Lord Cedric finally made it to the cabin, collapsing in the corner of the small, dark space. His chest heaved with shallow breaths as he listened to the howling wind outside, every gust reminding him of how far he had fallen. It was cold, colder than he had expected, and his body ached from days of running without rest. The panic that had driven him to flee was now replaced by a deep, gnawing fear.
He sat there, his head resting against the rough wooden wall, trying to steady his mind. Every option he considered seemed futile, each one ending with the same vision, him, chained, paraded through the capital like an animal, and finally, the executioner's blade. He closed his eyes, hoping to shut out the images, but they kept returning, vivid and inescapable.
"I can't go back," he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse. "I won't go back."
