The air grew heavy as the expedition pushed deeper into the Blackwood. The unnerving quiet that Elias had sensed days ago now felt like a suffocating blanket. Even Captain Borin, a man whose pragmatic silence was usually a comfort, had grown restless, his eyes darting incessantly, his hand rarely leaving the hilt of his broadsword. Brother Gareth, having abandoned any pretense of composure, clutched his Phelena icon with white-knuckled desperation, muttering prayers that grew increasingly frantic. He spoke of dark omens, of the forests themselves becoming twisted by pagan spirits. Elias merely observed Gareth's fraying composure, a symptom of a mind that sought meaning in delusion rather than observable fact.
Elias, at seven, felt the raw edge of danger in every nerve. His aetheric senses, pushed to their limit, hummed with warnings. He smelled the faint, metallic tang of unwashed bodies, too many for mere game. He heard, or rather felt, the unnatural stillness of the undergrowth, the absence of natural sounds that spoke of an ambush. He noticed subtle disturbances on the ground that his companions, focused on the path ahead, missed – a freshly broken twig, a disturbed moss patch, a faint, irregular depression that suggested a recent, heavy tread. The terror was a cold, hard knot in his stomach, but his adult mind asserted itself, demanding focus, demanding survival. He meticulously replayed escape routes in his mind, assessing cover, calculating distances, preparing for the inevitable eruption of chaos. He adjusted his hidden satchel, feeling the reassuring, though ultimately fragile, weight of his Bible within.
It came with brutal swiftness, not a clash but an explosion of violence. From the dense thicket to their left, a volley of crude arrows, tipped with blackened feathers, rained down. One of the lead guards cried out, a gurgling sound as he fell, an arrow protruding from his throat. Before the last echo of the scream died, a horde of figures burst from the woods—scraggy, desperate men clad in patched leather and rough furs, armed with mismatched axes, rusted swords, and sharpened staves. Bandits. There were too many, at least twenty, against the Duke's six guards and three non-combatants.
Chaos erupted. The guards, seasoned as they were, were instantly overwhelmed. Captain Borin roared, his sword a flashing blur, cutting down two attackers before he was swarmed. Brother Gareth shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated terror, and fumbled for his icon, seemingly paralyzed.
Elias, caught in the suffocating vortex of violence, felt a wave of visceral, childish terror. The stench of blood, the guttural shouts, the metallic clang of steel on steel, the horrifying thud of bodies hitting the forest floor – it assaulted his senses, threatening to overwhelm his carefully constructed composure. He saw a guard, Sergeant Malcom, his face contorted in agony, fall with an axe buried in his chest. He saw a bandit, wild-eyed and snarling, raise a jagged blade towards Brother Gareth, who was still muttering prayers, heedless.
Instinct took over. Elias dove from the wagon, a small, insignificant shadow, using the sudden lurch of the vehicle as cover. A bandit, lunging past him towards the supplies, inadvertently clipped his shoulder, sending him sprawling into the undergrowth. The pain was a searing fire, but it snapped him into grim focus. He was insignificant, almost overlooked – his greatest asset.
He scrambled on hands and knees, low to the ground. A heavy boot landed mere inches from his head. He subtly, instinctively, used his aether. A tiny, almost imperceptible surge of energy flowed from his core, pushing against the air around a bandit's foot, making him stumble, his weight shifting unexpectedly as he lunged. The bandit missed his target, grunting in frustration. Elias crawled deeper into a thicket of thorny bushes, thorns tearing at his clothes, raking his skin. He suppressed a cry, focusing on dulling the pain with another surge of aether. It was rudimentary, exhausting, but it worked.
He peered through the leaves, witnessing the brutal efficiency of the bandits. They weren't just robbers; they were desperate, vicious, striking with a frenzied hunger. They disarmed the remaining guards, not bothering with mercy. Lord Arlen was pulled from his pony, his protests cut short by a heavy blow. Brother Gareth, still screaming, was dragged away, presumably for ransom. Elias saw Captain Borin, a lone, defiant figure, surrounded. He fought like a cornered beast, but the numbers were too great. A final, crushing blow, and the Captain crumpled.
Elias lay motionless, scarcely daring to breathe, even as the sounds of struggle subsided into the clatter of plunder and the rough shouts of the bandits dividing their spoils. He heard them speaking a harsh, guttural dialect he didn't recognize, but the words for "gold," "food," and "prisoners" were universal. His wagon, his secret satchel, was being ransacked. He felt a wave of icy despair. The Bible. His life's work.
But then, a glimmer of luck, an unexpected blessing from the Architect. One of the bandits, in his haste, pulled at the lining of the satchel, tearing it. But instead of revealing the hidden compartment, the tear snagged on a nail, and the whole satchel, deemed empty, was tossed carelessly aside, landing mere feet from Elias's hiding spot. It was a miracle of physics, not Phelena.
He waited, an eternity measured in the dull throbbing of his shoulder and the rapid hammering of his heart. The sounds of the bandits receded, their rough laughter fading as they dragged their spoils and their prisoners deeper into the woods. Only when silence truly descended, broken only by the chirping of unseen insects, did Elias dare to move.
He pushed through the thorns, his body screaming in protest. The satchel was there, miraculously untouched, his Bible safe within its hidden compartment. He retrieved it, clutching it like a lifeline. He was alone. Utterly, terrifyingly alone.
The next four days were a living nightmare, a testament to the brutal, unforgiving reality of this world. Elias was wounded, his shoulder ached with a deep bruise, and a nasty gash from a thorn raked his arm, weeping sluggishly. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, a constant, debilitating emptiness. Thirst became a torment, his throat raw, his lips cracked. The cold nights were a physical agony, his thin noble clothes offering little protection against the deep, bone-chilling dampness of the forest.
He navigated by instinct, by the faint memory of the sun's path, by the whispers of the wind. His adult mind was locked in a constant, desperate battle with the terror and physical limitations of his seven-year-old body. He huddled in hollow logs, under fallen trees, trying to conserve warmth. He rationed the meager dried meat and cheese from his hidden pouch, each bite a victory against starvation. He found small, stagnant puddles, and with desperate, draining surges of aether, purified tiny sips of water, forcing himself to ignore the metallic taste. He used his knife to cut thin strips of bark, trying to identify edible roots he vaguely remembered from old botany texts. He failed more often than he succeeded.
His magic, usually a subtle tool, became a desperate, primal cry for survival. He directed minute aetheric currents to clot the bleeding on his arm, to dull the gnawing pain in his shoulder, to generate a faint, barely perceptible warmth within his clothes during the freezing nights. He pushed his senses to their absolute limit, scanning for water sources, listening for the tell-tale signs of game, or, more chillingly, the soft pad of a predator's paws, human or animal. Each exertion left him weaker, shivering, his vision blurring at the edges.
Delirium set in on the third day. The trees seemed to twist into mocking faces. The rustling leaves whispered his name. He hallucinated figures in the shadows, guardians or tormentors, their forms shifting like smoke. He clung to the only anchors he had: the logical principles of the Great Architect, the immutable laws of cause and effect. He focused on his mission, the Bible clutched tightly in his satchel. He was not just a boy; he was a vessel, a truth-bearer. He could not, would not, fail. The thought of his grand design, the kingdom of reason, was the only thing that kept him putting one foot in front of the other.
On the fourth day, the world blurred into a haze of green and grey. His steps faltered, his vision tunneled. He was operating on pure, desperate will, his body a protesting husk. He hadn't seen Montala symbols for days, a small, grim comfort. He only dimly registered the scent of woodsmoke, then a more complex aroma – wild berries, ripe and sweet. He stumbled, falling more often than walking, dragging himself forward, driven by the scent.
Through the haze, a figure appeared. Not a bandit, not a guard. A child. She was perhaps a year or two younger than him, no more than five or six years old, her hair the color of rich earth, braided with strands of wild flowers. She knelt by a thicket, her small hands stained purple from berries. She wore simple, unadorned clothing woven from natural fibers, sturdy and practical, clearly made for movement in the woods. Her face was smudged with dirt, her eyes wide and intelligent, showing a remarkable self-possession for her age. She was the embodiment of the pragmatic, self-reliant people Elias had sought, utterly absorbed in her task of gathering the forest's bounty.
He tried to speak, a raw, guttural sound that barely left his throat. "W-water..."
The little girl looked up, startled, her eyes widening as she saw him. He was a small, ragged, blood-stained apparition, swaying on his feet, his face pale and gaunt, his eyes wild with delirium. He stumbled forward another step, the satchel falling from his grasp, and then his legs gave out. The world spun, the girl's face swam before his eyes, a concerned frown replacing her initial surprise. He felt the soft earth rush up to meet him, and then, mercifully, darkness. He passed out, utterly, completely, almost irrevocably dead.
Elara – though Elias did not know her name – stared in shock at the crumpled form of the boy. His skin was feverish, his breathing shallow, a faint, ragged whistling sound. He looked utterly spent, on the brink of death. She saw the crude, patched clothes, the bruised shoulder, the dried blood on his arm. This was no common bandit, nor was he a typical noble child. He was clearly from the outside world, but strangely, uniquely vulnerable.
Her practical instincts, honed by life in the Weaver Clan, took over. She dropped her berry basket, her heart pounding. She knew where to find help, swiftly. Her voice, strong for her age, echoed through the quiet woods. "Mother! Father! Help! There's a boy! He's dying!"