Night descended like a predator, slow and inevitable. The temperature dropped with each degree the sun fell below the horizon, and Kael felt every fraction of that descent in his bones. His body catalogued its needs with merciless precision warmth, shelter, sustenance. The game of survival had begun.
The trade road offered nothing but exposure. He needed cover, somewhere the wind couldn't find him, somewhere eyes couldn't track his movements. His feet, still raw from the previous night, carried him off the packed earth toward a copse of trees that promised concealment.
Darkness transformed the world into something alien and hostile. Every shadow held potential threat, every sound spoke of danger approaching through the undergrowth.
He found a hollow between two fallen logs, carpeted with decomposing leaves that released the earthy perfume of decay when disturbed. Not ideal, but sufficient. The logs would break the wind. The leaves would provide marginal insulation. His mind ran the calculations automatically, it was cold, his body's heat generation insufficient without movement, hypothermia risk increasing with each hour.
The forest floor was damp beneath him, moisture seeping through the cloak within minutes. He pulled his knees to his chest, conserving what heat he could. Three copper coins clinked softly in his pocket. Enough for a meal, perhaps two if he haggled well. But spending them meant entering civilization, meant scrutiny he couldn't afford.
Hunger gnawed at his stomach with increasing insistence. The bread and cheese he'd taken would last another day, maybe two if carefully rationed. After that, the math became grimmer. A thirteen-year-old body required more than that for basic function. Starvation began its slow work after three days without food. Weakness set in after five. Death could follow within weeks.
Sleep wouldn't come. Every time his eyes closed, he saw Mira's face twisted into that impossible smile, heard his mother's screams echoing through memory's corridors. The way adrenaline still coursed through his system despite exhaustion. Knowledge didn't make it easier to bear.
A branch snapped nearby. Then another.
His body tensed, every muscle coiling for flight or fight. The footsteps were deliberate, unconcerned with stealth. Multiple sets, moving through the darkness with the confidence of those who belonged here more than he did.
Voices drifted through the trees, rough and slurred. The cadence of men who'd found solace in cheap wine and cheaper company. Vagrants, like him now, but seasoned by years of sleeping rough and taking what they needed.
"Told you I smelled smoke earlier," one said. "Someone's been through here."
"Could be that merchant's brat. Heard he got himself lost yesterday."
"Or could be someone with coins to spare."
They were hunting. Not him specifically, but anyone vulnerable enough to prey upon. Kael pressed himself deeper into the hollow, letting shadow swallow him whole. The mathematics of confrontation were clear three adult men against one exhausted boy. The outcome was predetermined.
They passed within ten feet of his hiding spot, close enough that he could smell the sourness of unwashed bodies and alcohol. One paused, head turning in his direction. Kael held his breath, counting heartbeats, calculating how long before oxygen deprivation would force him to inhale.
"Nothing here," the vagrant finally said. "Let's check closer to the road."
Their footsteps receded, but the lesson had been carved into his consciousness with clarity. The weak were prey. The strong were predators. And he was decidedly, dangerously weak.
Dawn arrived like a fever breaking, gradual and then sudden. He hadn't slept, but exhaustion had imposed a kind of waking stupor, thoughts flowing like thick honey. His joints protested movement, stiff with cold and inactivity. The first attempt to stand sent shooting pains through his legs, muscles cramped from maintaining a defensive position all night.
Water. The body's demands were becoming more insistent. Dehydration would kill faster than starvation. He remembered passing a stream the previous evening, perhaps a quarter mile back. The risk of exposure seemed worth the necessity.
The forest looked different in daylight, less menacing but more revealing. His passage had left signs everywhere: disturbed leaves, broken twigs, a clear trail for anyone with eyes to see. Amateur mistakes that could prove fatal.
The stream ran clear and cold, shocking his system when he plunged his face into it. He drank deeply, then more carefully, aware that too much too fast could cause cramping. The water tasted of minerals and dirt, nothing like the well water of home.
Home. The word had already begun to feel foreign.
"Well, well. What have we here?"
The voice came from behind, graveled by age and hard living. Kael turned slowly, water still dripping from his chin.
The man stood ten feet away, his face bearing the map of countless harsh nights. Grey beard, matted and wild. Clothes that might have had color once, now uniform in their filth. And in his right hand, catching the morning light, a knife.
Not a hunting blade or tool. This was a weapon, kept sharp despite the decay of everything else about him. His grip was practiced, comfortable. He'd held it like this before. Used it before.
"Young for the road," he observed, taking a step closer. "Still got that softness about you. That usually means you're carrying something worth taking."
Kael's mind raced through options. Run? The man stood between him and the clearest path. Fight? The knife rendered that suicidal. Talk? Perhaps, but what words would matter to someone who'd already decided he was prey?
"I have nothing," Kael said, voice steadier than he felt. Truth, mostly. Three copper coins hardly constituted wealth.
"Everyone's got something." Another step. Close enough now that Kael could see the calculation in his eyes, the same mathematics he'd been running. Young meant weak. Alone meant vulnerable. The equation was simple.
The vagrant moved with surprising speed for someone who looked held together by grime and desperation. The knife swept up in a practiced arc, not trying to kill, not yet. Testing. Seeing if Kael would freeze or flee.
He did neither.
The night of planning, of preparing himself, served him now.
When the vagrant lunged, Kael was already moving.