A tale of heroes and gods

We dragged Helios closer to the fire.

He was heavy — too heavy. Aelira took one shoulder, I the other, and even together we struggled to shift him. His body left a trail in the dirt, a dark, glistening smear of blood and grime. His legs dragged behind like dead weight. I could feel the heat radiating off him, unnatural and feverish.

My fingers slipped on his tunic — soaked through. Blood clung to every fold of cloth, gluing it to his skin. I couldn't tell where one wound ended and another began. The gashes crisscrossed like a madman's map, crude and violent. His chest rose in ragged jolts, his breath shallow and wet, like something drowning in its own lungs.

"Lay him on his side," Aelira ordered, voice taut and sharp as drawn wire. "I need light."

I obeyed without thinking, cradling his head in my palms as gently as I could. His hair was matted with sweat and blood. Bits of leaves and ash clung to it. He didn't stir.

The fire's glow danced across his face, turning his bronze skin a sickly hue. Under the blood, he looked pale — too pale. The kind of pale that made you think of funerals. His lips were cracked. His eyes, fluttering open for only a second, were unfocused and glassy. He didn't see us.

Aelira was already at his side, fingers running across his torso, pressing, assessing, calculating. Her mouth was set in a hard line. No panic. Just motion. She'd seen worse — or at least she acted like she had.

"Shoulder's deep," she murmured, mostly to herself. "Might've nicked the artery. Leg's worse. Femoral."

I swallowed hard. "Is that—?"

"He's dying," she snapped, not looking up. "If we don't stop the bleeding, he won't last the hour."

My throat tightened. "What do we do?"

She didn't hesitate. "We burn it."

I blinked at her. "You mean… cauterize?"

"I mean fire. Heat the blade. Hold him down."

She was already drawing her knife, a slender piece of steel I'd seen her use on rabbits and kindling alike. Now, it was going into flesh.

The flames hissed as the blade slid into the coals.

Helios twitched beside us. His eyes opened again, briefly catching the flicker of firelight. "Aaron?" His voice was a whisper — rasping, broken.

"I'm here," I said, leaning in close.

He groaned, a sound full of pain and frustration. "Hurts."

"I know. Just stay with me, alright?"

He tried to rise, lifting his head only slightly before it flopped back into my lap. His strength was gone. Every ounce of that Vidarian fury, drained.

Aelira pulled the blade from the coals. Its edge shimmered, dull orange.

"Hold his arms," she said.

I hesitated. Just for a second. But she noticed.

"Now," she barked.

I moved, bracing one arm across his chest, the other gripping his wrist. His skin was hot — not just fevered, but burning from within. It was like holding a furnace. His heart pounded against my arm, strong but uneven, like a drum skipping beats.

Aelira took a breath, steadying herself.

Then she pressed the blade into his shoulder.

The scream that tore out of him was not human.

It was raw, ragged, a thing born of agony and instinct. He thrashed, his body bucking like a wild animal caught in a trap. I tightened my grip, barely keeping him pinned. The sheer force of him — even wounded, even half-dead — was terrifying. His muscles convulsed beneath me, corded and unrelenting. Every inch of him screamed resistance, survival, pain.

The smell hit me next. Burning flesh. I gagged, the bile rising in my throat.

Aelira pulled the knife back, breathing hard. "One more," she muttered.

And then again — the blade, the scream. This time louder, hoarser. His head snapped back, teeth bared. Blood poured from the corner of his mouth. When it was done, he sagged like a broken puppet. Unconscious. This time, he didn't wake.

We sat in silence.

The fire crackled beside us, spitting sparks into the dark. Somewhere, far off, an owl called — a slow, mournful note, swallowed by the forest. The wind moved through the trees, soft and unbothered, as if nothing had changed.

Helios lay between us, still as stone.

We'd done what we could. His wounds were sealed with flame and bandaged with whatever cloth we had — scraps of my cloak, the length of Aelira's scarf, even strips torn from my own shirt. His chest still rose and fell, just barely. But there was no telling if he'd make it to morning.

Stonewake leaned against a log nearby. The runes etched across its surface still shimmered faintly in the firelight. I couldn't look at it without thinking about how he'd fought.

I stared at him. At the man who had walked into a slaughter and survived it, just to return to camp. All for me.

"What if he doesn't wake up?" I whispered.

Aelira was quiet for a long time.

Then, almost reluctantly: "He will."

"How do you know?"

Her eyes finally met mine. There was something ancient in them, not age, but weight. Like someone who'd carried too much, for too long.

"Because men don't survive what he did for no reason. He's tied to something," she said. "To you."

I didn't know what to say to that. I wanted to deny it, to shrug it off. But her gaze didn't waver, and in the end, I didn't speak.

The fire burned low as night deepened. Stars blinked overhead, distant and cold. The kind of night that made you feel very small, and very alone.

I sat with my back to a tree, knees drawn up, watching Helios breathe.

One breath at a time.

I thought of what he said before he collapsed. Just one sentence, hoarse and ragged.

" Thank God you're safe."

He hadn't fought for glory. Not to prove a point. Not even to survive.

He fought for me.

For my safety.

And if he woke, I swore I would never let that kind of loyalty go unanswered.

Not ever again...