Cold came first.
Not the sharp kind that bit at the skin, but the deep, soaking cold that crept inward and settled in the bones. Aarinen lay half-submerged in the ravine stream, his body wedged between slick stones, water tugging weakly at his torn clothes.
He was alive.
That surprised him.
Every breath hurt. His shoulder throbbed where the bolt still jutted at an ugly angle, each movement grinding pain through muscle and bone. His leg burned. His ribs screamed whenever he inhaled too deeply.
No laughter came.
None even threatened.
He rolled onto his side with a low groan and forced himself to crawl out of the water. His hands slipped on wet stone; twice he nearly lost his grip and slid back in. By the time he reached the bank, his arms were shaking violently.
He lay there, face pressed into mud and leaves, chest heaving.
Above him, light shifted.
Lanterns.
They were descending.
Aarinen dragged himself forward, ignoring the tearing sensation in his shoulder. The ravine narrowed ahead, walls closing in until the stream disappeared into a dark fissure barely wider than a man's shoulders.
He laughed weakly, without humor.
Of course.
He wedged himself into the crack and pulled, inch by inch, scraping skin from his arms, jarring his injured shoulder until his vision blurred. The rock pressed in from all sides, unyielding, indifferent.
Behind him, voices echoed.
"He went this way."
"Careful. He's cornered."
Aarinen forced himself deeper into the fissure until it widened suddenly and he tumbled forward into darkness.
He landed hard.
The world went white.
When sensation returned, he was lying on cold stone in near-total dark. The air smelled different here—drier, older. The faint sound of water echoed distantly, not from the stream above but from somewhere deeper.
A cave.
Or the beginning of one.
Aarinen lay still, listening.
Above him, muffled voices echoed faintly through the rock. The hunters were searching, but the fissure twisted in ways sound did not follow cleanly.
Good.
He pressed trembling fingers to the bolt in his shoulder.
There was no clean way to remove it.
He bit down on his sleeve and pulled.
Pain tore through him, a raw, animal agony that stole the air from his lungs and left him choking. He screamed into the cloth, tears streaming freely now, his body convulsing.
The bolt came free with a wet sound.
Blood poured from the wound.
He fumbled clumsily for his bandages, hands slick, vision swimming. He wrapped the shoulder as tightly as he could, every movement another fresh torment.
When he finished, he slumped back against the stone, shaking violently.
So this was him now.
No distortion.
No deflection.
Just flesh.
Time passed.
Minutes. Hours. He wasn't sure.
The darkness pressed in, heavy and intimate. Pain ebbed slightly, settling into a deep, constant throb that made thinking difficult but possible.
His thoughts drifted, unwillingly.
To Talan. To Brin. To Merrowen's clean, bloodless violence. To Ishar's calm eyes as he dismantled Aarinen's greatest protection with two fingers and a decision.
You will feel it first.
Aarinen closed his eyes.
"I do," he whispered.
A sound reached him from deeper in the cave.
Footsteps.
Slow. Careful. Not armored.
Aarinen tensed, heart hammering. He reached for the dagger he had taken from the hunter, gripping it weakly.
A small light appeared ahead—warm, unsteady.
A figure stepped into its glow.
Not a hunter.
An old man, bent slightly, leaning on a staff. His hair was white, his beard long and uneven, his clothes patched and stained with earth. A lantern hung from his staff, its flame guttering gently.
They stared at each other.
"You're bleeding into my water," the old man said mildly.
Aarinen blinked.
"Sorry," he croaked.
The old man tilted his head, studying him.
"You fell badly," he observed.
"Yes."
"You're being hunted," the old man added.
"Yes."
He nodded, as if confirming a suspicion.
"Good," he said. "Then you have something in common with this place."
Aarinen frowned.
"What is this place?" he asked.
The old man smiled faintly.
"A place people come when the surface refuses them," he said. "Sometimes to hide. Sometimes to break. Occasionally to change."
He shuffled closer, light illuminating the blood, the torn clothes, the tremor in Aarinen's hands.
"Name?" the old man asked.
"Aarinen."
The old man's eyebrows rose slightly.
"Well," he said. "That explains the noise above."
He set the lantern down and knelt with surprising ease for his age. From a satchel at his side, he pulled out a small vial and a roll of clean cloth.
"Hold still," he said.
Aarinen hesitated.
"I don't have anything to trade," he said.
The old man snorted.
"Good," he replied. "Trade complicates kindness."
He cleaned and rewrapped Aarinen's shoulder with practiced hands, working quickly but gently.
"You lost something," the old man said quietly.
Aarinen swallowed.
"Yes."
"Good," the old man repeated.
Aarinen stared at him.
"Everyone keeps saying that," he said hoarsely.
"That's because most people cling to what hurts them," the old man replied. "Even when it helps."
He finished the bandage and leaned back.
"My name is Rhael," he said. "I keep this place."
"Why?" Aarinen asked.
Rhael shrugged.
"Someone has to listen to the stones," he said.
They sat in silence for a moment.
Above them, faintly, the hunters' voices faded. Either they had moved on, or they believed him dead.
Rhael watched Aarinen closely.
"You killed today," he said.
"Yes."
"You chose to fall rather than submit," he continued.
"Yes."
Rhael nodded slowly.
"That matters," he said.
"To who?" Aarinen asked bitterly.
Rhael's eyes met his.
"To you," he said simply.
The lantern crackled softly.
"You will not be safe here forever," Rhael said. "But you can rest. Learn. Heal."
Aarinen laughed weakly.
"I don't think I'm good at rest," he said.
Rhael smiled.
"No," he agreed. "You're good at endurance."
He stood and extended a hand.
"Come," he said. "Let's see what the dark teaches when you stop laughing at it."
Aarinen stared at the offered hand.
Then, slowly, painfully, he took it.
Behind them, the ravine held its silence.
Above, the hounds would report uncertainty.
Below, something old and patient had just accepted a new wound into its keeping.
And for the first time since his laughter had been taken, Aarinen did not feel alone in the pain.
He felt… witnessed.