Forged in Flame

The Poisoned Path

The decision to take an alternate route had been made after the second ambush in just as many days. The mercenaries hired by Seric had become relentless, shadowing the group and laying traps along the more well-travelled paths. Arin, though resolute in leading them back to the kingdom, had seen enough to know that continuing along the main roads was too dangerous.

It was after the ambush in the dense forest that Thorne had suggested the swamp—an idea met with both hesitation and grim acceptance. The swamp, though perilous in its own right, was treacherous enough that even the mercenaries might struggle to track them there. And it wasn't a path most would consider.

"We have two choices," Thorne had said, bandaging his arm after a close call with one of the mercenary's blades. "We keep pressing on through known paths, where Seric's dogs can track us easily, or we take the swamps—nasty terrain, sure, but it's off the main routes. Fewer eyes. But... it won't be easy."

Arin had stood silent for a moment, considering the risks. She knew the swamp held its own dangers—stories of quicksand, poisonous creatures, and disorienting mists that could turn travellers around until they were lost forever. But compared to the calculated attacks of Seric's mercenaries, the unknown hazards of the swamp felt like the lesser evil.

"The swamp it is," Arin had decided, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. "We'll have to move quickly and stay sharp, but we can't let them track us any further. We're already too exposed."

Rethis had been the first to express concern. "The swamp's full of natural magic," he warned. "Elemental forces and strange energies—I'll do my best to keep it at bay, but we'll be at the mercy of the land." Despite his warnings, he'd agreed that there was little choice. Every step on familiar ground risked another ambush.

And so they had turned south, away from the main paths, plunging into the murky depths of the swamp.

The swamp's thick, acrid air hung heavy as the group navigated the treacherous terrain. Every step was a risk—the ground often gave way beneath them, forcing careful steps over slick mud and decaying foliage. The twisted trees were veiled in mist, making it impossible to see far ahead, but they had no other choice. The mercenaries hunting them knew the main paths too well, and Seric's reach grew longer every day.

Rethis, walking a few paces ahead, had his hands raised slightly, fingers twitching as he channelled small bursts of magic to sense any nearby threats. He had been quiet since their last ambush—quieter than usual. His failure to detect the mercenaries in time haunted him, and it was clear he blamed himself for putting the group in danger.

Arin, leading from the front, cast frequent glances back at him. She could see the tension in his movements, the furrowed brow that had settled into his features. It wasn't just the responsibility of being their protector that weighed on him—there was something deeper at play. But now wasn't the time to confront him about it. They needed to focus on survival.

Suddenly, a sharp thunk split the air. Thorne cried out, dropping to one knee as an arrow embedded itself in his side. "Damn it!" he cursed through gritted teeth, pulling the shaft free. The tip was coated in a viscous, black liquid. Poison.

Arin was at his side in an instant. "We need to move—now!" she barked, her voice tight with urgency.

Rethis spun around, eyes darting toward the tree line where the attack had come from. "We're being hunted," he muttered, eyes narrowing as he conjured a shield of shimmering light to protect them from further attacks. But the swamp was vast, and the attackers remained hidden. They were being toyed with.

Lyria rushed to Thorne's side, her hand glowing faintly as she attempted to heal the wound. The bleeding slowed, but her face fell as she examined the poison spreading through his veins. "This is beyond me," she said quietly, panic creeping into her voice. "I can't draw out the poison, not with my magic alone."

Thorne's skin had already begun to pale, beads of sweat forming on his brow. He tried to stand but staggered, his breath shallow. "We... don't have time for this," he rasped.

"We're not leaving you behind," Arin snapped, already slipping her arm around his waist to support him. "We need to find help. There's a village nearby—Rethis, can you lead us there?"

Rethis nodded, though his eyes betrayed his frustration. He should have sensed this threat earlier. He should have been able to protect them. "It's not far," he said, his voice clipped. "But we need to move fast."

The journey to the village was brutal. Thorne's condition worsened with every step, his breathing becoming laboured, his weight bearing down heavily on Arin. Lyria stayed by his side the entire time, her hands glowing softly as she did what she could to ease his pain, though her usual cheerfulness had faded entirely. This was different—this was life and death.

As they finally approached the village, nestled on the edge of the swamp, the air grew cooler, and the mist thinned. The small settlement was quiet, with simple wooden houses clustered together around a central well. It looked peaceful, though the group knew better than to trust appearances. Still, it was their only hope.

"Find someone who knows medicine," Arin ordered, her voice betraying her growing fear for Thorne.

They found help in a humble hut at the edge of the village—a mysterious herbalist, an old woman with piercing green eyes that seemed to see far more than they should. She moved with a strange grace, her wrinkled hands quick as she examined the wound on Thorne's side.

"This is no ordinary poison," she said after a moment. "It's crafted by those who know dark magic. But I can help... if you have the coin."

Arin stepped forward, her hand already going to her belt pouch. "We'll pay whatever you ask."

The old woman chuckled softly, her eyes lingering on Rethis for a moment before nodding. "Good. Then let us begin."

---

As the herbalist worked, Lyria knelt by Thorne's side, wiping the sweat from his brow. Her usual carefree demeanour had given way to a quiet determination. Despite the poison eating away at him, Thorne managed to crack a weak smile. "Didn't think I'd end up here... being nursed by you," he muttered.

"You'll owe me when you're back on your feet," Lyria teased softly, though her eyes remained full of worry.

Meanwhile, Rethis paced by the doorway, his thoughts dark. The guilt weighed heavily on him—if he had been more alert, if his magic had been stronger, maybe none of this would have happened. Arin noticed his restlessness and approached him, her voice low.

"This wasn't your fault," she said firmly.

Rethis shook his head. "I should've sensed it. I should've known."

"You can't blame yourself for everything," she said, her tone softening. "We're all in this together, Rethis. We need you—I need you."

The words hung between them, unspoken feelings thick in the air, but the moment was interrupted as the herbalist stood, wiping her hands on a cloth. "He'll live," she announced. "But he'll need rest."

A wave of relief washed over the group, though they knew their journey was far from over.

---

As night fell, the group gathered around a small fire outside the herbalist's hut. Thorne slept, his breathing steady but weak. Lyria remained by his side, while Arin and Rethis took turns keeping watch. The poison had been dealt with, but Seric's shadow still loomed large.

Rethis stared into the fire, his thoughts still swirling with doubt. "Seric won't stop," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "We're being hunted, and I can't protect you all."

Arin glanced at him, her heart heavy. "You don't have to carry that burden alone, Rethis. We'll face whatever comes together."

He looked at her, his eyes dark with inner conflict, but there was a flicker of something else there too—something deeper, more personal. And though the night was still and quiet, they both knew that the real storm was still ahead of them.

In the shadows of the trees, a pair of eyes watched them—unblinking, calculating. Seric's agents were never far behind.