“Do you have any idea who I am, old man?” - Veran asked.

“Oh, I do. You’re a man who has forgotten who kept his people safe for hundreds of years. A man hurrying to bow to the one who promises a little more. A man who treasures life in the afterworld higher than the land of the living. You think your dead god’s eyes span too far. But here in the mist, we still rule.”

“You’re a man. An insane one.”

“I am a god, soldier.”

“Too bad I’m an unbeliever.” - the general said, reaching for the hilt.

“Oh, you’re not. You believe. You believe you are your own god, you make the rules for yourself, and you look down on men who do otherwise. But is it so detestable that a boy is taught not to kill, not to steal? Is it so depraved for a man to be faithful to his wife? That’s what we used to teach you.”

“I’ve had enough of this.” - Veran said and started towards the old man - “Better hope for a miracle to happen before I reach you.”

“Gods need no miracles, soldier. They just need to stick a knife in a boy’s back to cause chaos. To turn people against each other. To have them think their commander is insane”

“What?”

“You preach war and death, and you’ve taken your followers on a pilgrimage. You’re taking them to kill each other, and they will. But not at Rhana.”

The old man raised his finger and pointed behind Veran. The general looked back to see the mist split like a curtain, revealing the gruesome scene of his men fighting, not with the enemy but amongst themselves. The calmness of their conversation was overtaken by the roars of rage and screams of pain.

The sounds chilled his spine and turned his stomach. But he was a soldier, and the initial shock washed over him quickly. Then only a single thought remained - Ozren. He gripped the sword tight and ran towards the camp, disregarding the man behind him. It was too late to yell, and they wouldn’t hear him. He needed to get to the boy before someone else did.

The mist showed him the way. He ran to the light of the fires with all his strength, the noise getting louder with each step. Then the dirt gave in. He slipped and flew down. The chasm. Out of reflex, he stretched his hand and grabbed the root of a tree, leaning over the abyss. He heard his sword fly down in the darkness, rattling against the stones in the pit. He clung to the root, his last resort. He had to save the boy.

The root was wet and slippery, and he was slipping down no matter how tight he gripped it. He reached with his other hand, but he was already too far down. Veran kicked with his legs, but they only sent more dirt flying down. The ground was too soft. His armor was too heavy, and the pain in his palms was a few seconds away from making them numb. His forearms screamed, holding the weight of the burly man.

Then just as he was about to give up, the old man appeared on top of the chasm.

“Please help me. I have to save the boy! Please!”

But from above, he heard only giggles. The chalky laughter of an old man who’s said the same joke for the hundredth time but still finds it funny. He hears his footsteps coming closer, dragging. A bit of dirt fell on his face as a head covered in scruffy grey hair appeared above. Under a beard untrimmed for decades, Veran saw the trembling lips of a man who was about to crack a joke but was barely keeping it together.

“I thought atheists never prayed?” - the old man said and burst out laughing.

Veran’s hands surrendered, and he flew down the chasm to the sound of yelling men and clashing weapons. It truly was his last march. Both his and house Bozmaroff’s.