green disappearing behind the mist. They didn't even look for me. Like I was nothing. Like I was less than the mud on their boots.
And then it was quiet.
All that was left was the swamp and me. My clothes soaked. My face crusted with dirt and snot. My hand still clutching that stupid, useless dagger.
I looked down at it.
What now?
Where do I go?
Everyone I came with was dead. The army, the boys, even the nameless giant who marched without words—gone. And I wasn't brave. I wasn't strong. I didn't even know where north was.
I was alone.