The first thing I remember is pain.
Not the sharp, screaming kind that demands you to cry, but a dull ache that feels like my bones are being pressed into stone. My lips were cracked, my throat as dry as burned wood. Somewhere in the fog of my head, I thought I had already died. That would have been simpler.
But then I heard a sound.
Drip. Drip.
Water falling from stone, steady as a heartbeat. And beneath it, another sound: the faint hiss of a fire. Warmth touched my cheek, carrying with it the smell of smoke and herbs. I tried to move, but my arms trembled, too weak. I opened my eyes just enough to see rough cave walls lit by firelight.
Not heaven. Not the afterlife. A cave.
And then I saw him.
A boy—not much older than me, but older all the same—sitting near the fire. He was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, as though resting. His long black hair caught the light in strands, his clothes patched and worn. There was something wild about him, like the forest itself had raised him.
My chest squeezed with panic. Where was I? Who was he?
I forced myself to move, to push up from the pile of blankets beneath me. My legs gave way, but I managed to crawl a little before the world spun. The boy's eyes opened immediately.
"You shouldn't move yet," he said. His voice was low, rough from disuse, but calm.
I froze.
"You're safe here," he added, standing slowly, as though not to scare me. "Your wounds need more time."
Safe. The word meant nothing anymore. My family had said we would be safe if we stayed quiet. Safe if we obeyed the elders. Safe if we trusted the tribe's judgment. But none of it had saved us.
So when this stranger said the word, I only felt the old fear rise again.
I turned and stumbled toward the cave's mouth. My legs ached, but I pushed forward anyway. Better the cold night than a stranger's mercy.
But just before I reached the exit, I saw him again—already there, crouched by a rack of drying meat. He looked up in surprise, holding a strip in his hand like I'd interrupted something ordinary.
"You're awake," he said softly.
I stared at him, breath sharp in my chest, ready to scream or run if he stepped closer.
He didn't. He only watched me with steady eyes, the firelight flickering behind him.
I pressed my back to the stone wall, shaking. "Who are you? Why am I here?"
"You were dying," he answered simply. "The wolves nearly had you. I… I stopped them. Brought you here. Healed you as best I could."
I remembered fragments—the snarling of wolves, my leg burning with pain, a shadow between me and their teeth. Then nothing.
"You saved me?" My voice cracked.
He gave the smallest nod. "I couldn't leave you."
I stared at him, suspicion and confusion twisting inside me. No one saved people for free. Not anymore.
"Why?"
He hesitated, looking down at the strip of meat in his hand. For a long moment, I thought he wouldn't answer. Then he said, almost awkwardly, "Because someone once saved me, too."
Something in his tone softened the knot in my chest. Not completely, but enough that I stopped edging toward the exit. My legs still trembled, but for the first time since I woke, I realized I wasn't cold. He'd put blankets on me. He'd kept a fire.
And—my hand touched the bandage around my arm—he had tended to me.
"…I don't know your name," I whispered.
He blinked, then gave a short, almost shy answer. "Ahayue."
I repeated it in my head, careful not to forget. Names were important.
"I'm… Alusya," I said, though my voice cracked when I spoke my own name. It felt strange, speaking it here, alive, when everyone else who bore it was gone.
For a moment, we just looked at each other across the firelight. Not friends. Not strangers, either. Something in between.
The days blurred together after that.
I slept more than I thought possible, my body repairing itself. Each time I woke, Ahayue was there—tending the fire, grinding herbs, or sometimes just sitting with that faraway look in his eyes. He didn't speak much unless I asked something, but there was no cruelty in his silence.
When I grew strong enough to walk again, he showed me how to fetch water from a trickling stream inside the cave. When I tried to help with chores, he didn't stop me. He only corrected me gently when I messed up, never scolding.
He felt… safe.
And yet, at night, when I lay on the furs he'd given me, I would remember my family. My brother's last smile as he pushed me away. The arrow that took him. The elders' cold faces as they condemned us for sins we hadn't committed. The memory burned, and no warmth could reach it.
One night, I must have made a sound in my sleep, because I woke to find Ahayue sitting nearby, looking at me with quiet concern.
"You were dreaming," he said.
I wiped my eyes quickly, embarrassed. "I wasn't crying."
He didn't argue. Instead, he offered me a small cup of warm water with herbs. "This will help."
I drank it, though my hands shook.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked softly.
The question broke something in me. I had held the story inside for so long—since the night the tribe turned on us, since my brother's last act. No one had wanted to hear it. No one had cared.
But here was someone asking.
So I told him. In broken pieces, with tears I tried to hide, I told him about the exile, about the sins of my family, about the night of blood. I told him how my brother had sent me away, promising he would follow, only for the sound of bowstrings to silence him forever.
When the words were done, I felt hollow, scraped clean.
Ahayue didn't say he understood. He didn't say it would be fine. He only sat there in silence, eyes lowered, and whispered, "I'm sorry."
And somehow, that was enough.
Weeks passed.
I began to follow him on hunts, though I was clumsy at first. He moved like a shadow in the forest, while I snapped branches and tripped on roots. Still, he never grew angry. When I grew frustrated, he only said, "You'll learn."
He taught me how to set snares, how to skin rabbits, how to dry meat. He showed me which berries were safe, which plants burned if you touched them, which flowers could soothe fever. He was patient in a way I had never seen before.
And sometimes, when the work was done, he let himself laugh. Not loudly, not often, but when I teased him for being too serious, his mouth would twitch into a smile.
Those moments lit something inside me. For the first time in forever, I didn't feel like a burden. I felt like I belonged.
I began to think of him as my brother. Not by blood, but by bond. The kind that forms when two lonely people find each other in a world that has taken too much.
One evening, as we sat by the fire, I asked the question that had been on my mind.
"Ahayue… were you always alone?"
He stared into the flames for a long time before answering. "Not always. There was someone. A teacher. She's gone now."
His voice was quiet, but heavy, like the words carried more weight than he could bear.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, the same way he had once said to me.
He looked at me then, and for a moment, I thought I saw relief in his eyes—like my presence, my listening, was something he needed too.
In that moment, I understood something: he wasn't just protecting me. I was protecting him, too.
And so the days went on.
I learned to laugh again. I learned to move through the forest without fear. I learned that sometimes, family isn't given—it's found.
And though the scars of my past would never fully fade, with Ahayue beside me, they no longer felt like chains.
For the first time in years, I felt like I had a future.
The first time Ahayue let me try hunting alone, my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He gave me a small bow, its wood worn smooth from years of use, and a single arrow. "Just aim for the rabbit," he said, pointing toward the brush where tiny ears twitched.
"Just," I repeated, my voice higher than I intended.
The rabbit darted forward, and I pulled back the bowstring. My arm trembled, my heart hammered, and the arrow slipped free too soon. It thudded into the dirt nowhere near the target. The rabbit vanished in a blur.
I groaned, clutching my face. "I'll never get it right!"
Ahayue only tilted his head, expression calm. "You will."
"You're lying," I muttered.
"I used to miss more than you," he said.
That startled me into lowering my hands. "Really?"
His lips curved into the faintest smile. "Really. The forest teaches patience. If you listen long enough, it will guide your hand."
I wanted to argue, but the steadiness in his eyes quieted me. So I tried again. And again. For days I practiced, wasting arrows into bark and dirt. Each time I failed, Ahayue never mocked me. He only retrieved the arrows, handed them back, and said, "Again."
It wasn't until nearly a week later that the arrow finally struck true. The rabbit fell, and I stood frozen, bow still raised, staring in disbelief.
"I—I did it," I whispered.
Ahayue walked over, placed a hand on my shoulder, and nodded. "Yes. You did."
The pride in his voice warmed me more than the fire ever could.
Another day, he taught me about herbs.
"These," he said, showing me a cluster of pale-green leaves, "can draw out poison. But only if prepared properly. Crush them too much, and they lose their strength."
I tried to imitate him, grinding the leaves between two stones. But I pressed too hard, reducing them to mush. The smell was sharp and bitter.
Ahayue sniffed, made a face, and shook his head. "Too much."
"I thought stronger would be better!" I protested.
He chuckled, a rare sound. "That's what I thought once, too. But nature isn't about force. It's about balance."
I pouted, tossing the ruined paste aside. "Balance is boring."
"Balance is life," he said simply.
And though I grumbled, I tried again. This time, when the crushed leaves released a faint, clean scent, Ahayue's eyes softened with approval.
Nights in the cave became my favorite time.
When the work was done and the fire burned low, Ahayue and I would sit together. Sometimes in silence, sometimes in words. One evening, I asked him, "Do you remember stories? From before?"
He nodded. "A few."
"Tell me one."
He hesitated, then spoke of a tale his mentor once told him: a bird that sang to call the sun back each dawn. His voice was steady, almost distant, but I listened as though it were the most important story in the world.
When he finished, I smiled. "My mother used to tell me about a fox who tricked the moon into falling asleep. She'd make me laugh every time."
"Tell me," Ahayue said.
So I did. And though my voice cracked with memory, he listened, really listened.
For the first time since losing my family, I didn't feel like I carried my memories alone.
Weeks became months.
The girl who once trembled at the sight of wolves now walked the forest with a bow on her back. The boy who once lived only in silence now shared quiet laughter with someone who called him brother.
We were not blood. But in a world that had taken everything, we became something better: chosen family.
And though the shadows of the past still lingered, for the first time, I dared to hope that maybe—just maybe—the future could be ours.
Foreshadowing Addendum
It was a quiet night when the forest changed.
The fire crackled low, casting faint light against the stone walls of the cave. I was humming softly to myself, turning strips of drying meat on their rack, when I noticed Ahayue pause at the cave mouth. His back stiffened, his head tilting slightly, like a wolf catching a scent on the wind.
I stopped humming. "What is it?"
He didn't answer at first. His eyes narrowed, scanning the dark treeline. The air outside seemed heavier than usual, as though the forest itself were holding its breath.
Finally, he said, "The silence is wrong."
I listened. He was right. No night-birds called. No insects sang. The world felt suspended, unnatural.
A shiver crawled up my spine. "Is it… beasts?"
Ahayue shook his head. "Not beasts." His hand flexed against the hilt of the blade at his side. "Something else. Something coming."
I wanted to ask more, but the tone of his voice made me bite my tongue. I had learned enough in these months to trust his instincts.
Later, when he thought I had fallen asleep, I heard him moving outside the cave, circling the perimeter, eyes glinting in the firelight as he watched the dark.
For the first time since I had come here, the cave didn't feel safe.
And though he said nothing the next morning, I noticed that when we went into the forest together, his hand never strayed far from his weapon, and his gaze lingered on the horizon, as though waiting for shadows to take shape.
Something was coming.
And somehow, I knew it wasn't just for him.