Alain came back after dark, the forest behind him already swallowed in silence. His head was clear enough now, though the knot in his chest hadn't loosened. He didn't look toward the firepit or the mess. No point craving food when the day was dead. Better to head straight to his shack.
A voice stopped him before he pushed the door. Dry and familiar, like gravel dragged across wood.
"Oh, you're back. Heh. Did you eat?"
The old man was leaning by the entrance, half-hidden in the shadows. He shoved a bowl into Alain's hands before Alain could answer.
Alain frowned down at it. Oatmeal. Thin enough to show the bottom of the bowl but warm, heavy in his stomach the way stones sank in a pond. He ate anyway. Hunger never cared about trust.
Still, suspicion pulled at him more than the hunger did. Why bring him food?
The old man chuckled at Alain's stare. "Don't look at me like that. We live in the same row of shacks. Feeding a neighbor isn't treason."
"Convenient excuse," Alain muttered.
"You're cold. I'm not evil."
Alain didn't bother responding. He chewed in silence, the taste damp and stale, eyes fixed on the old man. The bastard talked anyway.
"I heard today stirred things up for you. Some officers' lapdogs came sniffing. One wouldn't let go of you, demanded to talk."
Alain's head snapped. He hadn't expected that to circle so fast. "How the hell do you know that? You weren't even near."
The old man grinned, teeth like cracked tiles. "Don't underestimate rotting officials. Once I held ranks higher than your imagination, enough to know how whispers move between walls. Even in exile, I still catch them."
The explanation rang thin, but Alain remembered the man's past stories. Former kingdom official. Obsessed with the history of men in power, back when things were different. Accused of peeking at noblewomen, or maybe plotting something worse, landed in this prison camp. Every word about his fall sat between truth and drunken fiction. Alain half believed it, half figured the man had earned his chains himself.
But Alain didn't argue. The old man leaned closer, that grin never leaving.
"You don't see it as good news? Female officers interested. You're rough, sure, but some find scars attractive."
Alain's brow lowered. "Speak straight. What are you after?"
"Connections. If you rise, I grab the crumbs."
Alain let out something between a laugh and a curse. "You're pathetic."
"Pathetic beats forgotten." The old man's voice cut back sharp, then softened into mockery again. "Think about it. Better to be bled slowly by women with power than worked to the bone here until you collapse. Maybe they pull strings, and then... freedom. Stranger things have happened."
Freedom. The word hooked Alain harder than he wanted to admit. His silence betrayed him, and the old man saw it.
"Look at you. That spark in your eyes. So you do care. Don't deny it. People vanish here every month. Not many, not enough to stir alarm, but enough to matter."
Alain stared into the bowl as the old man's grin curled.
"If those women push for you, it could happen."
"What do you mean, vanish? What kind of vanish?"
"Transferred. Escaped. Sold. Dead. Sometimes people don't ask. But yes, it happens."
Alain stayed quiet, though inside he was weighing the heavy truth. The only one speaking to him right now was Seria. The only one acknowledging he had more than sweat and blood to give. If she disappeared, the silence that followed would bury him.
"When would she leave?"
"Soon. It's September. Kingdom Alliance likes their shuffling this time of year. New posts, new officers. Push your luck now or lose your chance."
Alain froze, eyes narrowing.
"One month. Two at best," the old man continued. "That's why the quotas are climbing. Officers sniff promotion and want results. People die in that shuffle, but that isn't their problem."
The air grew tight. Alain clenched his jaw. Around him, the camp was already broken, bodies driven to exhaustion for targets set higher every week. More logs pulled, more workers lost.
The old man saw Alain's grim face and only laughed. "Don't frown at me. You should be glad. The collapse out there might bring you an opening. It might kill you too. But you're not exactly safe waiting in your shack either."
Alain stared at the fading embers in the corner. He didn't care about the others snapping under strain. Not now. He only cared about Seria and the door she represented. Without her, all roads stayed locked. With her, maybe he would tear off his chains.
"I need to move faster," Alain whispered.
But how? They barely spoke when she sought him. He couldn't risk walking into her quarters without an invitation. To push now meant collapse. Better to wait, but waiting brought the risk of her vanishing before he gained a foothold.
The choice pressed, but there was no answer.
The old man finished his lecture with a lazy shrug. "Do what you want. Tell me if you need a hand."
He wandered back to his corner, pulled out a crooked roll of cheap leaf, and set it alight. Smoke spread across the shack, thick and sour, filling even the shadows with its weight.
Alain sat motionless, the oatmeal like stone in his gut, his mind circling the same phrase over and over.
I need to hurry, or she'll be gone.
And if she leaves, the silence will finish me before the camp ever does.