❝ You may not like the answers you find on this journey of blood. ❞
A street rat.
A rebel.
A girl broken into so many pieces she doesn't know which parts to pick up.
Azura had two wishes; to find answers and seek vengeance. But if she's learnt anyth...
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With my wounds relatively healed—most of them only itchy patches of pink flesh or scabbed wounds—I begin to walk. I leave my old, ruined clothes behind and dress in the spare clothing from my pack. The loose fitting but thick brown pants are comfortable, though I have to tuck them into my scuffed boots so the ends don't catch the sodden ground. I use a strip of cloth as a belt, torn from my old sweater, and tuck my blade into it.
I won't let the demons catch me by surprise again, especially not tied up and without a weapon.
Travelling alone, slipping through the shadows of the woods and hiding in abandoned cabins and crumbling stone from the Old World makes avoiding the hostilities of the Midland rather easy. It reminds me of my time in Warroll, always gliding through the fingers of the Empire, avoiding the Watch and the Sharlik soldiers.
It had become a game, until it wasn't anymore.
I choose a path and stick to it, refusing to stray. I suppose I need to reach Wymler. I need to find Suri and Lilja. Everything that happened at the Order, everything I learnt about Palmira, has left uncertainty churning in my gut. They told me Suri is still alive, but at this point I don't trust anything those people said to me. Seeing her is the only way to know for certain.
I still have the sygils on my wrist, Suri's sygil alight. But one of them... one of them is dark. Looking at them hurts too much, so I don't.
If Palmira was lying, if Suri didn't survive the journey to Wymler...
I stagger, thrusting out a hand to catch myself on a tree before I fall. My fingers dig into the rough bark as my lips twist, the hurt rearing its head. No matter how far I walk, how exhausted I become, how hard I fight, how much I heal, this agony will never abate.
I don't think I'll survive more. I'm barely surviving as it is.
The crunch of leaves breaks through my thoughts, and there's a slight shift in the air, something my heightened senses are aware of before my brain truly registers it.
My body reacts, forcing me to jerk back and avoid the bat that cracks into the trunk of the tree where my head had been. But as I blink with shock, the hesitation costs me a blow to the back of the head. I gasp as I stumble forward, my skull throbbing. The bat swings around again but this time it catches my temple. Stars burst across my vision. Wetness slides down my cheek. Something shoves me and I tumble to the forest floor, sticks and rocks digging into my knees and gloved palms.
I manage to lift my head enough to see muddy boots step into my line of sight. Then a hand curls into my black hair and yanks my head up so I'm forced to look at the dirty face that leers above me. I wince at the sting in my scalp.
I take in the situation quickly, my eyes flicking over each detail. The man before me has a blade in his other hand, the steel chipped and the hilt flecked with dried blood. There's another figure behind him, lanky and skeletal, watching the scene with his wooden bat raised and ready.
