Sam started at the blood soaking into the earth.
Slowly.
Without shaking.
Without emotion.
No grief.
No rage.
Just a hollow silence eating away inside his chest.
He did it like it was… habit.
Will I get used to it too?
Will it happen that easily?
The thought made Sam's fingers clench at his sides.
He looked down at his forearm.
The mark still burned — an angry, vivid red carved into his skin like an accusation.
The numbers hadn't changed.
Ticking down.
Reminding him.
Clenching his fist tighter, Sam whispered into the cooling air:
"Albert. I'm going to the camp."
The old man tossed aside his empty bowl with a casual flick of the wrist, wiped his rough, scarred hands on his pants.
"A hero now, huh?"
Albert's voice wasn't mocking.
It wasn't anything, really.
Just tired.
Worn down to the bone.
"Alright. I'm coming too.
Flesh peddlers…
Only rats and jackals break bread with their kind.
And me?"
He smiled — the kind of smile that carried too many graves behind it.
"I ain't a rat."
Albert walked over to the wagon, his boots crunching softly against the dirt, and knelt beside a heavy chest.
He rummaged inside, pulling out a wrapped bundle.
He unwrapped it carefully.
The cloth fell away to reveal a war hammer.
Heavy.
Dark.
Scarred by time and battle.
The metal was pitted and cracked — an old weapon, but alive with memory.
The shaft bore deep grooves where hands once gripped it — and never let go.
Albert flipped it easily from hand to hand, like a farmer playing with a stick.
"I'm no swordsman.
Barely a mage.
But a hammer?"
He hefted it onto his shoulder, casual and dangerous.
"A hammer speaks a language even cowards understand."
Sam swallowed hard.
The weight of this man… it was something more than just strength.
Who are you really, Albert?
The old man caught his gaze — steady, clear, like a man who had already made peace with all the wrong things.
Albert placed a firm hand on Sam's shoulder — grounding him.
"Don't rush," he said. "If you charge in now, you'll die before you even see who swings the blade."
"I have one day…" Sam muttered under his breath.
Albert shook his head, slow and grim.
"No.
You have one chance.
And a bad plan's worse than none."
He tapped the war hammer against the ground, sending a dull thud into the earth.
"We rest.
We prepare.
And at dawn — when they're still lost between dreams and regrets — we strike."
Sam nodded.
Not quickly.
Not with fire in his veins.
But with understanding.
With the kind of cold that comes after fire has already burned out.
Albert smirked slightly and tossed him something.
Sam barely caught it — a rough wooden sword, little more than a carved branch.
"Training time."
"What?"
"You burned yourself out with magic," Albert said.
"Right now, a stick in your hand's the only thing that might keep you breathing by morning."
Sam lifted the makeshift weapon, grimacing at the clumsy weight.
Albert circled him slowly, like a wolf inspecting a wounded pup.
"You're holding that like a tavern maid swings a broom."
He jabbed Sam lightly in the ribs with the hammer's handle.
"Wider stance.
Back straight.
Weight forward.
And for the love of the gods — stop standing like a skittish colt."
"You're joking…"
"I'm saving your life," Albert said bluntly, without missing a beat.
"Ready?"
Sam grunted.
"Do I have a choice?"
Albert's grin widened.
"No."
And then —
A blur.
A blow.
The wooden sword flew from Sam's hands, clattering uselessly to the ground.
Sam stumbled and crashed flat on his back, gasping at the sudden impact.
"Gaaaah—!! You could at least warn me!"
Albert barked out a single dry laugh.
"Will your enemies?"
He offered no hand to help him up.
"Get up. Again."
***
Hours bled into each other.
Sam lay sprawled against a tree trunk, his shirt clinging to his skin with sweat.
Every breath felt like knives under his ribs.
His arms shook from simple exhaustion.
Albert sat by the fire — completely at ease — calmly stirring a battered pot.
As if he hadn't spent the last hours casually knocking Sam into the dirt like a sack of grain.
"When do we move?" Sam rasped, his voice cracked from thirst.
Albert didn't even glance up.
"First light," he said.
"They'll be half-dead from their own wine and sins.
We won't."
Sam nodded — though it hurt even to do that.
"And the survivors?"
Albert's voice stayed flat.
Uncaring.
"Guards'll handle it.
If there's anyone left to judge."
Sam looked down at his hands.
Fresh blisters split open across his palms.
Blood and dirt mixed in the wounds.
Yesterday, I didn't even know how to hold a sword.
Today… I want to fight.
What will I want tomorrow?
"You gone quiet, boy," Albert muttered.
"Just… thinking."
Albert grunted.
"Think while you eat."
He tossed Sam a battered wooden bowl.
Steam curled up from the rough stew inside — thick, bitter, but warm.
Sam sat by the fire and spooned it into his mouth.
It burned his tongue.
It burned — but he welcomed it.
It meant he was still alive.
"Slavery," Sam said after a while, the word tasting like ash,
"It's legal here, isn't it?"
Albert exhaled long and slow.
"Legal enough."
"Debt.
Crime.
That's the excuse."
"Mostly it's poverty.
Hunger.
A pen dipped in blood instead of ink."
Sam tightened his grip around the bowl.
"Children too?"
Albert's jaw locked.
"Especially children," he said.
"Especially where no one's looking."
The fire cracked between them.
Sam stared into it.
"But sometimes," Albert added after a while, voice softer,
"Sometimes they're saved.
Bought back.
Stolen away."
A long pause.
"Not often.
But enough to make it worth trying."
Sam said nothing.
The words sat heavy between them.
Albert poked at the fire, his face hidden by shadow.
"You're not the first to want to change this world, Samuel," he said quietly.
"Not the first to ask why things are the way they are."
"Most who tried… they're dead."
"Or worse."
Another silence.
Thicker now.
Almost suffocating.
The flames threw wild shadows across Albert's face.
And for the first time —
Sam saw not just an old man.
He saw the weight.
The grief.
The years no sword could cut down.
"I…" Albert started.
Stopped.
Sam looked up.
"Sir?"
Albert turned his gaze away — as if the fire itself was too much.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Soft.
Broken.
"Sorry that I'm still breathing…
And they aren't."
***
Night sank deeper around them.
The fire burned low.
The forest whispered.
Above, stars blinked like old scars etched into the sky.
They ate in silence.
No words left.
Only the quiet understanding between two men who had already lost too much.
And in the darkness, Sam thought:
If I fail…
If I don't find her in time…
those sapphire eyes will vanish.
And so will I.