There was no yield yet again.
The soil had lied to me. Rich and black at the surface, but rotten just beneath. Another patch of meadow gone to waste. I'd searched the bramble-thick ridges east of the Hollow Vale for half the morning—checked the roots, pried under the rock beds, even scoured the edges of the old canals—but nothing. Just dry stalks and bitter bulbs twisted by whatever poison still lingers in the earth. The kind of poison that doesn't kill outright—just makes you sick enough to wish it did.
I sat in the cart with the reins in hand, boots coated in mud and leaf rot. The oxen groaned under the slow climb, their heads low. They knew the path by now. We'd taken it enough times.
The fields have been barren longer than I'd admit. Some of them bloom out of season, true, wild vegetables with thick skins and bitter marrow, but they're never consistent. And when they are, the toxins show up like ghosts in the yield. Wilted leaves, black veins in the stems. Mushrooms that glow when they shouldn't. Too many things I no longer trust. I check them with the tincture, as I always do, but even that trick is growing less reliable.
The food had been enough for me alone—barely. But with the boy, I wasn't sure anymore.
I glanced at the oxen.
"Don't make me choose between you," I muttered.
They didn't answer. Just trudged forward, indifferent to their own fate. They'd been with me longer than any human. A pair of stubborn beasts with more sense than most men I've met. And yet, if it comes to it…
I sighed.
It's been a few weeks since the boy arrived. Maybe more. I'd stopped counting the days after the last frost. Time doesn't move the way it used to. The sky lies too—dark all hours, no stars to follow. Just a dull silver glow bleeding through the clouds. No moon. No sun. No sign of the gods, not even in the silence.
Should I ask him to leave?
I've taught him the basics—how to skin the bitterroots without poisoning himself. How to boil the red-leafed ferns until the venom bleeds out. I even showed him the Katros flower, its petals purple with white tips, the way the veins pulse if it's fresh enough to use. We've walked the boundary together, marked the landmarks—Stone Spine Ridge, the Copper Hollow, the stretch of forest where the gas cloud never lifts. I've told him which mushrooms will dull the pain and which will call the dead.
He's learned fast. Quieter than I expected. Listens more than he speaks. Doesn't complain.
But he still doesn't know about the tree.
And I won't tell him.
Not now. Not yet. That story doesn't come free—not to him, not to anyone. The roots of that place run deeper than this world. Deeper than memory. And the fewer who know, the better.
I felt the cart tilt as we climbed the old ridge—one of the few high paths still stable enough to use. The trees here had long since died. Their bark stripped, their branches brittle as ash. Nothing grows in the Dead Timber anymore, but sometimes the parasitic vines cling to the bark, thick and black like old rope. They sell well, in the right hands. Or they used to.
Maybe I'll head for the rivers soon.
Abeth lies closest—gentler waters, but dangerous in another way. That's the stream of dreams undone. I don't drink from it. No sane man does. Then there's Vaelor, cruel and wide. I've lost friends to that one—its tides twist easy, especially when war memories sink in. Aedros is last. Black as midnight. Dead men walk its banks, I've seen it myself. Sometimes they whisper. Sometimes they just... watch.
If food gets worse, I might have no choice but to trade down in the lower settlements. Risk the crowds, the questions. There are still pockets of people alive—scattered groups clinging to old shelters, bartering in silence. Not all of them are sane anymore. Some have let the fog in. You see it in their eyes, like smoke that never clears.
The house came into view at last, just over the crest of the hill. The chimney was smoking. A good sign. The boy's still there.
I clicked my tongue, and the oxen plodded forward.
Let him rest for now. He'll need it.
If he ever finds out what's buried under that tree, there'll be no rest left to find.
The cart groaned to a halt just in front of the cabin, its wheels creaking as they settled into the familiar ruts carved by countless returns. I climbed down slowly, knees stiff from the long ride. The oxen turned their heads toward me, eyes dull but expectant. They knew the routine. They also knew when I broke it.
I ran a hand over the side of one—the older one, the stubborn one—and let it rest there for a moment. They'd worked hard, same as me, dragging that cart across cracked hills and through the tangleweed flats with no complaint.
But there wasn't enough.
"Not today," I said quietly.
Their gaze lingered, slow and blank like the skies above. Then they turned away, chewing on nothing. I unfastened the harness, left them be, and made my way to the door.
The cabin was just as I'd left it, though the inside already told another story. Papers scattered across the main table, a book left half-folded beside a cold cup. A few pages tacked to the wall—maps, diagrams, rough sketches of root systems and wild flora. Half-finished notes in different handwriting.
His.
I stepped into the next room. Empty. Same with the sleeping corner.
He was gone again.
I stood there a moment, fingers resting on the doorframe. Wandering off wasn't new. He'd been doing it more often lately. Not recklessly—never that—but with purpose. A sort of quiet hunger in the way he studied things, questioned things. The kind of curiosity that worried me more than any open defiance.
Still, something sat wrong in my gut this time. No tracks at the door. No wind shift through the broken shutters. Just an absence I couldn't name.
I returned to the cart and hauled the sacks off one by one. The haul was poor—barely enough to count. A few bitterstems, dried fungi from the ridges, and some twisted bulbs that needed boiling twice before they were safe to eat. I stacked them inside and left the rest near the door.
Then I turned left.
The second cabin was built into the slope, tucked behind a dying copse of trees. The door was closed, but not locked. That was telling.
He'd crept in again.
I stepped inside, and the smell of old parchment greeted me. Dust. Faint iron. The faint scent of preserved ink. This cabin had once belonged to someone else. I hadn't touched most of it. Too much memory. Too much risk.
He was sitting near the far wall, crouched beside the flat chest I never opened in front of him. A few aged drawings and brittle pages were spread out on the floor, held down by small stones to keep them from curling.
He didn't look up until the door creaked behind me.
His shoulders twitched. Just slightly. Not guilt—awareness.
"What are you doing in here?" I asked.
He turned halfway, careful not to step on the pages. His eyes, calm as ever. "Just studying something," he said.
I watched him, silently, for a long second.
The way he said it wasn't casual. But it wasn't lying either.
The boy barely looked up as I stepped in. The cabin was quiet, save for the soft crackle of old paper shifting under his knees. The air smelled of dust and dried roots. Faded ink. Time.
I glanced over the spread of sketches and notes on the floor—some mine, others older than either of us. Symbols half-remembered. Cross-sections of flora. Field notations in cramped lettering. They brought something back. Faint, indistinct. A different decade. A different man.
I cleared my throat. "I've brought some things. A few bulbs, some marrowwort. Could be something you can work on."
The boy gave a distracted nod. "You go on ahead. I'll be out in a sec."
I didn't move right away. Just watched him from the doorway as he leaned forward over the diagrams again, mouth pressed into a line, eyes scanning like he was trying to make sense of something that didn't want to be made sense of.
I turned to leave—but paused.
Something on the shelf caught my eye. A bundle of herbs, near the back, curled in on themselves. The edges browned. The veins dried out, splitting like old paper. They wouldn't last another day.
I pulled a few from the bundle, brushing the dust off with a thumb, and stepped out.
The oxen were where I left them—silent, still chewing air. When I approached with the herbs, they turned their heads again, slow and hopeful. I held the dried sprigs out in both hands.
"Here," I muttered. "It's not much."
They took it without complaint. One of them snorted softly as it chewed. I stood there a while longer, watching them, arms crossed, the ache in my shoulders catching up with me.
Footsteps behind. The boy emerged from the cabin, a few of the papers gathered in his hands. He glanced at the oxen, then at me.
"They look so thin," he said flatly. "Why don't you feed them something?"
He didn't wait for a response. Just walked past and back into the main house, shuffling papers as he went.
I watched the door swing half-shut behind him, then turned back to the oxen.
"Yeah. No shit," I muttered.
The sky above was still starless. Just a blank gray stretch, like the inside of an unlit cave. I exhaled, slow and tired.
Maybe I should ask him to leave.
Pale grey stretched over the sky like ash pulled tight across a dying ember. The air was still, cold with that familiar bite it always carried near the end of a foraging run. I stood there, beside the oxen, as they chewed at the dried, half-rotted herbs I'd spared for them.
"Not much," I muttered, watching their ribs shift beneath patchy coats. "But better than another day on an empty gut."
One of them looked at me. Big, dumb eyes filled with a sort of quiet trust I hadn't earned. I turned away before it could make me feel worse about it.
The cabin door creaked open behind me as I stepped onto the flat stone slab that served as a step. I paused, one hand on the doorframe. Smoke still drifted from the chimney, warm and lazy. The scent of burning moss and dried wood lingered in the air. Inside, the old boards groaned under my weight like they always did, giving a familiar protest to my return.
And there he was—back curled slightly, crouched over a scattered mess of paper and ink. He was sorting through the chaos without looking up. Fingers running down the pages like he was trying to remember what he'd written, or maybe what he'd forgotten.
"You could've cleaned the damn house at least," I said, brushing off my boots near the door. "Looks like a storm came through here."
"I'm working," he replied calmly, still flipping pages, folding some, stacking others into an organized pile that hadn't existed earlier.
I made a small grunt and stepped further inside. The hearth had been lit. Coals glowed with a patient heat, and a low flame licked the underside of a small blackened pot resting on the iron holder. I expected it to be mine, but the boy waved me off before I could do anything more.
"It's alright," he said, standing now, wiping his hands. "I already cooked."
That made me pause.
He disappeared into the small side room—one we barely used for anything but storage—and returned with a covered vessel wrapped in a wool cloth. Steam crept out from beneath the lid, and when he placed it on the table, I caught the scent properly for the first time.
Roots. Salt. A faint edge of smoked rind and something sweet—wild thistle, maybe.
He pulled down two mismatched bowls from the shelf and filled them evenly. A quiet efficiency in his movements, not rushed but deliberate.
I sat. No reason not to. He'd done the work, and the fire was warm. I watched the broth swirl before taking a spoonful.
Surprisingly good. Earthy, clean. Just enough salt.
He sat opposite me with his own bowl, shoulders relaxed, a faint sheen of sweat still on his brow from standing near the fire. His hair was a little disheveled, probably from digging through those old papers.
"Is it alright?" he asked.
I slurped the broth loud enough to make a point. "Not much," I said with a grunt, "but you pass."
He gave me a look, half-amused. The corner of his mouth curved up before he dropped his gaze again.
The fire popped in the background. Outside, the wind had picked up just slightly—enough to make the loose shutter rattle against the frame. It was the only sound for a while. We ate in silence, both of us nursing warmth we didn't comment on.
Then, as I scooped up the last bits at the bottom of the bowl, he spoke.
"I'll be leaving soon."
Just like that.
He didn't look up when he said it, didn't give me the chance to see what expression he wore when the words left his mouth. But I heard it clear as anything.
I didn't respond right away. Just stared into the empty bowl, the steam now fading. The house creaked faintly in the wind.
Nothing in this world lasts long. Not food. Not warmth. Not even company.
And yet… the way he said it—so certain. Like it was already decided.
I leaned back in the old chair, listening to the fire crackle and the wind claw at the shutter again.
The boy had spoken it casually—too casually for the weight of it.
I'm leaving soon.
I narrowed my eyes. A low scoff escaped my lips as I leaned back slightly, trying not to let the irritation show.
"What made you decide that?" I asked, letting a hint of mock amusement coat my words.
He didn't answer. Just stared back at me with that flat, unreadable expression he'd gotten good at. The silence stretched, and in it, I understood. He was joking—but not really. Not entirely.
I dropped the act with a sigh. My voice rose a little sharper than intended. "Oh no. No, no, no—you wouldn't even last a week out there."
He didn't flinch. He just kept watching me.
I pointed toward the window, toward the dark beyond. "There's nothing to eat. No clean water. You think these fields are cruel? Try the deep deadlands. Try breathing where the air cuts your throat like glass. Try trusting the people who still survive out there—if you can call that living. Cannibals. Thieves. Things that aren't even people anymore."
Still, no response.
My fingers pressed against my brow. The boy's silence was heavier than any argument.
I tried to shake it off. "I haven't even shown you a third of the terrain. You don't know half the paths. There are creatures in the fog. Spirits in the rivers. Walkers in the woods who never sleep."
The words came out more bitter than I meant. They sounded like warnings, but they were something else too. I stood up, pretending to stretch my back, turning away just enough to hide the tightness in my chest. My hand moved to the edge of the table, steadying myself.
"We have food for a week, maybe less. You know that." I said it quietly.
He did. Of course he did. He'd noticed the portions shrinking.
"I could slaughter the older one," I muttered. "It'll last us a while."
I didn't look at him as I said it. Couldn't.
Instead, I waved a hand vaguely toward the side room, changing the subject like it mattered. "Till then, go clean that room. Smells like damp mushrooms in there again."
I picked up a few of the empty vessels and turned toward the basin. Cold water sloshed at the bottom, and I dipped my hands into it, focusing on the sound it made—anything to pull my thoughts away.
But behind me, I heard him move. Not toward the room, but toward me.
"Finally," he said.
I stopped. My back stiffened.
"There'll be no need," he continued. "I'm ready."
I didn't turn. My hand hovered above the water.
"And I hope you're ready to tell me about it."
I didn't need to ask what.
He meant the tree.
Of course he did.
I tried to deflect, keeping my tone steady. "You're just dizzy. You've been staring at those damn sketches too long. Let your head settle. Get some sleep."
I started to walk away.
"Tell me about it," he said again, firmer this time. "About the tree."
My feet stopped at the door.
I didn't answer. Just stood there, my hand resting on the frame. The fire crackled behind us. The oxen outside shuffled faintly in the cart. The wind hissed low, carrying the scent of ash and rain from the far hills.
It wasn't time.
Not yet.
I didn't turn back.
Didn't answer.
The boy's voice faded behind me as I stepped through the doorway, and the soft creak of the floorboards was the only thing that followed. The cabin door shut behind me with a dull click. No wind. No stars. Just the hush of the dark pressing close.
The oxen lifted their heads when I passed them. Expecting something again. A touch, a scrap, a sign of use. I gave them neither. Just a quiet look, and then I kept walking—down the slope, past the dry herb patch, past the rotting fence I hadn't bothered to mend in years.
The air outside was cold in a way that didn't bite the skin—it just settled into your bones and stayed there. The kind of cold that carried old memories.
I stopped where the hill crested just enough to see the outlines of the valley beyond. Shadows of what once were fields stretched out below, jagged with time. Far off, a line of black trees held still like teeth. Dead. Still reaching. The deadwoods hadn't changed. Neither had I.
I sat on a stone I'd long since flattened for this purpose. It wasn't comfort I wanted. It was habit. There was something in stillness. Something in not speaking.
He wanted to know about the tree.
They always do, I thought.
But this one… this boy, he was different. He asked quietly, without drama, without begging or brashness. Just clarity. As if he already understood something—maybe more than I liked.
I looked at my hands. Dirt under the nails. Skin like paper left too long in the rain. These hands had fed me for decades. Dug into rotted bark, pulled roots from poisoned ground, crushed herbs into bitter pastes. And still, they shook at the thought of telling him.
Not because I feared the story.
Because I feared what he'd do with it.
There were things I'd kept sealed for a reason. Things older than my name—older than this cabin or this land or even the air we breathed. Things I saw in dreams and in the space between sleep. The tree was not just history. It was memory. A wound still open.
And still… he would ask again. He'd wait.
Maybe I've taught him too well.
The boy was right. There wasn't enough food. The land was quieting. Even the fungi weren't sprouting as they should. The last gas clouds had drifted closer than they had in years. Time would come, sooner than I wanted, when staying hidden wouldn't be enough.
I traced the scar on my forearm absently. The one I got when I first approached the roots. The bark had split open that day. Not a natural thing. Not a natural place. No one who touched it came back the same—those who came back at all.
I looked toward the cabin. A faint warmth glowed behind its thin windows.
"I'm not ready," I muttered, but the wind took it.
And I knew, quietly, beneath everything—
He was.
The evening settled with no sound but the wind scraping against the corners of the cabin. I'd been out longer than I meant to be—checking the traps near the western slope, just in case. Nothing but bones in one, and the rest untouched. Useless.
By the time I returned, the sky above was the same dim canvas it always was. No stars. No moon. Just a soft light with no source, like the world couldn't decide whether it was night or something else.
I stepped past the oxen—both curled down, unmoving. One opened a tired eye as I passed. I patted its side without thinking. "Not tonight either."
Inside the house, the air was warmer, faint with the scent of boiled roots and something faintly herbal. The boy wasn't in the hall, but he'd been here. The books were shifted again. A few vessels washed. His way of saying something without saying anything.
I found him in the far room, folding the last of his notes into a cloth bundle. He didn't look at me when I entered, but his hands slowed. The pages were dry—too dry. He must have let the stove run cold.
"You going somewhere?" I asked, half-knowing.
He didn't answer. Not really. Just glanced at me, then nodded once.
That was when I asked him—when will you go?
His answer came without pause. "Morning. When the atmosphere warms up."
I stood there for a while longer, watching him continue his careful packing. No rush. No hesitation. I didn't say anything else. Just turned and stepped back into my room.
That night I didn't sleep much. My body was still, but the mind—no. I kept waiting to hear the door creak open. For footsteps. For him to change his mind. But none of it came. Just wind and silence.
I stared at the beams above me until they stopped looking like wood and started to feel like time itself—heavy, still, and watching.
When I finally rose, the house was quiet. No clatter, no stirring. I stepped out, slow.
The door creaked faintly as I pushed it open. My eyes hadn't fully adjusted yet, but I knew the shape the moment I saw it—small frame, sitting still on the steps, hunched slightly forward. The boy.
He didn't turn to look at me. Just sat there, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. Behind him was the sack. The same one he'd packed the night before—tied shut with old cloth and worn rope, bulging with food, medicine, crumpled papers, and that faded shirt he always folded too neatly. The boots were on his feet. Mine, once.
I stood in the doorway a moment longer, letting the cold air settle between us.
"You're early," I muttered, though I wasn't sure if I meant it as disappointment or inevitability.
"The air's warm enough," he replied without looking back. His voice was calm, like he'd been waiting hours just to say that.
I stepped down beside him, slow and stiff. My joints ached more these days.
"There's nothing out there for you," I said. Not sharply. Not pleading. Just stating it like fact.
He didn't answer.
We sat in silence, the wind brushing past the trees like it had somewhere more important to be. The sky was the same as always—blank, dark, impossible to measure. No sun to rise, no star to fade. Just the grey light of another stretch of time passing like fog.
"You'll lose more than you gain," I added, quieter this time. "You leave, you don't come back."
"I'm not planning to," he said.
I let out a slow breath. "There are no second chances out there."
He nodded.
"And no safety nets. No soft beds. No warm soup. No oxen to talk to."
He cracked a small smile at that. But still, he didn't look back.
I turned my gaze to the path that trailed down from the house. It disappeared into the slope, swallowed by trees and haze. A place I hadn't walked in years.
"I taught you what I could," I said. "But that doesn't mean you're ready."
"I don't think I'll ever be," he replied. "But I don't plan to wait until I am."
I studied him carefully. He wasn't scared. Not like before. He didn't fidget or hesitate. He had a look in his eye—one I'd seen before in men far older than him. Quiet, watchful, resolved.
I stood up, brushing the dust from my knees.
"You'll regret it," I said, finally.
"Maybe," he said, standing too. "But regret's better than rotting."
He swung the sack over his shoulder. The weight didn't bother him. Not yet.
I didn't offer him a farewell, or a blessing, or any of those useless things. I simply stepped back toward the house and watched him descend the slope—boots steady, back straight.
He didn't look back.
And I didn't call out. The path ahead is long. I hope he does not get lost.
Even if the stars are gone.