Neither of us is going to clear the rocks.

I am young. It’s my birthday. I am sitting in front of a tent. There is no cake, no candles. My father hands me a small horse he carved from driftwood on Southshore’s beach. He has nothing to wrap it with, so he wraps his arms around me instead. I don’t understand what is happening, only that he is sad.

My mother jumps to her feet, her hands on her daggers. “Run,” she says quietly without looking down at us.

“THOK MOG THOK!” I hear behind us. My father is carrying me and I watch over his shoulder, the scary green men, and my mother and the others, fighting, and getting smaller in the distance. I do not understand what is happening.

Sinewy arms wrap around me. Needle-sharp tusks bob toward my eyes as we each struggle to be the last to hit the ground. We are falling.

“Come on, Aydrien! It’s not that far!”

I am not as young. I overlook the newly built “Valley of Heroes.” The water of the old lake slaps against the new stone so far below me, churned up by the people cooling off from the hot summer day.

“Jump, Aydrien! Come on!”

A litle boy, maybe six, rushes past me, giggling madly. He doesn’t even jump, just runs off the edge, screaming “I’m flying! I’m flying!”

I watch him belly flop below, and smile to myself.

I can do this.

We are further out than I thought. Water rushes up to meet us but… it’s still too shallow.

The troll cackles wildly. Recognition. We’re both thinking the same thought: If I’m dying here today, you’re going first.

This is going to hurt.

I am standing on a dock in Menethil. I am two months younger. I’ve been here many times with my parents, receiving cargo, helping with inventory… but today is different.

The boatswain nods me toward the ship. “Sam’ll get you settled, Seelund. Welcome to the Fitzsimmons.”

He turns away, talking to his next recruit and dismissing me to find my own way. I wander toward the ship, wondering how I’ll know this “Sam” when I see him…

Supple chestnut leather perches on the railing of the ship, at the top of the gangplank. Darker brown pants climb haughtily to a dingy tan shirt that was probably white before years of service on a ship took its toll. A studded black leather belt keeps the shirt in check, a knife sheathed at each hip.

Her back is to me. One arm wraps in the rigging; with the other, she points, directing the crew offloading boxes. Canary-yellow hair whips sideways in the wind, snapping like a flag.

Before I can say a word or step foot on the gangplank, she pirouettes around the thick cable, hopping down in front of me. Green eyes pierce my blue.

“Seelund.” It’s not a question.

“Sam Jarathei.”

“Seelund!”

My name echoes off the cliff, but I barely have time to register it. We plunge sideways into the river, still twisting around each other.

Pain stabs all along my left side. I gasp water; I can’t see but I can feel a weight roll on to me, forcing me further under the water. Sand and rocks shift beneath us.

My left arm won’t move. I dig the nails of my right hand into the vice clutching at my throat. Each movement hurts more than the last. I am slipping.

Then the weight is gone. The troll’s grip goes slack and it slumps to the side. I fight for the surface with my one good hand, sputtering for air.

She stands waist-deep in the river, wiping her blade off on the floating body.

“Not the smoothest escape I’ve ever made,” she muses, watching me flounder and cough. “But I’m still walking. Guess that counts.”

Sheathing her knife, she moves to hold me above the surface.

“What about you?” she asks, with a trace of concern. “You walking away from this one?”

Finally catching my breath, I push her away and stand, checking for broken bones.

“No.”

My legs are fine. My shoulder, my ribs, didn’t fare as well.

“No. I’m swimming away.” I slog deeper into the water. “Just as soon as I can move my arm.”