Rafael and Malrek sprinted through the back alleys, ducking behind crates, slipping between abandoned sheds, and finally disappearing into the trees behind the village. Their breaths were sharp, their legs burning.
They didn't stop until they reached Rafael's small, isolated home—the furthest structure from town, half-hidden by the forest. Rafael shoved the door open. Both of them stumbled inside, collapsing against the walls as they gasped for air.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then Malrek's gaze drifted across the dim room… and landed on Sara. She lay on the floor, wrapped in a thin blanket. Her chest rose and fell slowly—too slowly. Her lips were pale. Her hair stuck to her forehead from the fever. She looked less like she was sleeping and more like she was fading.
Malrek's expression softened. "Who is she…?" he asked quietly. "My mother," Rafael said, pulling off his cloak. His tone was flat, hardened—not by anger, but by helplessness. "She's been sick for a long time. Nobody here can cure her."
Malrek stared, swallowing hard. "…I didn't know," he murmured.
"No one needs to know," Rafael replied. Malrek leaned against the wooden wall. The house was silent except for the faint wind drifting through the cracked window. Outside, distant shouts echoed—the guards still searching the streets.
For several minutes, the boys stayed low, listening, waiting for the noise to fade. When it finally did, Rafael broke the silence. "I need to ask you something," he said. Malrek blinked. "What?" Rafael looked at him directly. His blue eyes glinted in the dim light.
"Do you know anything about the key to Hell?"
Malrek stared at him as if he'd misheard. "…The what?"
"The key," Rafael repeated. "A way to enter Hell alive. A way a human can go there." Malrek sat up straighter, now visibly thrown off.
"Why in the world would you want to go to Hell?" Rafael didn't answer.
His jaw tightened. Malrek scratched his head in confusion. "I...I don't know anything about that! Hell? Keys? I only steal food and coin, not forbidden relics."
Rafael didn't blink. Malrek sighed. "Look… if you're looking for answers about Hell, the only person who might know is the village priest. He's obsessed with gods and demons and curses and all that."
Rafael raised an eyebrow. "The priest?"
"Yeah," Malrek nodded. "Old guy. Very religious. He might know something, or at least point you somewhere."
Rafael nodded slowly, filing the information away. The priest, then. He glanced at his unconscious mother again, then at Malrek. For the first time that day, Rafael exhaled—not in exhaustion, but in determination. He would get answers. About Hell. About a cure. About everything.
After a while, the shouting outside faded. The torches moved further down the road. Eventually, the entire town fell silent.
Rafael shifted the curtain slightly and peeked out through the window. No guards. No villagers. Just darkness and wind. He turned back to Malrek. "You're not going home tonight," Rafael said. Malrek scoffed and shrugged. "Fine by me. I never wanted to go back to that dump anyway."
Rafael didn't comment. Instead, he walked to the small shelf, pulled down a bag of stale bread and a pot of thin stew he had cooked earlier in the day. It wasn't much, but it was warm.
They sat together on the floor, sharing the simple meal.
For the first time since meeting each other, the room felt calm. Malrek slurped loudly. "Damn, this is actually good." "Don't flatter me," Rafael muttered, though a ghost of a smile flickered on his lips.
As they ate, they talked—hesitantly at first, then more openly. Rafael stared into the dim firelight. "I had a brother once… Draven." Malrek looked up. "Had?"
"He was drafted when the war started," Rafael said quietly. "He was everything I wasn't. Strong. Brave. Reckless. He… cared about people. He always protected me." Malrek stayed silent. Rafael swallowed. "He's probably dead by now." The mood shifted. The little house felt colder, emptier. Neither spoke for a long time.
Finally, when the pot was empty and the wind howled outside, the two boys lay down on the hard wooden floor. There were no blankets to spare. The night was uncomfortable, but they endured it. They hid like that for two days—only whispering, eating sparingly, and peeking outside to make sure the guards had given up the search.
On the second evening, Rafael spoke again. "The chief's daughter...."
Malrek stiffened. "I want to know," Rafael continued, "why were you going to kill her that night? If all you wanted was money, you could've taken it and left."
Malrek lowered his head. His fists clenched. "…I wasn't stealing for myself." Rafael stayed quiet. Malrek continued, voice shaking with anger and shame."The orphanage is falling apart. We barely get fed. Kids die every winter. The chief does nothing. He pretends we don't exist. I… I got tired of watching them suffer." He took a shaky breath.
"So I robbed him. Over and over. And the second time, I thought—if I hurt his daughter a little, just a little, maybe he'd understand what suffering feels like. Maybe he'd listen. Maybe he'd finally help."
Rafael stared at him, expression unreadable. "So yeah," Malrek said, eyes burning. "I wanted to make an example out of her." Silence settled between them again. Then Rafael finally spoke.
"Revenge," he said quietly, "will bring you no joy. Only more torment."
Malrek didn't respond, but his breathing slowed. His anger faded into something smaller—something fragile. Rafael looked at him and for the first time, he didn't see a thief, or a criminal, or a burden.
He saw a boy. A scared, desperate boy doing everything he could to stay alive.
After sometime, Rafael leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. "There's something else you should know," he said.
Malrek looked up, wary. "What now?"
"I'm meeting the chief's daughter," Rafael answered plainly. Malrek's face twisted instantly. "What?! Why would you—after everything—why would you even talk to her?!" "She said she'd help me find a cure for my mother."
That shut Malrek up. Rafael continued, voice steady. "She knows a doctor from the main province. Someone who might actually understand her sickness. If there's even the slightest chance… I have to take it."
Malrek's jaw tightened. "And what does that have to do with me?"
"When she comes," Rafael said, "you hide. If she sees you with me again—after your escape—there's no telling how she'll react. She could scream. Run. Tell the guards. Or worse…"
He let the implication hang. Malrek groaned dramatically and flopped onto the floor. "Great. Fantastic. I can't wait to hide in a barrel while you two drink tea."
"This isn't a joke." Rafael frowned.
Malrek sighed and sat up again. "Yeah, yeah. I get it. I'll stay out of sight." "Good." Rafael closed his eyes. "It's only until I get what I need. After that… we figure out our next move."
Malrek didn't answer at first.He just stared at the ceiling, expression softening. "…I hope she really can help," he murmured. Rafael didn't say it aloud, but he hoped the same—more than anything.