It was the sound of grinding stone that woke him.
He could feel nothing below the neck. No pain. No cold. He wondered how long he had been buried, and what had disturbed him now.
He already knew.
Long fingers reached through a crack in the rubble and tore the stone away. The Question leaned over him, shrouded and patient.
“We are not through.”
“Leave me,” the knight said. His voice dry and hoarse. “Let me waste here.”
“Rest awaits you at the end.”
The pressure lifted. Sensation returned all at once—violent and overwhelming. The knight groaned as nerves reignited, as bones knit, as skin tore and reformed against jagged stone.
The Question dragged him free with neither consent nor care. His healing limbs broke again as he was pulled across the rubble. Cool air burned his exposed flesh.
Around them, what remained of his army hovered in a loose circle—rotting, silent, watching.
The Question dropped him.
He lay gasping, wishing for unconsciousness.
Something inside him felt wrong.
An aching absence.
His stomach clenched—demanding. A deep, hollow insistence that crowded out everything else.
“How long was I in the keep?” he asked.
“Half a day.”.
He sat up.
His pants were in tatters, and his shirt hung by threads. He tore it off and cast the blood stained fabric aside. A shiver ran through him as a cold wind swept past.
“I need to eat,” he said.
“There is no food here.”
“Then we should go.”
The Question turned toward the distant patch of clear blue sky and walked on. The knight followed. His army floated in his wake.
The scent reached him then.
Rotting flesh. Old meat. Strips of it clinging to bone.
His mouth filled with saliva.
He looked away, at his feet. Without much thought, scooped up a handful of dirt, shoving it into his mouth as he walked. Grit ground between his teeth. Mud clung to his tongue.
It did not help.
He swallowed anyway.
The kingdom did not seem to draw closer. He told himself it was distance. Scale. Fatigue.
His stomach burned.
“Question.”
“Yes?”
“I cannot endure this. Do me a kindness and carry me there.”
The Question walked on in silence.
“I have done you many a kindness,” it said at last. “What have you for me?”
“I never asked,” the knight snapped. “You offered.”
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“I served myself.”
The hunger twisted. Irritation sharpened into something uglier. His hand tightened on his sword until pain flared in his joints.
A thought came uninvited.
The Question’s flesh was fresh.
It disgusted him, but would not leave.
His feet moved before the thought finished forming. He lunged.
The blade struck true—and stopped.
The Question did not bleed.
It turned. Beneath the hood, its eyes burned brighter and colder than he’d ever seen—ever felt.
“You are bound,” it growled.
“I am hungry,” the knight said. It sounded like a plea.
The Question seized his head and flung him skyward.
Wind tore past him as he flew. The Question appeared beside him, weightless.
“Ask no more,” it said.
The ground rushed up.
Before impact, the knight saw blue light ahead.
Lanterns.
People.
Food.
He hit hard. Bones broke. He lay gasping as they healed.
His hunger remained.
The Question landed nearby and withdrew. A wagon rolled closer, lanterns swaying—blue flame humming softly.
“Hello?” the knight called.
The wagon, propelled by nothing, stopped.
“I am but a knight on a quest. I mean you no harm.”
The door opened and an old woman peered out.
“I’m not afraid of you, or that curse,” she said, pointing a finger past the knight. “I’ve lanterns enough. What do you want?”
“Food,” the knight said, stepping forward. “I’m desperate.”
“I have food,” the woman said, “but food isn’t free. Especially not for a knight.”
“Please, I’m begging you.”
“An ounce of gold for a loaf of bread.”
“I have no gold.”
Her gaze lingered on his sword.
He planted it in the ground and held out empty hands. “I mean no harm.”
“Have you bargained with that thing?” she asked.
“It guides me.”
She snorted. “Guides. Yes.”
“I seek my love’s remains,” he said. “Please. I need to eat.”
“No,” she said firmly.
The hunger roared.
He imagined turning away.
The thought made him dizzy.
He pulled his sword free and charged.
The woman shut the door.
He broke it down.
He shouted as he pointed his blade, “The food!”
“Take it,” she said, calm and bitter, gesturing to a cupboard. “Violent knights. All the same.”
He tore it open and bit into a loaf of bread.
The hunger vanished.
Not eased but gone.
His knees buckled. Tears spilled freely.
The old woman studied him for a long moment. Then she sighed.
“Well,” she said. “That was rude.”
“I—” He struggled to find the words. “I needed food.”
“I know,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said. The apology surprised him with how easily it came. “Something took hold of me.”
She snorted. “Something always does,” then, “You look like hell. Sit.”
She gestured to a small bed behind him.
He sat.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“I know,” she replied. “People who want to hurt don’t cry after.”
She leaned against a crate and studied him, eyes sharp but tired.
“So,” she said. “What did you think you were going to do after you ate?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “You knights never plan ahead.”
He wiped his tears with his wrist and took another bit of the bread. “I wish to repay you. What can I offer?”
She sized him up and shook her head. “Your sword is the only thing that appears to have value, but I don’t want it. Too much blood in it. Also, it looks cursed.”
He swallowed. “Then… what do you want?”
She considered him for a moment longer, then waved a hand.
“I’m an apothecary,” she said. “I go where plants grow that don’t want to be found. Means I travel light and deal with worse than you.”
She reached up, out a small window, and unhooked one of the blue lanterns, pressing it into his hands.
“Take this,” she said. “I’ve got spares.”
He stared at it. “Why?”
“Because you looked like you were about to eat the dirt,” she said. “And because you didn’t.”
He lowered his head.
“Oh, dear,” she said, knowing. “You were hungry.”
Then she spoke casually. “If you’re set on making it up to me—”
He looked up.
“There’s a knight squatting in my kingdom,” she said gesturing to the clear sky in the distance. “Calls himself king. Real nuisance. Scares what few locals remain. Won’t listen.”
Her eyes flicked to his sword. Then back to his face.
“Get rid of him.”
The knight closed his fingers around the lantern. Its warmth bled into his palms.
“I will,” he said.
She nodded, satisfied.
“Good,” she said. “Now get out of my wagon before I start charging for the air.”
The knight stepped down from the wagon.
Behind him, the old woman pulled the door shut and set the brake free. The wheels creaked, then caught. The wagon rolled past him at a patient pace, blue lanterns swaying as it disappeared into the trees.
She did not look back.
The knight stood where he was until the sound of wheels faded. The Question approached like settling smoke.
“You have eaten,” it said. “We may proceed.”
The knight turned the lantern in his hands. Its blue flame burned steady.
“The lantern is troublesome,” it said.
“Good,” the knight replied.
“I do not care for it.”
“And I do not care for curses.”
The Question turned away and walked on. He hooked the lantern on his belt and trailed.
The Question looked back, watching him for a long moment as the lantern’s light bobbed with each step. It said nothing.
Ahead, the distant kingdom waited—clear sky above it, untouched by rot. The knight walked toward it, the Question did not.
“Where are you going?” the knight asked.
“That is not our destination.”
The knight sighed.
They walked toward a nearby mountain.
It was as unassuming as any other.
He ran his fingers over his lantern.
