Sochyava, 1733. The night is an affair of knives.

Cold winds slash through the trees, rattling the skeletal branches. The earth beneath him is treacherous—softened by rain, riddled with roots that snag at his heels like dead men’s fingers. His legs threaten to give way beneath him, but he bullies them onward, staggering through the mud.

Behind him, voices. Distant, but many. They are still searching.

He has evaded death before, has stared into Its hollow eyes and walked away untouched. But tonight, Death is hungry, persistent. It hunts him like a bloodhound, trailing him through the trees. For once It catches a scent, It shan’t stop until It tastes blood.

Pain coils through his arm with every shift of movement. Blood slicks his sleeve, a sluggish but steady warmth seeping into the drenched fabric—an ugly gash left by bullet or blade, long since indistinguishable. One misstep and his boot skids against damp moss. He barely catches himself—fingers locking around a slick, unyielding tree trunk—and hauls himself upright. He exhales, ragged and shallow, and pushes forward.

The shouts behind him have faded, swallowed by the thick press of the forest, but he dares not slow down.

The trees around him stretch and sway, warping like figures in a fever dream. His fingers press into the wound at his bicep. Bleeding, still.

The cold wind bites through the fabric of his clothes and into his skin, threading through his ribs like a phantom hand. Pine and damp earth fill his lungs, laced with the tang of his own blood.

Beyond the thinning trees, a village lies nestled beneath the moonlight. Small houses are huddled against one another, thatched roofs heavy with frost. A church bell tolls—a hollow, lonely sound.

His body hauls him toward the only building lit at this hour: a humble inn, its windows awash in firelight. A place to rest, if only for a moment.

Relief flickers, but a new wave of exhaustion swallows it whole. His knees buckle and, with a last heave, he lunges forward.

Slender fingers graze the doorframe.