The forest swallowed Aren before sunrise.
Blackmere's towers faded behind mist and smoke. He did not look back again.
His feet were cut and swollen. Thorns tore his skin. Hunger burned his stomach.
By midday, he collapsed between two oaks and lay still, listening to the wind.
No voices.
No hoofbeats.
He lived.
Barely.
He searched his torn tunic.
One copper coin.
A broken knife.
Nothing more.
The Old King's Road cut through the forest like a scar.
Merchants, pilgrims, soldiers, and smugglers passed along it.
And thieves.
Aren begged for food.
Most ignored him.
Some laughed.
One spat at his feet.
That night, he stole his first meal.
A loaf of dark bread.
A strip of dried meat.
He crept near a sleeping trader, heart pounding.
One wrong move meant death.
But he escaped unseen.
He ate in the woods, hands shaking.
They found him at dawn.
Three armed men.
Scarred.
Smiling.
"Well," one said, "easy prey."
Aren ran.
A fist struck his ribs.
A boot crushed his leg.
They beat him.
Took his knife.
Took his coin.
Left him bleeding in the dirt.
Fever followed.
He dreamed of fire and broken crowns.
Then a voice.
"Drink."
A woman knelt beside him.
Gray eyes. Scarred hands.
"I'm Lysa," she said. "This road kills the weak."
"Why help me?" he whispered.
"Too many bodies already."
She stood.
"Learn fast. Or die."
Aren closed his eyes.
For the first time since Blackmere fell, someone saw him as more than nothin