Violet
The days on the road had melted like snow in the sun; every kilometer carried with it memories edged with ice and the dead heat of campfires, but nothing warmed the loneliness that pursued me. The longing for Draven was a pain that grew faster than hunger, a wound that would not heal even though I tried to cover it with steps and hollow words, with promises that no longer belonged to me. I pressed on like someone following a map drawn by trembling hands: without certainty, only faith and my fist clenched on the rein.
The forest changed without me noticing — the white gave way to gentler browns and greens, the trees looked older, their branches bowed like hands that advise and also judge. My legs collapsed beneath me more than once, my head spinning to a slow rhythm, and I had to lean on a tree whose bark was damp with dew. My vision wavered; dark spots appeared at the edges of my sight, and a cold fear tightened my chest: hunger had ceased to be mere discomfort and become a current pulling me downward.
I searched the horse's bag for something — a scrap of bread, a hidden fruit, anything that might restore my strength — and found only a knife. The blade shimmered in my hands like a mirror that returned a face I hardly recognized: hollow eyes, cracked lips, the veil dirty and sodden. The riverbank appeared like a miracle; the water ran clear and cold, singing over the stones, promising a little relief. I crouched and let the water touch my face, feeling the burn of thirst mingle with the tears I tried not to shed.
Clumsy, with no strength in my hands, I tried to fish with my fingers — as foolish an idea as it was desperate — and for hours the cold bit the flesh and weariness numbed my muscles. Each attempt was a breath of hope followed by frustration, until, as if the world took pity, I felt something soft bump my palm. A small fish, trembling, practically surrendered, slid across the water and lay there, fragile as I was. It felt like a gift I did not deserve; the river itself seemed to have decided to protect me for one night.
At dusk I built a fire with shaking hands, roasted the fish with more care than any feast would demand, and the first bite was more than food: it was a momentary rebirth, it brought saliva to my mouth, warmed my body and gave me courage to go on. In those hours Draven appeared in a dream, his face clear as ever, smiling in a way I kept like contraband. I reached out in the dream and he pulled me close — the warmth of the embrace nearly made me cry awake, but something shifted abruptly, the dream turned to nightmare: his face was covered in blood, his voice a scream, and then someone shook me, whispering in desperate tones: "Violet, you need to wake up!"
I opened my eyes with my heart pounding and the world hit me in layers: the sound of horses' hooves, the crackle of the fire, shadows moving hurriedly between the trees, low quick voices — men searching for me. The air smelled of smoke and fear. In moments I realized that the smoke from my fire had left a trail, a line any patrol could follow. The warmth and comfort of my meal had been dearly paid for; I had traced our trail like breadcrumbs in the desert.
My blood froze when I heard horses close by, the rhythmic thud of hooves breaking the silence like a sentence, and voices that remarked on the smoke trail with the calm of those who had found prey before. "Follow the smoke, there's the trail," one said, and the words opened an abyss in my chest. I trembled, slowly wrapped the veil around my face, trying to become a shadow, but the smoke still pulsed, and the riders' haste approached like a fist.
Panic came fast and visceral; I slipped between trunks and bushes, each brush of a leaf felt like an accusation, and the sound of footsteps behind me made my body want to run aimlessly. The forest that had sheltered me so many times now seemed to conspire. I breathed hard, tried to move without sound, but soon heard voices nearer and short orders: "Careful, men, over here." "This forest is treacherous." The air was thick with danger, and with every second my hope shrank.
I felt something touch my back — a branch? an animal? — and turned quickly, but the surprise was of a different kind: a gloved hand covered my nose and mouth with the firmness of someone who knows the instinct of the smothered; the fabric smelled of old leather and horse oil. The pressure hit like a hammer: the air fled in a breath that seemed to drag the world with it. My body fought automatically for air, to scream, but my senses failed in unison, vision losing its edges and voice sinking into a deep hole.
I fainted in a slow surrender, aware of each second slipping away like leaves swept by a river. Before total darkness, I perceived faces moving past me, muffled voices, the distant roar of horses, and a single image seared into my mind as I fell: the snow stained, Draven's face leading the battle, his hand open toward my eyes, pleading, and I powerless to reach him.
When the world closed, there was no certainty, only a fear so pure and enormous that it made me wish with all my soul to wake up in his arms, even if only for a moment, and I promised — in a voice that was only mine — that if fortune let me breathe again, I would carry his memory like a standard, that I would make his last gesture the reason to set the truth on fire and save whatever remained of us.
Then came the darkness, slow and complete, like the night after a battle. Before giving myself over completely I felt something cold and resolute: steady hands lifting me, ropes, voices arguing my fate, and the last image was of a face I could not fully recognize, shrouded in shadow, whose lips formed words I could not reach. The world went out and with it the painful certainty that Draven's sacrifice might have been in vain, and the promise burns inside me — I will survive, no matter the cost.