Among the golden fields of Valkryn, the air was hot. No shade. No wind. Only a white sun melting the horizon. Flies swarmed everywhere—hovering around the horse's eyes, around its neck, around Thomas's wound, which still bled beneath the bandage.
Thomas guided the horse with his one hand. His fingers were wrapped tight around the reins, the leather creaking with each small adjustment. Sara sat behind him, shielding herself from the sun with a piece of his cloak. Her face was pale, her lips cracked. Sweat clung to her hair like a second skin.
Sara looked at Thomas in surprise and said, her head tilting slightly, "I haven't seen you smile."
Thomas shook his head sharply at the flies, his neck twisting left and right. "It's not something one would wish to see." Then, without turning, his voice low and rough like a stone dragged over dry earth, he added, "Girl, I have only one arm. And it is holding the reins. Be useful. Keep the flies off me."
Sara shifted behind him, swatting half-heartedly at the air. Her arm moved slowly, as if the heat had stolen most of her strength. "And why would I do that? It doesn't bother me. It seems only here for you. Annoying things walk together."
"If I'm so annoying, why are you still on my horse?" Thomas turned his head just enough to show the edge of his jaw, the corner of his mouth flat. Sweat glistened on the back of his neck. The empty sleeve of his missing arm stirred faintly in the stagnant air.
Sara let out a short, tired breath and rested her forehead against his back. Her fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. "Because I don't have a horse."
Thomas grunted. The horse plodded on, its hooves pressing into the dry earth with a dull, rhythmic sound. The fields stretched on all sides—gold and endless, the stalks bending under the weight of the heat. Far off, heat shimmered above the ground like water that wasn't there.
"You don't know where you're going, do you?" she asked, lifting her head just enough to squint at the horizon.
"No one knows where they're going until they do." Thomas kept his eyes on the line where the fields met the sky. His jaw moved once, as if chewing on the words.
"Then we'll know when we arrive."
"Exactly."
"But where?" Sara lifted her head fully, squinting against the glare. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, and she wiped it away with a slow hand.
"Stop talking. Or I'll throw you off the horse." Thomas's voice didn't rise. It flattened, like a blade laid on a table.
Sara leaned her forehead against his back again. Her fingers twisted weakly in the fabric of his cloak. "I'm hungry. We have money now. We can buy things."
"True. But there's no one to buy from. So for now, you'll eat nothing." He shifted the reins in his hand, and the horse adjusted its course slightly.
"I've already eaten, but I still feel hungry."
Thomas said, "What did you eat?" He released the reins. The horse stopped at once, ears flicking. He reached for his small satchel, opened it, looked inside. It was almost empty. He turned his head, just enough to look at her from the corner of one eye. "You little bitch. You stole my food."
Sara met his eyes without flinching. Her chin lifted a fraction. "I thought it was my share."
He faced forward again, pulling the satchel closed with a rough jerk. "You already ate your share. Did I desecrate my brother's grave just so you could eat everything? He must be either angry with me or laughing at me somewhere, and it's all because of you."
"Don't worry. We'll buy food in that village over there." She pointed past his shoulder. Her arm extended, thin and trembling from the heat.
Thomas followed the line of her finger. A smear of grey against the gold. Smoke rose in a thin white thread, twisting, dissolving into the sky.
"You'll eat nothing," he said, kicking the horse into motion again. "No wonder I found you in the street. I suppose no one could live with you."
They entered the village as the sun began to slant. It appeared completely deserted. Doors open. Windows shattered. Houses empty. Only rats moved inside them—running through the alleys, stopping at doorways, entering, exiting, as if they were the owners of the place.
But there was one place. Its chimney was active. Smoke rose in a white thread.
Thomas tied his horse outside and looked at Sara. His face was dark with sweat and dust, his eyes hard and unreadable.
"Stay here and take care of the horse. He's the only thing we have. If you do, perhaps I'll consider bringing you something to eat."
Thomas pushed open the tavern door. The air inside was close and heavy with old grease and something else—something sweet and rotten that clung to the back of the throat. The tables were wooden, scarred. The men seated at them did not move. They were not eating. They were not drinking. They simply sat, their hands limp at their sides, their eyes fixed on a point somewhere behind Thomas's head.
The barmaid stood behind the counter, wiping a spotless rag across the wood. Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes bright with a fever that had nothing to do with sickness.
"You're a long way from anywhere," she said, her voice soft and crumbling like dry bread.
"Give me watermelon juice." Thomas did not sit down. He kept his back to the wall, his one hand resting on the edge of the counter.
"We only serve wine here. No watermelon juice. Ask for something else.
"What about milk."
"Donkey milk." She smiled. The smile did not reach her eyes. "And we have soup. Freshly made."
"I'll take milk. And the soup too." He moved to the counter, his one hand resting flat on the wood. He watched the men in the corners. They still had not moved.
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The barmaid set a cup before him, then a bowl. Steam curled upward, carrying the smell of rich broth and something underneath—something like old copper.
"Eat," she said. "You look tired."
Thomas did not lift the spoon. He looked at the men. One of them, at the far table, finally turned his head. His face was slack, his jaw hanging open. A thin line of drool ran down his chin. He looked at Thomas as if he were a piece of meat hanging in a market.
"What happened to this village?" Thomas asked.
"The farmers left," the barmaid said, still wiping. "They moved closer to Valkryn. Only a few of us remain. A few with a lot of patience."
"Patient?"
"Yes. Patient for dumb travellers like you."
Thomas's hand moved to his side—but there was no sword there. He had left it forever. Stupid.
One of the men stood. Then another. Then another. They did not rush. They rose slowly, like things waking from a long sleep. The barmaid stopped wiping.
"You should eat your soup," she said. "It will get cold."
"Lots of meat. And I can barely see any vegetables here." His voice was calm. "That's generous of you."
The barmaid smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "Many visitors have admired my soup... But no one came back for it."
Thomas, while cooling his soup, said, "I wondered why."
Thomas set the spoon down slowly. The clink of metal against wood sounded too loud. He looked at the men in the corners. They had not moved. They had not blinked. Only watched.
"Why is everyone silent?" he said. "Did I say something I shouldn't have?"
Thomas grabbed the bowl and hurled it at the nearest man. The hot broth splashed across his face. The man did not scream. He only stepped back, his hands clawing at his eyes. Thomas turned and ran.
He burst through the door into the pale daylight. Sara was already running toward him from the stables, her face white.
"They have heads in there! Human heads!" she screamed, her arms flailing. "On shelves! They're keeping them!"
Thomas grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the horse. It was already rearing, its eyes wide, the smell of blood driving it mad. He threw Sara onto its back with his one hand, then swung himself up behind her. The men poured out of the tavern—knives and cleavers in their fists. They were not shouting. They were not cursing. They simply ran, their feet pounding the earth in silence.
Thomas kicked the horse. It bolted.
The road was a blur of gold and grey. The horse's hooves hammered the earth, and behind them the men gave chase, their silence more terrible than any war cry. They ran like animals, their mouths open, their eyes fixed, never blinking.
Sara clung to the saddle, her face buried in Thomas's back. She could hear them—the heavy, wet sound of their breath, the slap of their bare feet on the ground. One of them threw a knife. It whistled past Thomas's ear and buried itself in the dirt ahead. The horse veered, nearly throwing them.
"They're not stopping!" Sara screamed.
"I know." Thomas's voice was flat, but his one hand was tight on the reins, the muscles of his forearm standing out like cords. The horse was tiring, foam flying from its mouth.
Then—a cart lay overturned on the road ahead, its wheels spinning. A dead man hung from its side, his body half-eaten. The horse shied, and Thomas had to pull hard to keep it from falling. The pursuers were closing, their silence filling the air like a held breath.
Thomas made a choice. He reined the horse off the road, into the tall golden stalks. The stems whipped at their faces, but the horse pushed through, the men following in a crashing wave. The field seemed endless, and the sun beat down, turning the world white.
Then—the sound of water. A river, ahead, glinting through the stalks. Thomas dug his heels into the horse's flanks. It leaped, crashing into the shallows, the water exploding around them. The men stopped at the bank. They did not cross. They stood there, chests heaving, and watched as the horse struggled through the current to the far side. When Thomas looked back, they were gone—swallowed by the golden field, as if they had never been.
He pulled the horse to a stop on the far bank. It stood trembling, its sides heaving. Sara was shaking, her arms wrapped around his waist.
"They almost had us," she whispered.
Thomas said, "They were going to put us in soup? I bet you'd taste awful even to them."
Sara said, "As for you, I think they would have just thrown you out because your old flesh would be hard to chew."
"Didn't you see how they were running towards me? Their saliva was dripping. I no longer know what world we live in—the world of humans or the world of monsters." Thomas said calmly.
For two days they walked, leading the exhausted horse behind them. The fields gave way to wild grass and scattered trees. On the second evening, as the light began to fail, they saw a thin plume of smoke rising over a line of low hills.
"Someone lives there," Sara said, pointing.
"Maybe," Thomas said. "Or maybe it's the same kind of place we just left."
They approached slowly, keeping to the trees. The smoke came from a chimney of a farmhouse—old, timber-framed, with a roof patched in places. A barn stood nearby, its door open. The sound of cattle lowing drifted across the still air. No figures moved in the yard.
Thomas left Sara with the horse and moved ahead, his one hand gripping a long branch he had sharpened into a crude spear. He circled the farm, watching. Still no one.
Then he saw the old man.
He lay at the edge of the cattle pen, his head resting against a stone. A feed bucket lay overturned beside him. The cows, calm and untroubled, had gathered near the fence, their jaws moving slowly as they watched the stranger.
Thomas knelt beside the body. The blood on the stone was dry, nearly black. The old man's face was peaceful, his eyes closed. Thomas checked for a pulse, then stood.
"He's dead," he said when Sara came running up. "Fell and hit his head. The cows have been waiting for their feed."
Sara looked at the body, then at the cows, then at the farm. "So… we can stay here?"
Thomas looked around. The place was isolated, but water ran in a stream behind the barn, and the land was green. It was not a village of cannibals. It was just a quiet death and animals that needed care.
"We'll bury him," Thomas said. "Then we will continue what he was doing before he died. We will feed the rest of the cows. Perhaps after that, we will rest here."
"How do we know there aren't others? Bandits, or—?"
"We don't." He met her eyes. "But we're out of roads. And I'm tired of running." He picked up the bucket and turned toward the cows. "Now help me drag him to the shade. We'll dig after."
Sara took one of the old man's arms, and together they moved him into the cool shadow of the barn. The cows watched, their breath soft and steady, as if they understood that the world had changed hands.
Sara looked down at him. "Is he dead?"
"I don't think he imagined he'd die like this. Perhaps a cow's rear end pushed him. He lost his balance. Then he fell on the rock." Thomas crouched, his one hand resting on his knee. He looked at the body for a long moment.
"Look. The cows are still eating."
"Yes. They're eating. That's all they know, like someone." He straightened, his eyes moving over the animals.
Sara hit Thomas on the arm. "What now?"
"I think I'll finish his work. Then I'll bury him." He rubbed his jaw, then let his hand fall.
"What then?"
"Many cows and sheep. There's no one here but him. And now he's dead. I think we'll stay here. This will be our home." He looked around the stable, at the rough walls, the hay, the pale light filtering through the cracks.
"Is that how luck works?"
"Yes. That's how luck works, for us. Not for him." He glanced at the body once more.
"Very sad."
Thomas dragged the old man with his one hand, taking him outside the farm. The body was light, as if he had been nothing.
"This is the second person you've buried," said Sara. She walked beside him, her eyes on the ground.
She looked at him and continued. "If I die, I don't want you to bury me. Just give me to the cows."
Thomas stopped. He laid the old man down carefully.
"Cows do not eat meat, especially spoiled meat."
"Just don't bury me." She lowered her eyes.
"I hate the dark."
Thomas stared at her for a moment. Then he picked up a shovel that leaned against the stable wall. He handed it to her.
"Everyone I met at Thornholl said the same thing. But I'm beginning to understand somehow."
Sara said, "You don't understand anything."
"Tell me, girl, what's the story with that triangle? Is it really true?"
"No." She swallowed. "My brothers put it there for me to remember that I am not one of them."
"Perhaps this will serve your interests. Come. I need help. I only have one hand." He turned back to the earth.
Sara walked over and took the shovel. She watched him for a moment.
"You know something?"
Thomas began to dig. "What?"
"The only two people you've buried... you robbed them afterwards. So we're the same after all."
"You can't rob the dead." He drove the shovel into the earth, his one hand firm on the handle. "Besides, he'll be grateful that someone will take care of his cows."
Sara was surprised to see Thomas smile for the first time. "That will be us."
" stop talking. a little silence. Out of respect for this man. Come on. Dig."