The fire had burned low by the time the story ended.

  Most of the embers had collapsed inward, glowing dull red beneath a layer of ash. Somewhere beyond the ring of firelight, the forest shifted. Wind blew through bare branches. The man across from Akmenos hadn’t spoken since his last words were uttered into the fire.

  He stared at the flames as if expecting them to answer for something.

  After a long moment, he cleared his throat. “That’s… hell of a tale,” he said quietly. “City dragged into the Abyss. Devils walking the streets like they owned the place.”

  “Avernus.” Akmenos corrected. “Not the Abyss. The Abyss is home to Demons. Plenty of them in Avernus, though.” Akmenos stood and began packing away his supplies.

  The man glanced up, eyes catching the light. “You tell it like it’s already over.”

  “It is. I left that life on that hill four years ago.”

  The fire popped, a small snap of sparks drifting upward into the dark.

  “Avernus,” he repeated, quieter this time, as if saying the name too loudly might draw something’s attention. He watched Akmenos rise, eyes tracking the practiced way the gear came together. No hesitation. No ceremony. Just muscle memory. The firelight caught the edges of scorched leather and old metal as Akmenos moved.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Four years,” the man said. “That’s a long time to carry something like that alone.”

  Akmenos finished fitting his gloves. “Yeah? Well, I’ve survived worse. I made my peace.”

  The man rubbed his hands together for warmth, then glanced toward the dark line of trees beyond the firelight. Snow had begun to fall again. Slow, dry flakes started drifting sideways on a thin wind. Dawn was still hours away.

  “You don’t sound like someone who found peace,” he added.

  A brief pause followed, broken only by the sound of a horse on the nearby road.

  Akmenos shouldered his pack. “Perhaps. Peace isn’t meant for men like me.”

  The man hesitated, then asked the question anyway.

  “So why keep walking?”

  The fire seemed to settle, as if waiting for a response.

  Akmenos grabbed his axe and began to leave the fire behind him.

  “Because that’s all I can do.”

  The man snorted. “Yeah. Figured. Your kind—”

  Akmenos stopped and shot him a glare.

  The man raised his hands. “Soldiers, I mean—are always like that. You soldiers with your tragic backgrounds and mountains of regret all say the same thing.”

  The man lowered his hands and returned his gaze to the fire. “I’ve heard many travelers’ stories and they all say what you just said when I ask them why they keep pushing on. For once I’d like to hear something inspiring but it’s always ‘What else can I do?’

  There was another pause as he let the comment simmer.

  “Well,” he said, rising off of his log, “Best you keep moving. Trouble tends to circle men like you. I can’t have you dying in my camp or getting me killed in the crossfire. Hearthglen’s another half day north if you keep the river on your left. Small place. Cold. Too many mouths, not enough roofs.” He paused, then added, “They’ve had refugees coming through for weeks now.”

  That got Akmenos’ attention. “Refugees?”

  “Yeah. Word is,” he went on, “some warlord calling himself Thornblood’s been burning his way south of the peaks. Folks say he’s got monsters with him. Real ones. Demons, maybe. Maybe worse.” A shrug. “Most of it’s probably rumors.”

  “If that’s true,” Akmenos said, “Then they’re already too late.” Akmenos continued walking. “Take care, old man. Stay safe and thank you for the company.” Akmenos gave a wave without turning around as he left the fire behind.