Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 124: From the Ache

Chapter 124: From the Ache

The forest didn’t offer comfort.

Just branches too low, roots too high, and ground that shifted with every step as if trying to slow them down. The wind moved like an omen through the trees, dragging whispers across bark, brushing leaves in patterns that felt like warnings.

Johnny staggered near the rear of the group, each breath louder than the last. His shirt clung to him in streaks of sweat and blood, and the way his foot dragged suggested something had torn inside—not bone, not muscle, but endurance.

Shylo glanced back. Then slowed.

"Keep moving," Kenneth hissed, not cruel, just spent.

They pressed forward.

Amari shifted slightly on Kenneth’s back, a dull groan escaping his throat as his body jolted with each stride. One leg had returned, yes—but the rest of him felt like someone had stitched him together using regret.

Milo leaned heavily against Maverick. Neither spoke. Neither had the breath for it. Every step was survival carved into motion.

Johnny stumbled.

Hard.

This time, his hands didn’t catch him. His knees hit the soil. His breath rattled once. Then nothing.

Maverick turned fast, hoisting him up by the collar, dragging him forward with brute force and urgency that didn’t allow protest.

"You stop, you die," he muttered, voice cracked. "Not here."

The trees blurred.

Time disappeared.

It wasn’t a run anymore—it was erosion. Bodies fading into forward motion, exhaustion dragging behind them like a second heartbeat.

Then the sound came.

Not footsteps. Not wind.

Water.

Somewhere ahead.

Kenneth adjusted his grip on Amari, broke into a stuttering run.

They pushed through the last row of trees like it hurt to see open space again.

And there it was.

The river.

Wide. Cold. Fast.

Dark water rushed over smoothed stone, crashing into itself with a rhythm that felt like relief. The moon sat low overhead, reflected in broken fragments across the surface.

They collapsed into it.

Not all at once. Not dramatically.

Just quiet descents.

Milo hit the bank first, cupping water in trembling hands and bringing it to his cracked lips. Shylo knelt beside a branch, head bowed, fingers trailing through the current like he needed to confirm it was real.

Kenneth eased Amari down, letting him rest against a moss-slick rock, the cold sending needles through broken joints.

Johnny crawled forward, dipped both arms into the stream, and let his forehead press against his wrists as if the river itself could siphon pain from flesh.

Maverick stood last. Watching the forest. Breathing like he didn’t trust the pause.

They left the river in silence, cold water clinging to skin already numb from exhaustion, blood diluted across sleeves and pant legs until it looked less like injury and more like history. The ground beneath their feet was uneven, and the road ahead turned from soft earth to gravel—each step heavier than the last, each breath stretched thinner across the ribs.

The Dragunov estate didn’t wait at the top of a hill or behind a ceremonial gate. It emerged through the trees like it had been watching their pain from a distance, stone walls gleaming faintly beneath twilight, iron fencing pressed between hedges too perfectly trimmed for men in their condition.

By the time they stepped onto the polished courtyard, Johnny had stopped talking entirely. Milo’s legs nearly buckled. Kenneth’s breathing was labored, Amari still limp across his back. Maverick gritted his teeth with every stride. Even Shylo’s eyes were dimmer than usual, scanning doors not for entry—but for judgment.

Blood dripped quietly from their clothes. Across marble. Over rugs. Down the polished corridor of a house too clean to forgive.

Sergei found them first.

He wasn’t startled.

He wasn’t concerned.

He was already walking toward them when the door opened, already frowning before they could explain, already ushering them down the left hall toward the medic wing as if pain were protocol.

No words.

Just gestures.

Just motion that felt too efficient to be kind.

The medic room was bright. Almost cruelly so. White sheets. Sterile light. Basins filled with water that smoked faintly from herbal infusions. They were cleaned and patched and whispered over by hands that didn’t bother asking how the wounds were made.

Bandages wrapped around Johnny’s leg like a warning. Milo was laid onto a cot and didn’t move. Shylo winced when the antiseptic touched his shoulder, then clenched his jaw until it passed. Kenneth dropped Amari onto a cot with more care than he’d ever shown publicly.

The room smelled of burnt rosemary and metal.

Sergei stayed by the door.

"They’re back," one of the staff whispered.

"No mission results?" another murmured.

Sergei nodded once. Then stepped forward.

"You were supposed to return with something in hand," he said, voice low and steady. "Evidence. Bodies. Names. Answers."

No one spoke.

Even Amari stayed still—half healed, eyes dull, body limp.

Sergei turned to Shylo, but the boy’s mouth stayed closed. Then to Maverick, who looked away. Then Johnny. Nothing.

"So that’s the report?" Sergei asked, pacing toward the far wall. "Silence?"

No one moved.

No explanation.

No defense.

The room felt colder now. Not because of weather—but expectation.

"Lady Dragunov will want a briefing," Sergei said at last. "She won’t be pleased. This isn’t the sort of error she tolerates."

Kenneth sat up slowly. Voice hoarse.

"We’ll pay the price," he said. "Whatever it is."

Sergei stopped walking.

Turned slowly.

And smiled—not kindly. Not cruelly. Just the way a man smiles when duty makes emotion irrelevant.

"Even your lives?" he asked. "Because the Dragunovs don’t forget failure. They bury it."

The medic room had grown too quiet.

Not the kind of silence that soothed—this one lurked, thick with implications, threaded with the knowledge that pain was only the beginning. Bandages clung to skin not yet ready to heal. Water rested in bowls that had stopped steaming. The staff moved slower now, like anticipation had settled into their bones.

Then Sergei returned.

He didn’t speak at first—just carried a folded note in one hand, fingers stained faintly with ink, posture straighter than before. His gaze swept across the room, pausing on each of them, as if measuring whether any of them looked strong enough to stand. Whether any of them were worth addressing.

Finally, he spoke.

"Lady Dragunov is expecting you."

No one responded. Not immediately.

The exhaustion hadn’t left. The wounds hadn’t sealed. The dust of the forest still clung to their boots and backs. But the summons didn’t allow room for discussion.

Kenneth stood first. Then Shylo.

Maverick grunted quietly as he pushed himself upright. Milo leaned on Johnny, and Johnny leaned on will.

Amari was lifted again—not with complaint, but with the quiet understanding that if the Dragunovs had called, then delay was simply another kind of defiance.