Chapter 2: Don’t Die Like a Dog

I walked through the wastelands—nothing but the hollow wreckage of long-dead cities. Skeletons of buildings hunched like broken giants beneath the roiling sky, their cracked walls smothered by moss and creeping vines. Tall weeds swayed with the restless wind, brushing against my legs as I trudged forward.

The cold breeze bit into my skin. Thin rain drifted down, light but persistent, dotting my face with droplets that trickled into my collar. The air smelled of wet stone and decay—like an old graveyard the earth hadn't finished burying.

Overhead, the clouds churned—dark and heavy, pregnant with more rain. They moved like ocean tides, wave upon wave sliding over each other in slow, ominous rolls.

My boots, if they could still be called that, had long since eroded from time and weather. Their soles had rotted away, leaving my bare feet to slap against the muddy soil, raw and cold. Every step was a reminder—I was no longer who I once was.

I stared down at my hand.

Gone was the callused, scarred, battle-hardened palm I had known all my life. In its place: a pale, veiny hand, delicate and trembling, like it belonged to a scholar or a sick child. I clenched it. My knuckles popped feebly, and a soft jolt of pain shot through my wrist.

I used to be one of the strongest. The strongest.

I passed a small pond half-hidden beneath tangled weeds. When I leaned over to glance at my reflection, what stared back at me made my stomach twist. A gaunt face. Sunken eyes. Skin sagging over bone. I looked like a corpse that had forgotten to lie down. No wonder my limbs felt light and useless.

All the muscle I'd fought to earn through years of brutal training—gone.

But I couldn't afford to dwell. I'd waste away if I stayed in self-pity. Even if I'd been reduced to a child's frame, I would climb that ladder again. I will. Strength wasn't something the gods granted. It was something I took.

If only I had my Obsidian blades—my twins. They always hung across my back like extensions of my will. Did someone steal them while I slept? Looters? It didn't matter. They were gone.

Come to think of it…

The hidden pouch inside my tunic—where I kept currency, maps, relics—was missing too. Emptied. Stripped clean.

Not that there was anyone to trade with.

The world around me was desolation. Ruined brickwork cracked in the mud, overtaken by roots and fungi. Hollowed storefronts lined either side of a dirt path, their walls sagging like tired men. I could still recognize the layout—the remnants of a market district. This had once been a town. Not a major city, but one of the outposts I passed during the old wars.

There, in the distance: the skeletal husk of the Advent Congregation's hall. A massive stone dome, now caved in, half-swallowed by vines. The banners once tied to its spires lay tattered in puddles.

We lost. We completely lost.

I clenched my fists again. Even that simple motion sent a spike of pain through my forearms. My body was failing me. My comrades were dead. Alfred.

Fucking Alfred.

I could still see the moment clear as day.

We stood on scorched earth. I held my twin blades—black and crimson obsidian humming in my grip—facing down the Virtue Priestess of Chastity. She stood draped in white cloth that clung to her body like soaked parchment, her hair bone-white and bound in a tight bun. Her face was a mask of disgust, as if even breathing the same air as us offended her. Then she raised her hand.

And Alfred broke.

He didn't fall. He shattered. His limbs snapped free from his torso like glass sculptures hitting stone. His body split in midair, blood gushing from him like a fountain. The pieces of him tumbled to the ground—arms, legs, skull—separate, disjointed. Lifeless.

She didn't kill me.

And I still don't know why.

Couldn't she? Did she spare me intentionally? I don't know. And honestly, I wish she had ended me. But…

Alfred wouldn't let me think like that. He'd slap the back of my head and laugh like he always did. I had to keep going—for him. For the others.

I still had my warrior's pride. Even if my body was broken, the road back wasn't unfamiliar. I'd walked it once before. I could walk it again.

My stomach growled. I hadn't even noticed how hungry I was until now. It felt like my intestines were folding in on themselves, cannibalizing what little was left inside me. I pressed a hand against my midsection. The skin was tight. Hollow.

I needed food.

I scanned the wasteland. Nothing but swaying weeds, slick moss clinging to the ruins, and the occasional patch of dead grass. No fruit. No edible roots. Just insects—ants skittering over stones, earthworms writhing beneath puddles, and swarms of mosquitoes feasting on my neck and ankles. Their bites burned like needle pricks. I slapped one away, leaving a smear of blood.

No larger animals. Nothing to hunt.

And even if there were… could I?

I had no weapons. No fire. The rain still fell—steady, irritating, indecisive. Too soft to drown the world, too stubborn to let me kindle a flame. Make up your goddamn mind, sky.

Without fire, I'd have to eat raw. Which meant whatever I caught, I'd have to kill with my bare hands.

Fine.

I flexed my fingers, testing the pain in my joints. Every knuckle popped. My bones ached from the cold, but I narrowed my eyes and lowered myself into a crouch. I'd done this a hundred times during the wars—on the field, in the woods, in the mountains with Alfred and the squad. Hunting without tools wasn't new. Doing it this weak? That was.

I slipped through the overgrowth, silent. My bare feet padded across the wet earth without a sound. I wasn't walking—I was prowling now.

Then I saw it.

A buck.

Orange fur. White speckles. Its head dipped as it chewed slowly on cud, its ears twitching at every stray sound. Young, maybe. Fast. But it was distracted. If I could just build momentum, lunge fast enough to wrap my arms around its neck and bring it down...

I crept forward, body low, breath shallow. The tall weeds blanketed me well—my clothes were so filthy and moss-ridden I practically blended into the terrain. No wonder Mitis hadn't seen me earlier. I was just another piece of the wasteland.

Closer… closer...

Five feet away. I tensed my legs. Almost—

CRACK!

Something slammed into my shoulder with the force of a war hammer. My arm exploded in pain, the joint snapping out of place with a sickening pop. The air whooshed out of my lungs as I was launched into the mud, tumbling like a broken doll. I hit the ground hard, mud splashing over my face, my ribs flaring with agony.

What the hell just hit me?

I lifted my head, wheezing.

A moose stood in front of me, its breath fogging the air like steam from a furnace.

Massive. Hulking. Its muscles rippled beneath its dark brown coat, rain gliding off its fur in sheets. It stood taller than a bear, and its antlers stretched outward like the wings of some primordial beast. Sharp. Jagged. Crown-like.

My heart thudded. My shoulder throbbed in its socket—no, out of its socket. I could barely lift my arm.

Of course.

Stupid. Stupid.

The buck hadn't been grazing in the open without reason. It had protection. And I'd been so laser-focused on the kill, I hadn't even noticed the guardian looming behind it.

How the hell did I miss something that big?

The moose snorted, thick nostrils flaring. It pawed at the earth, hooves digging in deep. It was preparing to charge again.

The sky above darkened further, bleeding from gray to deep indigo. Nightfall was coming.

And death might not be far behind.

At least I hadn't been hit directly by those antlers. If I had, they'd be slick with blood, and my guts would be decorating the grass.

But that didn't mean I got off easy.

My left shoulder screamed in agony—something was definitely torn, maybe even broken. My entire body ached, bruises blooming beneath my skin like rotting fruit. Thin, stinging cuts ran down my arm where the tips of the horns had scraped me, just shy of tearing me open.

This should've been nothing. Old Reygir had been skewered, burned, crushed, and came out laughing. But this? This made me want to collapse. Red and black flecks dotted my vision like falling ash. Every breath burned.

My body wasn't responding—not the way I needed it to. It was like fighting inside a dead man's skin.

This was the worst time to fall apart.

If I didn't move now, I would die. And if I died here, in some ruined patch of forgotten land, then everything—everything—would be wasted. My awakening. My Waiting. My rage. Alfred's death. All of it.

Reygir Bondyek would not die like a dog in the dirt.

The mother moose charged again.

I forced every last ounce of will into my legs. My jump barely counted as one—more of a desperate stumble—but it saved me. I flung myself aside just as the moose tore through the space I'd been lying in, snorting steam, blind with instinct. Its momentum carried it forward in a straight line.

Behind it, the buck was still chewing calmly, stupidly, like none of this mattered.

Piece of shit. I'll get you next time.

But there wouldn't be a next time if I stayed here. The moose was already turning, its hooves carving muddy trenches into the earth. My body howled in protest—bones grinding, tendons straining like rusted chains—but I moved. I ran.

I ran until I was out of its sight, out of its territory, out of the range of death.

Only when I was sure I wasn't being followed did I slow, limping through the ruined landscape until I found shelter—a collapsed old cottage with only a single corner of wall still standing. Just a chunk of brick, a skeleton of a home. But it was something.

I slumped down, my back pressing against the damp stone. Every breath was shallow. My muscles had nothing left to give. My body wasn't just empty—it was negative. I'd already spent energy I didn't have. My head swam.

I wanted to close my eyes. Just for a moment. Just let it fade.

But I couldn't. I knew what would happen. I'd drift, and I wouldn't wake up. I'd starve in my sleep, too weak to dream.

So I stayed still. Not out of discipline—but because I had to. My body locked itself down, conserving energy like some dying machine. The cold air clung to me, soaked into my skin, turned my limbs to stone.

So cold.

I shivered, teeth starting to chatter.

If only I had a blanket…

A blanket? Ha! Reygir, curled up with a blankie like a child? The thought floated absently through my fogged brain. Almost funny.

And just as I was about to give in, as my eyes began to blur and my thoughts slurred into static—

That's when I saw it.

A lizard.

The small, green-grey thing scuttled across my lap, mistaking my stillness for a rock, or a tree. I hadn't moved in so long, I might as well have been one.

I didn't think.

With a burst of desperate instinct, I lunged, my fingers trembling and slow—but fast enough. I nearly dropped it, but managed to clamp both hands around its writhing body. Before it could slip away, I shoved it into my mouth and bit down hard.

Its throat burst between my teeth. Cold, thick blood spurted across my tongue—metallic, bitter, viscous.

But even that... even that cold trickle felt like warmth compared to how empty and frozen I'd been inside.

I spat out the head and chewed the rest, even as the lizard thrashed blindly in my mouth—headless, dying, but not yet dead. It was horrible. The texture was stringy, the taste foul. Its twitching limbs scraped the inside of my cheek. Its muscles spasmed as I crushed its ribcage between my molars.

I was eating death. And I hated every second of it.

But I swallowed.

I knew I'd probably get an infection from this. Raw lizard meat? No way in hell that was safe. But I didn't care. It was either me or it. That was the equation now. Survival stripped everything else away. And at least I wasn't playing Kindness' little puppet. That bright smile of hers hid shackles—I could feel it. Her helping hand would've dragged me somewhere far worse.

Blood trickled down my chin. Bits of meat clung to my teeth. I was still starving. My stomach twisted in rebellion, threatening to vomit it all up, but I forced it down.

I needed to live. No matter how low I had to crawl.

My eyes grew heavy. My body, momentarily warmed, began to give in to sleep.

As darkness pulled me under, a face shimmered in the back of my mind—Patience. Serene, distant. Her lips moved, whispering words I couldn't hear.

But I knew what she meant. I knew that damn phrase.

"Wait for That Person."

No.

I will not wait.