The girl shifted uneasily, watching the blood seep from the man’s wounds and mingle with the red soil. His breathing was shallow, ragged, but it was still there. She hated it—hated that he clung to life when so many others had not.

“We cannot carry him,” she said sharply, clutching her bundle tighter. “He will slow us down. He will bleed to death before the next hill.”

The shaman’s hand pressed one last strip of cloth against the man’s chest before she answered. Her tone was calm, unshaken, like stone that had endured storms.
“Then he will die on the road. But not here.”

The girl’s scarred eye narrowed, anger rising. “Why? Why him? The field is full of bodies, but you choose this one. He could have killed my father, my mother, my brother—” Her voice cracked, raw with the memory. “—he looks no different from them.”

The shaman placed her staff in the dirt and rose slowly. Her gaze lingered on the warrior, then on the child.
“Because I can see what you cannot.”

The girl’s fists trembled, but she said nothing more. With a bitter grunt, she dropped the bundle to the ground and tore free a length of rope.

Together, they began to bind makeshift straps around the warrior’s limp form. His head lolled to one side, his hair falling across his bloodied face. For a moment, he looked no more alive than the corpses beside him.

The girl avoided his eyes as she tied the knots. Her voice was low, venomous.
“If he rises and turns on us, I will cut his throat myself.”

The shaman’s reply was quiet, but firm.
“If he rises, child… it will not be against us.”

With a heave, the girl slipped the rope across her shoulder, straining under the unexpected weight. The shaman took the other side, steadying the burden. Step by slow step, they lifted the fallen warrior from the bed of corpses.

The crimson fog swirled faintly around them as they began their march out of the field of the dead.