---
The Outer Lands did not release those who survived them easily.
Even as Aurelion's wooden watchtowers came into view, Maxmilian Strauss felt the weight of the wasteland still clinging to his shoulders. Dust coated his boots. Demon blood—old and new—darkened the edge of his blade. The sky behind him remained heavy, swollen with distant thunder, while ahead the land softened, ordered itself, pretended safety.
Beside him, Voryn slowed.
It was subtle at first. A fraction of a step delayed. A tightening of his grip around the crude staff he carried. Maxmilian noticed immediately.
Ahead stood the gates of Aurelion's border settlement—wide enough for wagons, reinforced with iron bands, guarded by mounted knights clad in polished steel. Their banners hung still in the evening air, embroidered symbols catching the dying light.
Order.
Structure.
Protection.
Voryn's body shuddered.
Not a dramatic flinch. Not a gasp. Something worse—something restrained. His shoulders stiffened as if bracing for impact. His breathing shallowed, each inhale sharp and controlled, like a blade drawn halfway and held there.
He moved closer to Maxmilian without realizing it, steps aligning behind the man's shadow.
Maxmilian didn't slow. He didn't turn.
But he adjusted his pace so the boy never lagged.
The knights noticed them immediately.
A pair rode forward, hooves striking stone in a steady rhythm. One raised a gauntleted hand. "Hunter," he called, voice flat. "State your return."
"Maxmilian Strauss," Maxmilian replied evenly. "Outer Lands. Provision run."
The knight's eyes flicked to the blood on the blade, then to the child.
"…And the boy?"
Voryn's fingers twitched.
Maxmilian answered without hesitation. "Found. Alive."
The knight studied Voryn longer than necessary. Steel creaked as he shifted in the saddle. "He's clean?"
"He's breathing," Maxmilian said. "That's rare enough."
A moment stretched. The knight finally nodded. "Proceed."
As the gates opened, metal groaning against metal, Voryn's shiver returned—stronger this time. His gaze stayed fixed on the ground, avoiding the armor, the horses, the torches that hissed as they were lit for the night.
They passed through.
Only when the gates closed behind them did Voryn's steps regain some rhythm.
Maxmilian said nothing.
---
Rexor Strauss was sitting on the front steps when he saw them.
He rose immediately, eyes bright with recognition. "Father!"
Maxmilian barely had time to lower his pack before Rexor collided with him, arms wrapping tightly around his waist. Maxmilian exhaled, one hand settling on his son's head.
"I'm back," he said simply.
Rexor pulled away, then noticed the boy standing just behind his father.
Someone unfamiliar.
Someone thin.
Someone quiet.
Their eyes met.
Rexor didn't smile. He didn't speak.
Neither did Voryn.
They looked at each other the way children who had seen too much often did—careful, measuring, instinctive.
Aurélia appeared in the doorway moments later.
Her relief at seeing Maxmilian alive lasted only a breath.
Then she saw the child.
Her expression shifted—not to warmth, not to anger, but to something sharper. Assessment. Concern edged with suspicion.
"…Maxmilian," she said.
"I know," he replied.
Aurélia stepped aside, lowering her voice.
"…Maxmilian," she said again, quieter this time. "We don't have much."
He met her eyes. He already knew what she meant.
"The fruits I brought will last a week," he said. "Maybe ten days if we're careful."
"And after that?" she asked.
He didn't answer immediately.
Aurélia glanced toward Voryn, who stood near the doorway, staring at nothing. Listening to everything.
"We'll manage," Maxmilian said finally. "I'll take longer runs. Deeper ones."
Her jaw tightened. "You said that last time."
"I came back."
She exhaled sharply through her nose. "This isn't about bravery. It's about mouths. About space." She lowered her voice further. "About what people will say."
Maxmilian followed her gaze to the street beyond the open door—patrol shadows sliding past torchlight.
"He won't stay outside," he said. "Not tonight."
Aurélia hesitated. Then nodded once. "He sleeps inside. But tomorrow—we talk. Just us."
Maxmilian agreed without arguing.
That alone told her this wasn't temporary.
They turned back together.
Voryn remained still. Too still.
Aurélia knelt in front of him, lowering herself to his height. "What's your name?"
The boy hesitated.
"…Voryn."
Her gaze softened slightly, but not completely. "You're safe here—for now."
Voryn didn't answer.
That silence troubled her more than fear would have.
---
Dinner was quieter than usual.
Voryn sat at the edge of the table, eating carefully, methodically. Not hungry behavior. Survival behavior. Rexor noticed how he positioned himself—back to the wall, eyes angled toward the door.
Aurélia noticed too.
Outside, boots passed. Steel tapped against stone. Torches flared as knights changed patrol shifts.
Voryn's spoon paused mid-air.
A sharp inhale.
Rexor watched his knuckles whiten.
Aurélia followed his gaze to the window, where flickering orange light slipped through the shutters.
"…Do they patrol this close every night?" she asked Maxmilian quietly.
"Lately," he said. "Border's been restless."
Voryn didn't touch his food after that.
---
Night settled.
The house creaked as it always did, old wood adjusting to cold. The wind carried distant thunder from the Outer Lands, muted but persistent.
Rexor lay awake.
He wasn't sure why.
Maybe it was the way the air felt—tight, expectant. Maybe it was the unfamiliar presence sleeping on the other side of the room. They had laid a blanket for Voryn near the hearth, but the boy hadn't fully laid down.
Rexor turned his head.
Voryn was sitting upright.
Not resting.
Watching.
Moonlight spilled faintly through the window, outlining his face in pale silver. His eyes were wide, fixed on the shutter where torchlight occasionally flickered as knights passed outside.
Rexor swallowed.
Another sound—metal scraping. Voices murmuring. A brief laugh.
Voryn flinched violently.
His whole body reacted this time. A sharp tremor ran through him, breath hitching, fingers clawing into the staff beside him. His gaze darted toward the door, then back to the window, calculating distance. Escape routes.
Rexor sat up slowly.
"Hey," he whispered.
Voryn didn't respond.
The laughter outside faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of marching boots.
Voryn's lips moved.
Not a scream.
Not a name.
A whisper, barely sound.
"…Don't see me."
Rexor's chest tightened.
He looked at the door.
Then at the window.
Then back at Voryn, who was shaking silently now—not like a frightened child, but like someone reliving something exact. Something learned.
Rexor understood then.
This fear wasn't born in the Outer Lands.
It had followed the boy into them.
Rexor lay back down slowly, pretending to sleep, but his eyes stayed open.
Outside, the knights continued their patrol.
Steel against stone. Torchlight against wood. Order against silence.
Behind them, in the dark, two boys lay awake—one who trained to face monsters, and one who already knew that monsters sometimes wore armor.
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