Chapter 115: FEVER AND FRACTURE.
The dark pressed heavy on me. It had no shape, no breath, no weight, yet it sat upon my chest like a tombstone. My lungs dragged against it, clawing for air that tasted of smoke and sickness. Every cough split me open anew, ribs grinding, throat raw. The fever came and went in waves, drowning me, leaving me adrift in currents I could neither fight nor escape.
I surfaced in moments. Garron’s face hovered close, his eyes rimmed red from sleeplessness, his hands rough as they pressed a rag against my brow. "Stay with me," he muttered, his voice gravel worn thin. "If you drift now, you’ll sink. You hear me, boy? You’ll sink."
I tried to answer, but only a rattle escaped, some half-breath that carried no strength. My tongue was thick, my lips cracked. Still, I forced myself to focus. Garron’s presence was anchor enough to keep me from slipping fully into the undertow.
Yet in the shadows beyond him, I saw shapes.
The scarred commander crouched, head cocked, lips peeling into a sneer. Break them, he whispered, though his chest still bore the wound I had driven into him. Blood seeped like a slow river, dripping onto the earth that was not earth but ash. They will not follow a vessel cracked. Break them before they break you.
Behind him, the system’s voice curled soft, cold, inevitable.
"You weaken. You falter. To hold men together, you must bind them with fire. Bind them, or they scatter like ash upon the wind."
I shut my eyes, but the whispers did not die. They burrowed, coiled, clung.
When I woke again, the tent was heavy with heat. My body was slick with sweat, my hair plastered to my skull. The fever had not passed; it had only shifted its grip. My chest ached with each breath. My sword lay within reach, the hilt caked with dried mud and blood, a silent reminder that strength was not yet beyond me.
Beyond the canvas walls, the camp stirred. Boots scuffed, voices murmured low. I could smell smoke, the thin tang of broth boiled down to nothing.
Hunger.
I rolled onto my side and pushed myself up, every joint screaming. The world spun. Garron’s hand was there at once, steadying me. His frown deepened.
"You should rest."
"If I rest too long, they’ll eat each other alive," I rasped.
His silence was answer enough.
The campfire circles were smaller now, tighter. Men hunched like wolves guarding scraps. Their eyes flicked up as I passed, some wary, some hostile, none warm. The songs of Hollow Pass were gone. Only whispers remained.
I moved among them, every step a battle. My body trembled, but I forced it still. I would not let them see. I would not let them smell the weakness leaking out of me like sweat.
Two men argued near the water barrels—thin rations, a measure too short. Their voices carried sharp across the quiet.
"You took more than your share!" one spat. His cheeks were hollow, his hands shaking as he pointed.
"I took what I earned," the other snapped back. "My blade’s kept your belly safe more than once. Don’t forget who bleeds for your skin."
A knife flashed, small but sharp.
I stepped forward, my voice ragged but carrying. "Enough."
The blade froze mid-air. Both turned. Their faces shifted—defiance warred with fear, hunger with shame.
"You want to spill blood here?" I asked, forcing my tone into steel though my lungs burned. "Then know this: every drop you spill feeds the North more than it feeds you. If you carve your brother open, you save the enemy their blade. That’s your choice? That’s how you want to die?"
The knife hand trembled. Slowly, reluctantly, the blade lowered.
But I saw it. The crack had widened.
They nodded stiffly, muttering something that did not reach my ears. The circle broke, but the weight in their gazes lingered.
By evening, the mutters swelled. I caught fragments as I passed.
"... cursed blood ..."
"... better under another ..."
"... marches us into graves ..."
The system’s whisper slithered close, sly, cruel.
"They do not see savior. They see curse. Break them, and they will follow out of fear. Leave them, and they will turn."
I clenched my fists until nails bit flesh. Fear was easy. Fear was fast. But fear was fragile.
Still—how long could I stand against it?
That night, Garron pressed food into my hand. A scrap of bread, hard as stone. A sliver of dried meat.
"It’s yours," he said simply.
I looked at him, suspicion rising. "Yours too."
His jaw tightened. "Mine will hold."
I saw the lie in his eyes. I broke the bread, split the meat. Pushed half back at him.
"Then we both hold."
For a moment, his eyes softened, the steel giving way to something older, something like grief. He took it, said nothing.
We ate in silence, chewing dust and salt, neither nourished, only surviving.
The fever surged again at midnight. I woke choking, lungs clawing for air. My body convulsed, bile rising. Garron held me down, his hand pressed to my chest.
"Breathe, damn you. Breathe."
I clawed at the earth, vision blurring. The system’s voice pressed down like a brand against my skull.
"This body fails. The vessel cracks. To hold them, you must burn brighter. Burn, or shatter."
I screamed, not with voice but with will, thrashing against the weight. My throat tore, my chest raged, but I clung to one thought, one ember.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Morning came bleak. The men rose slower, their movements sluggish, brittle. The march stretched across gray earth, a line of ghosts draped in rags of armor. Horses stumbled, wagons creaked. The land gave nothing—no green, no grain, no game. Only stone, dust, ash.
I rode, Garron at my side, the sword across my lap. My eyes scanned the line, searching for strength, finding only hunger.
A boy no older than fifteen staggered near the rear. His eyes rolled, his body swayed. He dropped to his knees, then to his face.
The line faltered.
I dismounted, steps dragging. I reached the boy, hauled him up by his collar. His body was weightless, all bone and tremor. His lips whispered something I barely heard.
"Hungry."
It was not plea. It was truth.
I carried him back, set him on the wagon. His eyes fluttered, closed.
Men watched. Some faces softened. Others hardened.
The system whispered:
"Mercy wins hearts. But hearts are weak. Fear wins loyalty. Which binds stronger?"
I had no answer.
By campfall, the air itself felt brittle, stretched thin like the men within it. Fires burned low. Bread broke smaller. Silence replaced song.
Garron crouched near me, his hand heavy on my shoulder. "They’re close to breaking, Ryon. If we don’t find food—soon—they’ll turn. And once they turn, nothing will stop the flood."
I looked at him, my vision clouded by fever, my chest still aching with every breath.
"Then we hold them one day longer," I said. "And another. And another. Until the earth gives or we do."
His eyes searched mine, saw the cracks, but said nothing more.
The night fell.
And with it, the whispers rose again.
"One day more. One day less. Which matters, when the vessel is already ash?"
I lay in the dark, the system’s voice curling into me, the commander’s sneer hovering in shadow, and wondered if tomorrow would find me still standing—or if tomorrow would shatter everything I had fought to bind.