The shouting started like a sudden storm.
"Come out, you damn devil!"
A rock smashed against the side of Nayl's shack, rattling the herbs hanging from the ceiling. Helastine jerked toward the door, but Nayl's hand clamped around her wrist—tight, almost painful.
"Don't," he muttered. His voice was flat. Empty.
Another rock. Then another. The villagers' voices rose into a frenzy.
"Where is my boy? He was last seen with you!" A woman's scream, raw with grief.
Helastine's gaze snapped to Nayl. His face was a mask—no fear, no anger, just hollow stillness. His green eyes, usually too bright, looked dull. Dead.
"I... don't know what you're talking about, lady," he said, loud enough for them to hear.
The curses that followed were vicious.
"Just like your mother—a lying bitch!"
"Your father should've taken you with him when he hanged himself, coward!"
Nayl didn't flinch. Didn't react at all. But Helastine saw the way his fingers twitched, the way his breath hitched for half a second before steadying again.
Something inside her snapped.
She shoved the door open, stepping outside with her knife still in hand. The mob—a dozen gaunt-faced villagers—stumbled back. A woman with wild, greying hair lunged forward, her hands clawed.
"You! You're one of his kind, aren't you? Where's my son?!"
Helastine didn't move. Her voice was ice.
"Don't you see he's hurt?" She gestured to Nayl's shoulder, the angry red burns still glistening with salve. "Or are you all too blind with rage to notice?"
Slowly Nayl stepped outside, his voice was barely a whisper, his head bowed like a condemned man.
"He... he was e-eaten... by the seaper. I'm sorry. I didn't—I didn't..."
A choked sob escaped him, raw and broken. His shoulders trembled, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on his face. The boy who had grinned through pain, who had bargained with monsters, now looked like what he truly was—a child.
The mother let out a wail, collapsing to her knees in the mud. The villagers' fury twisted into something darker, hungrier.
"You were with him!" a man spat. "You should've died instead!"
"Repay us, devil!" another shouted, grabbing Nayl by the collar.
Helastine's grip tightened on her sword. She understood their grief—understood the horror of losing someone to those things—but Nayl wasn't some demon. He was a wounded, terrified boy who'd barely survived himself.
"He couldn't have saved him," she snapped, stepping between Nayl and the mob. "Look at him. He's half-dead already!"
But grief had sharpened the villagers' hatred into a blade. They didn't care about reason. They needed someone to bleed.
A man lunged, his face contorted with rage.
Helastine moved faster.
Her sword flashed—a clean, precise cut across the man's outstretched palm. Blood splattered the mud. He howled, clutching his hand as the others stumbled back, their bravado shattered.
"Next one won't be a scratch," Helastine said, her voice colder than the mountain wind.
Silence. Then, one by one, the villagers retreated, dragging the weeping mother with them. Their curses lingered in the air like poison.
Nayl hadn't moved. His tears still fell, but his eyes were empty again.
"You... all right?
"Shouldn't have done that... shouldn't", he murmured.
Nayl sat in the dirt, his clothes caked in mud, his face streaked with tears and grime. The villagers' curses still clung to him like a second skin.
Silence.
Helastine studied him—the way his shoulders hunched, the way his fingers dug into the earth like he was trying to anchor himself to something real.
Without a word, she turned her back to him and crouched low.
"Get on," she said.
Nayl blinked, his red-rimmed eyes widening. "What?"
"Piggyback. Unless you'd rather crawl."
He stared at her, then down at himself—his mud-stained clothes, his shaking hands. "I'm filthy," he muttered.
Helastine didn't move. "And I don't care."
For a heartbeat, he hesitated. Then, with a quiet sniff, he looped his arms around her shoulders. She hooked her hands under his knees and stood, adjusting his weight. He was lighter than she expected.
They walked in silence, the only sound the squelch of mud beneath her boots. The village faded behind them, replaced by the quiet hum of the forest.
The pond was small, hidden behind a curtain of weeping willows.
Nayl slid off her back, his movements stiff. Without looking at her, he peeled off his ruined shirt and waded into the water, hissing as the cold bit into his burns.
Helastine sat on the bank, her back turned to him. The late afternoon sun painted the trees gold.
The silence between them was heavy, but not empty—it was full of things too sharp to say.
Then, Nayl spoke.
"They called my mother a w-whore."
His voice was broken glass. Not crying. Not anymore. Something worse—something hollowed out.
"My mother." A shaky breath. "Just because she smiled at people. Just because men looked at her and she is too pretty, too kind for the people."
His hands trembled as he scooped water over his burns, hissing through his teeth.
"One day, she went to gather firewood. The village elders followed her. Said she'd 'tempted' the wrong man. Said she needed to be... cleansed."
A pause. The word cleansed hung in the air like the stench of burning flesh.
"They tied her to a tree. Set her on fire. And the whole village—everyone—just watched."
His voice cracked then, not with tears, but with something darker. A laugh. A horrible, jagged sound.
"My father found her ashes the next morning. He didn't even scream. Just... walked home. Kissed my forehead. Went to the barn. And when I found him—"
A fist slammed into the water. Ripples shattered the reflection of his face.
"His feet were still swinging."
Silence.
Helastine didn't turn around. She didn't know how to look at him now—this boy who carried his parents' ghosts like open wounds.
Nayl's next words were barely audible.
"After that..." Nayl's voice wavered as he tried to continue, his words raw with a pain too heavy to carry alone. But Helastine cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"Enough."
She didn't want to hear more. His sadness wasn't her concern. She couldn't fix his past, couldn't mend his wounds—what was the point in listening?
Nayl's breath hitched. Then, abruptly, he laughed—a hollow, self-deprecating sound.
"Yeah. I'm being stupid. Sorry, Helastine."
He sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. The water dripped from his clothes as he stepped onto the bank, his movements sluggish.
"Actually… my dream was to travel with my father." His voice softened, then cracked. "But…"
He didn't finish. Instead, his green eyes flicked to her, suddenly bright with something desperate.
"Hey! You look like a traveler. Can I—can I join you?"
Helastine didn't hesitate. "No."
Nayl scrambled to pull on his dry clothes, nearly tripping in his haste. "Please! I can cook! I can wash clothes! I'll do all the chores—you'll need help on your journey, right? Please."
"I said no." She stood, turning away.
Nayl darted in front of her, arms spread like he could physically block her from leaving. "Why not? Don't you want a pretty boy who can do everything for you? I'll be useful! I swear! I—I can't stay in that village anymore!"
Helastine sidestepped him, walking away without another word.
But Nayl followed.
"Please!"
"No."
"I'll be quiet! I won't complain!"
"No."
"I'll—I'll even fight seapers for you!"
Helastine whirled on him, her patience snapping. "You'll die, I can't protect you!"
Nayl flinched—but only for a second. Then his jaw set, stubborn. "I don't need protection. One day I'll die anyway. Rather, I would choose to fulfill my dream rather than rot in that village."
She glared at him. He glared back.
Finally, Helastine exhaled sharply through her nose.
"Why me? You can travel alone."
Nayl blinked. "I need partner. You are the best choice."
"Fine but the first time you slow me down, I'm leaving you behind."
A grin split his face—too wide, too bright for someone who had just been sobbing minutes ago. "I won't! I promise!"
Helastine turned away before he could see the faintest flicker of resignation in her eyes.
She had a feeling she'd regret this.