The trees ahead blurred into wavering pillars—dark trunks rising like a wall against the dying afternoon light. Aaron could barely focus on them. His legs shook with every step. His breath rasped. Neria's weight pressed against him, light as a feather and yet heavier than the wreckage he'd lifted to save her.
The river hissed beside them, rushing faster as the ravine narrowed. Mist clung to Aaron's hair. His tunic, torn and soaked, stuck to his skin with cold sweat and dried blood. He tightened his grip around his sister's limp form, keeping her against his chest. Each of her breaths fluttered shallowly against his collarbone.
"Almost there," he whispered, voice cracked. "Hold on. Please."
Neria didn't answer. Her head rested on his shoulder, cheek warm despite the chill, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. She whimpered once—small, soft, barely a sound. Aaron brushed dirt from her temple with trembling fingers.
The treeline was close. Just reach the trees. Cover. Shelter. Something.
A stone shifted under his boot. He stumbled, catching himself against a moss-slick boulder. His ribs screamed in protest. His vision pulsed with black spots.
Keep moving.
He forced his legs to obey.
A faint sound drifted from behind—carried by wind and stone. At first, it blended with the river: the crunch of debris, the whisper of scattered gravel. But then it grew sharper. More deliberate. Multiple footsteps, synchronized in careful rhythm.
Shadows flickered along the ravine wall.
Aaron's heartbeat kicked into a frantic spiral.
No—no, not now. Not here. Not when Neria—
He tightened his hold around her and pushed forward, veering toward the treeline. His boots splashed through shallow water, kicking droplets into the air. The wind shifted, pushing river mist into his face.
Another footstep. Closer.
Aaron's spine prickled.
He didn't look back.
He ran.
Branches ahead swayed with the gust, their leaves whispering like a warning. The ground sloped upward toward the forest's edge; roots curled from the soil like grasping fingers. Aaron climbed, dragging his battered legs through mud and loose shale.
A faint splash echoed behind them.
Someone else had stepped into the river.
Aaron sucked in a sharp breath. His chest clenched.
Don't look. Don't slow down. Just—
TWANG.
A soft, deadly sound cut through the roar of the water.
Aaron froze.
The world compressed into one breath. One heartbeat.
He twisted, instinct screaming—
Something slammed into his back. Hard. A brutal punch that drove the air from his lungs.
He jerked forward with a strangled gasp.
An arrowhead burst from the front of his chest, tearing through his tunic just above Neria's shoulder.
He stared at it—at the blood sliding down the shaft—unable to comprehend.
A second twang.
A second impact.
Another arrow pierced through his ribs, carving a line of fire across his side. His legs buckled. His grip on Neria slipped.
"No—" He forced his arms tighter around her. "No—no—no—"
The third shot split the air before he could draw another breath.
The arrow drove into him beneath the shoulder blade, the force spinning him half-around. Pain blasted outward in a white-hot bloom. His knees hit the rocks. Water splashed up his shins.
Neria stirred weakly, confusion stirring in her eyes.
"A—Aaron...?"
He couldn't form words. Only a choked gasp, wet and thin.
His arms trembled, barely holding her.
The forest blurred. The river roared. The world tilted.
Behind them, voices echoed—shouts, sharp and triumphant.
"Got him!"
"Three shots! Clean hits!"
"Told you he was still moving!"
Aaron staggered sideways, boots slipping on the river-slick stones. His lungs burned. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. His vision smeared into streaks of color—dark trunks, pale mist, rushing water.
Neria's fingers curled into his tunic.
"Aaron... hurts..."
His heart clenched.
"I—I've got you," he rasped.
Another lie. A last one.
He stepped backward, or thought he did. His limbs no longer obeyed. His balance wavered on a knife's edge. The river surged beside him, wild and hungry.
A rock shifted underfoot.
His body leaned.
Fell.
The water rose to meet them.
For one suspended moment, time stretched thin as silk. Aaron saw the treeline above—so close he could have touched it.
Then the river swallowed him whole.
The cold hit like a fist.
Icy fingers wrapped around his chest, driving the remaining breath from his lungs. The arrows in his back dragged him downward, the shafts ripping deeper as the current yanked at him. His arms, numb with shock, tightened instinctively around Neria.
Her scream broke into bubbles as they plunged beneath the surface.
The river spun them violently, smashing Aaron against submerged stones. Pain flared—distant now, muffled. His limbs were heavy. His heartbeat thundered in his ears like a drum underwater.
Hold her.
Don't let go.
He kicked, but his legs felt wrong—slow, sluggish. The current tore at his grip. Neria's small hands clung to his sleeve.
The light above flickered. Water roared past his ears, thick and deafening. The cold gnawed through muscle and bone, seeping into his chest around the arrows.
They surfaced for a split second—just long enough for Aaron to gasp a stuttering breath before the current dragged them under again.
He held Neria's head above water as long as he could. Her breaths came as small, desperate gulps.
"A—ron—" Her voice broke.
"I'm—" He coughed, choking on water. "I'm here..."
A lie. He was slipping.
The river slammed them against another rock, flipping them. Aaron twisted, shielding her with his body. His shoulder struck stone. Something cracked. He didn't feel it fully—not through the cold—but he knew.
The current pulled them deeper into the gorge where the river cut sharply to the right. Foam surged over boulders. Fallen logs bobbed like drifting spears.
Aaron tried to swim.
His limbs responded sluggishly, like moving through oil.
His consciousness flickered.
Blurred.
Dimmed.
But every fading spark inside him clung to one truth:
Don't let her go.
His fingers curled around her tunic. His last anchor.
Water filled his ears with a low, endless roar.
His vision darkened.
Neria's small hand pressed faintly against his chest—the arrow shafts brushing her fingertips.
"Aaron... don't..." she whispered.
He tried to answer.
His lips barely moved.
The river pulled them onward.
His strength bled away with each heartbeat.
Then—
Darkness.
Up on the ridge above the river, the assassins spread across the stones, weapons drawn, eyes scanning the frothing water.
The young assassin who'd knelt beside Lira pointed down to where Aaron had vanished. "I hit him! Three shots—clean through the chest!" His voice carried an edge of excitement. "He went under!"
Another assassin peered down the riverbank, squinting through the mist. "Can't see them."
"They're gone," the young one insisted, lowering his bow with a satisfied nod. "No one takes three arrows to the chest and lives. Especially not with a river like that." He gestured at the raging current, swirling with foam and broken branches. "Just kids. They'll drown before the next bend."
Someone else muttered, "Good shooting. The Queen will be pleased."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the group.
The young assassin allowed himself a small smile. "Should we report back now?"
"Wait." The voice came cold and sharp.
The leader approached the edge with steady, silent steps. He didn't look at his men. His gaze swept the water, expression unreadable behind the half-mask. His eyes tracked the line of rapids as they curved into shadow.
The young assassin shifted uncomfortably. "Sir?"
The leader said nothing. He stood at the very edge of the ravine, hands clasped behind his back, watching.
Waiting.
The young assassin waited—then spoke again, tone wavering between confidence and seeking approval. "Did you see the shots? They went clean through him. Twice. The third buried deep. There's no chance he survived that fall, let alone those injuries. And the girl was already half-dead."
The leader raised one hand.
Silence fell instantly.
The assassins stood still as stone, breath held.
Only the river spoke below, its voice low and relentless.
The leader's eyes traced the shadows beneath the overhangs, the shape of drifting debris, the widening gulf of white water where the river narrowed between boulders.
Minutes passed.
No bodies surfaced.
No screams.
No movement.
The young assassin fidgeted. "Sir, with respect, they've been under for minutes now. The current would have carried them downstream. If they'd surfaced, we'd have seen them."
The leader didn't respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the water.
At last, he spoke—voice low, flat, carrying easily over the water.
"We stay until nightfall."
The young assassin blinked. "Sir?"
"Stay." The leader's gaze did not shift from the river. "The Queen does not tolerate assumptions. We confirm the kill."
A tense pause.
"But—he took three arrows," another assassin argued weakly. "Even if the river didn't finish him, blood loss would. And carrying the girl? Impossible."
"Three arrows," the leader agreed softly, finally turning his head to look at the younger man. "Yet he still held the girl above the water as long as he could. Did you see that?"
The young assassin hesitated. "I... yes, sir."
"Strength like that doesn't die easily." The leader's eyes narrowed. "Desperation makes people dangerous. Makes them survive things they shouldn't."
The assassins exchanged uneasy glances.
One of them spoke up. "What are you saying, sir? That he might have survived?"
"I'm saying," the leader replied evenly, "that we don't leave until we're certain. Bodies float. Debris surfaces. If they're dead, we'll see proof. If we see nothing—" He paused. "Then we follow the river downstream and search the banks."
The young assassin's smile had vanished. "You think he might still be alive?"
"I think," the leader said carefully, "that the third prince has already proven more resilient than expected. The Queen will not accept 'probably dead' as a report. She wants certainty."
The young man swallowed but nodded. "Yes, sir. Understood."
"We wait," the leader repeated, turning back to the water. "If the bodies surface, we take them. If not, then we follow the river downstream until we find them or until we're certain they couldn't have survived."
Another assassin shifted. "And if we find nothing?"
"Then we track the shoreline until dark. If there's still no sign—" The leader's voice hardened. "Then we return to Avalon and report what we know. But I will not return to Queen Rina and tell her we assumed they died. I will return with proof or with nothing at all."
The assassins dispersed, forming a loose perimeter along the ravine's edge—silent watchers against the dying light.
Some descended carefully down the slope to search the near banks.
Others spread out along the ridge, scanning for movement in the churning water.
The young assassin remained near the leader, bow still in hand, eyes fixed on the spot where Aaron had disappeared.
"Sir," he said quietly. "If they did survive somehow... what then?"
The leader didn't look at him. "Then we finish what you started."
"The girl too?"
"Especially the girl." The leader's voice was cold. "She's a loose end. A witness. And more importantly, she's leverage. As long as she lives, the prince has a reason to survive. Kill her, and you break him. But alive—" He paused. "Alive, she's bait."
The young assassin fell silent.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the ravine. The temperature dropped. The river's roar became the only constant sound.
An hour passed.
Then another.
The assassins grew restless. Some whispered among themselves. Others paced.
The leader remained still, watching the water with the patience of a predator.
Only when the first stars began to prick the sky did he finally turn away.
"Enough," he said. "They're either dead or far downstream by now. We move at first light. Follow the river south. Search every bank, every eddy, every shallow. If they washed up somewhere, we'll find them."
The assassins nodded, relief evident in their postures.
"And if we don't find them?" the young one asked.
The leader's eyes glinted in the fading light. "Then we search the villages. Someone will have seen them. A wounded boy carrying a dying girl doesn't go unnoticed."
"Yes, sir."
The leader turned his back on the river, cloak shifting like a shadow. "Make camp here. We leave at dawn."
The assassins dispersed to set up watch rotations and prepare for the night.
The young assassin lingered, staring down at the dark water one last time.
"I hit him," he muttered to himself. "I know I did."
Behind him, the river rushed on—cold, patient, merciless—carrying its secrets into the gathering dark.