As soon as George heard Aeron's weak voice, he turned and sprinted toward him, his steps uneven but determined. The rain hammered down, mixing with the blood on his face and clothes. He knelt beside Aeron, his breath labored but steady.
"The beasts have been dealt with... as far as I can calculate," George said, his voice measured, though his exhaustion was evident.
Aeron looked at him, surprise flashing across his face. "Why are you saving me...?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "I'm a criminal!"
Before Aeron could say more, George interrupted, his tone firm yet calm. "It's my duty to protect you until you reach your execution," he said, his gaze unwavering. His words carried a strange blend of formality and resolve, as if this task was not just an obligation but a principle he refused to abandon.
Aeron stared at him, the weight of George's conviction pressing down harder than the rain. For a moment, neither spoke, the storm filling the silence between them.
Aeron gritted his teeth, trying to push himself up. His arms trembled, the shard of glass in his leg making every movement excruciating. He strained, managing to lift himself slightly, but his strength gave out, and he collapsed back onto the ground.
"I think... I cannot move..." he muttered, his voice weak and filled with frustration.
His vision began to blur, exhaustion finally taking its toll. The last thing he saw before succumbing to unconsciousness was George Vincent Charles standing nearby, silhouetted against the faint glow of the rain-soaked lanterns, his rapier still in hand.
When Aeron opened his eyes again, he was disoriented. The storm had passed, and an eerie silence hung in the air. He blinked, surprised to find himself alive. The pain in his leg was still there but dulled. He glanced down and noticed the glass shard was gone, the wound roughly bandaged with strips of cloth.
Groaning, he forced himself upright. His muscles protested with every movement, but he managed to stand, leaning heavily against a nearby rock. Taking a few agonizing steps, he surveyed his surroundings.
The scene was grim. The ground was littered with the corpses of beasts, their grotesque forms sprawled across the wet earth. The air smelled of blood and rain.
Then he saw it.
Not far from where he had awakened lay the still body of George Vincent Charles. Aeron froze, his breath catching in his throat. Slowly, he stumbled closer, each step feeling heavier than the last.
George's lifeless eyes stared skyward, unblinking. His skin had taken on a faint greenish hue, his face pale and cold. Blood spattered his once-fancy attire, his chest and arms covered in deep wounds that told of a fierce battle.
Beside him lay his rapier, its blade chipped and smeared with dark stains. Even in death, George's posture seemed composed, as if he had fought with dignity until his final breath.
Aeron knelt beside the body, his heart sinking as he reached out hesitantly. George's skin was ice-cold, his form unmoving. The man who had saved him, who had fought for his survival despite the sentence that awaited him, was gone.
Aeron gripped his longsword tightly, using it as a makeshift crutch to steady himself. Each step was slow and deliberate, his injured leg protesting with every movement. He leaned against the rough bark of a tree for support, pausing to catch his breath.
The forest around him was dense and shadowed, the towering trees forming a canopy so thick that only faint streaks of sunlight managed to pierce through. The air was damp and heavy, carrying the scent of rain and earth. The leaves rustled gently above him, their movement masking the faint noises of distant creatures.
Aeron's eyes darted warily from one shadow to another, his body tense despite his exhaustion. The weight of the longsword in his hand was both comforting and burdensome, a reminder of the battles yet to come.
The forest floor was uneven, littered with fallen branches and patches of mud that made his progress even more difficult. His fingers brushed against the rough bark of another tree as he steadied himself, the faint sound of his labored breathing breaking the forest's quiet.
As Aeron continued his arduous journey through the dense forest, he suddenly emerged onto a cliff's edge. The ground leveled out before dropping sharply, and he paused, leaning heavily on his longsword as he took in the view.
The scenery below was serene, almost deceptively so compared to the chaos he had just survived. A small village lay nestled in the valley about three kilometers down, its humble homes clustered together. Smoke rose lazily from a few chimneys, and fields of crops surrounded the settlement, their neat rows a testament to the villagers' hard work.
Aeron squinted, scanning the area carefully. He saw movement—figures tending to the fields and a small group of children running around near a central well. It seemed peaceful, untouched by the calamities that had scarred his life.
With a heavy sigh, Aeron adjusted his grip on the sword and began his descent toward the village. His injured leg made the trek slow and agonizing, but he pushed through, his resolve hardening with each step.
The thick forest began to thin as he descended, the tall, imposing trees giving way to smaller, scattered ones. The air felt lighter, and the faint scent of crops and earth replaced the damp, heavy musk of the forest.
Soon, Aeron reached the outskirts of the village. The fields of wheat and vegetables stretched out before him, their golden and green hues swaying gently in the breeze. Farmers worked diligently, oblivious to his presence as he hobbled along the dirt path leading to the village center.