Kresos didn't move.
The body at his feet was still—crumpled awkwardly against the leg of the table, blood pooling slow and steady across the uneven floorboards. The house was quiet now. No breathing. No footsteps. Just the faint crackle of candlelight and the low groan of tired wood.
He felt nothing.
No fear. No triumph. Just the sense that something was over.
And something else had just begun.
He couldn't stay.
His father didn't have many friends, but he had habits. A supplier would stop by. A drunk would come knocking. A neighbor might wander too close and catch the wrong scent in the air. Someone would notice.
And Kresos didn't plan to be here when they did.
He moved through the house without urgency. The cloak. A few shirts. A worn coin pouch. A half-empty waterskin. Enough to move. Enough to disappear.
He reached the door.
Paused.
Turned back.
His father lay sprawled like a puppet with its strings cut. Glazed eyes. Open mouth. Arms limp. A whole life reduced to the echo of the past. Now it was just blood and silence.
Kresos stared for a moment.
Then walked over.
The knife was still on the table. Still wet.
He picked it up, knelt by the body, and pressed the point to the dead man's forehead.
Slowly, deliberately, he carved a single word.
WAXBANE.
That was how he stripped the name off his father—ripped it away like something that had never belonged to him in the first place.
He wiped the blade clean on a scrap of cloth and left it on the table.
Then he opened the door.
And walked out without looking back.
Not at the house.
Not at the body.
Not at the man he once called dad.
Whatever lay ahead, it couldn't be worse than what he'd buried behind him.
He was done carrying someone else's failure.
*****
The city rose behind him—crooked towers, sagging rooftops, chimneys leaking smoke into a slate-colored sky.
Kresos moved through the streets without drawing eyes. His clothes were plain. His bag light. In a city like this, boys like him faded into the cracks.
By the time he reached the outer wall, the sky had begun to dim, though the sun still lingered somewhere above the clouds. The gate ahead was one of the few exits that led past the capital's sprawl—massive iron-bound doors kept half-open under the eyes of city guards.
Twelve stood watch.
All in black-and-silver plate, their posture sharp, expressions dull.
But one stood apart.
Gold armor. Polished and gleaming. Helmet tucked under one arm. A long scar traced his jawline. His eyes scanned the road like a hawk watching for sparks before a fire.
A Golden Knight.
One of the kingdom's elite.
Strength and magic, discipline and power. The kind of man it was better to avoid at all cost.
Kresos felt his pulse quicken.
For a second, he wondered if they knew. If somehow, the blood he'd spilled had stained him in a way only they could see.
But the knight never looked his way.
None of them did.
He wasn't a threat.
Just a boy with a sack of rags and dirt under his nails.
If he vanished past the gates, no one would follow.
The kingdom might even thank him.
So Kresos kept walking.
He passed under the gate and left Mirkull behind.
Truly behind.
Not the outskirts. Not the forest edge. Not the wax-gathering routes of his childhood.
This was beyond.
The road stretched ahead—cracked, uneven, bordered by fields long abandoned and woods gone silent. The air smelled sharper here. Cleaner.
He didn't know where he was going.
But he knew what he wasn't going back to.
And for now, that was enough.
*****
Hours passed.
The sun bled red across the horizon, sinking behind the trees like it was ashamed to stay. His legs ached. His stomach twisted. He hadn't eaten since the day before.
When the path curved into a rocky incline, he veered off, slipping into the woods along its edge. Thin trees. Light cover. Enough to hide. Maybe enough to find food.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Moss. Leaves. Nothing worth chewing.
Then—something.
A scent.
Smoke. Meat. Grease. Real food.
Kresos froze, nose lifting like an animal's. He moved toward it slowly, crouching low. No snapping twigs. No careless steps.
The smell grew stronger.
He reached a clearing.
There, in the center, sat a low firepit. A spit had been propped over the flames, and a skinned rabbit turned lazily above glowing coals. Juices hissed as they dripped into the heat.
There was no one else in sight.
Kresos crouched at the tree line, scanning the clearing, breath held. Nothing moved.
He stepped forward. Slow. Quiet.
His hand wrapped around the spit. The heat made his fingers twitch.
He had just pulled the rabbit free when a voice cut the air in half.
"You lost, boy?"
Kresos froze.
The voice wasn't angry. Just calm. Curious.
Still, it landed like a blade.
He turned.
A man stood behind him—close. Too close.
Tall. Broad. Black hair streaked with gray. Weather-worn cloak. A heavy pack slung over one shoulder. Leather vest, plain shirt. Rugged face, half-bearded.
No weapon in hand.
But something about him felt solid. Like stone.
Kresos tightened his grip on the meat.
The man raised his hands—not high. Not fast. Just enough to show peace.
"Didn't mean to startle you," he said. "Name's Jax. Just passing through."
Kresos narrowed his eyes.
"…It's your rabbit?"
Jax smiled. "Let's say it was."
He nodded to the meat. "You hungry?"
Kresos didn't answer.
His stomach did.
Jax's smile grew a little.
He unslung his pack, crouched beside the fire, and pulled out a cloth bundle—bread, a handful of mushrooms and a pinch of coarse salt.
"Sit. We'll share it."
Kresos hesitated.
Then sat across from him.
They ate in silence.
The meat was simple. Salted, greasy, warm. It filled the space behind Kresos' ribs like fire filling a long-cold room. He didn't speak. Jax didn't push.
No questions.
No demands.
Just food. Heat. Quiet.
And for the first time in days, Kresos didn't feel like a shadow trying to outrun itself.
For the first time in a long time…
He didn't feel alone..