Mike finally reached his home.
It stood near the edge of the village, slightly elevated above the other huts. The house was larger than most, built from thick timber logs that had darkened with age. The roof was sturdy, carefully layered, and the small fenced yard still held a wood chopping block and an old rack for drying hides. It had belonged to his father, and in Ediera that meant something.
Hunters were respected. Hunters fed the village. Hunters faced the forest so others did not have to.
Even now, a year after his death, people still lowered their voices slightly when speaking about him.
Mike pushed the wooden door open and stepped inside.
The air smelled of ash, dried herbs, and old wood. A small fire crackled in the hearth, barely strong enough to warm the room. The house was quiet, almost too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every small movement sound louder than it was.
His body ached beyond belief. His legs trembled from the long walk through uneven forest ground. His shoulders were sore from carrying gear. His mind felt heavy from concentrating all day on every step, every sound, every breath.
And then the stones.
He flexed his injured arm slightly and winced. The cut along his elbow had dried, but the skin around it was red and swollen.
All he wanted was simple.
Wash the dirt from his skin.
Eat a warm bowl of porridge.
Lie down.
Sleep.
But life rarely followed what one wanted.
His mother sat near the small window where the last evening light slipped through. Jule held a piece of worn fabric in her lap, carefully knotting thread through it with thin, deliberate movements. Her hands were steady, but slow.
She had never been a strong woman physically. Even before his father died, she tired easily. After the loss, something inside her had dimmed. It was not an illness that could be cured with herbs. It was a quiet draining of strength, as if grief had weight and she carried it constantly.
Her shoulders were narrower now. Her cheeks slightly hollow. There were faint lines beneath her eyes that had not been there two years ago.
When she looked up and saw Mike, relief crossed her face first.
Then confusion.
Then immediate worry.
She stood up too quickly.
"Mike," she said softly, her eyes locking onto the blood on his arm. "What happened?"
He instinctively pulled his sleeve down, but the fabric brushed against the wound and he flinched.
"It's nothing," he answered quickly. "Just a scratch."
She stepped closer despite her obvious fatigue. Up close, he could see how pale she looked in the firelight.
"Let me see."
There was no refusing that tone.
He slowly rolled up his sleeve. The dried blood had crusted along his forearm. The cut was not deep, but it was old enough to make it clear it had not come from the forest.
Her fingers hovered over the wound but did not touch it yet.
"This was not from training," she said quietly.
Mike stayed silent.
Her eyes lifted to his. There was no anger in them, only sadness. And something else. Guilt.
"They threw stones again."
It was not a question.
He looked away.
"They're just stupid," he muttered. "It doesn't matter."
But it did matter.
In a village as small as Ediera, isolation was dangerous. A hunter could survive alone in the forest. A boy could not survive alone among his own people.
Jule walked to a small wooden shelf and took down a clay jar filled with crushed green leaves mixed in oil. She returned and gently cleaned the wound with a damp cloth. Mike clenched his jaw but did not complain.
"You cannot keep ignoring them forever," she said carefully. "People fear what they do not understand."
"I don't want to understand them," he replied.
A faint smile touched her lips at that.
"You sound like your father."
That made him pause.
She finished wrapping a strip of clean cloth around his elbow, tying it firmly but gently.
"He did not talk much either," she continued. "The other boys thought he was arrogant. In truth, he was simply thinking."
Mike swallowed.
The house felt heavier when his father was mentioned. The walls seemed to listen.
After a moment, she stepped back and studied him.
"You look tired."
"I am."
"How was it?"
For the first time that day, something flickered in his eyes. Not pain. Not exhaustion.
Excitement.
"Tork and I shot a deer."
Her eyebrows rose slightly.
"You did?"
He nodded. "Tork let me decide when he was going to shoot."
There was pride in his voice, carefully restrained but present.
She walked to the hearth and began stirring a pot slowly.
"Then today you stepped onto the path," she said.
The words were simple, but they carried weight.
Outside, the village noises were fading as night settled. A distant door closed. Someone laughed. A dog barked once and then went quiet.
Inside, the fire crackled softly.
Mike sat at the wooden table, staring at the flame. His arm throbbed, his body screamed for rest, but his mind wandered elsewhere.
To the forest.
To the beasts Tork had spoken about.
To creatures larger than houses. To things that breathed fire.
To strength.
His father had been respected. Feared even, by some.
Mike lowered his gaze to his bandaged arm.
He was not strong yet.
But he would be.
And tomorrow, the forest would test him again.