Inside Stanley's house, the atmosphere turned ice-cold.
The men who had just barged in froze in place, stunned by the quiet menace in Ethan's muttered words.
For a moment, silence reigned—thick, charged, and dangerous.
Then Dan broke it with a sharp bark of laughter, throwing his head back as if Ethan's threat was the funniest joke he'd ever heard.
He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye as he leaned on the wall for support.
His two companions soon joined in, their chuckles rising into mocking, high-pitched giggles that echoed through the cramped room.
But Stanley didn't laugh.
He couldn't.
His instincts, sharpened by years of surviving among thugs and backstabbers, told him the truth: Ethan meant it. Every blood-soaked word. This wasn't some childish tantrum. This was a vow.
He's serious. That little bastard's going to kill me one day but wait and see you fucking runt I will never give you the opportunity.
Dan's voice sliced through the tension, still laced with laughter.
"You hear that, fat man? The runt's had enough of your parenting!"
He snorted, wiping a tear from his eye.
"Hahaha! Better sleep with one eye open. Might find a leaf in your stew… or a thorn in your spine."
Stanley gave a dry scoff—but he was already sweating.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the faint flicker in Ethan's expression. A spark of realization.
Stanley's gut twisted. You idiot, Dan. You just gave him the idea. Ethan knows the forest—knows what's edible and what's not. Most of the poisonous herbs weren't lethal, but they were enough to cause pain, fever, or paralysis. Enough to send a message.
He cursed Dan under his breath. Hitting Ethan again was out of the question—not after the last time. The boy was teetering too close to the edge. He'd already tried locking him up once, only to watch Ethan go days without food, trying to starve himself to death in silence.
There was only one option now: surveillance. Constant, unrelenting surveillance.
Dan's men finished bandaging the boy. Dan leaned in close, grinning. "You've got to admit, the brat's got guts. Anyone else his age would be dead. Want to hand him over to us? We could turn him into something useful."
Stanley shook his head in disapproval.
"You don't know him like I do. He's not some tool you can use—he's a trap. A menace."
His voice dropped, heavy with dread.
"Giving him the means and the knowledge to hurt us? That's like laying our heads on the guillotine."
Dan chuckled. "All the more reason to use him."
Stanley didn't answer. If I could use him, he thought bitterly, I'd have turned him into my personal hound and sent him to bite your throat. But the panther's warning was clear—'keep him weak'. No skills, no weapons, no allies.
As the men prepared to leave, Stanley pulled Dan aside. "Keep an eye on the kid. I mean it—day and night. Outside the village too, if he wanders."
Dan raised an eyebrow. "You want a whole team shadowing a ten-year-old?"
Stanley's expression didn't change.
Dan shrugged. "Fine. I'll tell Diggen. But if you ask me, you're overreacting."
As he walked back to his place, he muttered under his breath, "That fat pig's making a mountain out of a molehill. He's just a damn ten-year-old kid, for fuck's sake."
That night, Ethan lay in bed, every muscle aching, pain pulsing through his ribs and jaw. Every time he drifted off, a jolt of agony snapped him awake again.
Sometime before dawn, a faint sound stirred him.
Through swollen eyes, he saw Wayla in the faint glow of candlelight. She was at the shelves, moving quietly, deliberately. Ethan didn't move. He watched.
She reached into a small jar, pulled out a pill, crushed it between two stones, and poured the powder into his clay water bottle.
His blood ran cold.
What is she putting in my water?
His thoughts raced. How long has this been going on? What's in the pill? Is she drugging me? Poisoning me?
He thought back to the meals—stale bread, cold stew—things even rats might reject. But water... even though he didn't drink from it for a while but before that he always drank the water.
Not anymore.
From that moment on, he swore silently: I'll never drink anything she gives me again. From now on, only river water.
He needed answers. And he needed them fast.
He wondered what they'd do if they found out he'd stopped drinking from the jar. Would they force it down his throat? Or try to slip the pill in some other way?
The next morning...
Ethan forced himself out of bed. His whole body ached like it had been smashed by boulders, but he refused to stay in that house a second longer.
He made his way to his hidden stash—a shallow hole behind the withered roots of a dead tree—and pulled out his precious copper coins. He had no strength to scavenge the woods today. But he had a backup plan.
He limped through the village until he reached Pit's hut.
The old hunter opened the door, eyebrows rising at the sight of Ethan's bruised, bandaged frame. "What happened to you?" he asked, his voice low and grim. "Stanley beat you again?"
Ethan didn't answer. He simply held out ten copper coins.
"I owe you. Now give me some of your dried meat. I can't go into the forest today."
Pit hesitated, guilt flickering across his face. He took the coins and handed Ethan a bundle of smoked meat wrapped in cloth.
Then he sighed. "Listen, kid. I know what you want from me. And I wish I could help. But this village... it's the only place I've found peace. If Diggen finds out I'm training you, that peace is gone. And maybe so am I."
Ethan looked at him, eyes hard. But then a glimmer of hope crept in.
"What if no one knows?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "What if it's just between you and me?"