When the screaming finally stopped, when the crying subsided to ragged breaths, when the vomiting left him hollow and shaking, Oryth's mind began to function again.
Davan.
He spun around, looking frantically for where the guard had fallen. There—still lying motionless, blood on his face. Oryth ran to him, dropped to his knees beside him, hands shaking as he checked for breathing.
Still alive. Thank god, still alive.
The relief was so intense it almost started the tears again, but he forced them back. Focus. He needed to focus. Davan had a cut on his arm, another on his face, maybe more under his armor. Oryth channeled mana to his brain and visualized the wound closure spell, the runic sequence he'd memorized from Theron's lessons.
He struggled with it—the spell required precise parameters for wound size, depth, tissue type, properties he hadn't studied properly yet in the runic language. His first attempt failed completely, nothing happening. He tried again, adjusting the visualization, trying to remember the exact sequence Theron had shown him. Third attempt, and finally the magic took. The cuts closed, skin knitting back together. Davan was stable. Unconscious but breathing, no longer bleeding.
The knights. The other guards.
Oryth forced himself to his feet and ran back toward the road, toward where the carriage sat abandoned. The horses that had pulled it were still there, nervous but unhurt. The horses the knights had ridden had scattered during the chaos of the fight, panicked by the violence and bloodshed.
And the knights themselves lay on the ground, not one of them moving.
He checked each one. Forced himself to approach each body, to search for signs of life, to hope against hope that someone else had survived.
They were all dead.
His stomach twisted with guilt and sadness so intense it was physical pain. These men had families. People who loved them. People who'd sent them off this morning thinking they'd come home. And now they never would.
Because of him. Because they'd been assigned to protect him.
He wanted to break down again, wanted to collapse and cry until there was nothing left. But he couldn't. Not yet. He had to think. Had to act.
The blood. There was so much of it—on the ground, on the carriage, splattered across trees where he'd... where the bodies had...
He could taste iron in the air. Thick and metallic and wrong.
Predators would smell it. Wolves, bears, whatever else hunted in these woods. They'd come. Soon.
He needed to move. Fast.
Oryth ran back to where he'd left Davan and grabbed him under the arms. The man was heavy—full-grown adult in armor—but lifting him was easy. Easier than it should have been. The same strength that had let him kill those men with his bare hands made carrying Davan feel effortless.
He dragged him to the carriage and managed to get him inside, laying him out on one of the seats as gently as he could manage.
Then he needed to clean himself. The blood—other people's blood—covered his hands, his clothes, his face. He couldn't arrive in town looking like this.
Water sphere. Warm water, summoned and controlled, washing away the evidence. Then warm air to dry himself, careful not to make it too hot. His clothes were still stained, but less obviously. Dark fabric hid most of it.
The carriage. Could he even drive it? He'd learned to ride horses back home, had watched drivers handle the reins. The principles should be similar. Had to be similar, because he didn't have another option.
He climbed up to the driver's seat, took hold of the reins, and tried to remember everything he'd observed. A gentle pull to get the horses' attention. Steady guidance to set the direction. Not too harsh or they'd spook.
The horses responded. Slowly, uncertainly, but they moved. The carriage rolled forward, and Oryth guided them back onto the road, toward the town he'd seen on the horizon before the attack.
The gates came into view as full darkness fell. Guards stood watch, and they moved to intercept as the carriage approached.
Oryth didn't have to pretend to be scared. His hands shook on the reins, his voice cracked when he tried to speak.
"Please—we were attacked—my guard is hurt, he needs help—"
The words tumbled out too fast, panic still coursing through him. One of the guards held up a hand.
"Slow down, boy. Take a breath. Tell us again, slowly."
Oryth forced himself to breathe, to speak more carefully. "We were attacked on the road. Bandits. My guard is inside the carriage, he's hurt. Please, he needs a healer."
The guards exchanged glances. One of them moved to check inside the carriage, saw Davan unconscious, and his expression turned serious.
"Get Him to the healer. Now."
They took Davan, carrying him off toward what they said was the local mage's residence. Someone who could tend his wounds properly.
The head guard—a grizzled man who introduced himself as Captain Hendry, in charge of this town's defenses—turned his attention to Oryth.
"We need you to tell us exactly what happened."
So he did. Or rather, he told them a version of what happened. The attack on the road. The guards fighting. Being dragged into the forest. Davan being struck down.
And then he lied.
"I fainted. From fear. When I woke up, they were all dead. The attackers, I mean. I don't know what killed them."
Captain Hendry's expression was openly skeptical. He studied Oryth carefully—this twelve-year-old boy claiming he'd fainted and woken to find armed attackers mysteriously dead.
"You fainted, and when you woke up, all the attackers were dead."
"Yes, sir."
"And you don't know what killed them."
"No, sir. I... I was too scared. I just got Davan into the carriage and came here as fast as I could."
The captain was silent for a long moment, his eyes never leaving Oryth's face. Then he seemed to notice the state Oryth was in—the trembling, the barely-contained tears, the shock written in every line of his body.
His expression softened slightly. He didn't look convinced, but he didn't press further either.
"You did good, boy. Coming out of that alive, even if by pure luck. There wasn't much you could have done anyway—you're just a child. You survived. That's what matters."
He nodded to one of his men. "Send scouts. Verify the bodies on the road and in the forest. I want a count and a report."
The scout left immediately. Captain Hendry turned back to Oryth.
"Do you have money? For lodging?"
"Yes, sir. Some."
"We'll escort you to the tavern. Post guards outside your room for the night. You'll be safe here."
"Thank you. What about... the bodies? My guards, the ones who died?"
"We'll retrieve them tonight. Can't leave them out there for the animals. You can come back in the morning, see if we've learned anything about who attacked you."
Oryth nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The scouts returned within the hour, confirming what he'd said—dead bodies on the road, more in the forest. The head guard's expression grew grimmer with each detail of their report.
They escorted him to the tavern, secured a room, posted guards outside as promised. The room was small but clean, with a narrow bed and a washbasin.
Once he was alone, Oryth made it to the bed before his legs gave out. He sat down heavily, leaned back against the wall, and the tears started again.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to the empty room. "I'm so sorry."
He could have protected them. Should have. If he'd known—if he'd understood how strong he actually was, how weak the attackers were in comparison—he could have saved those knights. Could have fought alongside them instead of running.
Fear had made him lose control. Terror had stripped away his composure, his careful restraint, all the discipline he'd built over years of training. He'd been too scared to die, and because of that, people had died because of him.
Those knights had families. Wives, children, parents. People who'd wake up tomorrow and learn they were never coming home. And it was his fault. Not because he'd killed them—though he'd killed plenty—but because he'd let fear make him helpless when he should have fought.
The guilt was crushing. Physical weight pressing down on his chest until breathing hurt.
He fell asleep eventually, exhaustion overcoming everything else. But even in sleep, he saw their faces. The knights lying dead on the road. Davan falling. The terror in that last man's eyes before—
A knock at the door woke him. Morning light was already creeping under the door. One of the guards posted outside called through the wood.
"Young lord? You have a visitor."
"Who?"
"Your guard, sir. The one who was injured."
"Let him in."
Davan entered, looking battered but whole. The local mage had apparently put him back together quickly—the wounds Oryth had closed were properly healed now, and whatever damage the boulder strike had done was repaired. He pulled up the room's only chair and sat down, looking at Oryth for a moment before speaking.
"How are you doing?"
"I'm alive," Oryth said.
"That's not what I asked."
Oryth didn't answer right away. Davan let the silence sit, not filling it.
"I keep seeing them," Oryth finally said. "The ones that died."
"That won't go away quickly," Davan said. "Maybe not ever. But you're here and breathing, so tell me what happened after I went down."
Oryth told him the same story he'd told the guards. Being alone in the forest, the men approaching, fainting from fear, waking up with everyone dead.
Davan listened without interrupting. When Oryth finished, he was quiet for a moment.
"Thank you," he said. "For getting me to the carriage. For driving us here. I know that couldn't have been easy."
"I didn't know what else to do."
"You did what needed doing." He paused. "The attackers—all dead when you came to. You didn't see anything? Hear anything before you fainted? Even something small?"
"No," Oryth said. "I just... I lost consciousness. When I woke up they were on the ground."
Davan studied him, clearly not entirely convinced, but he didn't press. "Alright," he said after a moment. "I haven't spoken to the guards here yet about the attack. We should go find Hendry, hear what they found."
They went to find Captain Hendry together. The man looked like he hadn't slept, his expression grave.
He stood and waited for him to get prepared, then led the way out of the private room. Guards posted outside fell in beside them and escorted the pair through the tavern's main common area, still heavy with the scent of spilled ale. They stepped into the crisp morning air and made their way through the town streets to the guards' headquarters, where Captain Hendry stood grimly in front of several bodies laid out on the ground, his face drawn and exhausted with dark circles under his eyes. The captain looked up as they approached, expression hardening.
"The attackers," he said without preamble. "They were killed in ways I've never seen. Horrible damage—the kind you'd expect from fighting Skarreth, maybe, but worse. One was missing his head entirely. Another had a hole through his chest. The scene where the bodies were found... I've been a guard for twenty years, and I've never seen anything like it."
He paused, studying them both. "We don't know who they were. No identifying marks, nothing on them that would tell us where they came from. They look like mercenaries—professionals, based on their equipment. But hired by who, for what purpose..."
He trailed off, then asked the question Oryth had been dreading. "Do you or your family have enemies? Anyone who might want you dead?"
Oryth shook his head. "No. Not that I know of. My family is... we're successful, but we haven't hurt anyone. I don't understand why anyone would do this."
The head guard didn't look satisfied, but he moved on. "The family governing these lands—House Carthen—has been notified. They've ordered increased patrols, more guards on the streets. We'll investigate, but without knowing who the attackers were..."
He left the implication hanging. Without identification, there wasn't much they could do.
"Your fallen guards," Captain Hendry said more gently. "Do you want to take their bodies back to their families?"
"Yes," Oryth said immediately. "They died protecting me. Their families deserve..."
He couldn't finish the sentence. Davan put a hand on his shoulder.
"We'll take them home," Davan said. "But we'll need protection for the journey. If they attacked once, they might try again."
Captain Hendry nodded. "Hire mercenaries or adventurers if money isn't a problem. There are usually a few parties in town looking for work."
Finding willing parties proved harder than expected. Word had already spread about what happened—about the brutal deaths, the unknown attackers, the danger. Not everyone was willing to put their lives on the line to protect a noble child, especially after seeing what had happened to the last group that tried.
But eventually, Oryth and Davan found two parties who agreed. Skilled adventurers, experienced fighters who were confident they could handle whatever came. The price was steep, but Oryth paid without hesitation.
They retrieved the bodies of the fallen knights, wrapped them carefully for transport. Collected their belongings, made arrangements for the journey.
And then they set out for home.
The journey back felt longer than the journey out had been. Every sound made Oryth tense. Every shadow might hide another attack. But nothing happened. The roads were clear, the hired adventurers alert and professional.
When they finally arrived at the Morvhal estate, Marcus and Elara were waiting. The moment Oryth climbed down from the carriage, his mother was there, pulling him into a crushing embrace.
"What happened? Are you hurt? We got word there was an attack—"
Oryth couldn't hold it together anymore. He started crying, the words spilling out between sobs.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. People died because of me and I don't even know why they were after me. I'm sorry—"
His parents held him, let him cry, murmured reassurances that it wasn't his fault. When the initial storm of emotion had passed, when Oryth had cried himself to exhaustion, Marcus turned to Davan.
"What happened?"
Davan told them his version—the attack on the road, the fighting, being separated from Oryth as they fled into the forest, being struck by magic and losing consciousness. Then he repeated what Oryth had told him: waking to find the attackers dead, getting Davan into the carriage, driving to the town.
Marcus and Elara exchanged worried looks throughout the explanation.
"You're not going to the academy," Marcus finally said. "Not now. Maybe next year, when things are safer. It's better to stay alive than to die trying to get an education."
"No," Oryth said, his voice cracking but firm. "I need to go. The academy has guards, wards, protection. I'll be safer there than anywhere else. I hired two strong adventurer parties—they'll get me there safely."
"Oryth—"
"And I need to get stronger." The words came out with sudden intensity, and when he looked up at his parents, there was determination burning in his tear-stained eyes. "I need to learn. I need to become strong enough that I never have to watch people die because of me again. Never have to be helpless while others fight for me. Please. Let me go."
That look—that fierce, desperate determination—seemed to affect his parents more than any argument could have. Marcus and Elara looked at each other, some unspoken communication passing between them.
Finally, Elara nodded slowly. "Alright," she said quietly, reaching out to touch his face. "Alright. We'll let you go. But spend tonight here with us. Rest. Let us see you're truly alright before you leave."
"Thank you," Oryth said, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for understanding."
They spent the evening together as a family, though none of them had much appetite for the meal that was prepared. Eventually, when exhaustion was written clearly on Oryth's face, his parents let him retire to his room. He closed the door, sat on his bed, and the internal struggle started again.
Those knights. Those men with families. Dead because he'd been too scared to fight, too panicked to think. He could have saved them. Should have saved them.
The guilt was a physical weight, pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe.
He didn't remember falling asleep. Just the exhaustion pulling him under, dragging him down into darkness where the faces of the dead waited.
Tomorrow, he'd leave again. Tomorrow, he'd continue toward the capital, toward the academy, toward whatever came next.
But tonight, he carried the weight of bodies he hadn't been able to save.
And that weight felt like it might never get lighter.