Norn’s blade cleaved through the last vine, revealing the cliff’s edge beyond. He stepped forward cautiously, boots finding purchase on the loose stones at the precipice. Below, a walled town hugged the valley—smoke rising from chimneys, gates open, people moving like ants through streets. A far contrast from the hellscape they’ve known so far.

  “Either salvation…” Norn pauses, “or misfortune.”

  The girl caught her breath behind him, one hand braced against a scorched tree trunk for support. Sunlight glinted off her scar—the first time she’d seen safety for what seemed like forever. Her eyes widened, hungry for civilization, for walls that might keep the nightmares at bay.

  Before she could step forward, Norn’s hand clamped down on her shoulder. His other hand hovered near the rusted dagger at his hip.

  “Don’t let your guard down.” Norn muttered, eyes never leaving the town below. “Not until we know what kind of people they are.”

  She didn’t argue. Weeks together taught her that his wariness wasn’t paranoia—it was experience speaking. The kind purchased with blood.

  Norn assessed the cliff face, gauging the descent. Too steep to climb safely, especially with the girl’s frail state. He slashed through more vines with methodical precision, testing their strength before twisting them together into a makeshift rope. Not ideal, but necessity rarely offered perfect choices.

  “This should hold,” he said, more to himself than her, then tossed the vine-rope over the edge.

  The trek down was slow, painful. The girl’s hands were raw by the time they reached the bottom, tiny beads of blood welling up from her palms where the rough surface had abraded her skin. She didn’t complain. Just wiped them silently on her tunic, leaving smears of crimson on the already-stained tunic.

  As they approached the town gates, two guards straightened from their slouched positions. Their spear tips caught the sun, glinting with warning. One spotted Norn’s ashmark peeking from his sleeve and tensed visibly. The other’s eyes fixed on the girl’s scars, narrowing with suspicion

  “Maw runaways..?” the first guard murmured to his companion, but Norn caught the words.

  Norn’s hand tightened around the deer pelt slung over his shoulder. Worth something to the right buyer. he held it up for inspection, his face—neutral as always.

  “Just selling, then we’re gone.” He stated, not a request, but a fact.

  The first guard ran his fingers through the fur, testing its quality with experienced hands. After a moment, he signaled to his companion, who reluctantly pulled the gate open with a creak of protesting hinges.

  They entered cautiously, Norn's eyes scanning every alley, every rooftop, every hand that might hold a weapon. The market sprawled before them—a riot of color and sound after the muted palette of the wilderness. Merchants called their wares, children darted between stalls, a woman argued heatedly with a vendor over the price of salted fish. It was overwhelming.

  Life. Unbroken. Continuing.

  The girl froze beside him, eyes wide with sensory overload. Her gaze locked on a jeweler's stall where an emerald necklace lay displayed—the stone flawed but green as fresh leaves. It caught the light, casting verdant reflections across her thin face.

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  Norn followed her look, jaw tightening. He recognized the hunger in her eyes—not for the stone itself, but for what it represented. Beauty. Permanence. Something that wasn't survival.

  His hand found her elbow, steering her firmly away.

  "Sword first. Dagger. Then... we'll see." he said quietly.

  The market heaved around them, humanity pressing in from all sides. Spice stalls filled the air with foreign aromas that made Norn's empty stomach clench. Blacksmiths hammered at glowing metal, sending sparks cascading into the dirt. The jeweler's display called to them from a corner, the emerald pendant gleaming with impossible promise among brass and copper trinkets.

  The girl's breath hitched each time they passed it. The green matched her eyes perfectly—a color untouched by ash or blood or fear.

  Norn directed her toward a weapon stall first, his grip unwavering. Practical. Survival first. Pretty things later—if at all.

  At the weaponsmith's, Norn tested blade after blade, finding most wanting. Too dull. Too brittle. Too heavy. Finally, he selected a serviceable sword with a plain hilt and a well-honed dagger to replace his rusted one. The smith accepted his pelts with a grunt, unimpressed but fair in his trade.

  The girl struggled under the weight of leather armor Norn had insisted on, the material stiff and too large for her frame. He adjusted straps wordlessly, cinching them tighter until the protection at least stayed in place.

  His own vambrace was secured last, the Ashmark hidden beneath its weathered surface. One small relief in a day of constant vigilance.

  As they turned to leave, Norn hesitated. The emerald pendant still caught the light, still called to the girl whose eyes kept returning to it despite her effort to seem disinterested.

  With a noise somewhere between resignation and annoyance, Norn slapped their last silver coin onto the jeweler's table.

  "The green one." he said bluntly.

  The jeweler raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. Coin was coin.

  Norn fastened the pendant around the girl's neck without ceremony, fingers clumsy with the tiny clasp. The emerald rested against her scar, a drop of color in a world that had taken too much from her.

  "Here. Now you don't look like a starving rat." he muttered, uncomfortable with the naked gratitude in her eyes.

  Night found them in a tavern corner, bowls of thin stew steaming before them. The girl ate slowly, savoring each spoonful, fingers occasionally rising to touch the pendant at her throat as if to confirm it hadn't disappeared.

  Norn's attention never settled, his eyes constantly moving over every patron, every entrance, every shadow. His hand drummed restlessly on his new dagger—still unfamiliar, its weight and balance not yet memorized by muscle memory.

  "Thank you for the—" the girl began, voice soft.

  Norn cut her off by shoving his untouched bread toward her plate.

  "Sleep. First light, we move," he said firmly, already calculating their next steps, the next day's journey, the next place that might offer temporary shelter.

  The inn room was small but clean, a luxury neither had experienced in longer than they cared to remember. Norn took his position by the door, sitting with his back against the wall, dagger laid across his lap. The girl curled near the hearth, the pendant glowing in the firelight, her breathing eventually settling into the rhythm of sleep.

  Norn's own eyes grew heavy, the warmth and relative safety lulling him into a dangerous complacency. He jerked himself awake several times before finally surrendering to exhaustion.

  He didn't hear the door creak open. Didn't see the shadow slip through with practiced stealth, Holy Veil insignia glinting on a cloak buckle.

  “…It’s her.” A voice could be heard, although quiet.

  Didn't wake when a gauntleted hand clamped over the girl's mouth, another snapping the pendant's cord with surgical precision. Beads scattered across the floorboards like tiny stars.

  SNAP.

  His brow furrowed in sleep, some deep instinct registering the wrongness, the loss—but not quickly enough. Not clearly enough.

  By the time dawn broke and Norn startled awake, the girl was gone. Only scattered green beads remained, small as tears on the wooden floor.

  Two years passed.