The house smelled faintly of old wood and dried herbs, the scent clinging to the stale air like a memory. Vayle sat hunched over a modest wooden table, staring at the cracked surface. The old woman bustled quietly around him, setting down a plate with a rough slice of bread and a bowl of thin broth. She didn't speak, and neither did he.
It suited him.
He tore the bread into small pieces, chewing without tasting, the food sitting heavily in his stomach. His mind was elsewhere, far from this quiet kitchen and the soft creaking of the rafters overhead. Every moment he spent sitting there, the image of his father's face—contorted in rage, then in pain—flashed behind his eyes.
Vayle swallowed hard.
He hadn't cried.
He didn't feel like he would.
The old man was no more deserving of tears than the dead rats left to rot on the streets of the lower market.
Still, the memory of the burning, that searing sensation that had crawled up his arms when he'd lashed out... it unsettled him. It had felt real, tangible, as if his very blood had been set alight. But he chalked it up to fear, to anger, to the kind of strength that surfaced when survival clawed its way to the surface. Nothing more. It was easier that way.
The old woman finished tidying the small room, her steps slow and deliberate. She gave him a brief, knowing smile before retreating to a small side room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Vayle stayed at the table a while longer, staring at the empty bowl before him. Eventually, fatigue overtook him, and he lay down on the rough straw mattress the woman had pointed him toward. Sleep came fitfully, filled with broken flashes of the day's violence and the hollow stare of his dead father.
When the darkness outside deepened and the house had long fallen silent, Vayle woke.
Sweat clung to his skin.
His heart pounded.
He sat up, staring into the blackness.
He couldn't stay.
This house, this village—it was too close. Too exposed. Sooner or later, someone would come looking. Debt collectors, guards, maybe worse. They'd ask questions. They'd find a boy with no family, no name, and no answers.
Quietly, Vayle rose. He crept through the house, bare feet muffled against the wooden floorboards. In the dimness, he found the kitchen again. He opened the drawers with careful fingers, searching.
Most of the tools were useless—wooden forks, splinter-ended spoons.
But then his hand closed around something cold and heavy: a broad-bladed kitchen knife.
It wasn't much. The blade was dull and chipped in places, barely longer than his hand.
But it would do.
Before slipping out the door, he spotted the water jug the woman had set out that morning. Without hesitation, he grabbed it.
He needed everything he could get.
He stepped into the night, pulling the door closed with a soft click behind him.
The air outside was cool, carrying the smell of damp earth and chimney smoke. The village lay silent under a sky scattered with stars. Vayle kept to the shadows, moving carefully between the houses. His heart hammered with every step, but no one stirred. No shutters creaked open. No voices called after him.
At the center of the village, near the well, he found what he was looking for: a broad wooden board nailed to a post, illuminated faintly by the dying embers of a nearby lantern. A rough map of the region was scrawled across it in thick, faded ink.
The map was simple, almost crude.
A rough sketch of the village he was in—Velden's Rest—was marked at the center.
Other villages were scattered around it: Brenmouth to the west, Harrow's Hollow to the south, and Tarnfield further north. Farther east, beyond all the little circles and names, there was a large shaded area labeled simply: The Woldshade Forest.
Vayle's eyes lingered there.
The forest stretched like a black wound across the map, its edges fraying into unknown lands. A small blue line cut through it—likely a river—and beyond that, there were no more markings. No towns. No borders. Just blank space.
Isolation.
Freedom.
The further from people, the better.
He looked around the deserted square, pulling the thin cloak he had stolen tighter around his shoulders. He stared once more at the map, committing its rough details to memory.
Velden's Rest sat just on the forest's edge. If he followed the eastward path beyond the fields, he would reach Woldshade in a few hours on foot.
Dangerous? Maybe.
But danger among mindless beasts is better than danger among intelligent creatures.
Vayle turned away from the board and started walking.
Each step away from the village felt lighter, as if the walls and roofs behind him were trying and failing to pull him back.
The fields stretched wide, patches of brittle grass and blackened soil underfoot. A worn dirt path led toward the tree line, little more than a game trail at this point.
Above him, the stars glittered coldly.
Ahead, the forest loomed—a jagged silhouette against the horizon.
The river he had seen on the map shimmered faintly in the distance, a thin silver ribbon reflecting the moonlight.
He would follow it.
Find a place to disappear.
To start over.
The burning in his calves returned briefly as he walked, a ghost of the earlier fire. He grimaced and pushed the memory away. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but surviving the next day, and the one after that.
He kept moving, his small stolen knife tucked against his side, the water jug sloshing lightly with each step.
The cold bit through the thin fabric of his clothes. His hands were numb, and his breath misted in the night air.
But he didn't stop.
Not until the village was a distant glow behind him and the forest's shadow swallowed him whole.