Darkness pressed in on every side. Cedric Hanan lay buried, unable to move, the air thick with the stench of blood and sweat. Every breath tasted of iron. His chest felt crushed under the weight above him.
With numb fingers, he pushed against something soft but heavy, flesh, armor, broken wood. He forced his arms to move again and again until, at last, a thin shaft of light broke through the black.
Blinking, Cedric saw where he was. He lay beneath a pile of bodies, comrades from Fonswyn, soldiers he had fought beside only hours ago. Their broken faces stared at the sky. Their blood clung to his skin.
He clawed his way free, gasping as he rolled onto the ground. His ribs ached, his jaw throbbed, and his body trembled with exhaustion, but he was alive. Around him the battlefield lay silent. Torn banners of Fonswyn were trampled into the mud, and the cries of the Fawryn victors had already faded beyond the ridge.
For a long moment Cedric lay still, trying to make sense of the betrayal. Where had the main host been? Why had the two hundred and fifty been left alone to die? His chest tightened with grief as he thought of Kellin, Vaelin, Rhudayn, and Azzan Mac Lugh.
But grief could wait. He was still breathing. He had to move.
As Cedric emerged, he tried to walk but stumbled, his leg failing beneath him. Nearby lay a broken spear. He grabbed it and used it as a crutch, limping forward into the forest. He did not know where he was going, only that it had to be away from the Fawryn soldiers. Each step was pain, but each step was survival.
Then he heard it. Running water.
"Water," he whispered, suddenly aware of a thirst buried beneath the pain. He forced himself forward, drawn by the sound, until he reached a stream. Throwing the spear aside, he dropped to his knees. With both hands he scooped water and drank greedily, but the sharp pain in his jaw struck him like thunder.
"Ow, ow, ow, ouch," he muttered, grimacing. He slowed, sipping carefully as if feeding a child. The cold water calmed him, and his mind began to clear.
He thought of Fonswyn Vale. The kingdom was known for its countless streams, many of which passed through or began within its borders. If this was one of them, then following it upstream might lead him home.
He picked up the spear again and began to walk along the stream, pushing deeper into the night. Hours seemed to pass, the pain making every moment longer. Then, from beyond the trees and away from the water, he saw it.
A roof.
Hope surged in his chest. A house meant food, people, perhaps even help. Leaning heavily on the spear, he dragged himself toward it. His vision blurred, his body weakening, but he pressed on. As he drew closer, the roof changed. The shape shifted. It was no house.
It was a lighthouse.
The structure shimmered in the darkness, its light golden and strange. Cedric squinted, unsure if his eyes deceived him. A lighthouse in the middle of the forest? There was no sea, no shore, no reason for it to exist. But none of that mattered. Relief might be inside.
He moved toward it, though he could not see a door. Perhaps it was on the other side. Only a few steps away, the spear snapped, and Cedric fell hard onto the ground. Desperation filled him as he dragged himself forward on his elbows, inch by inch, until he was only a hand's reach from the glowing walls.
He stretched out his hand and touched it.
Warmth filled him instantly, spreading through his broken body like an embrace. It was gentle, comforting, almost like the arms of a mother.
Then, everything went dark.
Cedric drifted into unconsciousness at the foot of the golden lighthouse.