The sun dipped low behind the jagged hills, bleeding crimson light across the sky. By the time Darrel and Kieran reached the next stretch of forest, night had already crept between the trees, wrapping the world in a suffocating blanket of darkness. The path ahead was nothing more than a faint trail of trampled earth, barely visible beneath the gnarled branches overhead.
Darrel's stomach growled. He tried to ignore it, but the sound only seemed louder in the quiet night. The last scrap of bread he'd eaten was two days old. Supplies were running out fast, and the wilds offered little mercy to travelers who came unprepared.
Kieran noticed. "You're starving," he said bluntly.
Darrel shot him a sidelong glare. "I'm fine."
The older man shook his head. "That's what boys say before they collapse. Hunger kills faster than swords out here."
Darrel didn't respond. Pride had become his armor—thin, perhaps, but it was the only thing holding his resolve together. He couldn't afford weakness. Not now.
They trudged on in silence, the cold biting harder as night deepened. Eventually, they found a shallow clearing tucked between a cluster of leaning pines. Kieran dropped his pack and began to gather kindling without a word. Darrel helped, though his movements were sluggish, his mind drifting between exhaustion and the gnawing ache in his belly.
When the fire finally sparked to life, it cast trembling light across their faces. Shadows danced in the trees, twisting and stretching like silent watchers.
Kieran reached into his satchel and pulled out a strip of dried venison, tossing it to Darrel. "Eat."
Darrel hesitated. "That's yours."
"And you'll be dead before we reach the next village if you don't take it," Kieran replied flatly. "I've been hungry before. You're not doing anyone favors by playing the hero."
Reluctantly, Darrel tore a piece and chewed slowly. The meat was tough and salty, but it was more than he'd had in days. He hated the way gratitude burned in his chest. He didn't want to rely on anyone—not anymore.
The night stretched long and hollow. The forest was alive with nocturnal whispers: the distant hoot of owls, the rustling of unseen creatures in the brush, the occasional snap of twigs that made Darrel's hand drift to his dagger. He couldn't shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching them from the darkness beyond the firelight.
Sleep didn't come easily. When he finally dozed off, dreams took him.
He stood in the village square again, surrounded by faces twisted in mockery. His family. Neighbors. Friends. Marcus stood at the center, his hypnotic blue eyes swirling like storms. Darrel tried to move, but invisible chains bound him. Laughter rose like a tide, cruel and deafening.
Then the laughter changed. It grew distorted, echoing in unnatural rhythms. From the shadows emerged tall, faceless figures—the Watchers. Their presence was suffocating. One extended a hand toward him, and though it had no eyes, he felt its gaze pierce straight through his soul.
"You cannot run from what's inside you," a voice whispered.
He jolted awake, heart pounding, sweat chilling his skin. The fire had died down to embers, and Kieran was snoring softly nearby. Darrel stared into the coals, shaken. The Watchers weren't just following him in reality—they were seeping into his dreams.
By morning, a thin frost coated the ground. Their meager firewood had burned away, leaving them shivering as they prepared to move on. Darrel's hunger had dulled to a steady, hollow ache, and his mind felt foggy, distant.
As they walked, Kieran tried to make conversation. "Dreams bother you?"
Darrel shot him a wary look. "What makes you say that?"
"You screamed," Kieran said simply. "Not loudly. But enough."
Darrel clenched his jaw. "It was nothing."
Kieran didn't press. "Dreams out here aren't always just dreams. Hunger, exhaustion—they make your mind weak. The forest whispers things when you're not careful."
Darrel almost laughed bitterly. "The forest doesn't need to whisper. My past does that well enough."
Kieran gave him a long look. "Then you'd better make peace with it before it eats you alive."
By midday, their supplies were nearly gone. The landscape shifted from forest to marshland—a bleak, damp expanse where fog clung low to the ground and insects swarmed in maddening clouds. The stench of stagnant water filled the air. Finding food here would be difficult, if not impossible.
They pressed on, but their pace slowed. Darrel's steps grew unsteady, his legs trembling from fatigue. Kieran caught his arm once when he nearly stumbled into a patch of mud that could have easily swallowed him whole.
"This is no place to collapse," Kieran muttered. "Keep your head."
Darrel forced himself upright. "I'm not weak."
"Everyone's weak when they're starving," Kieran replied. "The trick is knowing when to rest before it kills you."
As night fell again, they found shelter beneath the roots of a massive, half-dead tree. Darrel sank to the ground, too tired to speak. His stomach felt like a hollow pit, and his mind swirled with half-formed thoughts—faces, voices, fragments of pain and rage.
Kieran managed to catch a rabbit in a snare, a rare stroke of luck. He roasted it over a small fire, dividing it evenly. The smell alone nearly drove Darrel mad with hunger. When he finally tasted the meat, the warmth spread through him like a fragile light in the darkness.
For a moment, he almost felt human again.
Later, when the forest had grown quiet, Kieran spoke unexpectedly. "I once walked this road like you," he said softly, staring into the flames. "Hungry. Angry. Certain of what I had to do."
Darrel glanced at him. "And what happened?"
Kieran's eyes reflected the firelight, distant and hollow. "I survived. But survival isn't the same as winning. You'll learn that soon enough."
Darrel didn't know how to respond. Part of him wanted to ask more, but another part—the part still nursing raw wounds—couldn't bear to hear anyone else's story. His was already heavy enough.
That night, as Darrel lay awake listening to the wind moan through the marsh, he realized something: exile wasn't just a physical journey. It was a slow, grinding erosion of the self. Hunger stripped away pride. Sleepless nights gnawed at resolve. Isolation whispered doubts in the dark.
And yet… beneath it all, his anger still burned steady. The hunger couldn't touch that.
He closed his eyes, clutching that anger like a torch against the void.
The road was breaking him down. But it was also forging something new in its place.