Darkness stirs, but does not hold. Something warmer rises through it - the crackle of fire, the hush of wind in tall pine.

You are ten years old again. Just Torrhen.

The air smells of charwood and horsehair, the copper tang of sweat. You’re sitting on the split log by the campfire. A soft breeze stirs your hair, lifting it like a mother’s hand. The camp is on the edge of a field. Blackweald, the locals call it. Your father says no Northmen have fought this far south since the War of the Ninepenny Kings.

A blade, blunted and notched, rests across your knees. Your knuckles are scraped. You’re still breathing hard. He stands over you, dark against the firelight, arms crossed. Harran, your father.

“Dead men never learn,” he says, not unkindly. His beard is rough with grey, his hair tied back with river-twine. His tone is firm but amused. “But boys who lose and listen? They live long enough to win.”

He drops to a knee. Eye-level. He smells of pine tar, leather, and the ale he only drinks after sparring.

“You’ve got too much pride for a ten-year-old. Just like your mother. But pride is a sword with no hilt, Torr.” He taps the blade on your lap. “Next time you face someone bigger, don’t meet them where they’re strongest. Step sideways. Let the wind carry you.”

A beat passes. He reaches out - a rough, calloused hand - and ruffles your hair. Then you hear it. The distant thump of hooves, approaching fast. A horn, low and sharp.

Your father’s head turns. His eyes narrow, jaw set. “Get behind the treeline, now.”

You try to speak. Ask what’s wrong. But he’s already moving - toward the other tents, toward the sound. Toward the end. The sky above darkens suddenly, clouds curling like smoke. The trees bend inward. Black pines twist like grasping hands. The fire sputters to embers, and his silhouette fades.

You run to follow, but your legs don’t carry you. You're still a boy. Still too slow. Too late.
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