Morning brought the sound of wooden staves striking and boys grunting in the dust circle. Children sparred while elders watched with sharp eyes. The winners earned meat and respect. The losers limped away hungry.
Kael stood at the edge, arms folded against his chest. His body was too small, his frame too thin. No one called his name. So he watched. He studied how shoulders tensed before a strike, how a poorly planted foot betrayed balance, how anger eroded patience. He learned far more in silence than the fighters did in their shouting.
"Orphan," a boy called after throwing his opponent into the dirt, "watch closely. This is the closest you will ever come to fighting."
Laughter rippled across the circle. Kael's lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes lingered on the victor's stance a moment longer. Then he turned away.
The day passed with its rhythm of chores and smoke from roasting meat. By dusk, the smell thickened, rich and heavy, making Kael's stomach twist. He carried firewood back to the huts, his head lowered, when shadows closed in around him.
The same boys from the sparring ring blocked his path. The leader grinned, bread in his hand.
"Well, well. The orphan thinks he is too good to fight in the circle. Let us see how he does here."
Kael's eyes flicked once to the side. The path was narrow, the ground uneven, stones scattered across it. His pulse quickened, but he let his body tremble, let his eyes widen, stumbling back as if afraid.
The first boy lunged, certain of victory. At the last instant, Kael shifted. His knee brushed the attacker's shin, his palm pressed against the chest with just enough force to unbalance him.
The boy pitched forward into the hut wall with a grunt. Dust burst into the air. The second stumbled into him, the third tripped over both. Their curses replaced their laughter.
By the time they scrambled to their feet, Kael was gone. The bread was gone with him.
He ate in silence behind the storage huts, tearing small pieces slowly, savoring every bite as if each crumb was a triumph. To the others, it had been an accident. To the boys, a stroke of luck.
But not everyone believed in luck.
From the shadows, the elder hunter leaned on his spear. His eyes were sharp, flinty. He had seen the way Kael moved, the precision of his stumble, the timing of his shove.
"Not luck," the hunter murmured.
"Calculation."