The forest was dark and eerily silent as Arthur and the group of people ran through it. Though some were injured and others required sticks to walk, they rapidly outpaced Arthur as they made their way to some unknown destination.

  Branches whipped against his face and arms as he pushed forward, barely able to keep them in sight. The uneven ground beneath his feet was covered in a mix of snow, dead leaves, and roots that seemed determined to trip him with every step. Cold air burned his lungs with each breath, and a sharp stitch had taken hold in his side minutes ago, but he forced himself to keep moving.

  The group ahead didn’t wait for him. Hell, they didn’t even look back at him. It was obvious he wasn’t one of them, and they made no effort to pretend otherwise. If he fell behind, that was his problem.

  Somewhere behind them, back through the trees and over the collapsed tunnel, the sounds of battle had long since faded and were replaced by a deafening silence. He wasn't sure if they were being followed or not, which he hoped they weren't. After seeing what the soldier-looking men did in that cave, the thought of what they would do to these sent chills down his already cold spine.

  He kept moving, stumbling through the underbrush, trying to keep the dim shapes of the people ahead in sight. They moved with quiet urgency, never speaking, never slowing. The snow muffled their footsteps, but Arthur could still hear the crunch of boots, the occasional rustle of cloaks brushing against low branches. It was the only thing that anchored him to the group—those fleeting sounds, fading further with every step.

  Eventually, the group began to slow. Shapes moved between the trees, less hurried, no, still cautious. One of the elderly raised a hand, and the rest came to a stop, forming a loose, silent cluster beneath the thick canopy where the moonlight barely reached. Arthur caught up a moment later, panting, sweat freezing along the collar of his clothes.

  No one acknowledged him as they stood there, looking ahead through the trees. Arthur followed their gaze and had to squint to see what they had seen. Illuminated slightly by the moonlight was a cluster of dark shapes in the distance, barely visible through the falling snow. They were buildings. Small ones.

  After talking amongst themselves for a moment, they approached slowly, stepping over old fences and broken paths that had been swallowed by time and weather. The structures were sagging, half-collapsed under the weight of snow and rot. Moss clung to what remained of the stone walls, and several of the wooden and thatch roofs had caved in entirely.

  It was a village, albeit an abandoned one.

  Arthur stopped at the edge of the clearing and looked around as the people moved past him. Some entered the buildings without hesitation. Others stayed outside, standing in silence, eyes wide as they took in everything that had happened. A few fell to their knees as tears began to flow. He watched as one woman started to cry, the sound muffled beneath her scarf.

  Arthur stood apart, unsure of where to go or what to do. He still had no idea what was going on, much less where he even was. Everything that had happened since the gas station felt like a blur—like a half-remembered fever dream that hadn’t ended yet. He had died. That much he was sure of. He remembered the gun, the pain, the cold. He remembered floating. Then falling. Then being thrown into this madness.

  Now he was surrounded by those who didn’t speak his language, who barely acknowledged him, and who had dragged him through a forest to this broken-down village in the middle of nowhere. They might have saved him, or they might have just needed him for whatever it was that they were doing in the cave. He couldn’t tell anymore.

  A cold gust of wind blew through the clearing, tugging at his clothes and cutting through the layers he wore. He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to preserve what little warmth he had left, and glanced around again. Somehow, the people had started a small fire, which was now starting to crackle in the village center. A few of the people were setting up rough shelters using salvaged wood and bits of cloth. Others simply sat against walls or tree stumps, staring into the flames.

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  Arthur shifted on his feet, unsure of how long he could keep standing in the cold. The numbness had started to creep into his toes, and his fingers barely responded when he flexed them. He had thought about asking them, but remembered that he couldn't speak to them.

  As he pondered about what he should do, he saw movement near one of the houses out of the corner of his eye. A small group of people was carrying someone toward the doorway of a partially intact building. Arthur recognized the limp figure immediately—it was the man he had dragged out of the tunnel. His leg was still bent at an unnatural angle, the arrow jutting from it untouched. Even so, he looked calmer than before, his breathing steady despite the blood loss and pain.

  As they passed, the man’s eyes found Arthur in the dim light. He raised a hand weakly, pointed, and muttered something under his breath. The others stopped, turning to look. They followed his gesture and spotted Arthur standing alone in the snow. For a moment, no one moved.

  Then one of them—an older man with a thick beard and narrow eyes—grunted something and gestured for Arthur to come closer. Arthur hesitated, unsure if he was walking into something good or bad, but eventually crossed the clearing.

  The wounded man looked up at him as he approached. His face was pale, his lips dry, but there was something calm in his expression. He reached out and gripped Arthur’s arm, not with force, but with enough intent to be clear. He said something again in the same strange language, his voice low but steady. Arthur didn’t understand the words, but the look in his eyes told him enough. It was thanks, pure and simple.

  A few of the others exchanged glances but said nothing more when he turned and slowly made his way toward one of the fires. He sat down near the edge of the circle, not too close to anyone, and held his hands out to the flames. For the first time since he’d arrived in this nightmare, warmth returned to his fingers. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to satisfy him for the time being.

  Some time passed, though Arthur wasn’t sure how much. The fire had burned lower, and the cold was beginning to creep back in despite his best efforts to stay close. Most of the villagers had settled into their spots—curled up near smaller fires, tucked into corners of old buildings, or huddled together beneath makeshift shelters. The urgency of earlier had faded into a heavy, exhausted stillness.

  Arthur had just started to nod off when two women approached him from the edge of the firelight. He sat up quickly, his heart lurching as they gestured for him to stand. They didn’t speak, but their expressions were unreadable, and Arthur’s gut twisted as he pushed himself to his feet.

  He followed them without a word, nerves tightening with each step. His mind spun with possibilities. Were they going to ask him something? Take him somewhere? Kick him out? He had no idea.

  But after a short walk through the snow-dusted ruins, the two stopped and pointed to a small wooden shack near the edge of the village. It was crooked and weather-beaten, with part of the roof sagging inward, but it looked intact enough to stay dry and out of the wind. One of them nodded toward the structure, then turned and walked away without a word. The other gave him a lingering look—still cautious, but not overtly hostile—then followed after their companion.

  Arthur stared at the shack for a moment before understanding set in. They were letting him stay there.

  Relief hit him in a wave. He bowed his head, unsure if that was even a custom they’d recognize, but it felt like the right thing to do. Then he turned and hurried toward the shack, his boots crunching quietly in the snow. For now, at least, he had shelter.

  The door to the shack groaned on its hinges as Arthur pushed it open. The inside was exactly what it looked like from the outside—run-down, barely furnished, and cold. One of the windows was cracked, and part of the roof had caved in at the far end, letting in small drifts of snow and a steady draft of freezing air. Still, it was shelter. The walls would block the wind, and the door could close. That was more than he’d had since arriving in this place.

  He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, letting the darkness settle in. There was no light except for what little moonlight filtered in through the collapsed part of the roof. He moved to a corner where the floor looked dry and the cold wasn’t quite as sharp, then sank slowly, his body sore and stiff from the day’s march.

  He leaned his head back against the wall and let out a long, shaky breath. For a few minutes, he didn’t move. He just sat there, staring through the broken ceiling at the sky above. The moon hung low and pale, casting a silvery glow over the ruined shack. Its light looked different here—sharper, colder, distant in a way he couldn’t explain. Maybe it was just the exhaustion, or the chill still buried in his bones. Or maybe this was a different world.

  He thought back to the gas station. To the clerk. To the gun. The sound of the shot. Then the chains, the darkness, the fight in the tunnel. The man with the axe. The old woman who exploded. All of it was real—too real to be a dream, too painful to be imagined. And yet, part of him still couldn’t accept it. Not completely. Whatever had happened to him, wherever he was now, there was no going back.

  Arthur shifted, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. He slipped off his jacket and draped it over himself as best he could, using it as a makeshift blanket. The floor was hard, and the cold still seeped through his clothes, but he didn’t care. He was too tired to keep thinking.

  As he lay there in the quiet, eyes growing heavier by the second, he let himself relax for the first time in what felt like forever. The firelight outside flickered faintly through the cracks in the walls. The sound of the wind faded into the background.

  And then, finally, Arthur slept.