The road did not forgive weakness.
It narrowed as it climbed, shedding the remnants of trade and intention until it became little more than a scar across the hills. Aarinen followed it anyway, boots scraping loose stone, breath measured because anything faster sent pain tearing through his ribs.
Dusk deepened.
The Quiet Hour arrived without ceremony, as it always did now—no hush of the world, no metaphysical tightening. Just the sun lowering, staining the clouds the color of old wounds.
And pain.
Pure. Undiluted.
Aarinen slowed, jaw clenched. Every step felt earned in blood. He missed the laughter—not because it had been comforting, but because it had been useful. Pain had once been a weapon he carried unconsciously.
Now it was a debt collector.
He reached the crest of the hill just as the first horn sounded behind him.
Not Merrowen's tonal alarms.
This was older.
Shorter.
Three notes, repeated.
Hunting call.
Aarinen did not turn around.
He did not need to.
The ground told him enough. Vibrations carried through stone and soil—multiple riders, spaced deliberately, not charging but closing. They were not trying to catch him quickly.
They were trying to exhaust him.
He left the road immediately.
The slope on the far side dropped sharply into a gully choked with thornbrush and broken shale. Aarinen slid more than climbed, tearing his palms, barely staying upright. Pain flared white-hot, stealing his breath.
No laughter came.
Only a low, involuntary groan.
Good, he told himself bitterly. Now you know what it costs.
The horns sounded again, closer.
They had trackers.
Not dogs—something better trained.
Aarinen forced himself to keep moving, ducking under thorned branches, letting them tear at his coat to scatter scent. He reached the gully floor and turned sharply upstream, wading directly through the shallow water despite the shock of cold against his wounds.
It helped.
But not enough.
The hunters emerged above him moments later—five figures on dark, lean horses, cloaked and masked, their movements efficient, unemotional. No banners. No colors.
Professionals.
One dismounted smoothly and knelt, fingers brushing the disturbed earth.
"He's hurt," the hunter said. "Slowed."
Another tilted their head, listening.
"No laughter," they added. "Target condition altered."
That gave them pause.
"Confirm?" the leader asked.
The first hunter nodded.
"The translation is offline," they said. "Or suppressed."
A murmur rippled through the group.
"That changes engagement parameters," someone muttered.
The leader considered, then raised a hand.
"Proceed," he said. "Cautious advance. Do not close alone."
Aarinen heard none of this.
He was too busy running.
The gully widened into scrubland broken by boulders and dead trees. Moonlight filtered through thin cloud, casting long, treacherous shadows. He stumbled twice, skinning his knee badly the second time.
He did not stop.
His lungs burned. His vision narrowed. Each breath tasted metallic.
Another horn call—closer still.
They were flanking him.
Aarinen veered toward a cluster of standing stones ahead, half-buried monoliths arranged in no pattern he recognized. He didn't choose them because they felt powerful.
He chose them because they offered cover.
He crouched behind the largest stone, pressing his back against cold granite, fighting to slow his breathing. Pain throbbed everywhere at once, an orchestra with no conductor.
He closed his eyes.
Not to pray.
To think.
They expected the anomaly.
The laughter.
The distortion.
They were prepared for the old him.
Good.
Footsteps approached—soft, deliberate.
Aarinen picked up a fist-sized rock and gripped it tightly, knuckles white. It felt absurd. Primitive.
Human.
A shadow crossed the ground.
The hunter stepped into view—masked, leather-clad, crossbow leveled, movements smooth and economical. Their eyes flicked across the stones, calculating angles.
Aarinen waited until the last possible moment.
Then he stepped out.
The hunter fired instantly.
Aarinen twisted—not fast enough.
The bolt tore through his shoulder, spinning him sideways into the stone. Pain detonated, blinding, absolute. He screamed, actually screamed, the sound raw and uncontrolled.
The hunter froze.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Aarinen used it.
He lunged forward and slammed the rock into the hunter's knee. There was a sickening crack. The hunter went down with a sharp cry.
Aarinen fell with them, breath knocked out again, stars bursting across his vision. He fumbled, found the hunter's dagger, and drove it upward blindly.
The blade struck flesh.
Warmth spilled across his hand.
The hunter went still.
Aarinen rolled away, retching, clutching his shoulder as blood soaked through his sleeve. He stared at his hands.
They were shaking.
He had killed before.
But never like this.
Not close.
Not feeling it.
Voices shouted nearby.
Aarinen staggered to his feet and ran again, directionless now, adrenaline barely holding his body together. Another bolt grazed his thigh. He nearly fell.
The terrain dipped sharply ahead.
A ravine.
Too wide to jump.
Too steep to climb down safely.
The hunters closed in behind him, spreading out, cutting off retreat.
The leader stepped forward, crossbow lowered but ready.
"Stop," he called. "You're finished."
Aarinen turned to face them.
He stood at the edge of the ravine, rain beginning to fall again, blood streaming down his arm, his breath ragged.
"I know," he said.
The leader studied him.
"You're not what we were briefed on," he said. "That's unfortunate."
Aarinen laughed.
Just once.
It hurt.
It did nothing.
"I'm still me," he said. "That's worse."
The leader raised his crossbow.
Aarinen stepped backward.
And let himself fall.
The ravine swallowed him whole.
He hit the slope hard, rolling, bouncing, every impact tearing fresh pain from his body. He slammed into rock, into dirt, into water, until finally the ground leveled and he lay still at the bottom, half-submerged in a shallow stream.
Above, the hunters peered down, lanterns casting pale circles of light.
"He won't survive that," someone said.
The leader watched longer.
"Confirm," he said.
They began their descent.
Aarinen lay unmoving, lungs barely drawing breath.
Pain roared.
And somewhere, deep beneath it, something else stirred.
Not laughter.
Not yet.
But memory.
Of choosing to fall rather than be taken.
Of choosing damage over control.
His fingers twitched.
The stream carried blood downstream, thin and dark.
The hounds were learning.
So was he.
And the lesson was simple, brutal, and irreversible:
Without laughter, survival was no longer symbolic.
It was earned—inch by inch, choice by bleeding choice.