The Void Between Worlds. The Young Man's POV.
He was running.
He had been running for days—weeks—he had lost count. His body was broken, his wounds were festering, his mind was fraying. The hunters were always there, always watching, always waiting.
He couldn't stop. If he stopped, they would catch him. If they caught him, they would take him to Vorlag. If Vorlag got him—
He didn't want to think about that.
He ran.
---
The void was endless.
No stars. No light. No ground. Just darkness and falling and the cold that seeped into everything. The young man moved through it like a ghost, his body translucent, his eyes burning.
He had been here before. In the space between worlds. In the place where time had no meaning and distance had no measure.
He had escaped once. He could escape again.
He hoped.
---
The rendezvous point was a crack in the void.
A place where worlds touched, where the veil was thin, where the hunted could gather. He had heard about it from others—other runaways, other failed vessels, others who had rejected Vorlag and survived.
He hoped they were still there.
He stumbled through the crack. Fell to his knees.
The ground was solid. The air was cold. The sky was dark.
He was not alone.
---
They were waiting for him.
Three of them—a woman with white hair, a man with a scarred face, a boy who couldn't have been more than fifteen. Their clothes were torn, their faces were pale, their eyes were sharp.
"You made it," the woman said.
He nodded. "Barely."
The man stepped forward. "The hunters?"
"Behind me. Close."
The boy's face tightened. "We need to go."
The woman looked at the crack. At the darkness beyond. "We need to hold them off. Long enough for the teleportation to work."
The man drew his sword. "Then we hold them off."
---
The hunters came through the crack.
Three of them—their bodies solid, their red eyes burning, their claws gleaming.
The woman attacked first.
She was fast—faster than the young man expected. Her blade found the lead hunter's throat, its chest, its eyes. It staggered back, its red eyes flickering.
The man engaged the second hunter. His sword clashed against its claws, sparks flying, metal screaming.
The boy grabbed the young man's arm. "Come on!"
The young man shook his head. "I can fight—"
"You can die." The boy's voice was sharp. "We need to go."
---
The woman fell.
The lead hunter's claws raked her chest. She screamed, stumbled, fell. The man cried out, tried to reach her, but the second hunter blocked his path.
The boy pulled the young man toward a glowing circle on the ground—a teleportation circle, already activated, already waiting.
"Now!" the boy shouted.
The man disengaged. Ran. Dove through the circle.
The young man followed.
The light engulfed him.
---
He landed hard.
The ground was soft—grass, dirt, something alive. The air was clean, fresh, cold. The sky was blue.
He was in a forest.
He didn't know where. He didn't know what world this was.
The boy was beside him, breathing hard, his face pale.
The man was on his knees, his sword still in his hand, his eyes on the sky.
"The woman," the young man said.
The man shook his head. "She's gone."
The young man was silent.
The boy stood. Looked around. "Where are we?"
The man stood. Sheathed his sword.
"I don't know," he said. "But we need to move."
---
They walked through the forest.
The trees were tall, the undergrowth thick, the path narrow. The sun was setting, painting the sky orange and red. The air was cool, clean, alive.
The young man had never been in a world like this. Most of the worlds he had visited were conquered—burned, broken, remade in Vorlag's image. This one was different. This one was still whole.
"This is a good world," the boy said.
The man nodded. "It is."
The young man was quiet for a moment. "Do you think the others made it?"
The man shook his head. "I don't know."
The boy looked at the sky. The stars were coming out, cold and distant.
"What do we do now?" the boy asked.
The man met his eyes. "We survive."
---
They made camp at the edge of a stream.
The fire was small, the watches were set, the food was scarce. The young man sat apart, his back against a tree, his sword across his knees.
The boy sat across from him.
"You're hurt," the boy said.
The young man looked at his wounds. The gashes on his chest, his arms, his side. They were deep, still bleeding, still hurting.
"I've been worse," he said.
The boy raised an eyebrow. "When?"
The young man was quiet for a moment. "When I rejected Vorlag."
The boy was silent. "What happened?"
The young man looked at the fire. "I almost died."
"But you didn't."
"No." He met the boy's eyes. "I survived."
---
The man returned from scouting.
"There's a village to the south," he said. "A few hours' walk. We can rest there. Get supplies."
The young man stood. "Then we go."
The man looked at him. "You need to rest."
"I need to keep moving."
The man studied him for a moment. Then he nodded. "Fine. We go."
They walked through the night.
The stars were bright. The forest was dark. The path was long.
The young man didn't look back.