Walker held off on using the ACTIVE! ability. The screen told him nothing about it, and he wasn't about to trigger a mystery skill in the middle of a march, even if it was the only one he had.
Deciding to keep it in his back pocket, for now, he continued hobbling forward. Wincing with every step, he could only helplessly watch the step counter tick upward.
Mind-numbingly boring, so he unshouldered his bow.
It looked plain at first glance, but sturdy. Walker had expected something crude — a bent stick with a string or at least something nearly as primitive — but this bow was anything but.
The body was crafted from alternating stripes of dark woods, polished smooth. A band of soft hide wrapped the grip just below center. At each end, the bowstring sat in a deep groove lined with a firm, rubbery material — reinforcement to prevent wear or splitting. The workmanship was unmistakably skilled.
Walker reached across his waist and drew an arrow from the quiver at his right hip with his left hand.
The shaft was hardwood, identifiable by the pores and vessel patterns. The fletching was delicate but secure, feathers of varying colors cut into perfect uniformity.
The arrowhead was a flat broadhead, its barbed edges sweeping back nearly the full length of the metal base.
He tried to nock the arrow and immediately felt the lack of muscle memory. His fingers fumbled. The posture felt wrong.
Eventually he managed to set the arrow and tested the tension, pointing the bow downward.
He drew, aiming at a nearby tree with a large knot bulging from its trunk.
The strain in his back surprised him — then he released the string.
The string snapped forward with a sharp twang, followed by a loud pop.
Pain exploded across his right forearm. Walker roared, clutching his arm. It felt like a strip of skin had been sliced clean off.
The arrow sailed wide, but he barely noticed. He'd taken a full string slap.
Among the crowd of people, a balding man nearby chuckled softly. Adjusting the bow on his own shoulder, he stepped through the crowd to Walker's side.
He reached out carefully. "May I?"
Walker, embarrassed but sensing no malice, nodded.
The older man lifted Walker's arm and examined the fresh welt — a swollen bruise the size of an orange.
He hissed under his breath, then released Walker's arm and opened a leather bag at his hip.
After rummaging for a moment, he pulled out a long strip of leather with several thongs stitched through it.
"You can have this. It'll keep your arm from gettin' bit like that the next time you shoot," he said quietly.
He handed it over, then muttered, "That's a stinger, alright. Easy to tell you haven't used a bow much."
Walker nodded, sliding his arm through the bracer. It covered him from wrist to elbow.
He struggled to tie it one‑handed until the older man, noticing, showed him how to pull the laces tight with one hand and loop them through a flap to secure it.
Walker paused, then decided on a proper introduction. "My name's Walker. What about you?"
The older man looked at him. Melancholy flickered in his dark brown eyes as he scratched his short beard. "Wilford."
Taking a chance, Walker asked, "Could you help me with my archery? Maybe some tips.
Wilford faced forward and walked a few steps before shrugging and then nodding.
"Sure. I can help you a bit. But you're going to have trouble keeping up with your feet like that."
He frowned, adding, "And you definitely won't shoot well. We need every arrow to count. You must be part of those new recruits they announced were coming in from the outlying villages some days ago. The rest of us scouts never saw any of them, so I had wondered if any of them made the cut, or if any of you all made it off the Castle grounds after what happened."
Walker nodded, resigned. "It seems like I don't remember much about all that. I don't even remember getting this gear. We've been walking forever, and it doesn't look like we're arriving anywhere anytime soon."
Wilford nodded and pointed at Walker's injured foot. "What happened?"
Walker sighed, frustrated. "I stepped on a caltrop off the highway. Foot feels like its burning up already. I don't think it'll hold up too much longer before it gets worse."
Wilford squinted toward the royal carriage farther up the column. He nodded to himself, then strode ahead with purpose.
Walker hesitated, unsure if he should follow, but tried anyway just in case.
He couldn't push through the crowd as easily as the older man, and the pain in his foot flared so sharply he had to slow down considerably.
The attempt only made things worse — his pace had now slowed even more, even though he tried to put weight only on the edge of his foot.
People began passing him. Children. The elderly. Everyone.
[INCREASE YOUR SPEED AND REJOIN THE MAIN COLUMN] The voice raged.
"I can't, damn you! I'm injured!" Walker growled under his breath.
He forced himself to move faster, stress tightening every muscle.
He still fell behind, but at least he wasn't in danger of dropping to the very end of the convoy.
After a few moments, Wilford reappeared ahead, dragging an exasperated‑looking woman behind him. Her dense brown curls spilled from beneath a blue cowl embroidered with golden symbols.
Wilford pointed at Walker's feet.
"Those are injured. Can't tell how bad yet. But how's a scout supposed to scout with feet like that?"
The woman frowned, studying Walker with a cool, assessing gaze. She seemed to be waiting, but for what, Walker didn't know.
In his confusion, Walker started digging in his pockets, searching for something resembling currency.
"Are you going to heal him or not?" Wilford pressed. "What good is a Walker who can't walk?" He joked to himself.
She gave Wilford a skeptical look, clearly unsure what he meant. After a moment, she turned her attention fully to Walker.
Walker stared back. She was pretty in a stern, no‑nonsense way but he respectfully bowed his head and said nothing yet.
She nodded twice to herself, deep in thought. Stepping closer, she spoke in a lilting, musical accent that took Walker a moment to parse.
"I suppose I can spare a little healing for one of our younger scouts, not even hurt in battle, but simply from walking." She chuckled.
Wilford snorted. "You don't have to put him down like that. He's made it this far and he shouldn't be too much younger than you. You know those outer villages don't have much in the way of opportunity for cultivating the skills and power of the Kingdom's residents. Walking's better than dying, anyway."
She arched an eyebrow. "I didn't insult anyone. He looks pale as a newborn, like he's seen a ghost or something he shouldn't have. But no matter — I've got the cure for what's ailing him."
Smirking, she stopped walking and pulled Walker to a halt as well.
Walker glanced upward, half‑expecting the oppressive voice to intervene. Nothing.
The woman lowered her head until her face disappeared beneath the cowl.
Walker heard her whispering, fingers twisting into an odd, deliberate shape.
The hair on his arms rose. A vibration thrummed deep in his chest and stomach. His lips tingled, going numb, and a strange taste — copper and citrus — filled his mouth.
His eyes snapped back to her as her hands began to glow with golden light.
She lifted her head.
Walker cried out. Her eyes — whites and pupils both — were entirely gold.
She thrust her glowing hands toward him and spoke in a voice that wasn't hers — a booming blend of masculine and feminine tones.
"Become whole. Life overflowing."
Golden light surged outward, stretching toward him before sinking into his body.
The shock was overwhelming. Walker squeezed his eyes shut as the energy tore through him.
His body was too raw, too sensitive — the vitality rushing through his skull made him cry out as his mind blanked for a heartbeat.
Gasping, he opened his eyes and touched his head, half‑expecting something to be wrong.
The woman lowered her hands, watching him with calm expectation.
She nodded, as though everything she saw matched her predictions.
To Walker's astonishment, all the pain in his feet and legs was gone.
He lifted one leg, grabbing his foot through the hole in his boot. The skin was smooth, whole, unscarred.
He took a few steps. The fatigue was gone too — completely.
Grinning, he bowed. "I am Walker Tonlevar. I owe you a great deal, Miss…?"
He let the question hang.
Breathing a little heavily, she smirked. "Oh, you certainly owe me. That was harder work than I expected."
Then she surprised both men.
"Now tell me — how did you get such a nasty Mark of Darkness on your soul? It's recent, life‑threatening, and powerful enough to cause you serious trouble if it's not dealt with."
She folded her arms.
"Walking may be better than dying, but you're on a timer either way. You could drop at any moment."