A Good Man Awakens

Chapter 28: Kendril

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, the gentle patter against the earth a distant sound as the world around me blurred into a dull haze. I lay there, half-submerged in the mud, the cold water seeping through my torn clothes, my skin freezing against the wet earth. The pain in my gut was a searing fire, burning through my body with every shallow breath. I could feel the warm, slick blood pooling beneath me, a steady reminder of just how close to death I was. My vision swam, the edges darkening as my strength drained away, drop by drop.

I was dying.

My thoughts scattered like the rain. Memories of Sophia's golden hair, Ged's stern but kind eyes, Ros's laughter in the kitchen. All of it slipping away as the numbness crept in.

And then, through the dimness, I saw him—a figure emerging from the mist like a shadow made flesh. His boots squelched through the thick mud, his cloak billowing slightly in the faint wind. He moved with purpose, yet there was no rush to his steps, no hesitation. His face remained hidden beneath the hood, but there was something in the way he walked, something certain.

My pulse fluttered weakly. I wanted to speak, to ask him who he was, but all that came out was a soft, strangled groan. My body felt like lead, my mind barely able to hold onto consciousness. Was this death? Some grim reaper, come to collect my soul?

The figure knelt beside me, his boots sinking into the mud beside my head, and his voice broke through the fog like a calm anchor in the storm.

"Easy now, lad," he said, his tone steady, almost too casual for the severity of the moment. "Just stay with me."

He reached down, his hands steady as he inspected the wound, and I felt the world shift—suddenly clearer and far more painful. The blade was still embedded in my stomach, the cold iron a cruel spike of agony that flared every time I so much as blinked.

My breath hitched as he pressed around the wound, his fingers deft but firm. A ragged, strangled groan escaped my lips. My vision danced with spots, and my muscles seized up as the pain clawed its way through me.

"You're gonna feel this," the stranger muttered softly. He gripped the hilt of the knife firmly.

For a brief second, I tensed, my body instinctively fighting the inevitable. Then, with a sharp yank, he pulled the blade free.

The world exploded into fire. I gasped, my back arching as a scream tore through my chest but barely made it out of my throat. White-hot agony seared through my gut, making everything else—the cold, the rain, the mud—disappear. I felt the warm rush of blood spill freely from the wound now, the gurgling sound of it mixing with the patter of rain.

"Stay with me," the man repeated, his voice somehow cutting through the fog of pain. He was already moving, pulling out a pack from somewhere beneath his cloak. With a practiced efficiency, he packed the wound with herbs, his fingers pressing the mixture deep into the gash to slow the bleeding. The smell of something sharp—bitter—filled my nose as he worked, the mixture stinging as it made contact with my torn flesh.

My vision wavered, the pain pulling me under, but the man kept speaking, his words grounding me. "I've seen wounds worse than this, lad. You'll live—if you fight it." He wrapped a bandage around my stomach, his hands surprisingly gentle, given the roughness of his voice and the brutal way he'd pulled the knife free.

I wanted to speak, to ask who he was, why he was helping me, but the words refused to form. All I could manage was a weak groan as the world tilted, the rain now a distant sound above the pounding in my head.

"Not your time to die yet," the man said, almost to himself. He lifted me effortlessly, my body slumping against his chest as the pain sent me spiraling again, every shift in movement pulling at the raw edges of the wound. I felt him lay me in the back of a wagon, the hard wooden surface creaking beneath my weight as he worked quickly to secure me. The cold seeped into my bones, but his voice was there, a constant murmur as he worked.