Chapter 18 | Part 4

The fight ended.

Not with victory—with retreat. The Grukmar pulled back, dragging their wounded, leaving three bodies on the blood-wet ground. Eldric had killed two of them. Xandor’s magic had driven off more.

And Balin had killed one.

He couldn’t stop staring at it. The grey-green body, the pool of dark blood spreading beneath it, the way its eyes had gone flat and empty. In his head, the kill had been clean. A thrust, a fall, a noble end.

It was never clean.

The blade had gone in wrong, angled, scraping between ribs instead of sliding through. The Grukmar hadn’t died instantly. It had made sounds. Wet, gurgling sounds that weren’t quite words but might have been.

First time killing someone.

The words echoed in his skull. They’d never stop.

His stomach heaved. Balin barely made it three steps before he was on his knees, vomiting into the grass. His whole body shook—not from cold, not from exhaustion. From something deeper. Something that felt like his soul trying to escape through his throat.

A hand on his shoulder. Eldric.

“Don’t look at it.”

“I can’t—I can’t stop—”

“I know.” Eldric’s voice was different now. Softer. The hardness was still there, but the edge had gone out of it. “The first one is always the hardest. It doesn’t get easier. You just get better at putting it away.”

“I killed—” Balin couldn’t finish. Another wave of nausea.

“You survived. That’s what matters. Not glory. Not honor. Survival.” Eldric pulled him to his feet. “Come on. We need to move before they regroup.”

“But—”

“Process later. Move now.”

Balin moved.

The body stayed where it fell. He couldn’t look at it again. Couldn’t not look at it. Every step away felt like betrayal—though of what, he couldn’t say.

Maris fell into step beside him. Her face was pale, eyes haunted.

“I saw it coming,” she said quietly. “The ambush. I knew it would happen.”

“Then why didn’t you warn us?”

“I tried. You don’t understand—visions aren’t instructions. They’re moments. Fragments. I saw violence, but not when. Not where. Not who.” Her voice cracked. “I saw you on the ground with blood on your hands, and I couldn’t tell if it was yours or someone else’s.”

“It wasn’t mine.”

“I know that now.” She looked at him with those grey eyes that saw too much. “How does it feel?”

Balin searched for words. Found nothing that fit.

“Wrong,” he said finally. “It feels wrong. In the stories, killing the enemy feels right. Justified. But he—it—” He swallowed. “He didn’t look like a monster when he died. He looked… surprised. Like he hadn’t expected it to end that way.”

“They never do.” Maris’s voice was barely a whisper. “No one ever expects to be the one who falls.”

They walked in silence.

Behind them, blood soaked into the earth. The Grukmar body would feed scavengers by nightfall. In a week, there would be no sign any of this had happened.

Except in Balin’s memory. That would never fade.

First time understanding that adventure stories are lies. First time wanting to go home. First time realizing home wouldn’t feel the same, even if he made it back.

His list of firsts had gained entries he’d never wanted.

They kept walking.

End of Chapter 18.4 —> 18.5: Northbound: The Aftermath