Alaric sat down heavily on one of the wooden logs.
He planted the blade tip-first into the ground beside him.
Blood dripped from his shoulder. His side.
His breathing came in ragged gasps.
"Now," he said, forcing the words out between breaths. "About those directions to the nearest town..."
The merchant just stared at him.
Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. Like he was trying to process what he'd just witnessed, a boy cutting through a dozen bandits like they were made of paper.
His wife clutched their daughter tighter. The girl peeked out from her mother's arms, her tear-stained face showing equal parts fear and fascination.
Silence stretched.
Broken only by Alaric's breathing and the crackling of the campfire.
Finally, the merchant found his voice. "You... you're not with them?" His hand still gripped that useless knife.
"The bandits?"
Alaric looked at him flatly. "Does it look like I'm with them?"
