The boy stood at the edge of the beach, staring into the dense forest. The pale light of late afternoon filtered weakly through the shifting fog, painting the world in muted grays. His body was battered, his muscles taut with exhaustion, but his mind refused to falter. The storm had not killed him. Neither would this.
The wolves had howled again. The sound lingered in the back of his mind—a deliberate promise of what was to come. They were close, too close, and their cries stirred a primal urgency within him. If he wasn't ready when they came, he wouldn't live to see the dawn. That thought alone forced him forward.
The boy's breath hitched briefly, fear gnawing at the edges of his resolve. But he forced it down. Fear was a luxury he could not afford. Instead, the calculating part of his mind began to stir. Emotions receded like the tide, leaving only cold, unyielding logic. His situation was dire, yes, but not hopeless. Survival was all that mattered.
The boy scanned the beach, his sharp blue eyes flicking over the wreckage and bodies strewn across the sand. The storm had turned the shore into a graveyard of the lost—broken timbers, tangled ropes, and pale, lifeless forms lying twisted among the debris. Each corpse was a reminder of what he had escaped, but he had no time for sentiment. If he wanted to live, he had to use what they no longer could.
The first body he approached was that of a sailor, his face swollen and pale from hours in the water. The boy knelt beside him, his hands moving with methodical precision as he searched the man's belongings. Beneath a tattered cloak, he found a small leather pouch. Inside, a piece of flint and a steel striker gleamed faintly in the fading light.
"Fire," the boy whispered. "Good to see you old friend."
He tucked the pouch into his belt and moved on.
Further down the beach, he spotted another body slumped against a jagged rock. This one clutched a waterskin to his chest, its cracked leather darkened with seawater. The boy pried it loose and shook it gently, relief washing over him at the faint slosh of liquid inside. He unscrewed the cap and took a cautious sip, letting the stale, metallic water trickle down his throat. It was enough to ease the dryness, but he forced himself to stop, screwing the cap tightly shut. Rationing would keep him alive.
He slung the waterskin over his shoulder and kept searching. Each body offered something of value: a strip of cloth, a piece of rope, a wetstone, even a small bundle of bread wrapped in damp linen. The bread crumbled at his touch, but his stomach welcomed it eagerly.
He moved with quiet efficiency, his mind cataloging every find. He took only what he needed—survival was a balancing act between necessity and burden. Too much, and he would be slowed; too little, and he would perish.
Then his eyes fell on a raider's body. The man's frame lay twisted against a cluster of rocks, his face frozen in a grimace of terror. Beside him lay a small axe, its haft half-buried in the sand.
The boy hesitated, his hand hovering over the weapon. At twelve years old, his body was hardened by suffering and survival, but the axe was still an imposing thing—a weapon of war, brutal and efficient. Yet as his fingers closed around the worn wood of the handle, a strange calm settled over him.
He lifted it, feeling the shift of its weight in his grasp. The axe head was modest in size, about six inches from edge to edge, forged in a simple crescent shape with a bearded blade that extended downward to allow for versatility in gripping and cutting. The steel was darkened with rust and exposure, but the edge still held enough sharpness to cleave flesh. The haft was roughly a foot and a half long, made of ash wood, smooth from years of use but still sturdy. It was slightly tapered, thickening near the bottom for a better grip.
He tested its balance, giving it a cautious swing. It felt solid, reliable—neither too heavy nor unwieldy.
His grip tightened. "Good," he muttered.
He slid the axe through the slaver's leather belt, fastening it securely at his waist. The weight rested against his hip, awkward but reassuring, a constant reminder of its brutal purpose. It wasn't the only prize the slaver offered. A dagger rested in a sheath at the man's waist. The boy drew it, testing its balance. The blade was about sixteen inches long—longer than most daggers, substantial in his small hands, yet still light enough to wield with precision. The steel gleamed faintly in the dying light, etched with shallow grooves near the fuller, designed to channel blood away from a wound.
The hilt was wrapped in black leather, its grip firm and comfortable. The crossguard was minimal, just enough to stop a blade from sliding down and cutting his fingers. The weapon felt natural in his grasp, its weight and balance reassuring. He swung it experimentally, imagining how he might switch between axe and dagger in battle, their speed and versatility complementing his sword as quick, lethal options for his off-hand.
Satisfied, he slid the dagger into his belt and straightened, his eyes scanning the horizon.
The sun was beginning its slow descent, and the shadows stretched longer across the beach. Time was running out. The wolves would come with the night, and he needed more than weapons—he needed defenses.
The boy chose his battleground with care. A slight rise in the sand, where the beach met the edge of the forest, offered a natural vantage point. If the wolves wanted him, they would have to come uphill—and he would make them pay for every step.
His hands dug into the sand, carving a narrow V-shaped trench with the fire at its apex. The trench wasn't deep, but it didn't need to be. Its purpose was to guide his enemies into a controlled funnel, forcing them to move single-file. He could almost see it—the wolves' hesitation, their frustration as they realized the only way forward was through him.
The boy reinforced the trench with broken planks and sharpened stakes. He planted the stakes upright in the sand, their jagged tips angled toward the open end of the trench. They wouldn't kill, but they would slow. Using his axe, he cut long, thin branches into crude spears and placed them strategically within the trench.
Next, he gathered debris from the wreckage, stacking it into a low barricade behind the trench. It wasn't much—just a wall of planks and rope—but it was another obstacle between him and the wolves. Finally, he built his fire at his back, trusting it to guard what he could not see.
The boy closed his eyes, his breathing steady as he reached out with his will. A subtle warmth stirred within him, and as his focus deepened, the air seemed to shimmer with potential. The kindling responded, flickering to life as if answering his silent call. Flames roared eagerly, consuming the dry wood in a sudden burst of light and heat, their warm light cutting through the encroaching darkness.
Beside the fire, he placed a pile of additional kindling and wood. If the wolves breached his defenses, he could light more fires, using flame and smoke to disorient and drive them back.
Sweat dripped down his face as he worked, but he didn't stop. Every moment spent building was a moment closer to survival.
The first howl cut through the night like a war cry.
It wasn't the mournful call of a lone wolf but a sharp, guttural declaration. A warning. The boy's body tensed, every nerve firing in instinctive fear. He turned toward the treeline, where the forest loomed dark and impenetrable.
Somewhere beyond the mist, they were watching.
His hand moved instinctively to the hilt of the sword strapped to his back. Reaching over his shoulder, he drew the blade with practiced ease, the steel glinting faintly in the dim light. At the same time, his other hand gripped the axe at his hip and pulled it free.
The solid heft of the axe balanced the longer blade, the two tools of survival and war ready in his grasp. He adjusted his stance, the sword and axe poised, his body steady and prepared.
The second howl came, closer this time. His eyes snapped to the tree-line, where shadows moved just beyond the firelight. Silent, calculating, they waited.
He crouched beside the fire, his hands steady despite the tension coiling in his chest. Fear gnawed at the edges of his resolve, but he forced it aside. He couldn't afford fear. Not now.
"This is going to be a long night," he muttered, his voice low and steady.
The boy's gaze returned to the fire, its flames casting long, flickering shadows across the trench. He thought of the wolves, their eyes glowing in the dark like distant stars. They were out there, watching, waiting for weakness.
But he wouldn't give it to them.
If they wanted him, they would have to earn it.