The hunters led them through winding paths, torches crackling against the night. The hidden village was quiet now, but not in a peaceful way.
Everywhere they passed, eyes followed. Men sharpening blades paused mid-stroke. Women drawing water from wooden barrels froze, pitchers trembling in their hands. Children peered from behind curtains before being dragged back into the safety of their homes.
No one spoke, but the whispers clung to the air all the same.
"An undead…"
"…a cursed boy…"
"…why would the elder let them in?"
Alaric tightened his grip on his staff. His small legs dragged, every step heavier than the last, but he refused to let the hunters see him stumble. His snow-white hair stuck damply to his forehead, golden eyes burning stubborn despite the fatigue pulling them down.
Yeah, keep staring. Haven't you people ever seen a kid before? Oh right, it's the giant zombie-butler you're gawking at. My bad.
Ashen walked at his side, silent as always. But tonight, his presence was… different. The wards woven into the air prickled against him like invisible chains. Faint green threads shimmered at the edge of Alaric's vision whenever he looked too long.
It didn't stop Ashen from walking. Didn't stop him from resting a steadying hand on Alaric's shoulder when his knees wobbled. But the subtle drag in his steps told the boy the truth—Ashen was being restrained, whether he showed it or not.
Alaric's stomach knotted.
They're already leashing him. Figures. Not even here a full day and they're treating him like a rabid dog.
The hunters finally stopped before a hut near the edge of the village. Smaller than the elder's hall, its roof sagged with moss, and charms of bone and wood dangled from the doorway. The faint glow of runes pulsed in the beams—wards, Alaric realized, designed to keep things in as much as to keep things out.
The lead hunter gestured sharply. "Here. The boy rests. The elder commands the knight remains bound within."
Ashen stepped forward without hesitation, ducking through the low doorway. His movements were as fluid as ever, but Alaric could feel the drag in the air deepen as the wards tightened around him.
It was like watching chains coil around his shadow.
Alaric bit his lip. "Hey. Don't look so smug about it," he muttered under his breath, glaring at the hunters. "He's not your prisoner."
None of them answered. Their faces were stone, but their eyes burned with unease.
Alaric stuck his tongue out anyway. Yeah, real mature. But it's all I got right now.
Inside, the hut was spare but warmer than the ruin they'd lived in. A straw mat lay in the corner, with furs piled for bedding. A clay lamp flickered faintly on a small stand, filling the air with a faint herbal scent.
Alaric didn't even make it halfway across the room before his body gave up. He dropped his staff with a clatter and flopped onto the furs like a ragdoll.
"Ugh. Finally. A bed." His muffled voice came through the fur. "…Okay, so it's straw, but it counts."
Ashen closed the door behind them, the wards pulsing faintly as it sealed. He stood for a long moment, silent, eyes scanning the small space. Only then did he kneel beside the boy, carefully removing his staff from where it had fallen and setting it within reach.
Alaric peeked up at him, golden eyes half-lidded. "Don't… start with the whole sentinel routine. You need rest too."
Ashen didn't reply. Of course he didn't.
But his hand, pale and gloved, brushed stray strands of white hair from Alaric's forehead. His touch lingered for the faintest second before withdrawing.
Alaric's chest tightened. He smirked faintly, trying to cover it. "…You're getting soft, y'know. Zombie-dad points just went up."
No answer. Just that steady, unreadable presence.
Outside, voices rose in the distance—angry, fearful, carrying through the night air.
"…the elder has doomed us…"
"…that child will bring ruin…"
"…the knight must be destroyed…"
Alaric curled tighter into the furs, pulling them over his head. His body trembled, though he'd never admit it.
Same story everywhere, huh? No matter where I end up, I'm still the unwanted piece.
But then the weight of a cloak settled over him. Ashen's white cloak, heavy but warm, draped across the furs.
The boy blinked under its weight, then slowly relaxed, eyes slipping closed. His lips curved faintly. "…Thanks."
The voices outside raged on. The wards pulsed faintly.
But in the dim hut, with Ashen's shadow at his side, Alaric finally drifted into the first uneasy sleep of his new life in the village.
And the forest, always listening, hummed with quiet anticipation.
Morning came slowly.
Alaric blinked against the faint light that filtered through the cracks in the hut's walls. For a moment, he forgot where he was. The smell of herbs, the creak of wooden beams, the faint pulse of the ward-runes—it was all too different from the damp cavern he had called home.
He groaned and buried his face deeper into the furs. "Ugh… why does morning exist…"
The cloak slipped off his shoulders as he shifted, and he froze. Right. Last night. Ashen's cloak, heavy and warm, had been laid over him while he slept.
He peeked to the side.
Ashen was sitting near the door, perfectly still, his sword resting across his knees. His silver-gray eyes were half-shut, but Alaric knew he hadn't slept. He never did.
"...You're still at it," Alaric muttered, his voice rough with sleep. "You seriously sat there all night, didn't you?"
Ashen's eyes opened fully, calm and steady. No answer.
"Figures," Alaric sighed. He pulled the cloak tighter around himself anyway. Big scary undead, huh? More like the world's most stubborn babysitter.
The sound of footsteps outside made his ears perk up. Voices followed, hushed but not hushed enough.
"Is the boy awake?"
"We shouldn't go near. The knight's inside."
"The elder said the wards will hold him."
Alaric sat up, rubbing his messy white hair into an even worse state. His golden eyes narrowed at the door. Great. Human alarm clock squad.
The door creaked open a little. A woman peeked in—her face was lined with suspicion, but she carried a small bowl in her hands.
She placed it just inside the doorway and quickly backed away. The smell drifted up: a thin porridge, warm but plain.
Alaric blinked. "…Breakfast delivery. Huh. Guess I'm not totally hated."
He crawled over, grabbed the bowl, and stared at the contents. The porridge was watery, with only a few chunks of root floating inside.
"…Okay, correction. Totally hated." He pouted, then spooned a mouthful into his mouth anyway. The warmth spread through him, and his stomach sighed happily despite his grumbling. "Fine. It's edible. Barely."
Ashen watched quietly, not moving.
Alaric glanced up at him. "…Don't give me that look. You can't even eat."
A knock sounded at the door this time. Firmer, deliberate.
The same hunter from last night stood there when it opened. His face was hard, his voice flat. "The elder calls. The boy will begin training today."
Alaric almost choked on his porridge. "What—already?! I just got here! Can't I, I dunno, nap for a week first?"
The hunter's frown deepened. "You will come."
Alaric groaned dramatically, letting his head drop onto the table with a thud. "…Worst vacation ever."
Ashen rose smoothly, his cloak brushing the floor, and rested a gloved hand on the boy's shoulder. A small push, steady but firm.
Alaric squirmed, but the message was clear.
"Fine, fine. I'm going," he muttered, dragging his staff up from where it leaned against the wall. His little legs carried him toward the door, every step reluctant. "But if they expect me to run laps, I'm faking an injury."
The hunter's eyes flicked to Ashen as the boy passed. His grip tightened on his spear. "…He stays bound."
Alaric shot him a glare. "Yeah, and I stay cranky without breakfast. Deal with it."
The hunter's lips thinned, but he said nothing more.
Alaric stepped out into the village morning. Sunlight slipped through the tall trees, scattering gold across the huts. Villagers moved about their work, chopping wood, hauling water, checking traps. But every time their eyes landed on him—and especially on Ashen walking silently behind—everything slowed.
The whispers started again.
"…That's the boy…"
"…the undead walks with him…"
"…why hasn't the elder banished them?"
Alaric hunched his shoulders, cheeks hot. Yeah, keep staring. Maybe charge admission next time.
Ashen's presence behind him didn't waver, but his shadow stretched long in the sun, cutting across the village square like a dark banner. It was enough to keep people at a distance, but not enough to quiet their fear.
The hunter led them toward the open field at the far end of the village. Wooden dummies stood in neat rows, straw spilling from their seams. Weapons—spears, short bows, blunt training staves—were stacked along the side.
Alaric stopped dead in his tracks.
"…Oh no. No no no. I know where this is going." He groaned loudly, dragging his staff along the dirt. "Training grounds. Of course. Why couldn't it be a bakery?"
The hunter gave him a flat look. "You wish to stay here. You train."
Alaric muttered under his breath, "I also wish for naps, but no one's handing those out either…"
Ashen stood silently behind, eyes calm, but his slight tilt of the head almost said: Don't resist this. You need it.
Alaric sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. "…Fine. Let's get this over with. But if I break a nail, I'm suing."
The hunter didn't even blink.
Alaric stood in the training yard like someone sentenced to hard labor.
His snow-white hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction from sleep and lack of care, and his golden eyes glared at the world with the authority of someone far too young to be that tired. His plain tunic—brown, patched, and far too loose—hung awkwardly on his small frame, the sleeves rolled back to stop them from swallowing his hands. His trousers were just as simple, tied with a frayed rope at the waist. Barefoot, staff in hand, he looked more like a stray child than a trainee warrior.
And yet, the hunters stared at him like he was carrying a torch into a powder house.
Ashen lingered at the edge of the yard, his tall figure still and sharp against the rising sun. His white cloak trailed faintly in the breeze, silver-gray eyes calm but unreadable. Even bound by the invisible weight of wards, his presence alone was enough to make the villagers tense.
The hunter who had led them here clapped his hands once. "Pick up a staff."
Alaric held up the one already in his grip. "Done. Can we go home now?"
The hunter's brow twitched. "Swing it. Strike the dummy."
Alaric groaned like he'd been asked to move a mountain. "Seriously? First thing in the morning? No warm-up, no stretching, not even a motivational speech?" He shuffled forward anyway, dragging the staff through the dirt as though it weighed a hundred pounds.
He stopped in front of the straw dummy and stared at it with all the enthusiasm of a child facing homework. "…You know, he doesn't look that bad. Kinda friendly. Do we really have to hit him?"
The hunter's voice was flat. "Strike."
Alaric raised the staff in both hands, swung halfheartedly, and thwacked the dummy on the shoulder. The sound was pathetic.
"See? He barely felt it," Alaric muttered, stepping back. "We're good."
The hunter pinched the bridge of his nose. Around them, a few younger villagers who had gathered to watch snickered, though whether at Alaric's antics or in scorn wasn't clear.
Ashen didn't move. He stood at the edge, gaze fixed on Alaric, expression calm as ever. But the weight of that look pressed heavier than any scolding.
Alaric's golden eyes flicked toward him. The staff sagged in his grip. "…Ugh. Fine."
He stepped forward again, sucking in a breath, and this time swung harder. The staff cracked against the dummy's chest with a solid thud. The impact stung his small hands, but the sound was louder, sharper.
The hunter nodded faintly. "Again."
Alaric groaned, but raised the staff. Strike. Strike. Strike. Each blow shook his arms, each swing slower than the last, sweat dripping down his forehead until his snow-white hair clung to his skin.
"Again."
Alaric's arms trembled. His face scrunched into a grimace.
In my past life I specifically avoided gym class for this reason.
He stumbled, nearly dropping the staff, but forced it back up with a stubborn growl. "Fine. One more."
He swung—and nearly toppled forward, catching himself with his foot. His chest heaved, his small frame shaking from the effort.
The hunter's expression didn't change. "Good enough for now."
Alaric leaned on his staff like a cane, gasping. "…Finally. Thought my arms were gonna fall off." He glanced at Ashen, smirking faintly through his exhaustion. "Bet you're loving this, huh? Watching me suffer."
Ashen's gaze remained steady, unchanging. But Alaric swore he felt the faintest flicker of something in those silver-gray eyes. Approval.
The boy's smirk softened into a tired grin. "…Yeah. Thought so."
The hunter stepped closer, tone sharp. "Tomorrow, we begin with laps."
Alaric's face went pale. "Laps? Like… running laps? Around this whole place?!"
"Yes."
Alaric groaned so loudly that even the watching villagers laughed—nervous, but real. He dragged the staff back to his side, muttering the whole way. "…This is cruel and unusual punishment. Totally against the law. I'm filing a complaint."
Ashen followed as he left the training ground, silent and steady, his white cloak trailing in the dirt.
And though Alaric complained the whole way, he felt it in his chest—the first step had been taken.
Training had begun.