Kaelen pressed his back against the rough bark of an ancient oak, its gnarled roots rising from the earth like the knuckles of a buried giant. The cold seeped through his thin shirt, deeper than the chill of the Wildlands night. It lived inside him now – a hollow space where Brom's voice should be. He clutched the iron locket, its edges biting into his bleeding palm. The familiar smell of smoke and sweat trapped in the metal was the only thing tethering him to a world that hadn't shattered hours ago.
Live.Brom's last command echoed, a desperate drumbeat against the silence of the woods. But how? His stomach growled, a raw ache beneath the sharper pains of scraped knees, cut hands, and the invisible wound in his chest. He'd run blindly, fueled by terror, until his legs gave out. Now, hidden by ferns taller than he was, the enormity crashed down. He was alone. Hunted. Carrying a power that had killed a man and saved another, only to get his uncle murdered. He squeezed his eyes shut, hot tears carving tracks through the grime on his cheeks. What am I?
The Wildlands breathed around him. Not the comforting sounds of the Ashen Quarter – the clatter of pots, Brom's hammer, the grumbling of neighbors. This was a deeper, older language: the sigh of wind through impossibly high branches, the drip-drip-drip of moisture from leaves onto the thick carpet of rotting vegetation below, the distant, mournful cry of a night bird. And beneath it all, a watchful silence. It felt like the forest itself was holding its breath.
Then, a sound cut through the quiet. Not an animal. Not the wind.
A whimper.
High-pitched. Terrified. Human.
Kaelen froze, his breath catching in his throat. Every instinct screamed danger. The Crimson Guard? A trick? He pressed harder against the tree, trying to vanish into the bark. The whimper came again, closer this time, choked off abruptly as if someone had clapped a hand over their mouth. It was followed by a frantic, muffled scuffling.
Curiosity warred with fear. It sounded like… a child. Like him. Lost. Hurt.
Live. Brom's voice again, but softer now. Don't let the darkness make you hard, lad.
Slowly, carefully, Kaelen peered around the massive trunk. Moonlight, filtered blood-red through the high canopy, dappled the forest floor twenty paces away. There, tangled in a patch of thick, thorny vines that seemed to writhe unnaturally, was a boy. He looked younger than Kaelen, maybe nine or ten, with matted brown hair and clothes that had once been fine velvet but were now ripped and stained with mud and something dark. He was struggling silently, tears streaking his dirty face, one small hand clamped over his own mouth. The thorns bit into his skin, drawing beads of blood. But it wasn't just the thorns holding him. The vines themselves seemed to be tightening, coiling around his ankle with slow, sinister purpose. Kaelen recognized the plant – Viper Root. Old Brom had warned him once, showing him a dried specimen: "Touch it, and it holds. Pull, and it bites deep. Poison seeps in slow. Makes you sleepy… then you don't wake up."
The boy's eyes, wide with panic, locked onto Kaelen's. A silent plea screamed from them. Help me.
Kaelen hesitated. Helping meant noise. Movement. Risk. The guards could be anywhere. The forest held worse things than guards, Brom had always said. But seeing the boy's terror, the way his small body shook… it mirrored his own. Leaving him felt like leaving a piece of himself to die in the thorns.
Taking a shuddering breath, Kaelen crept forward, keeping low. The damp earth muffled his steps. He reached the edge of the Viper Root patch. The vines sensed his presence, a few tendrils twitching towards him, thorns glistening wetly in the dim light. The trapped boy flinched, fresh tears welling.
"Don't move," Kaelen whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse and tears. "It tightens if you struggle."
The boy nodded frantically, trembling.
Kaelen scanned the ground. He needed something sharp, something hard. His eyes landed on a heavy, water-smoothed river stone half-buried in the loam. He dug it out, hefting its weight. Brom's lessons flooded back: Viper Root hates fire, but it fears a clean break at the main stem.
Ignoring the tendrils questing towards his legs, Kaelen focused on the thickest vine coiled around the boy's ankle. He raised the stone. Thwack! It hit the woody stem, jarring his arm. The vine recoiled slightly. Thwack! Thwack! He hammered down, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill. The woody fibre splintered. One more heavy blow. CRACK! The main stem severed.
The coiled vine around the boy's ankle instantly loosened, falling slack. The other tendrils writhed angrily but seemed confused, losing their unified purpose. The boy scrambled backwards, whimpering, pulling his bleeding leg free. He stared at Kaelen, chest heaving.
"Th-thank you," he stammered, his voice thin and shaky. He rubbed his ankle where angry red welts and puncture marks stood out against his pale skin. "It… it grabbed me when I fell."
Kaelen dropped the stone, his own hands stinging. "You shouldn't be out here alone." He glanced nervously into the surrounding darkness. "It's dangerous."
The boy sniffled, wiping his nose on his ripped sleeve. "Wasn't alone. Had… had a guide. From Sunhaven. Paid him lots of silver." Fresh tears spilled. "He… he heard the horns from the city. Said Valorian guards were coming. Said I was too slow. He took my pack… left me." The words tumbled out, laced with betrayal and fear. "Said the Wildlands would swallow me whole." He looked around, hugging himself. "He was right, wasn't he?"
Kaelen felt a pang of kinship. Abandoned. Afraid. "What's your name?" he asked, his voice softening slightly.
"Lysander," the boy whispered. "From Sunhaven. My father… he sent me away. Said Valoria wasn't safe anymore. Said I'd be safe with family in Frosthold." He looked utterly lost. "I don't know where Frosthold *
is. Just… north." He gestured vaguely into the oppressive trees.
Sunhaven. The desert empire. Frosthold. The icy north. Lysander was even further from home than Kaelen was. And just as helpless. Kaelen looked at the poisoned welts on Lysander's ankle. Viper Root poison. Slow. Sleepy. Brom's words echoed. They needed to clean it. Find water. Shelter. Surviving alone was hard enough. Surviving with a poisoned, terrified younger boy felt impossible.
Live.But did that mean just him?
Before he could decide, Lysander's eyes widened in fresh terror. He wasn't looking at Kaelen anymore. He was staring past him, deeper into the woods. His small hand shot out, grabbing Kaelen's arm with surprising strength.
"Shhh!" Lysander hissed, his voice trembling. "Don't move!"
Kaelen froze, following the boy's gaze. At first, he saw nothing but shifting shadows and dense undergrowth. Then, he felt it. A subtle vibration through the soles of his bare feet. A low, rhythmic crunching of heavy steps on the forest floor. Getting closer. Not the clumsy tread of guards. This was something heavier. Deliberate. Predatory.
A shape detached itself from the deeper gloom, silhouetted against the faint crimson moonlight filtering down. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Clad not in plate armor, but in layers of thick, dark furs that seemed to drink the light. In one hand, it carried a long-hafted axe, its head a cruel crescent of blackened iron. The other hand held a chain. Attached to the chain, noses low to the ground, straining against their leashes, were two massive hounds. Their eyes didn't reflect the light like a dog's should. They glowed with a sickly, pale green luminescence. Their low, rumbling growls vibrated through the still air, raising the hair on Kaelen's neck.
The man stopped. He tilted his head, listening. The hounds whined, pulling eagerly towards the spot where Kaelen and Lysander crouched. The man's face was hidden in the shadow of his fur hood, but Kaelen could feel the weight of his attention scanning the ferns. He sniffed the air, long and deep.
He smells the blood, Kaelen realized with icy dread. The blood from my hands… from Lysander's ankle…
The hunter raised a hand, silencing the hounds. His voice, when it came, was a gravelly rasp that seemed to crawl over Kaelen's skin.
"Little rabbits," the hunter murmured, the words barely audible but carrying unnaturally far in the quiet. "You bleed in my woods. Makes you easy to find."
He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the axe held loosely, casually. The glowing green eyes of the hounds fixed unerringly on Kaelen's hiding place.
Lysander's grip on Kaelen's arm became a vise. His breath came in shallow, terrified gasps. Kaelen's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The locket felt like ice against his skin. Running was useless. The hounds would run them down. Fighting? With a stone against that axe, those beasts?
The hunter took another step. The ferns shielding them seemed suddenly very thin.
Live. Brom's voice was a desperate whisper now, drowned by the thudding of Kaelen's heart and the hunter's approaching steps. The weight of the locket in his hand… the mark on his palm, hidden but pulsing with a low, warning throb… the terrified boy beside him…
He had nothing. Nothing but the cursed power that had destroyed his life.
And the desperate, crushing need to survive.