Scout’s Blood

It was too quiet.

No crows. No boots. No sound but wind against bark.

That meant something had died nearby.

Darin crept along the treeline, every step deliberate. His fingers gripped a dagger—not his old blade, not yet—but a scout's short knife, weighted for silence.

They'd sent him out with three others.

He returned alone.

Halfway through the slope descent, he found him.

Not one of theirs. Not a Thirel man. Not even a mercenary.

This one had no banner.

Just a leather jerkin, a cracked bow, and a bleeding leg.

A border scout.

Darin crouched low, kept his distance.

The man was conscious.

He didn't reach for a weapon.

He just said, "Water."

His accent was thick — mountain-plain, from the east side of the river.

Darin didn't speak.

Just looked.

The man was young. No older than Darin. A little thinner. Covered in mud and blood and pine-needle.

He wasn't dying fast.

But he was dying.

Darin did what he wasn't supposed to do.

He gave him water.

Not much. Just enough to wet the tongue.

"You'll die slower," he said.

The scout tried to smile. "Lucky me."

Darin checked his pockets. No letters. No marks. No tokens.

He found a prayer bead: four-wood knot, strung with bone. It was carved with the symbol of the eastern saint — Saint Voer of Mercy Through Stillness.

Darin pocketed it.

He left the scout there.

Not to die.

But not to live, either.

He didn't tell Raive what he found.

Didn't put it on the scroll.

But that night, when the wind shifted cold again, Darin sat closer to the fire than usual.

And stared into it a little longer.