The forest had become his world. Days blurred into weeks, each one marked by the same rhythm: hunt, eat, survive. The boy crouched low in the underbrush, his eyes fixed on a small creature scurrying through the leaves ahead. It was a rodent of some kind, its fur blending almost perfectly with the forest floor. He tightened his grip on the crude spear in his hand, his muscles coiled like a spring.

  He let mana flow into his legs, a faint hum beneath his skin. His body felt lighter, his movements sharper. The rodent paused, sniffing the air. He struck. The spear flew from his hand, faster than it ever could have without mana, and struck true. The creature twitched once, then went still. He let out a breath, stood, and brushed dirt from his knees as he approached his catch. Pulling the spear free, he slung the rodent over his shoulder.

  “Not bad,” he said, glancing at the rodent. “You didn’t even see it coming, did you?”

  The forest answered with silence. He adjusted the strap of his makeshift satchel and started walking, his steps light and deliberate. The sun filtered through the canopy, casting dappled patterns on the ground. He paused briefly to listen, his ears catching the faint rustle of leaves in the distance. A bird, maybe. Or something larger. He let mana sharpen his hearing, the sounds of the forest growing clearer. The rustle came again, softer this time. A bird. He moved on.

  The boy stopped at the creek, crouching by the water’s edge. He dipped his hand into the cool stream, letting it run over his fingers. His reflection stared back at him, distorted by the ripples.

  He reached into his satchel and pulled out a handful of berries, popping one into his mouth. They were tart, but edible. He’d learned which ones to avoid after a particularly bad night spent clutching his stomach. He glanced at the rodent slung over his shoulder. It wasn’t much, but it would keep him going.

  His gaze drifted to the trees on the far side of the creek. He knew this area well now—the way the ground sloped gently toward the east, the cluster of thorny bushes where small game liked to hide, the hollow tree that served as a den for something much larger. He’d seen the claw marks on the bark, deep grooves that hadn’t been there a week ago.

  He crouched by the tree, running his fingers over the marks. They were fresh, the edges of the grooves still sharp. “Bigclaw,” he muttered. That’s what he’d started calling it. He’d never seen the creature, but he’d heard it—low, rumbling growls in the dead of night, heavy footsteps that shook the ground. It was big, bigger than anything else in the area.

  His eyes flicked to the ground, where faint paw prints overlapped the claw marks. Smaller, but no less dangerous. “And you,” he said softly, tracing the print with his finger. “Glowy” He’d seen it once, its glowing eyes cutting through the darkness. It had been hunting near the creek, its movements silent and precise. He hadn’t seen it since, but the signs were there—territory markings, scattered bones, the occasional howl in the distance.

  The claw marks told a story. Bigclaw was moving in, pushing into the Glowy’s territory. He frowned, his fingers brushing the bark. That wasn’t normal. The creatures here had their boundaries, their unspoken rules. Something was changing.

  He stood, slinging the rodent over his shoulder again. “Not my problem,” he muttered, though the unease lingered. He adjusted the strap of his satchel and kept walking, his footsteps crunching softly against the forest floor.

  As he walked, he glanced at the rodent again. “You’re lucky, you know,” he said. “Could’ve been worse. At least you’re not one of those thornbacks. Those things are nasty.”

  The sound of his own voice faded, leaving only the rustle of leaves and the distant call of a bird. He adjusted the strap of his satchel and kept walking, his footsteps crunching softly against the forest floor. The silence pressed against him, heavy and unrelenting. He glanced at the rodent again, as if expecting it to answer.

  The creek widened as he followed it upstream, the sound of rushing water growing louder. The waterfall wasn’t far now—a place he’d discovered a few days ago. It was peaceful there, the sound of the water drowning out the silence that seemed to follow him everywhere.

  But something was different this time. The air felt heavier, the usual stillness of the forest broken by something he couldn’t quite place. He tightened his grip on the spear, his senses sharpening as he let mana flow through him. His footsteps grew lighter, quieter, as he crept closer.

  When he rounded the final bend, he froze.

  Someone was there.

  A figure lay crumpled at the edge of the pool beneath the waterfall, their body half-submerged in the shallow water. Their clothes were unlike anything he’d ever seen—rich fabrics torn and muddied, a deep blue cloak tangled around their legs. The faint glint of metal caught his eye: armor, dented and scratched, its polished surface dulled by blood and grime.

  Two arrows jutted from the man’s back, their shafts splintered and fletching soaked. One had pierced through the edge of his shoulder, the other lodged deep near his ribs. Blood seeped from the wounds, staining the water around him a faint red.

  The boy’s heart pounded in his chest. He took a cautious step forward, his eyes darting to the trees around him. No one else was here. Just the figure, motionless except for the faint rise and fall of their chest.

  He edged closer, his spear held tightly in one hand. The figure’s face came into view—a young man, barely older than himself, with sharp features and short, dirty blond hair matted to his forehead with sweat and blood. Blood streaked his face, and a deep gash ran across his temple. His breathing was shallow, his lips pale.

  The boy’s gaze dropped to the man’s chest, where the armor had been split open by a vicious blow. Blood seeped from the wound, staining the water around him. His left arm hung at an odd angle, the fabric of his sleeve torn to reveal bruised and swollen skin.

  The boy crouched a few feet away, his spear still raised. “Hey,” he called, his voice low but firm. “You alive?”

  The man didn’t respond. His head lolled to the side, his eyes fluttering open for a brief moment before closing again. The boy hesitated, his grip on the spear tightening. He didn’t know who this man was or why he was here, but he looked like trouble. The kind of trouble that could get him killed.

  He glanced at the sword lying in the water, its hilt just out of the man’s reach. The sword lay nearby, its blade chipped and its hilt worn from use. The pommel bore the mark of a bird with outstretched wings, a symbol of vigilance and strength. It looked important. Expensive. Whoever this man was, he wasn’t just some soldier.

  The boy’s curiosity warred with his caution. He should leave. This wasn’t his problem. But the man’s shallow breathing and the blood pooling around him made it clear he didn’t have much time.

  “Damn it,” the boy muttered under his breath. He lowered the spear and stepped closer, crouching beside the man. “What the hell happened to you?”

  A sharp jolt of pain dragged him from the depths of unconsciousness. It started in his shoulder, radiating down his side with every shallow breath. His ribs ached, his head throbbed, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if he was awake or still trapped in some feverish dream.

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  He groaned softly, the sound barely audible over the crackle of a nearby fire. His eyelids felt heavy, but he forced them open, blinking against the dim light. The world swam into focus—shadows dancing on the trees, the faint glow of a campfire, and the cool night air brushing against his skin.

  He tried to move, but his body protested. His shoulder burned, and his ribs felt like they were wrapped in iron bands. He let out a slow, shaky breath, his mind struggling to piece together what had happened. The battle. The arrows. The forest. He’d been running, hadn’t he? Running to buy time for the others. But now...

  His gaze shifted, and he saw the fire. Small but steady, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill creeping into his bones. His armor was gone, set aside in a pile near the fire, along with his sword. The sight of it brought a flicker of relief—whoever had found him hadn’t taken it. Not yet, at least.

  Then he felt it. A presence. Someone was watching him.

  Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes scanning the clearing. At first, he saw nothing but the trees and the flickering firelight. Then, just beyond the edge of the clearing, he spotted movement. A boy, crouched behind a tree, half-hidden in the shadows. His posture was tense, his body coiled like a spring, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. The crude spear in his hands trembled slightly, though his grip on it was firm.

  The noble didn’t move. He stayed where he was, letting the boy watch him. His instincts told him to speak, to break the silence, but he held back. Words wouldn’t help here—not yet. Instead, he shifted his gaze to the fire, making a show of ignoring the boy. He reached out slowly, wincing as pain flared in his ribs, and picked up a small stick from the ground. He tossed it into the flames, watching the sparks rise into the air.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy flinch at the movement. His grip on the spear tightened, his knuckles white against the wood. The noble let the stick fall from his hand and leaned back against the tree behind him, careful to keep his movements slow and deliberate.

  The boy didn’t move. His gaze stayed locked on the noble, wary and calculating. His hair was black, though not the deep, clean black of polished stone—it was slightly ashen, as if dulled by the forest’s dust and grime. His eyes were sharp, glinting in the firelight with an intensity that made him seem more dangerous than he was. He was small and lean, his frame wiry and underfed, but there was something about him that tugged at the noble’s memory.

  The boy reminded him of the wild cat that used to sneak into the horse barn back home. It had been scrawny and cautious, slipping through the shadows to steal scraps of food. He’d spent weeks trying to coax it closer, leaving bits of meat and sitting quietly until it decided he wasn’t a threat. It had been a game of patience, of careful movements and unspoken understanding. This boy felt the same—wary, feral, but not beyond reach.

  The noble let out a slow breath, lowering his gaze to the fire again. He didn’t need to look at the boy to know he was still there, watching. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant rustle of the forest. It wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly. It was the kind of silence that came with waiting, with deciding.

  He shifted slightly, testing the limits of his injuries. Pain flared in his ribs, but he ignored it. He needed to show the boy he wasn’t a threat. Slowly, he reached for the pile of belongings near the fire, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He picked up a small pouch and opened it, pulling out a piece of dried meat. He held it up, letting the firelight catch on it, before setting it down on the ground between them.

  Then he leaned back again, careful to keep his posture relaxed. He didn’t look at the boy, didn’t say anything. He simply waited.

  The boy’s eyes flicked to the meat, then back to the noble. He didn’t move, but the tension in his posture shifted slightly. He was still wary, still ready to run, but the noble could see the faintest flicker of curiosity in his expression.

  The noble stayed where he was, letting the silence settle again. He knew better than to push. Trust wasn’t something you could force.

  The boy didn’t touch the dried meat at first. He stayed where he was, crouched behind the tree, his sharp eyes flicking between Gareth and the offering on the ground. Gareth didn’t push. He leaned back against the tree, letting the silence stretch between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the distant rustle of the forest.

  Eventually, the boy moved. Slowly, cautiously, he crept forward, his spear still clutched tightly in one hand. He stopped just short of the meat, his gaze darting to Gareth as if waiting for some sign of aggression. When none came, he snatched the piece of dried meat and retreated a few steps, settling back into the shadows to eat.

  Gareth allowed himself a small smile. Progress.

  He reached into the pouch again, pulling out another piece of dried meat for himself. He tore into it with his teeth, the tough texture doing little to satisfy his hunger, but it was better than nothing. He chewed slowly, his eyes flicking to the boy every so often. The boy ate quickly, his movements hurried and messy, as if he were afraid that someone might steal it away

  For a while, they sat in silence, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the clearing. Gareth didn’t mind.

  The flames crackled softly, their warm glow dancing across the trunks of nearby trees. Above them, the moon drifted in and out of the clouds, its pale light filtering through the canopy in fleeting bursts. The creek murmured in the distance, its gentle flow weaving through the stillness of the forest. Leaves rustled faintly in the breeze, brushing against moss-covered trunks and low-hanging branches.

  A shadow stretched and shifted on the ground, its edges jagged and uneven, cast by the figure leaning against the tree. The shadow moved slightly, adjusting as the figure shifted, its outline flickering with the rhythm of the fire. Beyond the reach of the firelight, another shape lingered, crouched low and still. It hovered at the edge of the clearing, just beyond the boundary where the light faded into darkness.

  Slowly, cautiously, the second shape began to move. It crept forward, its movements deliberate and measured, the faint rustle of leaves accompanying its approach. The firelight caught on something—a glint of an eye, the faint outline of a face. The second figure hesitated, its form half in shadow, half illuminated by the warm glow of the flames. For a moment, it lingered there, as if testing the safety of the light. Then, with a final, careful step, it crossed fully into the clearing, settling near the fire.

  The two figures sat in silence, the firelight playing across their forms. One leaned back against the tree, its shadow stretching long and thin across the ground. The other sat closer to the fire, its movements quick and sharp, tearing into its food with a quiet urgency. Around them, the forest murmured softly—the distant rush of a creek, the rustle of leaves, the occasional creak of a branch swaying in the breeze.

  It was the boy who broke the silence.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his voice low and cautious, but clear. His sharp eyes fixed on Gareth, studying him with an intensity that made him seem far older than he was.

  Gareth straightened slightly, a flicker of pride lighting in his chest. He’d been waiting for this moment, for the boy to show some interest in him. He cleared his throat, brushing a hand over his dented chestplate as if to smooth out nonexistent wrinkles.

  “I,” he began, his voice taking on a theatrical lilt, “am Gareth Proudwing, of House Proudwing. A noble house of great renown, known for our valor and strength. We’ve stood as pillars of the kingdom for generations, our name —” He stopped abruptly, a sharp pain lancing through his ribs. He winced, clutching his side as the breath caught in his throat.

  The boy flinched at the sudden movement, retreating a step, his spear rising slightly. Gareth waved a hand weakly, trying to reassure him, but the pain was relentless. He doubled over, coughing violently, his face contorted in a grimace. The coughs racked his body, each one sending fresh waves of pain through his ribs and shoulder. His breath came in short, wheezing gasps as he tried to regain control.

  “Damn it,” Gareth muttered between coughs, his voice strained and hoarse. He slumped back against the tree, his hand still pressed to his side, his face pale and damp with sweat.

  For a moment, the boy stayed where he was, his body tense and ready to flee. But then, something shifted. His sharp eyes softened, and the corners of his mouth twitched, as if he were trying to suppress a smile. A quiet giggle escaped him, muffled behind his hand.

  Gareth glanced up, his face still pale from the pain. His eyes narrowed slightly as he caught the boy’s expression. “Really?” he rasped, his voice hoarse but tinged with indignation.

  The boy shook his head quickly, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. He ducked his head, trying to hide his amusement, but it was no use. Another giggle slipped out, and this time, Gareth couldn’t help but notice the faint sparkle of mischief in the boy’s eyes.

  For a moment, Gareth stared at him, his own expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and amusement. Then, he laughed. It started as a low chuckle, but quickly grew into something louder, freer. The sound was rough and uneven, broken by the occasional cough, but it was genuine.

  The boy’s giggles turned into full laughter, his voice light and unguarded. Their laughter echoed softly through the clearing, mingling with the crackle of the fire and the rustle of the trees. For the first time since waking, Gareth felt lighter, the weight of his injuries and the tension between them momentarily forgotten.