The road out of Bellrow twisted through the pines like a split vein, slick with frost and silence. Corren walked it barefoot, as he always did. Cold didn't bother him the way it did others. It was just another thing to move through, like fog or suspicion. His soles were thick from years of raw earth, his pace steady. The only thing that stirred as he passed was the wind and the quiet crunch of frost beneath his feet.
He'd left Bellrow before dawn, satchel slung over one shoulder, cloak thin enough to draw pity from anyone with a conscience. Not that he expected kindness from the places he passed. Villages didn't offer warmth to boys with eyes like knives and a silence that made others itch.
He wasn't running from anything this time. Not exactly. But he never stayed long. There were always too many eyes, too many questions, too many chances for the wrong person to hear a hum that no one else should.
He noticed them before he saw them.
Not with his eyes—his ears.
A sound drifted in, faint but sharp. A note, brittle as glass. Then another, deeper, like someone plucking a thick string underwater. They came in staggered patterns—four distinct melodies, off-kilter and strange. The song.
Corren froze.
They were close. Too close. The songs hadn't started a moment ago; he'd simply missed them, dulled by hours of walking. That meant the deaths were near. Imminent.
His deaths to choose.
He scanned the trees. Moments later, they stepped out.
Four men. Rough clothes, dented armor, the look of adventurers who hadn't seen a real contract in years. The tall one in front had yellow teeth and the smug slouch of someone who thought this was already over.
"Well, look at this," the tall one said. "Barefoot and carrying what? A coin or two? Maybe more. You lost, boy?"
Corren didn't answer. The first song sharpened—coming from him. A whining, cracked-pitch tune like a lullaby sung by a drunk. He'd be the first to die.
"He's not talkin'. Maybe he's dumb. Or just stupid. Either way, I think we help him lighten the load," said one to Corren's left.
His song throbbed like a drumbeat under water. He was the second.
The crossbowman up on the ridge hadn't spoken, but Corren could hear his melody now—a high, reedy whistle, like a tea kettle about to scream. Third.
Only one remained without a song.
Interesting.
Bren—the tall one—stepped forward. "Hand over the satchel. No one gets hurt."
Corren tilted his head. "One of you won't die today. Walk."
They laughed. Even the quiet one. But Corren's voice had carried no threat. Just fact.
Bren reached forward.
Corren moved.
The knife came up in a blur, carving across Bren's wrist before driving into his chest—quick, precise. The first song cut off mid-note. Bren hit the ground twitching, blood dark on the frost.
The man to Corren's left—whose death had pounded loud and clear—rushed him. A swing, wide and clumsy. Corren dodged, slid beneath the arc, and slashed the tendons behind the man's knee. As he collapsed, Corren turned the blade and stabbed upward, catching the throat. Second song ended.
A bolt fired. Corren twisted—too slow. It grazed his ribs, tearing cloak and skin. He hissed, pain flashing white, and ran for the trees.
The crossbowman's song was screaming now, shrill and panicked.
Corren climbed. Fast. Familiar. The forest wrapped around him like breath.
He caught the man halfway through his reload. Corren dropped from above, driving the knife down and wrenching it free before the body slumped beside him. The third song went still.
He turned back.
Only one remained.
The man stood there, weapon drawn but not raised. He looked from the bodies to Corren. "You said I wouldn't die."
"I heard no song for you," Corren said. "You should leave before that changes."
The man nodded slowly. Then he ran.
Corren didn't chase him.
He stood among the dead, listening. Nothing but wind and breath. His own, slow and steady. The snow drank the blood. The knife dripped once. Twice. Then he wiped it on Bren's cloak.
He hadn't wanted this. But the song didn't care what he wanted.
By the time the sun rose fully, he'd made it to the next ridge. A village smoldered in the valley below—woodsmoke, not fire. He would pass through. He always passed through.
Stories traveled faster than feet. By the time he reached the village's edge, someone would already be whispering of a boy with bare feet and a blade too clean. They would invent reasons. Curses. Gods. Warnings. They always did.
He'd first heard the Song at eight. A hum beneath his mother's final breath. At first he thought it was grief. Or madness. But it came again. And again. And each time, death followed.
He tried to stop it once. It didn't end well. He didn't talk about it.
Now, at seventeen, he heard them clearly. Each song different. Each death waiting. Sometimes hours. Sometimes minutes. Sometimes, like today, they came with no warning.
He didn't know why he heard them. But he'd learned not to ignore them.
The cold didn't touch him. Not anymore. The pain from the bolt was already dulling.
He kept walking, the songs gone quiet.
For now.