Aron's lips had the taste of dirt and cold. He blinked rapidly, rising up too suddenly, and his head reeled. For an instant he felt that he was still in his bed at home. Then he noticed wooden beams and a sparse blanket and a little window—different. He pressed his hand against his chest. His heart pounded like a caged bird.
Where am I? he thought. The forest had teeth. He recalled falling. Then nothing. Now this.
A door groaned. The creaking froze his entire body. Nerves screamed. He listened. Boots? No—soft steps, slow. Not soldiers' boots. Not yet.
"Hey kid, you awake?" a voice said outside the door. Simple. Calm.
Aron stayed motionless. He didn't believe voices. People lied. Guards lied. Even trees whispered lies at night.
But if he remained silent, the man would open the door and discover him anyway. And his sack—everything he possessed—could be taken. So he coerced his throat into motion and croaked one little word. "Yeah."
The door opened. Light came in and a man stood there as if he were part of the light. Black hair, long enough to fall a bit on his brow. Easy smile, but not insincere. Old enough that there were lines on his face, young enough to move rapidly. He looked like the sort of man who had endured many hard winters and emerged sharper.
"You're scared," the man said, not mean. "You sound like a kid who saw a ghost."
Aron wanted to lie. He wanted to say he was fine, that he had a plan. But his voice came out thin. "I… I'm fine."
The man entered slowly. He stood in the small room and regarded it with wary eyes. "Name's Loid," he stated. "Found you on the trail. Figured you'd be dead or wolf food. Glad I was wrong, you were awake."
Aron gawked. He was small, vulnerable. "Aron," he spoke quickly. "Aron Voss."
Loid's expression shifted slightly when he heard Voss. Not much at all. A blink. A tiny frown. "Voss? Not far from Eldridge, huh?" He sat down on a stool and observed Aron the way one observes people at a marketplace—seeking what makes him tick.
Aron swallowed hard. He recalled the manor. The candles. The graves he had dug by hand. The way his parents' faces had appeared. He swallowed that down like a stone.
"Can I… stay?" he blurted. It sounded ugly and desperate. "Please. I got nothing."
Loid raised his eyebrows. For one second Aron thought the man would shove him out. But the man stroked his chin and said, "You're a mess, kid. You smell like trouble and sweat. But you're alive. That counts for something."
A small warmth occurred in Aron's chest. Hope? No—don't even use the word. Hope cracked easily.
Loid got up and went to one of the corners. He got a small piece of cloth off a hook and gave it to Aron in silence. "Wash. Eat. Sit. Give me short—no long stories. I have no use for your childhood. I need truth. Are you alone? People chasing you? Any coin?"
Aron did as instructed. He washed his face, savoring bread and hot stew on his tongue like a knife and ointment at the same time. He lied, briefly as Loid had requested. The guards. The manor. The tombs. The bag with money. He spoke less of the amounts. Too many amounts made men greedy.
Loid didn't flinch. After Aron stopped speaking, Loid rubbed his jaw. He turned away from the window and pushed it slightly ajar, staring at the black trees. "You got guts," he spoke up after a moment. "Not many kids chase after what they lost."
Aron didn't know if that was a compliment or a threat. All he knew was his legs were weak and his hands continued to shake.
Loid turned back around. He sat down and regarded Aron seriously. "I'll take you in," he said slowly. "But not out of charity. I don't do charity. I do work. You do what I say. You cook, you clean, you run errands. You learn. You fight when the time is right. The village needs fighters. People are sick of losing cattle and sleep. You assist me, I provide you a bed and bread. You attempt to run? You won't even get to the first road."
Aron came close to laughing at the directness. The first unambiguous rule he'd had all morning. Harsh. Clear. He nodded. "Okay," he said. "I'll do it. I'll try."
Loid's mouth curled once, as if he had heard many kids utter the same and several actually mean it. "Good." He rose to his feet. "You require clothes that are a fit. Food. We can create a little package for you—some coinage, little things to barter. But pay attention: you will have to assist me with evening vigils. And you will have to train. You're a boy, but not a weakling. I can train you if you'd like. If you keep your temper and listen, you'll learn quicker than the others."
Aron's chest constricted. Train? Battle? A conflicting combination of fear and obstinacy crept through him. He remembered the faces of the guards, the captain's voice swung like a blade. He remembered his father's book, the tidy rolls of coins that still lay in his bag. He needed to be strong like new skin.
"I want to learn," he said. It wasn't courageous. It was a tiny noise that was everything.
Loid growled. "Good. But training doesn't equal swords and glory for the heck of it. It equals leaving your guts on the floor at times. You learn to get hit, not look pretty. The village—people here—they're plain people. They don't require parades. They require someone to halt the wolves, the raiders, the crappy men that come at night."
Then Loid whispered something down to him, something low, like a truth that would weigh the rest of the room down. "I was military," he said. "Long time. Captain, once. Walked away. Saw too much that I didn't care to see. Now I reside here and guard people. I instruct a few. I repair fences. I frighten the little thieves." He didn't say soldier as if it were a badge. He said it as if it hurt.
Aron stared at him. Military. Captain. The words were large and heavy. They made the air seem thicker. Loid's hands were large and scarred. When he gripped something, it was firm. When he moved, he moved like someone who had been given orders and then learned to give them back.
Days went by and water in the stew pot cooled and reheated. Aron did tiny tasks at first—cleaning the yard, fetching wood, repairing nets. Loid made him get up early and hurry like the day was special. The villagers observed. Old women with knives in their grin; children with too-shiny eyes. People who provided food and later asked for nothing. Or they asked for favor afterwards. Existence had rules here as well, but other. Easier.
Loid's home was at the center: a little wall of wood and stone, herbs suspended from the rafters, a dog that didn't greet him much. Individuals passed through: a baker who delivered stale bread for a joke, an old woman who pierced a tattered doll with needles and cursed the wind, a boy who made deliveries for pennies. They behaved toward Loid as if he was a man who counted. Loid treated them like family—gruff, careful, never loud with love but steady.
Aron felt tiny and stood by. He learned the names: Mara the baker, Joss the blacksmith's son, Old Henn who kept bees. They asked him small things—"Can you bring water?" "Help me chop wood?"—and he did, because he wanted to be included in the net that would not break. He wanted a place where someone might notice if he was gone.
Loid did as he said. He assigned Aron a corner bed and a bowl. He instructed him in holding a broom like a spear and rolling into a fall so a shoulder didn't snap. He demonstrated how to throw a small stone so it struck the right place and not simply bounce. Training was ugly initially: falls, bruises, a few tears. Loid delivered no sappy speeches. He pushed Aron into drills and instructed him to stand up. Again and again.
One night, Loid took Aron beyond the huts, under the low moon, to a clearing where two logs stretched out to use as swords. "Face me," Loid instructed. He gave Aron a wooden sword. "Not to show me your tricks. To teach you how to close your mouth when hurt comes. Don't think about your home. Don't think about food. Think about the next move. Think quick."
Aron swung, missed. Loid patted him on the chest with the wooden blade—soft, but it hurt. "Again." Loid's voice was exhausted, gentle. He went slow, faster, then like a storm. Aron learned to breathe through the blows, learned to anticipate the man's shoulder, the pinch of his eyes before he struck. He learned not to jerk.
The village looked on briefly, then returned to their work. Life here continued on, but Aron sensed something lodge beneath his ribs. Not peace. Not yet. But an anchor. Loid may be hard, may be bitter with the world. But he provided for him. He instructed him. He did not demand songs in repayment.
When Aron slept during that night on the thin mattress in the corner, he was tired in a good way—muscles must be tired, a head that had worn itself out. He slept and dreamed small dreams: not of crowns or castles, but of surviving long enough to master one good trick. One day he'd use that trick on the face of the man who destroyed his family. He didn't know how. He only knew he would try.
Days turned into weeks. Aron's bruises turned into scars, and the soreness in his arms became something else—strength. Loid didn't praise him. He didn't say, "You're improving." He just started hitting harder. That was his way of saying "good job."
The village life settled into a strange rhythm. Mornings started before sunrise with Loid shouting something like, "Get your lazy bones off that bed before the sun laughs at you!" and Aron pulling himself up, cursing under his breath every dirty word he knew.
He'd be chopping wood, assisting Mara the baker with flour sacks, or repairing fences that would mysteriously break the following day. It was dull, hot, sometimes degrading, but it was peace. And Aron had discovered that peace, even bogus peace, was an uncommon luxury in this world.
Each evening, when the sun set behind the trees, Loid and Aron practiced again. It was wooden swords and bare feet at first. Then heavier sticks, actual daggers, and the acrid scent of oil and steel. Loid had him practice the same moves again and again, block, pivot, step, strike, until Aron's hands were sore and his head was buzzing.
"You ain't fighting for glory, kid," Loid would tell him. "You're fighting so you don't die stupid."
And when Aron collapsed on his back once more, panting, Loid would add, "Good. Now get up. Corpses can rest. You ain't one yet."
As the days went by, Aron began to notice things about Loid. He wasn't a grumpy ex-soldier who lived by himself in a tiny village. He was familiar with strategy, trade routes, even repairing weapons with near-zero tools. One day, Aron inquired, "You said you were in the military, right? What was it?"
Loid chuckled, honing a blade. "Someone who watched too many fools believe they were heroes." That was the last of that discussion.
Nevertheless, the respect for each other gradually increased, not the sappy variety with hugs and smiles, but the quiet one constructed out of surviving every day's own personal hell.
Loid threw down a few coins and a list on the table one morning. "Your turn to earn your keep in earnest. Go down the main street in the capital. Get provisions, bread, oil, and a sword if you can get one that won't break like your backbone."
Aron read through the list. "A sword? For me?"
Loid shrugged. "You've been practicing long enough to hold one without poking your own foot. Don't make me wish I'd left you behind."
That was Loid's way of saying "I trust you."
The city was just a few miles from the village, close enough to get to in a matter of hours if you hurried, and far enough that the forest seemed to alter the air the moment you stepped out of it.
Aron left early, holding a little pouch full of the coins he had saved and the remainder of his old sack—the one that still smelled of smoke and recollection.
The kingdom streets were noisy and untidy, hawker cries about fish that weren't likely to have been fresh, blacksmiths clanging as if attempting to rouse the dead, and barefoot children running through the throng trying to steal from passersby.
It was wild, vital, and heartless. This was the real world, not Loid's peaceful village with bees and soup and sarcasm.
Aron kept his hand on the pouch. He strode as if he had somewhere to be, because in this city, if you looked lost, you were lost.
He located the weapon stalls close to the city center. All of them hawked glittering trash, polished to appear noble yet fragile enough to shatter in one swing. Then, standing at the market's edge, he saw an old man sitting behind a little table with fewer weapons, but each one shone dull and heavy, as if they'd already fought wars.
Aron took hold of one of the swords; it was balanced, not heavy, not light.
"How much?" he asked.
The old man grunted. "Depends. You buying it for ornament or for killing?"
Aron didn't bat an eye. "To survive."
The old man glared at him for a moment, then slowly nodded. "Good answer, boy. Forty silvers."
Aron pulled open his pouch and counted. Loid had paid him thirty-five, and he had around ten remaining from his father's money. He paused, then gave the man forty-five.
"Take the change," Aron said. "For luck."
The old man blinked, then smiled, revealing broken teeth. "Luck? No one pays that anymore. But thanks." He wrapped the sword in cloth and passed it over. "Be careful with it. Steel remembers who wields it."
By the time Aron had returned to the village, the sun was nearly gone. Loid stood outside, arms folded, acting like he hadn't been waiting. Aron passed over the supplies and the wrapped sword.
Loid unwrapped it, studied the blade, and whistled softly. "Not bad," he said. "Didn't get ripped off. Good decision."
Aron shrugged, as if it wasn't a big deal. But deep inside, something little and warm glowed—the sense of being noticed.
Loid tossed the knife back to him. "Then demonstrate. Tomorrow morning, we'll be able to tell if you wield it like a fighter or a dancer."
Aron nodded. "Okay. But then you cook breakfast."
Loid laughed harshly. "If you win, I'll construct you a damn statue."
That night, Aron sat outside Loid's small hut, looking at the stars. He wondered if his parents could see him—if they'd think he was doing okay. The world was still rotten, still cruel, but for now, under that big stupid sky full of stars, Aron felt something close to peace.
He gripped the sword hilt tighter. Tomorrow would come, like it always did, with bruises, training, maybe even blood.
But at least he wasn't alone anymore. And for now, that was enough.