The next morning I knelt down beside Caleb, who was still half-asleep, his small frame curled beneath the tattered blanket we shared. The dim morning light barely crept through the gaps in the wooden walls, casting faint golden slivers across his face. His breathing was slow and steady, peaceful in a way I hadn't felt in years. I envied that.
Gently, I brushed a few strands of dirty blonde hair from his forehead and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head. He stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent, but didn't wake.
"I'll be back," I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. "Promise."
The word tasted strange on my tongue. Promises were delicate things, easily broken, easily lost. But I needed him to believe it.
I hesitated, knowing I didn't have much time before my father woke up, but I had to say it. Just in case.
"If anything happens," I continued, my voice quieter now, "run to Robert's house. Stay with his father. Don't wait for me."
His brow furrowed slightly, but he was still somewhere between waking and dreaming, lost in the quiet safety of sleep. I wished I could let him stay there forever.
With one last glance, I pulled the thin blanket up to his shoulders and stood, ignoring the stiffness in my limbs. The bruises from last night were already making themselves known, sharp pulses of pain rippling across my ribs and cheekbone.
I shook it off.
I had a journey to make.
I found myself walking toward Robert's farm, the air cool and crisp. The village was quieter than usual, the low hum of the townsfolk's daily routines barely audible over the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Robert's farm sat just at the edge of the village, a small patch of land surrounded by fields of crops and a handful of cattle grazing lazily in the early sunlight. It was small, but it was his, and for whatever reason, he had decided I was worth helping.
The air smelled of damp earth and hay, mixed with the faint scent of manure, but there was a strange comfort in it—like this farm had been here for ages, holding secrets in its silence.
"Come on, Jason!" Robert called from the yard, where he was tying a cart to Big Bertha, the donkey. She was old, her fur graying at the edges, but she was steady, and that was enough. "Let's get moving."
I stepped onto the farm, the creaky wood of the cart beneath my feet sounding in contrast to the soft hum of the morning. Robert's house was modest—wooden, with a few windows that had been hastily fixed after the last storm. The smell of breakfast wafted through the open door, and I could hear Robert's father shouting instructions from inside.
The smell of bread and eggs made my stomach growl again. I hadn't eaten anything this morning, but I had no time to dwell on it. The trip to the capital would take most of the day, and Robert didn't seem to have any interest in waiting for me to sit around and think about my empty stomach.
As I climbed into the cart beside Robert, Big Bertha gave a low grunt, as if saying goodbye to the village behind us. And with that, we were off, the bumpy road ahead of us stretching toward something that felt like a new beginning.
We set off from Robert's house just as the sun reached its highest point, burning bright in a cloudless sky, making the whole world feel a little too warm. I looked around at the tiny village—if you could even call it that—one dusty road cutting through it like a scar. The houses, built from rough-hewn stone or rotting wood, stood close together as if afraid the wind might knock them all down if they got too far apart. There was nothing fancy about this place. But the fields around it? Now those were something else—Robert's family farm stretched wide, green, and full of promise in the eyes of a boy like me.
The moment we left the village behind, I noticed something: the road was awful. And I mean awful—the kind of bumpy, bone-rattling road that made you question whether you were meant to get anywhere, or if the road itself just hated you. The wagon, pulled by Robert's donkey, Big Bertha (who looked as though she'd seen a few too many years and far too many bad decisions), creaked and groaned with every bump. If I'd had any dignity left, I would have lost it right there. But of course, dignity wasn't exactly a luxury I could afford.
"Big Bertha's not the spry young filly she used to be," Robert said with a dry chuckle as the donkey let out an indignant snort, shaking her head as if protesting her current assignment. "But she gets the job done."
"I'll say," I muttered, bouncing against the wagon's wooden sides like a ragdoll. "If this was any bumpier, I'd think I was on a mission to discover new continents by accident."
Robert grinned. "You've got a point there. But don't worry, we're heading to the capital market. A bit of a bump in the road is the least of our problems."
"Yeah, well," I said, clinging to the edge of the wagon to avoid being tossed off, "If this is what 'getting the job done' looks like, I'm not sure I want to know what 'failure' looks like."
We laughed, but the conversation shifted as we passed by the last stretch of village, and the countryside opened up in front of us. The road cut through vast stretches of farmland, green fields rolling out on either side like waves in a calm ocean. Wildflowers dotted the landscape, bursting in colors of purple, yellow, and the occasional splash of red. In the distance, the peaks of jagged mountains rose up, crowned by streaks of snow that looked more like distant dreams than anything you could touch. The horizon felt endless—an ocean of green and gold that was only interrupted by the occasional barn or farmhouse.
"Ever think about what's beyond all this?" I asked, trying to distract myself from the discomfort of the road.
Robert gave me a sideways glance. "What, like the rest of the world?"
"Yeah, like, what's out there? Do you ever wonder if there's more to life than just this?" I motioned vaguely to the fields and the wagon, the simple life I was stuck in.
He thought for a second, squinting against the sun. "Sometimes. I mean, the market's a whole different world, right? But beyond that? I don't know. I'm just trying to figure out what happens tomorrow. It's hard to imagine much more than that when you've got cattle to feed and a farm to run."
I could understand that. Robert didn't have the luxury of wondering about big things. He had his responsibilities, his family, the farm. Me? I was still figuring out what I was supposed to do with my life, and so far, 'survive' seemed to be the answer.
"You ever dream of leaving here?" I asked, my voice quieter now.
"Every day," Robert said without hesitation, as if he'd thought about it more times than he cared to admit. "But I've got my dad to take care of. He's not as sharp as he used to be." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his fingers twitching as though he wanted to say more, but stopped himself. "I'm just trying to make sure we get by."
I nodded, understanding. For a second, I felt guilty, but it passed. My life was a mess of its own, and I wasn't sure I had the right to pity someone else's.
As the day wore on, the landscape shifted. We passed through stretches of thick forest, where the sun barely made it through the canopy, leaving us in a cool, dim twilight. Birds fluttered overhead, calling out to each other in voices that were as foreign to me as the idea of being anywhere but Barathrum. The road narrowed, turning into something more like a dirt path. The wheels of the wagon sank deeper into the earth, and Big Bertha seemed to struggle under the weight.
"Is this normal?" I asked, eyeing the path warily. It looked like it hadn't been used in years.
"Pretty much," Robert said, pulling on the reins. "Not a lot of travelers take this route. It's faster to go through the woods, but it's tougher on Big Bertha."
"Ah, well, we wouldn't want her to get too comfortable now, would we?"
Robert chuckled. "She'll be fine. She's tougher than you think."
"Can't argue with that," I said, gripping the edge of the wagon as we jostled over another rock.
We traveled for hours, the road never quite letting up, always shifting between wide-open fields and dense forests, with the occasional village or farmstead coming into view before being swallowed by the trees once more. The heat of midday started to fade, and the air cooled, but not enough to make the ride any more comfortable.
As evening fell, the sky began to glow in shades of pink and orange, painting the clouds like a watercolor. The world around us seemed to soften, the harsh edges of the road fading as we reached a clearing near a stream. Robert slowed Big Bertha down, and we pulled the wagon to the side of the road.
"Time to make camp," he said, untying a bundle of supplies from the back of the wagon. "You got firewood?"
"I've got nothing," I said, looking at the empty hands I had to offer. "But I'm sure I can manage a grunt of encouragement while you do all the work."
Robert raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He dug through the wagon for a few moments before pulling out some dry wood, already cracked and ready for a fire. I wandered off to find more, chopping up some smaller branches, but even that didn't take long. Before long, we had a small fire crackling in the center of a circle of rocks, the flames dancing against the growing chill of the evening.
"This is nice," I said, leaning against the wagon. "Reminds me of when I used to imagine adventures in my head, you know? When it was just stories."
"Is that what you imagined?" Robert asked, looking at me from the firelight, his face cast in shadow. "The road, the endless woods, and Big Bertha?"
I snorted. "Yeah, if my imagination was low on caffeine and a little too depressing. Maybe in my head, I was riding a majestic stallion, not a donkey with a chip on her shoulder."
"Big Bertha's got plenty of majesty left in her," Robert said with a smirk. "She's just… temperamental."
I leaned back, staring into the flames as they flickered and popped, sending sparks into the air. The fire felt good, like it was the only thing I could rely on in a world full of uncertainty. The warmth was a reminder that even in a world that felt like it was falling apart, there were still small comforts to hold on to.
As the night settled in, we ate a simple meal—bread, dried meat, and whatever vegetables we had left—and then leaned back against the wagon, watching the stars appear one by one. There was something strange about being out here, so far from the village, with only Robert and Big Bertha to keep me company. It felt like I was in a dream, or maybe just somewhere between two worlds, neither of which I belonged to.
"So," Robert said, breaking the silence as the fire crackled. "You really think the moon will guide us tomorrow?"
I glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "Why? You want to test it?"
"Could be," Robert said, his tone surprisingly serious. "Could be that the moon knows something we don't."
"Maybe," I said, though part of me wondered if we were just trying to make our own answers for the world that had already given us too many questions.
The night wrapped around us like a thick, star-studded cloak, stretching so vast and endless it felt as if I could fall right into it if I leaned back far enough. The moon was unnervingly bright, its silver glow making the entire clearing shimmer as if the world had been dusted in crushed pearls. A slight breeze wove through the campsite, rustling leaves, carrying the scent of damp earth, firewood, and whatever was probably rotting in someone else's stew pot.
Robert stretched his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders as if gathering firewood was some grand, back-breaking labor. "I'm off to get some more wood," he grunted, pushing himself up from the log with a dramatic sigh.
I barely looked up from the fire, still stirring the pot with all the enthusiasm of a man who had just realized he was in charge of dinner. "Mhm."
Robert paused, staring at me like a disappointed parent. "Get a start on dinner, and please, try not to burn anything."
I scoffed, flicking a bit of rabbit broth in his direction with the spoon. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'm not that useless, you know."
He gave me a look that very clearly said I have my doubts, but instead of voicing them, he just shook his head and stepped away from the fire. "We'll see."
The forest swallowed him up quickly, his form vanishing into the dense thicket of trees that ringed the clearing. The moment he disappeared, the night seemed a little quieter. The crackling fire suddenly felt too loud. Even the occasional murmur from other travelers around the campsite felt distant, as if I had been pushed just slightly out of the world.
Crickets chirped, owls hooted, and from somewhere in the distance, something yipped—a fox, maybe. Or some other creature that sounded far too gleeful for this time of night. Around the campsite, figures moved in the firelight, travelers settling in for the night, their voices soft murmurs against the rustling trees.
I stirred the stew absentmindedly, inhaling the warm, earthy scent of rabbit and vegetables. It was probably the best meal I'd had in weeks, but my stomach twisted at the thought of eating. Something felt…off. Like the air itself was holding its breath.
And that's when I saw them.
Two figures, draped in heavy cloaks, the kind you wear when you don't want people to see your face. They moved like smoke, slipping through the camp with an ease that made them seem like they belonged—except they didn't. Not here. Not anywhere.
I kept my grip firm on the wooden spoon, doing my best to act like I hadn't noticed them until they were a few feet away.
"Evening," one of them said, his voice smooth and measured, like he was used to talking his way out of (or into) trouble.
I glanced up, pretending to be surprised. "Evening."
The taller of the two inhaled deeply, tilting his head toward the pot. "Rabbit stew?"
I nodded, keeping my face neutral. "Something like that."
They didn't sit. They didn't move away. They just…lingered.
"You travel alone?" the first man asked, his tone casual.
"Not really," I said. "Friend's gathering wood."
The taller man made a thoughtful noise, his hood shifting just enough for me to glimpse a sharp jawline. "This campsite gets a lot of travelers, doesn't it?"
I shrugged. "Guess so."
He exhaled through his nose, gaze sweeping across the clearing as if he were searching for something—or someone.
"You meet many interesting people here?"
I frowned. "Define interesting."
His companion chuckled, but there was no real humor in it. "People who don't quite…fit in."
That got my attention.
The fire crackled between us, casting flickering shadows over their cloaks.
The taller man took another step closer. "Maybe someone who looks a little different. Taller than most. Sharp—too sharp. Eyes that seem to glow, even in the dark."
I swallowed.
Because the way he said it—it wasn't just idle curiosity.
I shook my head. "Haven't seen anyone like that."
The first man studied me, his expression unreadable beneath the hood. Then, finally, he sighed. "Shame."
And just like that, they turned and melted back into the shadows, as if they'd never been there at all.
I let out a slow breath, gripping the wooden spoon a little too tightly.
What the hell was that about?
Who were they looking for? And more importantly, what would have happened if I'd given them the answer they wanted?
I didn't like any of it. Not one bit.
I was still staring into the fire, trying to shake off the feeling that I'd just brushed against something much bigger than me, when footsteps crunched against the dirt behind me.
I jumped, but it was just Robert stepping into the firelight.
Only—something was wrong.
His face was pale, his eyes too wide, and he was breathing a little too hard for someone who had just been gathering firewood. His sleeves were pulled down too far, and his right arm was stiff at his side, like he was trying to pretend there wasn't something weird going on with it.
I frowned. "What took you so long?"
Robert shook his head. "Nothing. Just… woods are creepy at night." He forced a laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. "How's dinner?"
I wasn't buying it. At all.
"Fine," I said slowly, my gaze flicking to his right arm. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" He grabbed a bowl and ladled some stew into it like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Except it wasn't normal. Because now that I was looking, I could see the faintest glow from under his sleeve.
Not firelight. Not moonlight. Something else.
Something unnatural.
His wrist—partially obscured by his sleeves—was wrapped in what looked like a brace, but not like any I'd ever seen before. It was a deep bronze color, reflecting the orange colors of the dancing flames of the campfire. Watching it, it pulsed faintly, as if it was breathing.
I wanted to ask.
I wanted to demand answers.
But Robert was acting like it wasn't even there. Like if he ignored it hard enough, I wouldn't notice.
So, for now, I played along.
"Soup smells good," he said, not looking at me.
I handed him a spoon. "Yeah," I muttered. "Sure does."
But something told me neither of us would be enjoying it tonight.