Run Until I Disappear

Run.

That was the only instinct I had.

My feet moved before my mind did.
I didn’t think. Didn’t scream. Didn’t beg.

I just ran.

Through underbrush, through thorns and mud.
The wind tore at my face. Branches slashed my arms.
But I didn’t slow down.

They’re going to kill me.

Not arrest me. Not judge me.
Kill me.

Because I was born with the wrong blood. Because I was there. Because it’s easier that way.

— Catch him! a voice shouted behind me. By all the Gods, he killed Lord Alrian!

No.
No, I helped him.
I… I tried to—

A bolt of Ether split the air. An explosion shattered a tree trunk two meters to my left.
I threw myself to the ground, rolled, and ran again.

My heart pounded too fast. My breath was unsteady. But my legs refused to stop.

I stumbled down a steep slope. My boots slipped in the mud. I fell, rolled, got back up.

A voice echoed in my head:
They’ll always hunt you. You were born guilty, even if you’ve done nothing.

But I didn’t want to die.
Not today.
Not like this.

I ran for hours.
Or minutes. I couldn’t tell.
Time had lost its meaning.

When silence finally returned, my legs gave out.
I collapsed behind a rock, soaked, my back burning, lungs on fire.

The forest hid me.

I heard nothing.
Maybe they’d lost my trail.
Maybe I had just earned one more day to live.

Or maybe they were simply taking their time to surround me.

I stayed there, motionless, until night fell.

And in the silence, anger rose.

Not at them.
At myself.

Why did I go near him?
Why did I try to save him?
Why did I expose myself?

I knew better.
In this world, people like me don’t get to be heroes.
Not even witnesses.

Just shadows. Targets.

I rested my head against the cold stone.

I didn’t do anything. I helped him. He knew. He looked at me… he knew.

But he was dead. And I was alive.
And that was enough to make me guilty.

Later, I got back on my feet, moving slowly through the forest, my legs shaking.
I couldn’t stay here.

I needed to reach a village.
Find water. Sleep. Think.

I didn’t know it was already too late.

A day’s walk away, in a wind-battered white tent, two figures studied a map.

— Do you think he’s lying? asked the smaller one—a young woman with red hair tied under a traveler’s scarf.

— I think Ashes don’t lie, replied the other, an older man with a distant look in his eyes.
Not because they’re honest. Because they know no one listens.

He traced a path through the woods with his finger.

— We’ll find him before they do. And we’ll see whether that boy is truly a murderer...

He looked up.

— Or just the next to be sacrificed.