They left Crags Fort before nightfall. The central plaza was still littered with corpses bathing in puddles of caked blood, and overhead dark clouds began rolling in from the East. The ground was so saturated with blood that the cracked tiles and dirt were stained red. Flies swarmed the pale bodies. The city was heavy with the silence of death, not a guard or a civilian to be seen. Still, they kept to alleys and side streets, and The Prince refused to go attempt to buy rations. Instead, they would hunt and forage.
"The Black Guard will be back," The Prince had snipped, "and this time the people won't get a choice."
Altan ignored him, eyes fixated on the dust that puffed up with each of his steps. Bitterness swelled in his heart - this wasn't fair. The idea of travelling with The Prince for who knows how long on a clearly suicidal mission became less and less appealing as they trekked towards the mountains. They were only two people against an entire army, and sure, The Prince seemed weirdly skilled with magic and swords, but against an onslaught of killers...? Strings of tension hung taught between them, and Altan made a point of not looking or speaking to The Prince.
The vast range of the Splinterback Ridge concealed the sun behind its stony bluffs, their peaks punching through blankets of angry dark clouds. Trees peppered the base of the mountain, extending into the rolling plains. They reached the edge of the sparse forest by the time the daylight had faded and the expansive shadow of the mountain melded with the night. The Prince chose a spot for them to rest in a cluster of trees with needle like leaves, beside a small creek whose soft tinkling was the only sound filling the gaping silence. Altan sat on a weather-worn stump as The Prince quickly lit a fire behind a large jagged rock and announced he was going out quickly to find food.
Any ounce of empathy Altan felt for him earlier vanished when a few minutes later The Prince was leaping at him from behind, the flat of his sword slamming into Altans side. Altan snarled in pain, fire burning through his veins as he grabbed his sword, spinning to parry whatever blow was coming next. The Prince swept low, his magic-blunted sword slashing over Altans shin and sending waves of pain shooting up his leg and into his skull. The Prince attacked relentlessly, and Altan put up a decent fight for a few seconds but was very quickly overwhelmed as The Prince sliced and stabbed in complex patterns that Altan had no hope of overcoming. When Altans blade went spiralling from his hand into a bed of scraggly thorny bushes, The Prince didn't stop. His eyes gleamed, firelight flashing along his blade.
"Pick it up!" He demanded, sword whistling down, "a real enemy will not wait for you!"
Altan dove, thorns scraping into his skin as he plunged his hands into the thicket. Knowing that magic sheathed the deadly edge of his sword, he actually grabbed it by the blade and shoved the hilt towards The Prince. The pommel jabbed into his chest and The Prince let out a surprised huff as Altan drove the wind from his lungs, relishing in his pained gasp. Nothing mattered, nothing existed to him but the sword in his hands and the fury in his veins. He stood and charged The Prince, air stinging the open wounds littering his hands and arms.

* * *

Altan winced as he shifted again, sticks and stones pressing into the fresh bruises that covered every surface of his body. A gash in his back from when The Prince slammed him against a tree throbbed painfully, and the small cuts on his hands and arms reopened every time he moved them. He was supposed to be keeping watch as The Prince claimed the luxury of sleeping first, but instead his vision was tunnelled and hypnotized by the twisting flames in front of him. Across the fire The Prince rolled in his sleep and Altans gaze snapped up, glaring daggers into the heap of his sleeping form.
The Prince never got them food. After their "training" he spent the next hour fixing his hair. Using some sort of stupid magic he shaved a stone down into a sharp edge, shaving and cutting for a long time in the reflection of a puddle. In the end his hair was clipped short at the sides, but he left longer strands including that one golden streak on top which he slicked back out of his face, and then promptly went to bed, without even asking Altan to take first watch. Altan resented him for it. He literally gave himself a quiff while Altan sat there for an hour, starving, aching, and completely neglected.
His gaze slid to the right where The Princes sword rested against the jagged stone. He admired it from a distance- long and not particularly slender, the long sword was made of a silver-white metal. It's hilt was made of steel that fanned out into 3 sets of prongs, and the handle was made of polished dark wood. The blade itself was engraved with gold, and sported an unfamiliar sigil near its tip. A very large cut yellow topaz was embedded in the hilt. It looked hefty but was actually very light and strong. He'd never seen a sword like it in any sort of book or movie. Murderous intent flashed in his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. He wasn't a killer. Unlike The Prince. Instead, a different idea brewed in his head.
Pushing himself up, Altan stretched, gazing keenly at The Prince. He scanned his face for several long moments, monitored his breathing. He sure looked asleep, but just in case...
"Hey." He whispered.
No response.
"Goldilock." A little louder.
Nothing. The Prince was out cold.
Altan drew in a long breath, and then took a half step forward. He froze when a brittle twig snapped under his foot, breath catching and eyes immediately landing on The Prince. He shifted, but didn't wake up. Altan stood there for several seconds anyway, until he was certain The Prince wasn't just pretending to be asleep. Then he realized how stupid the idea was, and began to slowly tip toe around the fire. His eyes fell to the ground, and he took extra care to avoid any little twigs or dry leaves, gradually inching his way towards The Prince. He came to The Princes feet, and holding his breath, he leaned precariously over him, using one hand to brace himself on the rock at his back. He reached, and with the delicacy of a master criminal, grabbed and lifted The Princes sword without a sound.
He pushed off the stone and took a few steps back, testing the sword in his grasp. Oh, yes. This is nicer. He had no idea what it was about The Princes fancy sword, but it felt so much more balanced and light in his hands. A lot more than the crappy swords he's been handed in the last several days. He sent a half-hearted apologetic look in The Princes direction, and then backed slowly but surely towards the trees. Altan supposed tiredness and frustration could be clouding his judgement, but his mind was set. Plus, he was determined to prove his intuition right. He crept away at a slow pace, allowing his eyes to adjust to the sea of darkness before him, until he could see the foggy shapes of trees and stones around him. And when he was so far away he couldn't even see The Prince anymore, he turned and strode alone deeper into the forest.