Altan walked all night towards the towering shadow of the Splinterback Ridge, stumbling over stones, roots, and other bothersome protrusions every two steps. At first Altan had debated turning back, circling around and making his way back to Crags Fort. Surely Bridget would take him in, or at least give him a place to stay and some semblance of safety. It's not like he had anything for her to rob. Then again, she did know he was a human with that stupid... truth seeing eye or whatever. And she was the leader of the entire criminal underworld. At least, at Crags Fort. The Prince predicted the Black Guard would be back sooner then later, and while Altan didn't trust him, he believed the statement. Bridget could easily blackmail him or maybe use him as a bribe to get Centurion off her turf. He wasn't too familiar with the currency her or the workings of nobility, but a lordship and 1 million 'Falcons' sounded like a lot. The chilling stare of the Queen and her supposedly masterful magic resurfaced in his head and he decided he'd take his chances elsewhere.
      Unease settled in first, stress edging his thoughts as pale moonlight shone through a labyrinth of trees, casting irregular shadows and puppeteering figures around every corner. At one point a thorny branch dug into the back of his cloak, tugging him backwards as he passed. He immediately swivelled around, sword already in a white-knuckled grasp, severing the branch with a sharp crack. Fatigue tricked his eyes into seeing an arm drop to the ground, and he was a hundred meters away before his brain processed it was just a dumb piece of wood. He chided himself for being so jumpy, pushing on towards the base of the mountains. Still, his eyes never left the trees. Every sense in his body flared to life when ahead a low but forceful hissing, rhythmic, cut the silence. Within the darkness he saw the bobbing of something large and milk white, but didn't stay around to find out what it was.
Next came a draining, grasping cold. When you're on a quest to kill an evil maniacal cruel king, cold typically isn't the most concerning thing. But now with nothing around him but cold and darkness, and only a thin cloak to protect his bare skin, it was annoyingly apparent. No matter how many times he moved his cloak, pulling the black fabric tight around his arms, the freezing night air found little gaps to sneak through, sinking through his skin into his bones. He readjusted the cloak. With no proper sheath, which in hindsight he should've grabbed before he left, there was no good way for him to strap on The Princes sword. His sword. That meant one of his hands was constantly exposed to the frigid air, and he frequently swapped the sword from hand to hand every time his fingers began to sting with the numbing pain.
Hunger rounded up the trio of dismay, garnished with doubt. His stomach growled in betrayal, threatening to reveal his location to the entire world. The last meal he could remember eating was last morning, and it wasn't anything special. The ambush earlier had tore through whatever calories Altan had eaten. The scuffle with The Prince and relentless pace he forced them on had hunger gnawing at this insides. The sword fight plus The Prince not following through on his promise to hunt or forage or whatever left Altan running on quickly diminishing fumes. Where was he going to get food? He wasn't a survival nerd, he didn't know where to look for things to eat out in the wild. Even if he did, it's not like this was Earth. How was he going to hunt, or know what berries or other weird things were safe, and what ones were going to turn him into a worm?
     He jumped as a strange black beetle flittered towards him, it's stubby black wings beating nosily with exertion as it hauled it's weird plump body through the air. It had a single, large, beady, glowing ruby red eye that regarded Altan curiously as it circled around his face. He scowled and batted weakly at it, cursing it's gross lumpy body as it flew away into the shadows.
Altan sighed. I guess I'll just try and make it through whatever that mountain pass is The Prince was talking about. He reasoned, choosing to ignore the fact he'd have no idea where to go from there. And that he didn't have money for food. Or shelter. Or, well, anything. He huffed, ducking his head to the night and tucking his hand into his armpit. Blinking away exhaustion, he shambled on.

* * *

     The distant rumble of thunder dragged Altan from a near comatose sleep. Ice clinging to his eyelashes melted as he exhaled, eyes squinting against a sea of pulsing grey clouds. Frost coated every surface around him, glazing the land and his body with a soft sheen. The leaves chittered as a bitter wind swept through the forest. He groaned, forcing his body out of the icy grasp, hands bracing against cold, damp dirt. The breeze sapped at his will and energy, and he shivered violently, reaching to wrap his cloak tighter around himself. He silently mourned when frigid moisture seeped from the heavy fabric, robbing the heat from his skin. His stomach was not so silent, or was that another roll of thunder? He clutched it drearily.
     Pulling whatever shreds of will he had left together, Altan forced his stiff limbs under him, unsteadily rising to his feet. Another wave of shivers tore through him as he blearily scanned the area. Shifting dark clouds, huge craggy mountains, sparse trees and brush defying the hard ground and rocky bluffs. When had he fallen asleep? All he remembered was blindly stumbling through the dark bush, weaving an ungraceful path parallel to the base of the mountains. Well, it didn't matter now. The Prince was probably up by now, he needed to hurry up and get through the mountain pass or whatever before he caught up, and there was no telling how long the tunnel was. After all, the mountains were giant. Once he got through, he'd be able to lose him. If he got through. The Prince hinted it was dangerous, but Altan would cross that bridge when he came to it. Ignoring his throbbing muscles, Altan started walking.
     Though his stomach ached, claws of hunger demanding he find something, anything, to eat, a louder crash of thunder encouraged Altan to keep moving. The wind began to pick up and he stuck as close to the base of the mountains as possible, shivering uncontrollably as he devoted the entirety of his strength into taking one shaking step after another. His eyes never left the side of the mountains, hunting for any sort of indentation, any hint that the entrance to the pass was coming up. Every deep rumble of laughing thunder filled his thoughts with dread as he willed it not to start raining. A massive shadow passed over him. He just had to make it to the cave... There!
     After an eternity of shuffling and tripping over the uneven landscape, staving off the malicious cold, an opening broke the face of the sheer cliffs. That had to be it! He half jogged, half stumbled over, so fixated on the ironically welcoming sight of a dark, menacing cave, he didn't even notice the remnants of skulls and bones protruding from clusters of dry grass. Caked in mud and grime, Altan simply passed through rows of what he assumed to be stones and branches. As a light drizzle began escaping from the maze of dark clouds overhead, Altan redoubled his efforts, caution thrown to the rapidly strengthening wind. And then, meters away from the entrance, Altan heard a sound. A faraway voice that made his heart stop.

       "...Altan... Altan!"