They travelled before sunrise and did not stop when the light came.
Kael's feet were blistered within the hour. By midday, his shoes—too small from a life that had ended overnight—rubbed his heels raw. He didn't complain. Complaining wouldn't change the distance, and Rothmar Vale didn't strike him as a man who negotiated with reality.
The land outside the town was rough, a patchwork of frost-stiff grass, thorny hedgerows and narrow dirt tracks that twisted between low hills. The air smelled clean out here, empty of smoke and blood, but Kael carried the stench inside his own lungs. Every time he breathed deeply, it felt like the fire was still behind his eyes.
Rothmar walked ahead, never looking back, yet somehow never losing Kael.
As the sun reached its highest point, Kael stumbled. His knee struck a stone. Pain flared sharp and bright and he went down hard, palms scraping against gravel.
He stayed on the ground for two breaths.
Then he pushed himself up.
Rothmar halted without turning.
"You fell," he said.
Kael brushed dirt from his hands, jaw tight. "I'm fine."
"No," Rothmar replied, still facing forward. "You're exhausted. Hungry. Shocked. You're also alive. That is your only advantage right now."
Kael's throat tightened. He didn't know what to say to that.
Rothmar finally turned to look at him. His gaze travelled over Kael's posture, his hands, his eyes. It wasn't pity. It was appraisal, the way a craftsman might inspect a blade that had survived a fire.
"What do you remember?" Rothmar asked.
Kael blinked. "From… last night?"
"Yes."
Kael's mouth went dry. Images surfaced uninvited—his father's broken sword, the blank helmets, his mother's voice, her blood warm on his cheek. He forced himself to speak anyway.
"They had no crest," he said quietly. "No colours. No house mark. Just… black armour. Like they didn't want anyone to know who they were."
Rothmar nodded. "Good. Continue."
Kael swallowed. "They moved like soldiers. Not bandits. They weren't excited. They weren't angry. They were… organised."
"Also good."
Kael hesitated, then added, "One of them said I wasn't on the list."
A faint change entered Rothmar's eyes—something like confirmation.
"So they expected every corpse," Rothmar murmured. "That tells you something."
Kael frowned. "That they planned it."
Rothmar gave a short, humourless exhale. "Everyone plans murder. The question is who has the authority to treat it like administration."
Kael stared at him. He didn't like the way that sounded. It made the world feel colder than the night had.
Rothmar turned and resumed walking.
Kael followed, legs stiff.
They didn't speak for another hour.
When the sun began to sink, Rothmar veered off the path into a stretch of woodland. The trees were tall and close-set, their branches knit together overhead. Shadows pooled between roots and stones. Kael's skin prickled with the sensation of being watched.
Rothmar stopped beside a shallow stream.
"Drink," he ordered.
Kael knelt and drank greedily, cold water shocking his mouth. He didn't realise how thirsty he was until his hands stopped shaking.
Rothmar crouched, scooped water once, and drank like a man taking medicine rather than relief.
Then he stood.
"We'll make camp."
Kael looked around, confused. "Here?"
"Yes."
Kael's gaze flicked between the darkening trees. The memory of armoured figures moved behind his eyes. "What if they find us?"
Rothmar's expression did not change. "If they find us, you'll learn something."
Kael's stomach turned. "Learn what?"
"How to stay alive," Rothmar said simply.
He pulled a flint and steel from his cloak and lit a small fire in a shallow pit. The flame was contained, quiet, barely more than a glow. Rothmar placed dry wood around it, arranging the pieces with exactness.
Kael sat opposite, staring into the fire.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then Rothmar said, "Stand."
Kael looked up. "What?"
"Stand," Rothmar repeated.
Kael rose slowly, unsure.
Rothmar stepped around the fire. His hand disappeared into his cloak and emerged with a short blade—plain, functional. He tossed it. Kael caught it awkwardly, the handle slapping against his palm.
"Hold it properly."
Kael adjusted his grip, fingers tightening. He had seen his father with a sword, but this was different. This was small, intimate. The weight felt wrong for his hands.
Rothmar stared at him. "Attack me."
Kael froze. "What?"
Rothmar's eyes narrowed. "If you hesitate, you die. Attack."
Kael's breath hitched. He glanced at the blade, then at Rothmar's face. Rothmar looked utterly serious, as if this was the most ordinary request in the world.
"I'm not—" Kael began.
Rothmar moved.
Not towards him—past him.
Kael felt a shift of air and then pain blossomed across his ribs. He staggered, dropping the blade. He looked down. A thin line of blood seeped through his shirt.
Rothmar stood behind him, his own knife already back in his hand.
"That was a warning," Rothmar said calmly. "You will not receive another one in the real world."
Kael's ears rang. He pressed a hand to his side, feeling the sting.
"You cut me," he whispered, shocked.
"Yes," Rothmar said. "A shallow cut. Enough to teach you that your thoughts are slower than steel."
Kael turned, anger flaring briefly—hot, irrational. "Why are you doing this?"
Rothmar met his eyes without blinking. "Because you're alive. And because you won't stay that way if you don't change."
Kael's breathing quickened. His fingers curled. He didn't know whether he wanted to cry or hit something.
Rothmar gestured at the blade on the ground. "Pick it up."
Kael bent, snatched it up.
"Attack," Rothmar said again.
Kael moved before his fear could catch him. He stepped forward and swung, sloppy and desperate. Rothmar slipped aside as if Kael were moving through water. The older man's elbow struck Kael's forearm. Pain shot up to his shoulder and the knife clattered away again.
Rothmar kicked Kael's foot out from under him.
Kael hit the ground hard, wind knocked out of him.
Rothmar crouched beside him and placed the knife's tip lightly against Kael's throat.
"So," Rothmar said quietly, "what did you learn?"
Kael swallowed, the blade cold against his skin. "That you're… faster."
Rothmar's eyes hardened. "Wrong."
Kael's mind raced. He forced himself to think through the haze of pain. "That I telegraphed it. My shoulders—my hips—"
Rothmar lifted the blade slightly. "Better."
Kael clenched his jaw. "That I hesitated."
"Yes," Rothmar said. "And hesitation is death."
He withdrew the knife and stood. "Again."
Kael stared up at him, chest heaving. "I can't beat you."
"Not tonight," Rothmar agreed. "Tonight is not about beating me."
He tossed the knife back into Kael's lap. "Tonight is about teaching your body to move while your mind is screaming."
Kael got up.
This time, he didn't speak. He attacked again, faster, still clumsy but with less hesitation. Rothmar parried, struck, tripped. Kael hit the ground, tasted dirt, got back up.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Each time, Rothmar corrected him with pain rather than words. A strike to the wrist when Kael gripped too tightly. A kick to the shin when Kael planted his feet wrong. A slap to the back of the head when Kael looked at the knife instead of his opponent.
Kael's world narrowed to the firelight and Rothmar's calm, unchanging face.
At some point, Kael stopped feeling angry.
He stopped feeling anything but the need to stand up again.
When Rothmar finally stepped back, Kael swayed, sweat freezing on his skin in the night air. His arms trembled violently. His side burned where the cut had opened further.
"Enough," Rothmar said.
Kael blinked, barely processing the word.
Rothmar tossed him a strip of cloth. "Tie it."
Kael looked down at his bleeding ribs. His hands were shaking too much to knot the cloth properly.
Rothmar watched him struggle for several seconds, then knelt and tied it in one swift motion.
Kael flinched at the pressure.
Rothmar didn't apologise.
He stood and looked down at Kael.
"You will not mourn properly," Rothmar said. "Not yet. If you try, it will consume you. Grief is a luxury."
Kael's throat tightened. He wanted to argue, but he didn't have the strength.
Rothmar continued, voice low. "What happened to your family was not random violence. It was deliberate. Controlled. Ordered."
Kael stared at the fire.
Rothmar's eyes sharpened. "If you want to live, you must become the sort of person who does not break when the world tries to erase him."
Kael's fingers curled around the cloth at his ribs.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Rothmar stepped away from the fire and into the shadow of the trees, as if the darkness belonged to him.
"Sleep," he said. "At dawn, we begin again."
Kael lay down near the embers, staring at the sky through the branches.
The stars were cold.
The night was silent.
But inside Kael's chest, something that had been shattered was beginning—slowly, painfully—to harden into a shape that could survive.