Aren woke to pain.
Every breath burned. His ribs screamed. His mouth tasted of blood and ash.
He lay beneath a crooked pine, wrapped in a rough wool blanket. A small fire crackled nearby. Smoke drifted into the pale morning sky.
"You're alive," Lysa said.
She crouched beside him, sharpening a short blade on a stone. Sparks flashed with each stroke.
"Barely," Aren whispered.
She snorted. "That's better than most."
He tried to sit up.
Failed.
His body refused.
"Don't," she said. "You'll open the bruises."
"Why… help me?" he asked again.
Lysa paused.
"For the third time," she replied, "because I chose to."
She stood and tossed him a crust of bread.
"Eat."
He obeyed.
Slowly.
Each bite hurt.
They traveled north.
Away from the main road.
Through narrow paths only smugglers and outlaws knew.
Lysa moved like a shadow. Silent. Alert. Always watching.
Aren stumbled behind her.
"You walk like prey," she said one evening.
"I've never learned otherwise."
She stopped.
Turned.
Studied him.
"Hold a knife."
He did.
Wrong.
She slapped his wrist.
"Like this."
Again.
"Better."
She taught him how to hide tracks.
How to listen for distant voices.
How to sleep lightly.
How to steal without being seen.
How to lie.
"Truth is for kings and fools," she told him.
"Everyone else survives on lies."
One night, they watched a patrol pass below their ridge.
Royal soldiers.
Blue cloaks.
Steel helms.
"The king's men," Aren whispered.
"Yes," Lysa said. "And not yours anymore."
Aren clenched his fists.
"They killed my family."
"No," she corrected. "They failed to save them."
He looked away.
Weeks passed.
His body hardened.
Scars formed.
Fear dulled.
One evening, Lysa handed him a dagger.
"Tomorrow," she said, "you steal alone."
"What if I fail?"
"Then you die."
She smiled slightly.
"Welcome to the wolf's life."
That night, Aren did not sleep.
He stared at the stars.
And promised himself:
He would never be prey again.