Lucas stood at the threshold of Blueriver. The familiar scents of the forge and fresh sourdough lingered faintly behind him. He had faced this with every town he visited — a quiet goodbye. Staring at the horse John had provided from the stables, a sturdy, older creature with stout, muscular legs and a long brown mane, he shifted his feet and took one last look at the modest village. John and Mia stood there to see him off, with Grayson beside them. The wolf-dog’s intense, beautiful eyes met his, unsettling in their silent gaze.
“Well, son. Best be off, then,” John’s deep, rough voice broke the trance. “Need any help?”
Lucas shook his head gently. “I’ve trained horses before… that’s how Sebastian—how my brother and I made money in the beginning.” He tugged his gloves tighter and, with a slightly awkward motion from lack of practice, mounted the horse. “What’s her name?”
“Her name is Summer. Ironic, eh?”
“Yeah…” Lucas managed a weak smile, then sighed. “Thank you. For everything.”
John simply nodded; his expression unreadable. Lucas turned to Mia, who stood with her arms crossed, her face neutral, cheeks rosy from the cold.
“You too,” he offered softly.
Mia did not respond.
“It was worth a try…” he muttered, giving a small wave with his gloved hand. He tapped his foot against Summer’s side, and the horse began to trot forward. Adjusting the bag of supplies John had given him more comfortably over his shoulder, he quickly entered the woods. Even at Summer’s gentle pace, it was much faster than traveling on foot.
The forest soon enveloped them, not as oppressive as others Lucas had traveled through, but magnificent in its own way. The pines spiked upward in near-perfect triangles, and snow clung to the branches with stubborn ease, ready to plop to the ground with the slightest nudge. Above, the sky twisted with light gray clouds, something the man tried to ignore.
As they moved deeper, the trees grew closer together, forcing Summer to slow her pace and Lucas to duck beneath low-hanging branches. A horse was not exactly practical in this region, yet he would need her once they were in the plains. Regardless, her warmth seeped through the saddle, and her steady, rhythmic breathing beneath him was almost calming.
An hour passed, with Lucas now wearing his mask, leaving only his eyes exposed. Flakes of snow began falling again, as if the world’s tears were so heavy they could no longer be held back. Summer snorted, her breath visible in the frigid air, and refused to move any further. “Alright, girl,” Lucas murmured, brushing a hand along her snowy mane. He dismounted, landing heavily in the thick snow with a dull thump.
He looked around; everything was the same, an endless sea of trees and frozen earth. Nature had a way of disorienting him, blending into an indistinguishable expanse.
With a determined pull, Lucas unsheathed his dagger, its blade letting out a sharp, echoing shriek. His eyes studied its intricate details: the blue, inscribed symbols along the metal, its curved design, the dark gray sheen of its polymer surface.
“Well?” he whispered, his grip tightening on the handle.
Then, like a breath carried on a thousand voices, the dagger spoke. Chepstow, it whispered, the sound soft and harmonious.
“Chepstow…” he repeated, testing the word on his tongue. He glanced around, then slid the dagger back into its sheath and reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. Unfolding the tan, weathered map of Ellgrick, he traced his finger along it, pausing as he found his mark. “A town… southwest.” Snowflakes melted against the paper, leaving small spots of wetness. Lucas shook the map off and folded it away, “…Dammit Sebastian. What’d you do now?”
Lucas knew well enough he wasn’t cut out for this alone. He placed a steady hand against Summer’s side to reassure her, but she jerked away with a panicked screech, backing up as her tail flailed wildly. “Shh… shh… what’s wrong?”
“Unsheathe the goddamn knife and drop it.” A voice startled suddenly from behind.
Lucas’s eyes flickered to the side, and his hand drifted down his body. “Alright,” he muttered, “nice and easy, okay?” He pulled the dagger slowly, but it caught, forcing him to yank it free more abruptly than intended.
“Good.” The stranger scoffed as Lucas turned to face him. It was a boy — or perhaps an older teenager — wearing a beanie that covered his deep brown hair, a silver knife gleaming in his hand. “Place it down… slowly.”
The boy’s wide, watchful eyes followed Lucas as he knelt carefully, pressing his dagger into the snow. As the young thief’s grip slackened, his hand lowering in a lapse of attention, Lucas swung the blade upward, slicing across his coat with ease and forcing him to stumble back. Though uninjured, the boy’s face paled as Lucas took a firm step forward, holding the blade just inches from his neck. Lucas could see the boy’s throat twitch in fear.
“Come on,” the boy whispered, a plea.
Lucas didn’t answer, his gaze flickering briefly to the small knife the boy had dropped. “This’ll get you killed one day,” he muttered,“I’ve learned from experience.” He pulled the blade back.
The boy gasped for air, his eyes locked on Lucas as he moved to retrieve his knife. Lucas denied him with a swift kick to the chest, sending him staggering. Without another word, the boy turned and ran.
“Motherfucker,” Lucas spat, bending to pick up the knife and slipping it into his belt before sheathing his own dagger.
Then a stench hit his nose. One of rotting meat.
“Reminds me of you.”
Lucas did not flinch at the second voice, instead twisting his body to face its source. “Does it?” he murmured, tilting his head. And there, before him, was his brother. Taller, slightly more muscular, his hair the same yet longer, his features sharper, and his eyes intense.
Sebastian smiled faintly; crooked teeth visible. “When Father died of that illness, and Mother… well… you had no idea what you were doing.”
“Yeah, well, I had your terrible teachings to help.”
“Yes, yes, you did.”
Lucas raised a finger, pointing accusingly. “You’re not real.” His voice was tight, his teeth gritted. “My—my brother warned me about this. The cold does things to your… your head and—”
“You see me, don’t you?” Sebastian’s lips tightened. “I told you the cold makes you hear things. Not see them. So, what do you think I am? A hallucination? An apparition?”
“No…” Lucas replied in a low, flat tone. “I’m not an idiot. I’m not foolish enough to believe you’re actually here, that somehow, you’ve just… appeared.”
“Or perhaps I’m dead?” His eyes appeared darker now. More than he remembered, and his face softened and hardened as the shadows swayed. As if Sebastian’s age refused natural time.
Lucas swallowed hard, shaking his head. The thought made his head throb. “The dagger would tell me.”
“Unless I am the dagger.” Sebastian lifted his foot before pacing closer. “The Odysseans loved mind games, after all…”
“The Odysseans—” Lucas began, but his words fell silent as Sebastian vanished into the cold. The words that left his mouth now swallowed by the earth. I’m going fucking crazy, he thought, snap the hell out of it.
Without wasting another moment, he remounted Summer, deciding her break had been long enough. Though still skittish from the young bandit’s encounter, she complied, moving forward into the vast, endless snow. Riding faster now. Hoping the crisp air against his features would calm his mind. Yet it didn’t, but instead reminded him of John’s home. The warm steam and chicken. Mia and her detached personality, as cold as the snow itself.
Hours passed as Lucas continued on, taking breaks reluctantly — once to feed Summer, another to let her rest. She wasn’t the sturdy mount she once must have been, but she held her own. Thanks, John, Lucas thought wryly. Then again, he mused, why would anyone give away their best horse?
Nightfall came quickly, the darkness sweeping over him as if only minutes had passed since he’d left Blueriver, and just moments before that since he’d been traveling with his brother. Deciding it was time to stop for the night, Lucas checked his blade for guidance, but it repeated the same word: Chepstow. Why this town mattered, he did not know, beyond the possibility that his brother could be there.
John’s pack included a light tarp — handy, Lucas thought — and he gathered mostly dry sticks to weigh it down, confident it would hold through the night. He angled it carefully against the wind over a bare patch of grass, one of the few places untouched by the relentless sleet. Other sticks he gathered were too damp to burn, so he abandoned the idea of a fire.
Laying down beneath the tarp, he felt Summer nudge her way under as well, though half her body stuck out into the night air. Settling in beside her warmth and her steady, rhythmic breathing, Lucas soon drifted into a light, uneasy sleep.
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