The three remaining members of Squad S-22 regrouped to push on. Quill’s left arm hung limp at his side; the broken bone in his forearm had formed a painful lump but hadn’t broken the skin. He was certain he’d cracked a few ribs, sharp pain shooting through his abdomen with every breath.

He looked down at Yoran’s still corpse—the strongest man he’d ever seen—lying face down in red-tinged snow. Cross had already begun to march forward, lighting his pipe and taking a few puffs as he went—like nothing had happened.

"Let's go," Slim muttered weakly.

He was sucking in raspy breaths, coughing up blood every few seconds. 

Quill finally noticed the man’s wound—a gaping hole in his side, leaking blood at an alarming rate. "Slim... you're..." 

Slim smiled. "Fucker got me good, right off the rip..."

He nodded ahead. "We better go. I'll be al—"

He staggered, falling to one knee. Quill knelt to help him up, noticing how pale his face was and how his eyes barely managed to focus.

"We have to stop the bleeding somehow," Quill said.

He was no medic, but he had to try something.

If only Deckard...

He tore off a piece of his cloak and handed it to Slim. "Just press that into the wound. I'll help you walk."

He tossed one of Slim’s arms over his shoulder and gritted his teeth as he hauled the man to his feet.

"Shit... Quill... you're better off leaving me."

Quill didn’t look at him—just started forward, following after Cross. “I won’t leave you.”

They sank into a rhythm over the next several minutes as they trudged together through the snow. They struggled to keep up, but managed consistent progress. Cross had slowed his pace for them, but he never looked back.

Blade hadn't reappeared yet, which gave Quill even more to worry about. He’d said there were two Hallowbound close. If he’d died, the other was sure to be nearby.

Cross stopped and shouted over his shoulder, pipe clenched between his teeth. "We made it—hill's up ahead."

Quill and Slim limped their way to the base of the hill. It was a steep angle with trees jutting out awkwardly and blocking the view of the top. It would have been a tough climb even if they were healthy and rested. With Quill carrying so much extra weight, it was nearly impossible.

Slim realized it too.

"Let... let me down, Quill," he grunted.

"No, I—"

"Shut up and let me down, you bastard."

Quill slowly crouched down, laying Slim as gently as he could in the snow.

Cross locked eyes with Quill, and shook his head. "Can't delay."

"Just a damn second," Quill replied.

He knelt in the snow beside his friend.

"Well, shit," Slim said. 

His breathing was ragged and shallow. He lifted a shaky, blood-covered hand, and Quill took it, holding it tight.

Slim's eyes focused on nothing in particular, just gazing at the blackened tree canopy above them. "I.. didn't know it hurt so damn bad... dying, I mean."

Quill wanted to tell him he wasn’t dying, that he’d be okay.

But he couldn't.

"Quill..." Slim started, "in your book... could you say I was handsome? Even with the scar?"

Quill forced a smile. "Of course. Most handsome bastard I've ever seen—that's what I'll say."

Slim laughed, hacking up a glob of blood. "Good."

His smile faded as his eyes finally focused on Quill. "You think... all those people... the ones I killed... they felt like this? You think... I hurt them all this bad?"

Quill opened his mouth to reply, but Slim's hand slipped from his. His chest no longer rose, and his bloodstained face lay still.

"Come on," Cross said, not so much as glancing at Slim.

He turned and began the ascent up the hill.

Quill rose to his feet and watched him go. He shook his head—angry, tired. "Can’t you stop for one damn second?"

Cross paused, tilting his head. Then he spun around and stepped aggressively toward Quill.

"Stop?" Cross asked, reeling on him and grabbing him by the collar. "You tell me to stop when the enemy yet lives? I will not stop."

Quill saw it then, the madness in his eyes. He wasn't the stoic commander he appeared to be. He was a man as broken as the rest, perhaps even more so. 

"I will fight with these blades until it is finished," he continued, his voice a snarling growl. "If they chip and shatter, then I will claw and tear at my enemy's flesh with my bare hands! If they take my arms, I will kick and stomp until they are pulp beneath my boots! If they take my legs, I will gnash and gnaw them between my teeth! Stop? Never. I will not. I cannot."

He released Quill, regaining his calm, then turned and started back up the hill without another word.

Quill understood now.

"Your dream—the one with the ladder—when you throw down the men to continue your climb, do they truly fall away? Or do they remain, clinging to you, each one adding their weight to create a burden too heavy for any man to carry?"

Cross didn't answer; he only kept climbing.

"I understand now," Quill called out to him. "I feel it too—the weight they leave you with. They can only reach the top if you take them there. But it's far too much for one man to carry."

So I'll carry it with you.

He didn't need to say it, he only needed to climb.

And climb, he did. 

He pushed his body to its limit.

He hurt so badly he could no longer even tell where the pain was.

Climbing... climbing... up and up and up.

Soon he was just... numb. He fixed his gaze on Cross's back, trailing after it with all he had. 

Moments, minutes, or hours—he wasn’t sure. Everything was a haze, a nebulous cloud. He felt heavy. Lifting his feet became harder and harder with each step. When they hit the ground, it felt like his bones would snap under the pressure.

But he drove them forward. If he stopped for even a second, he'd fall.

And he refused to fall.

Not until he reached—

"Quill."

Cross's voice broke him out of his haze.

They were at the top.

They stood at the edge of a large clearing. Across from them, a few hundred feet away was what they'd come for.

Quill expected a sight more horrific than anything he’d seen so far—a wretched king of demons guarding the gates of Hell.

Instead, he saw a run-down old church and a lone, man-sized figure standing in front of it.

The church bore no symbols or iconography denoting what god it was for. It was made of wood that was old and rotting, but not corrupted like the rest of the Frostwood. It had a set of wooden double doors at the front, one hanging nearly horizontal from missing hinges. It was just a small church that'd been left to ruin—nothing more.

In front of it, standing in their way, was a figure. To Quill’s eyes, it was a rather simple suit of old-fashioned, Storovan-style plate armor. But it had no face—just two burning blue embers where its eyes should have been. It stood with legs shoulder-width apart, facing them, its hands resting atop the pommel of a rather ordinary-looking greatsword. It wasn’t giant or jagged, or dripping with ichor—it was just sheer black steel plunged into the snow at the figure’s feet.

This was the Black Knight.

It didn't charge them, or taunt them—it stood motionless, waiting.

"Ready?" Cross asked.

His eyes were locked on their foe, his face set in grim focus.

"Just a second," Quill said softly.

He set his pack on the ground, reached inside, and produced his manuscript. Cradling it awkwardly in his broken arm, he began jotting down a final few lines. He knew the book would never have its true ending, never properly tell the story of the squad’s final mission—but he had to put something down.

He shut the book, slid it back into his pack, and stepped shoulder to shoulder with Cross.

"Got it all down?" Cross asked.

"Yeah."

"Then let's end this."

Cross drew his blades. Quill did the same.

Forward they marched.

To doom or destiny.

To the end, one way or another.

The Black Knight drew its dark blade from the snow, readying itself for the clash.

For some strange reason—and for the first time since entering the Frostwood—Quill felt no fear. 

He was calm... or maybe just numb.

Cross lunged, longsword pointed forward, but stopped short in a feint. The Knight’s dark blade crashed into the ground, spraying snow into the air. Before they could react, the Knight had closed the distance with inhuman speed. A gauntleted fist slammed into Cross's chest, sending him sprawling. 

Quill charged, swinging his blade toward the Knight's neck. It snapped sideways in an instant, the sword clanging off its helm. 

There was a black flash, and Quill found himself on his back. He glanced down to see a deep gash running the length of his torso. His armor had been split open, his flesh laid bare. Life was flowing out of him.

The Knight loomed over him so quickly, Quill swore it had shifted through time. Faster than his eyes could follow, a dark blade blurred through the air.

Quill closed his eyes, prepared to meet the Mother. 

CHRING!

Cross had stopped the blow—longsword gripped in both hands, straining against the Knight’s strength.

The Knight’s gauntleted fist lashed out, backhanding Cross square in the jaw. His head snapped to the side, teeth and blood spraying the snow.

Cross stood. His jaw hung, broken his mouth and nose covered in blood—but he stood.

Quill rolled aside as Cross broke the hold, the Knight’s blade plunging into the snow. Cross pirouetted, drawing his shortsword in a reverse grip and driving it toward the Knight’s back.

The Knight recovered instantly, its sword already slicing the air toward him. 

Cross leapt back, his strike unfinished, and took a shallow cut across the chest. Before that blow had even landed, the Knight stepped in again, blade rising at an angle.

Cross was forced back again, another shallow wound marking his retreat.

Quill staggered to his feet. The Black Knight was between him and Cross, its back turned. His vision was already blurring from the blood loss.

But he charged.

A futile, foolish charge. 

The Knight wasn't just fast—it knew. Every move they made, every swing, every step—it knew.

Quill closed the distance, his sword aimed for the Knight's neck.

The Knight spun in a black whirl.

Quill stumbled forward.

Time slowed as he turned his head.

He saw those two burning blue embers. 

And then a dark blade punched through his stomach.

He fell to his knees, then onto his side in the snow, as the blade was wrenched free.

Cross seized the second Quill had bought.

He charged, hacking at the Knight’s leg—and for the first time, the Knight staggered.

It swung its blade in a blinding arc toward Cross's head. He ducked it, using the crouch to launch himself upward.

With a roar, he brought his longsword down on the bridge of the Knight's helm. The sword shattered on impact, sending iron shards into the air. 

The Knight's fist came up, and with a loud crack, Cross flew back, landing in the snow next to Quill.

The Knight straightened, untouched except for a small crack on its helm.

Quill glanced at Cross. He bled from his eyes, nose and mouth. His jaw was shattered and his chest was sunken. No normal man could rise from wounds like that.

But Cross was no normal man.

He pushed himself up, slamming a fist into the snow for leverage. 

He rose, clutching nothing but a shattered sword.

Against everything Quill thought he knew about the world, Cross marched—forward.

Melvin Cross. Ever onward.

The strike came fast—just a streak of black steel.

Cross lifted his arm to block.

The Knight’s blade carved through Cross’s arm and neck in one smooth motion.

Cross’s head and severed hand thudded into the snow; his arms hung limp at his sides.

But his body did not drop.

It stood—lifeless—on two feet.

Even in death, Melvin Cross did not relent.

The Black Knight regarded the corpse—and even such a creature hesitated.

Quill knew—this was the end.

But instinct took over, and he fled. 

He crawled on hands and knees, dragging a trail of crimson through the snow.

He pressed a hand to his stomach, trying to hold in his very life as it flowed from him. He groaned, certain the Knight would finish him at any moment.

In his final moments, all he could think about was that he'd never get to tell his story. That it'd all been for nothing. That it was all pointl—

Quill bumped into something. A tree? No—a boot. A man.

He looked up, vision already dimming.

A faint smile crossed his face before he collapsed into the snow.

The last thing he saw was Blade looming over him.