Aael didn't answer immediately. He scrambled backward, his heels scraping against the moss, until his back hit the trunk of a pale tree. He pulled his knees to his chest, his eyes wide and darting, scanning the old man for weapons.
There were none. No sword, no dagger, not even a walking stick—just the fragile bamboo rod held in calloused, steady hands.
"I didn't mean to," Aael rasped, his throat raw from the run. "I was running from..."
"From the cat," the old man finished, not looking up. "And the snake. I heard. The whole jungle heard."
Aael stiffened. "You... you saw them?"
"I heard the panic in your feet," the old man said, flicking the rod slightly. The line rippled in the dark water. "You run heavy. Like a calf. It is a miracle you are not currently digesting in a stomach."
Aael frowned, a spark of defensiveness cutting through his fear. "I survived."
"You got lucky," the old man corrected. "Luck is a finite resource, boy. Skill is renewable. You have none of the latter, and you just spent all of the former."
Aael narrowed his eyes. His Intuition was humming strange signals. This old man didn't feel like the villagers back in Silverleaf. He felt... heavy. It was like standing next to a boulder that was precariously balanced; it looked still, but you knew if it moved, it would crush you.
The old man sighed, a sound of infinite boredom. "And now you are staring. That is also loud."
"Who are you?" Aael asked. "Why are you fishing in the dark?"
"Hunger does not wait for the sun," the man muttered.
Suddenly, the bamboo rod bent. There was no bobber, no bait on the hook, yet the line went taut, cutting through the water with violent force.
The old man didn't struggle. He didn't even use two hands. With a casual flick of his wrist, he jerked the rod upward.
Splash.
A massive river-fish, silvery and thrashing, flew out of the water. It landed on the mossy rock beside the man with a wet thud. It was huge—easily enough to feed three men.
Aael stared. "But... you had no bait."
The old man unhooked the fish and looked at Aael for the first time. His eyes were dark, obscured by the shadow of his straw hat, but they held a terrifying sharpness.
"The fish did not bite because it was hungry," the old man said softly. "It bit because I willed it to."
He reached into his robe and pulled out a small, rusty knife. With practiced, brutal efficiency, he gutted the fish in seconds.
"Sit," the old man commanded, pointing the bloody knife at a flat stone across the fire pit. " unless you plan to run back to the snake."
Aael hesitated, then slowly crawled toward the fire. The smell of the raw fish was making his empty stomach roar.
The old man didn't speak as he skewered the fish on a stick and set it over a small, smokeless fire. Aael watched him. The man's hands were scarred—old, jagged white lines that ran up his forearms, vanishing under his sleeves. They were the hands of someone who had held steel for a very long time.
When the fish was cooked, the old man broke it in half. He tossed the tail end—the smaller piece—to Aael.
"Eat."
Aael caught it, burning his fingers. He didn't care. He tore into the meat, eating like a starving animal. It was unseasoned and charred, but it was the best thing he had ever tasted.
The old man ate slowly, picking the bones clean.
"You threw that stone with your left hand," the old man observed between bites. "But you favor your right leg when you run. You are unbalanced."
Aael paused, wiping grease from his mouth. "I... I hit the panther."
"You hit its nose," the old man scoffed. "If you had hit the eye, it would be dead. If you had hit the skull, it would be annoyed. You chose the middle path—pain without injury. That is the path of a victim."
He tossed the fish bones into the fire. The flames flared green for a second.
"What is your name, noisy spirit?"
"Aael," he whispered. "Of Silverleaf."
The old man paused. He tilted his head, as if listening to a memory. "Silverleaf... The tree-worshippers." He looked at Aael's tattered clothes. "You are a long way from home, Aael. And you smell of ash."
Aael stopped chewing. The fish suddenly felt heavy in his stomach.
"Silverleaf is hidden," Aael said, his voice trembling slightly. "It is deep in the Copper Woods. Outsiders... outsiders don't come there. And the river took me days to get here. How could you know?"
He stared at the old man, his mind racing. Had this man been there? Was he one of the Lich's spies? But his Intuition said no. This man didn't feel like the rot-walkers or the cold void of the Lich. He felt like the earth itself—indifferent and ancient.
The old man picked a piece of gristle from his teeth. He didn't look at Aael; he looked up at the dark canopy where the wind was rustling the leaves.
"The wind speaks, boy, if you have the ears to listen," the Master said quietly. "For three days, the wind has tasted of ozone and burnt sap. There is only one tree in this quadrant of the world that holds enough mana to smell like that when it burns."
He pointed a bony finger toward the north, in the direction of Silverleaf.
"And last night," the old man continued, "the ground shook. Just once. A tremor so deep it cracked the stone beneath my feet. That wasn't an earthquake. That was a soul detonating."
Aael flinched. Father.
"So do not look at me with those suspicious eyes," the old man grunted. "I do not need to be a spy to know that a kingdom of ants has been stepped on."
Aael clenched his fists. The way the man spoke of his home—like it was just an anthill, just a passing event—sparked a flash of anger that cut through his fear.
"We weren't ants," Aael snapped. "My father was the Chieftain. He... he fought the God of Death."
"And now he is dead," the old man said flatly. "And you are eating my fish."
The bluntness of it knocked the wind out of Aael. He slumped back against the tree, the anger draining away, leaving only exhaustion. This man was cruel, but he wasn't lying.
Aael looked at the figure in the grey cloak. A man who could catch fish with no bait. A man who sat in a jungle full of monsters without a weapon. A man who knew of the "soul detonation."
"Who are you?" Aael asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The old man stood up. He dusted the ash from his robes and picked up his bucket of fish.
"Who am I?" The old man repeated the question as if it were the punchline to a bad joke. He pulled his straw hat lower over his eyes.
"I am the man who owns this fire," he said. "And you are the guest who is overstaying his welcome."
"That's not an answer!" Aael cried out, standing up on shaky legs.
"It is the only one you are getting," the old man muttered, turning his back. "Names are for people who matter. You, boy, are just driftwood. And I am just a fisherman who wants to sleep."
The old man began to walk away, heading deeper into the dark thicket. He didn't look back to see if Aael was following. He moved with a strange, gliding gait that made no sound on the dry leaves.
Aael stood alone by the dying fire.
The darkness of the jungle pressed in. He heard the chittering of insects return now that the old man was moving away. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
Aael looked at the river, then at the retreating back of the old man. He had no weapon. He had no food. He had no idea where he was.
If he stayed here, the panther would come back.
Gritting his teeth, Aael forced his painful legs to move. He didn't run, but he limped quickly, following the grey figure into the shadows, keeping a safe distance, terrified of being left behind.