JOLNOCHAYA
Jol's breath came in ragged gasps, visible in the biting air as he trudged through the thick snow. El Ritch hung limp on his back, his body colder with each passing moment. Jol's legs screamed for rest, his lungs burned with the sharp frost of the night, but he kept moving. He had no choice.
Ahead of him, Bada cut through the undergrowth with sharp, deliberate slashes, her twin blades carving a narrow path through the relentless thicket. The moon cast a pale light on the snow-drenched landscape, its dim glow doing little to guide their way.
"How did something like that find us?" Bada spat, her voice strained with the exertion and underlined by a trembling frustration. She glanced back briefly, her eyes flicking to Jol and the boy draped over his shoulders. Anxiety marred her usually sharp features.
Jol didn't respond. He had no words to spare. His focus remained solely on the boy he carried—the boy who now felt as lifeless as the frostbitten trees they passed. El Ritch's shallow breath barely stirred, his once vibrant energy now reduced to a fragile flicker.
Bada stopped for a moment noticing something in the corner of her eyes, taking in a deep breath she started chopping again and led them around a sharp bend, and there it was—a hollowed den of broken and bent branches woven together in a chaotic mess, a remnant of something abandoned long ago. "In here!" she called, motioning for Jol to follow.
The nest reeked of old predators, the scent clawing at Jol's senses, but he didn't hesitate. Any shelter was better than none. He ducked under the low entrance, the brittle branches scraping his bare arms, and carefully laid El Ritch near the center. A predator's shelter, even though abandoned will keep another predator away.
The fire came quickly. Bada broke apart twigs and inner branches that were dry, from the nest's structure, her strikes against a stone with her blade, sending sparks flying into the brittle kindling. Within moments, a small flame flickered to life, casting a wavering glow across the cramped space. Jol stripped off his thin shirt, bundling it beneath El Ritch along with some branches to insulate him from the frozen ground. His own body, now exposed to the merciless cold, shivered uncontrollably. The fire's warmth was faint, its reach too meager to drive back the frigid grip that clung to the boy.
El Ritch's chest rose and fell so faintly it was almost imperceptible. His face was pale, lips tinged with blue. Jol knelt beside him, his hand hovering over the boy's cheek, not daring to touch, fearing what he might feel.
"He's not warming up," Bada said quietly, her voice breaking the silence. She was kneeling on the other side of the fire, her expression hidden in shadow but her tone betraying her worry.
Jol clenched his jaw. His hands balled into fists, his nails digging into his palms until they almost drew blood. He'd saved the boy once, fought for him, dragged him through hell to keep him alive, and still, it wasn't enough.
"Stay alive, El," Jol whispered, his voice trembling as he leaned closer to the boy's ear. "You hear me? You don't get to die. Not after all this."
But El Ritch's body remained still, unresponsive. Jol's heart thudded heavier in his chest, a sound that seemed to echo louder than the crackling fire.
_______________
Why had Jol grown so cold to El Ritch over the deaths of strangers?
He regretted it.
The question gnawed at the edges of his mind like a raven at carrion. He couldn't say their passing had struck him deeply, not in the way a true loss might weigh upon the heart. It wasn't their lives, fleeting and distant as they were, that mattered to him. It was their deaths—the meaning, or rather the lack of it—that clawed at him.
It was their senselessness that sickened him.
In their violent ends, Jol saw echoes of Agun and Misti, the two who had walked beside him, laughed with him, and fought beside him, now lost to the madness of this place. Their deaths were not a tragedy borne of valor or purpose but a cruel, meaningless twist. This wasn't the grand ceremony the Tournament of Venus was meant to be, where combatants clashed in honorable contest, forging their names in the fires of trial.
This was a slaughter.
This wasn't a test of strength or skill—it was a hunting ground.
And the idea of it was poison to him.
Poison because it whispered of memories he would rather bury. Poison because it brought him back to the flames of the village three years past.
{The unauthorized beast had come from the shadows of myth, a legend re-forged in flesh that refused to bleed.}
For centuries, such beasts had been dismissed as stories, spoken of in hushed tones around fires to frighten children. The beast that came to Jol's village was no fable. Its arrival was smoke that choked the air and fire that scorched the land. It came with a hunger for destruction, and when it was done, it left nothing but ash and grief in its wake.
It was there, in the inferno, that Jol had lost his brother.
The unauthorized beast tore through their world like a scythe through grain, and the village fell. Jol could still hear the screams of his people, still see the orange glow of the fire reflected in his brother's eyes—eyes that would soon close forever. The pain of that day had buried itself deep in his chest, a wound that refused to heal.
He had wanted to believe it was over, that such horrors were a thing of the past, but here they were again. Not the same fire, but something like it. Something that burned in different ways, tearing at him with cruel memories and bitter thoughts.
And so Jol grew colder, not because he didn't care, but because he cared too much. Because every stranger lost in this cursed forest, every pointless death, was a stone added to the weight he already carried. Every moment spent saving El Ritch felt like teetering on the edge of that same pit of despair.
He looked at the boy lying near the fire, still and pale. Perhaps saving El Ritch was a way to defy the senselessness of it all. Or perhaps it was simply a way to fool himself into thinking the world hadn't yet succumbed to the same madness that claimed his village.
And yet, the bitterness lingered.
Jol sat silently by the flickering fire, its warmth barely keeping the cold at bay. His breath formed faint clouds in the frigid air, mingling with the smoke rising from the embers. His gaze rested on El Ritch, his pale face illuminated by the orange glow.
El Ritch didn't remind him of his brother—not the bright, warm boy who had been Jol's light in the darkness. But he reminded him of his brother's helplessness, that cursed look of fear and confusion that had etched itself into Jol's memory. A look that screamed, "Why can't you save me?"
The thought gnawed at him.
'I am the most worthless man,' Jol had told himself countless times since that day. 'Even as I laugh and cry, I cannot spare the breath for another, my food wasted on me.'
He hadn't been able to save his brother, and that failure haunted him, an ever-present shadow clinging to his heels. Every joke he cracked, every grin he wore, every childish antic—it wasn't him. It was a mask, a pale imitation of the boy his brother had been. The eccentric attitude that shouldn't suit a man at all was borrowed. Stolen, really.
'I am always saved, not the savior,' he thought bitterly, staring at his hands. 'If only I could give you my life... If only I could take all of your sins away...'
Jol rejoiced every moment of his act, but now...
Jol's chest tightened. The weight of those thoughts pressed down on him, but he couldn't let it show. Not now. Not when El Ritch lay unconscious, not when Bada leaned against the den wall, her head drooping as she fought the sleep clawing at her. They were all exhausted. The endless running, the cold that seeped into their bones, the beast that trailed them—it had drained every ounce of strength they had left.
Bada finally gave in to her weariness, her head tilting to one side as her breathing steadied. Jol didn't blame her. He wanted to sleep too, to let the void take him for just a little while. But he couldn't. He sat there, silent and still, as the winter's chill crept closer, death's icy breath brushing against them all.
The forest around them shook violently, the trees swaying and groaning as if they were alive and terrified. The howls and screeches of the beast echoed through the darkness, a sound that sent shivers down Jol's spine.
He stared into the fire, his eyes unblinking, his hands trembling slightly.
He clutched his arms tightly, trying to push away the cold and the fear. There wasn't much else he could do now, except wait for the morning. If it ever came.