Four months in, the jungle no longer felt like an enemy.
It didn't feel like a friend either.
It felt… honest.
Midarion's body told the story before his mind did. His shoulders had broadened, just a little. His arms no longer shook after long runs. His hands were rough now, marked by wood splinters, rope burns, and small cuts that healed faster than they used to.
He was still small.
Still young.
But no longer fragile.
Kosmo, however, remained quiet.
Meditation still brought only faint warmth, like embers buried too deep to light a fire. Some days he thought he felt it stirring. Other days, nothing at all.
Theomar said nothing about it.
Which somehow made it worse.
The announcement came at dawn.
They stood near the giant tree—the one that mocked Midarion every morning with its unreachable crown. Mist clung to its trunk. Birds cried high above.
"I'm leaving," Theomar said, as casually as if announcing breakfast.
Midarion froze mid-stretch.
"…Leaving how?"
"Leaving leaving."
"For how long?"
Theomar tilted his head, thinking. "Two weeks. Maybe a little more."
Midarion's stomach dropped.
"That's—" He stopped himself. He wasn't a child. "Okay."
Theomar studied him in silence.
"You'll survive," he said finally. "You know what to eat. What not to eat. How to make fire. How to drink. When to move. When to hide."
Midarion nodded. He did know.
"There's only one thing you still fail at," Theomar added.
Midarion didn't answer.
They both knew.
Hunting.
Before leaving, Theomar led him to a clearing Midarion didn't recognize. The air felt heavier there, quieter.
Theomar knelt, drew a symbol into the earth with his finger—complex, sharp, ancient. Then he cut his palm without hesitation and let a few drops of blood fall into the mark.
Midarion took a step back. "That's… new."
Theomar pressed his bloody hand to the ground.
The earth trembled.
From the shadows stepped a grey wolf.
Its fur was thick and ash-colored, eyes pale and intelligent. It didn't bare its teeth. It didn't growl.
It simply watched.
"This is...grey," Theomar said. "Watch over it."
Midarion blinked. "Me?"
The wolf's ears twitched.
"In case of extreme danger," Theomar continued calmly. "It will intervene."
"So… it's watching me?"
Theomar smirked. "I'm watching you too. Just from farther away."
The wolf sat beside Midarion.
Keel chirped nervously.
Midarion sighed. "Great. I'm twelve and already being babysat by a wolf."
Theomar stood, clapped him once on the shoulder.
"Don't die," he said.
Then he was gone.
The first few days alone went… surprisingly well.
Midarion followed the routine like scripture.
Run at dawn. Short, fast bursts between roots and rocks.
Climb the giant tree—fail, slide down, curse quietly.
Collect water from leaves instead, using the second method Theomar taught him. Slow. Careful. Patient.
Meditate near the cascade. Not forcing. Just listening.
Prepare fire before nightfall. Always.
He didn't hunt.
He watched instead.
Animals passed through his days like fleeting thoughts. Some ignored him. Some stared. A few approached close enough to sniff the air around him before wandering off.
The wolf followed at a distance.
Always there. Always silent.
By the third night, Midarion almost forgot it wasn't supposed to be his companion.
Keel slept curled against his chest, warm and heavy.
Midarion whispered to him before sleeping, like always.
"Tomorrow I'll try again," he promised.
Keel chirped, trusting him completely.
By day four, something was wrong.
Keel didn't wake him by pulling his hair.
Keel didn't flutter around his head demanding attention.
Keel barely moved.
Midarion's heart stuttered.
"Hey," he whispered, sitting up. "Hey, no."
Keel opened one eye weakly and chirped—soft, thin.
Midarion's chest tightened.
He checked the fruit pile. Barely touched.
"You don't want fruit anymore," he murmured. "You want meat."
Keel chirped again.
Midarion swallowed.
Three days.
Keel hadn't eaten properly in three days.
The jungle felt suddenly closer. Watching.
Midarion stood.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. We're doing this."
He grabbed the bow he'd crafted himself. The arrows. His knife.
He hesitated, then lifted Keel gently and placed him in the sling across his chest.
"I'm not leaving you," he said.
The wolf rose instantly and fell into step behind him.
Midarion took a breath.
Predator mode.
Theomar's voice echoed in his memory. No hesitation.
He moved deeper than usual.
Not into the wild territories—but close enough that the air changed. Quieter. Tighter.
Midarion slowed his breathing. Let his senses stretch outward.
He smelled damp earth. Old leaves. Fur.
There.
A small horned animal grazed near a fallen trunk.
His heart pounded.
Stars above, witness this taking, he whispered. We do not kill in cruelty, but in need.
His hands shook.
Thoughts rushed in. What if I miss? What if it suffers? What if—
"No," he breathed.
He cleared his mind.
No hesitation.
The arrow flew.
It struck.
The animal cried out and collapsed, legs kicking weakly.
Midarion ran forward.
It wasn't dead.
His chest clenched painfully.
He knelt beside it, hands trembling, knife shaking in his grip.
"I'm sorry," he whispered—not to himself, but to it.
He remembered Theomar's words.
End suffering. Quickly. Cleanly.
Midarion placed his hand over his heart.
"Guide this soul beyond fear," he said, voice breaking. "Let it rest among your light."
He struck.
The animal stilled.
Midarion froze.
For a moment—just a moment—he felt it.
Something lifting.
Something leaving.
The jungle exhaled.
Midarion sat back, shaking.
Sadness washed over him—deep, heavy—but there was something else too.
Understanding.
He didn't pity the animal.
He honored it.
That night, the fire burned bright.
There was enough meat.
Keel ate eagerly, strength returning with every bite. He chirped happily, fluttering around Midarion with renewed energy.
Midarion smiled faintly.
"I did it," he whispered.
But when he tried to eat, his throat closed.
He stared at the meat in his hands.
The wolf watched him silently.
"I know," Midarion said softly. "I know."
He wrapped the rest carefully. Tomorrow.
Keel crawled into his lap, warm and alive.
Midarion stared into the fire, eyes reflecting flame.
Something had changed.
He had crossed a line.
Not into cruelty.
Into truth.
The jungle wasn't kind. It wasn't cruel.
It was fair.
Survival of the fittest.
And for the first time, Midarion understood what it truly meant to survive.