River lay motionless on the ground, unable to move or speak. His body was broken. His mind lagged—still spinning, trying to make sense of it. The fall. The lightning. The scream.

  His friends… His panic cut through the haze. He forced himself upright, dragging his upper body forward with trembling arms. His legs... they didn’t respond. Broken, maybe worse. Every movement sent pain knifing through him, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The ground was cold and uneven, slick with moss and stone. Fog curled thick around him, swallowing the world in gray. He crawled blindly through it, heart hammering, dread tightening in his chest.

  Had he gotten them killed? Because he brought them? Because he hadn’t used the disk?

  “Please,” he whispered, voice raw. “Let them be alive.”

  His heart sank as his hand struck something in the fog — a body, still and unmoving.

  He scrambled forward, shaking fingers brushing over hair — shorter than Amalia’s, longer than Albert’s. Callum. No breath. No movement. He looked whole—until River saw the arrow jutting from his abdomen. Certainty settled in. River froze, the world narrowing to a pinpoint. Then something within him crumbled.

  River felt raw. Exposed to the bone. Essence slipped from his core like water through a sieve — wild, uncontrolled. His soul, once a vessel of power, hard and strong. Now it seemed cracked and weak. He could feel it bleeding out, leaking into the ground, slipping through the cracks in his will. He collapsed, the weight of grief and failure dragging him down. Callum was dead.

  Tears slid down River’s cheeks as the realization settled in, heavy and merciless. This was just like Lud. Just like before.

  He had been powerless to stop it. Again.

  Albert and Amalia — gone.

  And him? He was a wreck. A shell overflowing with magic he could no longer control. But giving up wasn’t an option.

  It hadn’t been when Lud died.

  It hadn’t been when he was starving on the streets of Norvil. It wasn’t now. River clenched his teeth and shoved the pain down into the pit of his stomach. With a groan, he shifted his weight and pushed himself to his feet. His legs throbbed like fire, but he forced them to hold him. He had to find the others.

  He had to make sure no one else died. He pushed himself off the ground. His legs buckled, but willpower kept him upright. Limping through the dense fog, every breath scraping his ribs, he shouted hoarsely, “Are you guys okay?!”

  Silence.

  Seconds passed. Then a minute.

  The quiet stretched too long. His heart pounded louder with each beat. Then

  "Over here," a voice called weakly.

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  Amalia. His chest loosened. He stumbled toward the sound, each step a wrenching effort, until shapes took form through the haze. They were there.

  Drawn. Exhausted. But alive. Relief crashed into him like a wave. Albert looked up, eyes clouded with confusion. “Where’s Callum?” River’s throat tightened. He swallowed hard — loud enough to answer the question. The silence that followed said everything. Albert and Amalia stared at the ground, their expressions hollowing.

  No one said a word. Responsibility crushed down like stone.

  Albert was the first to seemingly regain his voice. He looked at River and spoke. “Can you walk?” River hesitated. “Maybe a little.” Albert nodded and pointed in the direction of the wall. “We should go the other way.”

  They all agreed, but no one spoke. Grief hung heavy between them, heavier with each passing step. River’s anxiety gnawed at him — the fear that they blamed him. He certainly blamed himself.

  River continued to walk but struggled to keep pace with the others. Finally, Albert turned to him “Get on my back. If they’re following, we can’t keep this pace.” River reluctantly agreed. He no longer carried his own weight—quite literally.

  He clung to Albert’s back like a child, his limbs hanging limp and weightless.

  He hated how small he felt.

  He wasn’t even sure his legs were still there. He was too scared to check.

  He didn’t know where the road led anymore.

  His dreams were shattered. His friend was dead.

  But if Callum had died for something…

  It couldn’t be for River to lie broken in the dirt. They walked like that for what seemed like hours. Albert’s breathing grew louder with each step — ragged, strained. But he didn’t complain. He didn’t speak. None of them did. The silence wasn’t empty; it was loud with failure. At last, the fog began to thin. Shapes emerged through the mist, sharp against the pale morning light. Five figures stood at the edge of the clearing.

  At their center stood a tall, dark-skinned man — broad-shouldered, his face a patchwork of old scars. But it was the figure beside him that froze River in place.

  The old man from the school. But he looked younger more in his element now.

  The one who had been watching him. But he didn’t speak; he barely stirred as the scarred man moved forwards. “I am Kamir. Allow us to bring you to our healers. We were scouting the area when we saw you.” No one argued. They were too exhausted to question it. River gave a faint nod as Albert gently lowered him to the ground. The moment his feet touched down, pain lanced up his legs and shot through his spine. His vision blurred.

  Two of the temple guardians stepped forward, lifting him with ease and placing him on a stretcher. As they moved, River glimpsed glowing runes etched across their skin, pulsing faintly in the dim light.

  Is that what made them so strong?

  He didn’t have the strength to ask. Cold seeped deeper into his bones as he tried to contain the leaking essence within him, tried to force it back into his core.

  But it was no use.

  Darkness reached for him — and this time, he didn’t resist.