The light was slipping away from the sky by the time Caleb dragged himself a few feet further down the riverbank. He clung to the rough earth, fingers digging into the cold, unforgiving soil as he pulled himself inch by inch, hoping to find some form of shelter before night fell again. Each movement sent flares of pain through his injured leg, arm, and abdomen, sharp and burning, leaving him gasping and lightheaded.
The remains of the day cast a grayish haze over the landscape, making everything feel distant, almost dreamlike. His body was near its limit, battered and bruised, yet something drove him to keep going. Maybe it was instinct, that raw survival impulse that he could never fully shake. Or maybe, he thought grimly, it was just stubbornness.
After what felt like hours, he found a slight depression in the riverbank, a small hollow shielded by a thick bramble bush and low-hanging branches. It wasn't much, but it was out of the wind, hidden from view, and far enough from the water's edge to feel marginally safe.
Caleb eased himself down, suppressing a groan as he shifted his injured leg. The throbbing was relentless, as though each heartbeat drummed out a reminder of his wounds. Closing his eyes, he tried to center himself, his thoughts straying to the moments that had brought him to this point.
He could still remember the first day he'd found himself here, out of place in this strange, ruthless world. His mind flashed to the luxuries he'd once taken for granted—the easy life he'd lived, with warmth, food, and shelter, all readily available. Life had been easy back then, effortless in ways he'd never fully understood. A pang of longing hit him as he thought of his old life, but it was quickly replaced by something else, something more bitter.
That life had made him soft. Complacent. The days of comfort had dulled his instincts, left him unprepared for the challenges he'd face here. He'd been so sure of himself, so confident that he could handle anything thrown his way. Now, he couldn't help but feel a twisted kind of respect for those who had truly lived like this. His situation had forced him to adapt, to change in ways he hadn't thought possible. It was strange, almost ironic, to find a sense of appreciation for the lessons this brutal world had taught him, lessons he might never have known otherwise.
With a heavy sigh, he tried to shift his focus, his mind returning to the present. His shelter was temporary at best, a flimsy cover against the elements, but it would have to do. His energy was spent, his wounds ached with every slight movement, and he knew that another day of traveling would push him even further toward the edge. He needed to rest, to conserve whatever strength he had left.
As the night deepened, the sky darkened to a dusky blue, stars beginning to flicker through the gaps in the clouds. Caleb watched them from his hiding spot, the cold seeping into his bones. He could feel himself slipping, his thoughts becoming disjointed and hazy, like he was floating on the edge of consciousness. He blinked slowly, fighting to stay alert, to resist the urge to close his eyes.
But his mind, exhausted and worn, drifted back to the warnings he'd been given, the signs he'd chosen to ignore. The Shawnee had spoken of the spirits of the land, of things better left undisturbed. He'd dismissed their words as superstition, a relic of an older time. And now? Now he wasn't so sure. He thought of the stone markers, the warnings left for him in the woods, and wondered if he'd misunderstood, if he'd missed his chance to turn back when he still could.
A gust of wind stirred the branches above him, sending a shiver down his spine. He glanced around, almost expecting to see the bone-clad figures lurking in the shadows, their silent, watchful presence a constant reminder of the dangers he faced. But the night was still, save for the quiet rush of the river nearby. For now, he was alone.
Caleb pulled his coat tighter around himself, the fabric rough and worn, its warmth nearly gone. His thoughts drifted once more, a faint, lingering regret stirring within him. If he made it through this, if he somehow survived the injuries, the hunger, the cold—he wouldn't make the same mistakes again. He would listen. He would respect the land in ways he hadn't before. He'd been arrogant, ignorant of the deeper connection between life and the earth that the Shawnee had tried to show him.
As his thoughts grew muddled, exhaustion finally began to take hold. He let his eyes close, the last flickers of consciousness slipping away as he drifted into a fitful sleep.