They left Ashen Markets behind, walking through low fields that sagged like tired skin. The morning sun revealed more ruin than relief: cottages tilting into ditches, barns caved in where roofs had long surrendered, and people hunched by doorways with the look of cattle - eyes following but never daring to speak.
By midday, they reached a scatter of huts clinging to the edge of a marsh. The air reeked of rot, and men were dragging nets heavy not with fish, but with black sludge that clung like tar. When Kaelen asked what they gathered, an old woman whispered,
Further on, they passed a hamlet where every wall bore a painted mark: a crown resting atop a set of scales. Below it, the words:
Kaelen said nothing. His silence was heavier than words.
Toward evening, the land shifted again. The poverty did not vanish - it only gave way to stranger things. A stretch of road paved in black stone led them into a valley where mansions loomed behind high gates. Golden lanterns glowed in the windows, laughter spilling faintly into the dusk. Outside the gates, beggars knelt in lines, holding bowls aloft. From time to time, a servant would cast down crusts of bread or pour thin ale through the bars, and the desperate surged forward, clawing.
Kaelen’s jaw tightened.
Rowan stopped in the middle of the road, his voice rising, raw and unguarded.
His hands shook, emotion spilling out after too many days of silence.
He turned to Kaelen, eyes burning.
The valley seemed to hold its breath, the only sound the distant hum of machinery and the wind through ruined fields.
Kaelen met his gaze, steady and unflinching. He let the boy’s fury settle before answering, his voice low:
He stepped closer, his tone gentler but no less firm.
Rowan’s shoulders shook, the fight draining from him, replaced by a bitter, exhausted quiet. He looked away, blinking hard.
Rowan’s anger finally broke, replaced by sobs he could no longer hold back. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, shoulders shaking, voice barely above a whisper.
Kaelen looked ahead, the horizon painted with the last light.
Kaelen’s face hardened, but not with anger.
Kaelen shook his head.
Kaelen’s voice was gentle but firm.
The road to Greyharbor stretched ahead, long and uncertain. The promise of allies and resistance was real, but so was the danger. As the night settled, Rowan walked in silence, Kaelen kept his pace steady.
The road bent into silence again. Even Rowan’s anger, which had flared like sparks at every broken cottage and every hungry face, had dwindled into ash. They walked under the weight of their thoughts, only the crunch of gravel and the distant croak of marsh birds filling the dark.
Kaelen slowed, then stopped altogether. He rested his hand on his knee, crouched low, and motioned for Rowan to pause. For a moment, he simply breathed, eyes on the ground as if weighing something unseen. Then, without looking at the boy, he spoke.
Rowan frowned, but before he could form a reply, Kaelen’s gaze swept the treeline. His eyes lingered a beat too long on the shadows where the trees leaned inward, then turned back to the boy.
They stepped from the road into a hollow beneath leaning pines. Rowan busied himself with gathering the driest brush he could find. Kaelen, meanwhile, moved with practiced ease: clearing ground, checking the earth for dampness, stacking stones for a windbreak. He worked without a word, movements so fluid and ordinary that Rowan might have missed their purpose if he hadn’t been watching.
At first it seemed Kaelen was simply adjusting his stance, or turning to reach for a branch. But the longer Rowan studied him, the more he saw it: the way Kaelen’s head angled ever so slightly to listen, the way his eyes flicked to the ridge line, to the river bend, to the low brush where sound died too easily. Each glance was seamless, folded into the rhythm of labor, never betraying tension. He looked not like a man expecting an attack, but like one who could not forget the world was always watching.
They ate little: a crust of bread, a mouthful of water, silence between them. When Rowan finally spoke, his voice cracked the stillness more than he intended.
Kaelen’s eyes lifted to him, then back to the small flame they had coaxed from flint.
Kaelen’s answer came after a long pause, his tone softer than before.
The boy lay back on his cloak, staring through the canopy where the stars bled faintly into the night. His mind burned with questions he didn’t know how to ask. Kaelen had already lain down, back to the fire, breathing slow, though Rowan suspected he was not as far gone into rest as he seemed. And so he went to break the silence.
But before he could finish the first word, Kaelen spoke. His voice was low, steady, without opening his eyes.
Rowan stiffened. The bluntness was like cold water, but Kaelen wasn’t finished.
The boy sat up slightly, his face caught between resentment and awe.
Kaelen finally opened his eyes, staring into the flame.
Silence settled again, broken only by the night sounds. Rowan lay back, staring at the sky through the torn branches above. He tried to imagine the stars as Kaelen might: distant, cold, like things to be measured and understood. But to Rowan, they were stories waiting to be told.
Kaelen did not interrupt.
Rowan’s voice gained strength, carried by his own imagination.
For a long moment, Kaelen said nothing. Rowan turned his head, half expecting mockery, but Kaelen’s expression was unreadable in the firelight.
At last, he murmured,
Rowan blinked, surprised at the softness in the words. He tucked himself tighter into his cloak, holding onto that small thread of comfort.
Then Rowan asked,
Kaelen’s eyes stayed on the fire. The crackle of the wood filled the pause before his reply.
Kaelen’s gaze lifted briefly to the stars, then back to the dark around them. His expression hardly shifted, but his voice thinned, quieter than before.
The boy’s chest tightened. He wanted to push, to pry open the wall Kaelen always carried around him, but something in the man’s tone warned him back.
So Rowan turned to the sky again. The stars shimmered like scattered embers.
Kaelen let the silence return. The boy’s breathing softened into sleep.
Only then did Kaelen shift, rolling his shoulder to ease the ache in the wound stitched tight beneath his cloak. His eyes flicked once more to the treeline, then to the road they would walk come morning. The fire burned low, and his watch began again.
Morning bled pale over the treetops. Mist clung to the hollow where they had slept, muffling sound and softening the edges of the camp. Kaelen was already awake, crouched by the remnants of the fire, stamping out the last embers and scattering the ashes with practiced ease. Rowan stirred only when he heard the crunch of boots fading into the trees.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes, watching Kaelen’s silhouette vanish among the trunks. For a moment he wondered if the man was leaving him, but soon enough Kaelen reappeared, dragging two long branches over his shoulder. He stripped them of twigs with his knife as he walked, turning them into crude staffs. When he reached the camp again, he tossed one toward Rowan without a word.
The boy caught it awkwardly, blinking. Before he could ask, Kaelen stood before him, rolling his shoulders loose.
Rowan gripped the branch, excitement rising in his chest, only to falter at the calm in Kaelen’s stance. There was no warmth in the offer, no gentle encouragement. Just expectation. The kind part, Rowan realized, was that Kaelen thought him worth the effort at all.
Rowan lunged, swinging clumsily. Kaelen slid aside with minimal effort, the staff whistling through empty air. The boy stumbled, catching himself with a curse.
The second strike came sharper, aimed for Kaelen’s side. This time the man caught it with his own staff, twisting with a snap of his wrists that sent the branch flying from Rowan’s hands. It clattered against the stones, and Rowan’s palms stung from the force. Kaelen didn’t press the advantage. He simply waited while Rowan scrambled to retrieve it.
The boy attacked again, and again. Each time, Kaelen countered with precise, economical movements - a block, a sweep, a sidestep. Rowan’s arms ached, his breath came ragged, but Kaelen’s expression never shifted. When Rowan overcommitted to a strike, Kaelen rapped his knuckles. When his guard sagged, Kaelen flicked the staff against his ribs hard enough to bruise. Harsh, but not cruel.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Rowan’s strikes grew wilder, driven more by frustration than control. He shouted with each swing, teeth bared. Kaelen deflected them all, his patience that of stone weathering storm after storm. Only when Rowan collapsed to his knees, gasping, did Kaelen lower his staff.
Kaelen crouched to meet his eyes.
Rowan clenched his jaw, but behind the anger flickered pride, small but real. He nodded, gripping the staff tighter.
Kaelen stood, wiped dirt from his hands, and tossed his own branch into the brush.
They packed swiftly, Kaelen erasing their presence with quiet thoroughness: scattered ashes buried, footprints brushed, nothing left to mark their stay. Rowan followed him into the trees, muscles aching but spirit oddly lightened. For the first time, he felt not just like a burden trailing behind Kaelen, but a pupil. Someone being shaped for the road ahead.
The woods thickened as they left the hollow, branches clawing at the light, the path narrowing into shadows. Kaelen took the lead, steps silent, Rowan close behind with the staff across his shoulders.
The forest swallowed them whole as they left the hollow behind. The path was no more than a suggestion: roots tangled underfoot, moss thick enough to silence steps, shafts of light knifing down through a canopy that seemed to lean closer the deeper they went. Rowan felt smaller with every pace, but not afraid. His eyes were no longer just darting about in wonder; they were tracing Kaelen’s every move.
Kaelen didn’t march blindly forward. He moved with the rhythm of the woods, pausing here and there as if listening for cues only he could hear. Once, he crouched and ran a finger along a patch of lichen clinging to the bark.
Later, Kaelen knelt by a cluster of mushrooms sprouting from a rotted log. Their caps were pale with faint ridges like tiny gills. Rowan crouched beside him.
Kaelen shook his head.
Rowan committed the shape to memory, repeating the name under his breath.
As they walked, Kaelen plucked leaves from a shrub, crushing one between his fingers before letting Rowan sniff. The scent was sharp, like lemon.
Rowan chewed one cautiously, puckering at the taste, and Kaelen gave the faintest nod of approval.
Hours passed with the forest shifting around them. A squirrel darted across their path, chittering from a branch before vanishing into the canopy. Rowan grinned, but Kaelen only said,
Once, they startled a deer - thin-flanked, ears twitching. Rowan gasped, reaching as though to follow, but Kaelen stopped him with a glance.
Rowan nodded solemnly, storing each fragment like treasure.
Later still, Kaelen stooped beside a stream, scraping mud from its edge. He pressed his palm into the earth, then lifted it, showing Rowan the faint track impressed there - a paw with long claws.
Rowan’s eyes widened, but he committed it too, even the way the soil crumbled around the track.
As the day stretched thin, Kaelen finally slowed. He lifted a fallen pinecone, split it apart, and showed Rowan the seeds hidden inside.
Rowan chuckled at the faint, nutty taste. Kaelen gave him a sidelong glance, and for the first time, a smirk ghosted across his face. It vanished quickly, but not before Rowan caught the silent chuckle beneath it.
For Rowan, it was worth more than any feast.
They pressed deeper into the woods. Hours blurred into a slow rhythm of step, pause, watch. Rowan’s legs burned, but he forced himself to match Kaelen’s pace, not daring to complain. It wasn’t the pace of a wanderer lost - it was deliberate, as if each stride measured the forest itself.
By midday, the air thickened. Damp moss hung heavy, and the silence grew sharper. That was when Kaelen slowed. His hand went up, quiet but firm, and Rowan froze.
On the ground ahead, half-sunken into soft earth, lay a print. Large. Clawed. The shape alone radiated weight and power. Rowan crouched, staring.
Kaelen crouched beside it, brushing away a thin veil of pine needles.
Relief surged in Rowan, but Kaelen’s face remained stone. He moved forward a dozen paces and pointed again - another print, fresher, though still softened by time.
Rowan’s throat tightened.
Kaelen’s eyes narrowed.
Rowan blinked.
Rowan looked at the print again. He wanted to be brave, to insist they could handle it, but Kaelen’s tone left no room for argument. Still, curiosity gnawed.
Kaelen’s gaze sharpened.
They retraced their steps, careful to stay within their own trail. Rowan noticed how Kaelen adjusted everything - the angle of his body, the way his eyes swept the treeline more often, the slower cadence of his steps. Each motion seemed small, but together they formed a shield of caution.
When Rowan’s curiosity bubbled again, Kaelen indulged him, though his voice stayed low.
Rowan nodded, absorbing every word. He imagined himself one day reading the forest as Kaelen did, every twig a story, every silence a warning.
Hours later, they crossed another faint set of tracks, parallel to their own. Kaelen crouched, his jaw tightening.
Rowan felt a chill.
Kaelen’s lips pressed thin.
They veered south, climbing a ridge that forced their legs to ache but kept them above the low gullies where the prints had been. Rowan stumbled, but Kaelen pulled him up with one firm hand, offering no word, only a steadying grip before releasing him again.
By dusk, the forest shifted once more. Birdsong returned, cautious at first, then steady. Squirrels skittered along branches, and a hare darted across their path. Kaelen finally slowed, shoulders easing slightly.
Rowan exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His palms were clammy, though no beast had ever appeared. And yet, in the absence of claws and fangs, he felt he had glimpsed the weight of choices, the fine line between survival and death.
Kaelen noticed him staring and finally broke the quiet.
The words struck Rowan harder than any praise could have. He opened his mouth to thank him, but Kaelen had already stooped to pluck a sprig of moss from a stone. He handed it to Rowan.
Rowan rolled it between his fingers, feeling its strange texture.
Kaelen’s lips twitched - not a smile, but it was close. A low chuckle slipped from him, surprising them both.
Rowan stared, astonished. It was the first time he’d heard Kaelen laugh, however quiet. And he thought, as he tucked the moss into his satchel, that maybe the man wasn’t carved from stone after all.
Rain found them before the sun had fully fled. It came first as mist, a fine drizzle that clung to their cloaks, then thickened into heavy drops that drummed on leaves and turned the forest floor slick. Rowan tugged his hood low, but water still found the seam at his neck, trickling cold down his back.
When he spotted the yawning mouth of a cave set into the hillside, his heart leapt.
He dashed toward it, staff clutched tight, only to be stopped by Kaelen’s arm snapping out across his chest. The man’s expression was sharp, his voice cutting through the rain.
Rowan blinked.
The boy frowned, glancing into the dark mouth. It looked inviting enough to him, but Kaelen’s tone left no room for doubt. The rain hissed louder, and Rowan bit back his protest.
Kaelen led them onward, scanning the rise of the hill until he found a shallow break - an opening no deeper than a man’s height, more an overhang than a cave. Its ceiling sloped just enough to deflect the rain, and its back wall was dry stone.
He tested it with careful eyes, even striking flint to watch how the smoke drifted. The curl lifted and slipped out without pooling. Only then did he nod.
Rowan dropped his pack with relief, but Kaelen didn’t allow rest yet. He knelt beside the small hollow and began to clear the ground, stripping it of wet leaves and scraping down to firm soil.
Rowan mirrored him, brushing aside sticks until his hands were raw. Kaelen nudged him to take out the sprig of fire moss from earlier.
The boy’s stomach clenched. He crouched, arranging the moss in a little nest, then broke dry twigs into a teepee above it. The rain made everything slick, and twice the structure collapsed in his fumbling hands. Kaelen said nothing, only watched, his gaze as steady as stone.
At last Rowan steadied his hands and tried again. Flint met steel, sparks leapt - once, twice, a dozen times. Finally a thread of orange caught, nibbling at the moss. Rowan leaned in too quickly, blowing hard, and nearly smothered it.
Rowan tried again, softer this time. The ember spread, the moss glowed, and flame licked upward to catch the twigs. When the fire finally stood on its own, crackling, Rowan sagged back on his heels, panting.
Kaelen reached over and shifted one of the larger sticks into place, reinforcing the little blaze with casual ease. He glanced at Rowan, and though his voice remained flat, the words landed heavy.
Rowan’s chest swelled, though he tried to hide it. The rain beat steady outside, but under the overhang their firelight glowed, painting the stone walls amber. For the first time since they had left Brennor, Rowan felt almost safe.
Kaelen sat with his back to the stone, one hand resting on his knee, eyes ever wandering toward the forest. Rowan studied him quietly, realizing again how the man’s vigilance never ceased. Even here, half-hidden from the rain, Kaelen’s gaze traced the night like a silent sentry.
And Rowan, watching the fire he had built, promised himself he would learn enough that one day Kaelen might sleep without worry.
