Chapter 3: The Last Night of Redmarsh
Dawn had not yet touched the sky, but Redmarsh Village was awake.
Torches burned low in the central hall. Hunters moved in grim lines along the palisade. Mothers clutched shawls tight around their shoulders. Fathers sharpened old knives or pretended to check packs that had been ready for days.
Ironwake's call had filled the village with a nervous energy that clung to every rooftop and fence post. The selection trials were a chance—one the village rarely earned. Most youths spent their lives working the marsh fields or dying in the forest. Few ever saw beyond Redmarsh's leaning fences.
Aiden stood in his small room, staring at the pack lying on his bed.
He had packed it neatly the night before—bedroll, spare tunic, water skin, small pouch of dried meat, flint stone, a coiled length of rope—and yet it still looked incomplete. Like no amount of preparation could make the leap ahead feel less impossible.
He touched the wooden fox figurine sitting beside the pack. Joren carved it years ago when Aiden was barely able to talk. Its edges were smooth now, worn by years of his fingers fidgeting with it during nervous moments.
He hesitated, then tucked it into his pack.
Bootsteps sounded behind him.
Lyssa stood in the doorway, the early morning shadows soft against her tired face. Her hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, and her eyes—warm, deep brown—were filled with too many emotions to name.
"You're up," she said quietly.
"Couldn't sleep," Aiden answered.
She stepped into the room, her fingertips brushing over the pack's straps. "It still feels like yesterday you took your first steps in this house. You used to chase the chickens and cry when they pecked your toes."
Aiden huffed a breath that wasn't quite a laugh.
He remembered none of that, of course. But he had heard the story often enough to picture it.
Lyssa touched his cheek, thumb brushing a stray lock of dark hair away from his eyes. "I know you're not a little boy anymore. I know this is a chance. But… part of me wishes Ironwake had overlooked us this year."
Aiden swallowed.
The ache rising in his chest wasn't just the ache of a child leaving home. It was the ache of an adult who had lived a different life, who had buried his own parents too early, who understood—truly understood—that leaving meant losing something irreplaceable.
"I'm going to come back," he said softly. "I promise."
Lyssa's breath hitched. "Don't promise that. Just promise you'll try."
He nodded.
She slipped something into his hand—a small, worn leather pouch tied with twine.
"A charm?" he asked.
"From your grandmother," Lyssa said. "My mother. She believed it helped guide the lost. I want it to guide you back."
Aiden didn't deserve the sting in his eyes, but he felt it all the same.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Lyssa folded him into her arms. Her embrace was warm and shaking, smelling of herbs and smoke and every memory of safeness he'd known in this life. Aiden clung to her harder than he meant to, the dual weight of childhood instinct and adult understanding crushing his chest.
Leaving her hurt.
Leaving her felt like tearing out a piece of something he didn't know he had grown.
When she finally released him, her voice was steady again. "Your father is waiting."
Aiden stepped into the main room.
Joren sat by the fire pit, sharpening a hunting knife. The scrape of metal echoed in the quiet space. His posture was stiff, too rigid, too rehearsed—like he was holding himself together by force.
"You're late," Joren grunted.
"I was saying goodbye," Aiden replied.
"Hm."
Joren sheathed the knife and stood. He was not an expressive man; the world had carved his face into something worn and stern. But his eyes betrayed him—brooding with pride, fear, hope.
He reached for a leather bracer lying on the table.
"This was mine when I was sixteen," he said. "Ironwake didn't pick me. But I kept it. Told myself I'd pass it to a son who might get the chance I didn't."
He fastened the bracer onto Aiden's forearm, pulling the straps tight.
Aiden flexed his hand. The leather was old but well-cared for, still strong.
"Thank you," Aiden said quietly.
Joren cleared his throat. "Don't thank me yet. You've not earned it."
Aiden almost smiled. That was his father—never too gentle with words, never too free with praise.
But then Joren's hand settled on his shoulder, heavy, grounding.
"Come back alive," the man said, voice low and rough. "Come back stronger."
Aiden nodded. "I will."
Joren's grip tightened once, then released. "Good."
Lyssa appeared in the entryway, wiping her eyes. "Myra's family is waiting at the gate. You should go."
Aiden took a breath. The hardest moment had arrived.
He stepped out onto the dirt road leading through Redmarsh. The sky was just beginning to pale with pre-dawn light. Thin mist drifted between the houses. The air smelled of damp earth, smoke, and the sharp tang of river water.
Villagers lined the road to the east gate. Some offered nods of encouragement; others watched with wary eyes, knowing how few returned from such trials.
Myra stood beneath the gate's arch, her pack slung over one shoulder. Her red-tinted hair glowed faintly in the torchlight. Her mother fussed with her cloak until Myra rolled her eyes and hugged the woman tight.
"Myra," Aiden called.
She turned—and her grin split wide.
"There you are! I thought your mother had tied you to a bedpost to keep you home."
Aiden snorted. "She tried. I escaped."
"Good," Myra said, bumping his shoulder with hers. "Would've been boring without you."
Her voice was light, but her fingers trembled where they clutched her pack. She wasn't immune to fear—she was just louder than it.
A hunter stepped forward—broad, scarred, armored in hardened beast-leather.
"Listen well," he said. "We're traveling with a caravan toward the Ironwake pass. Five days on foot. Danger on the roads even with us guarding you. Stay close. Stay quiet. Stay alive."
He opened the east gate.
Beyond lay the winding dirt road, stretching through the marshlands. Mist curled like pale fingers. Trees rose like dark teeth. Somewhere far off, a beast howled—a long, lonely cry that echoed across the stillness.
Myra exhaled slowly. "Well," she said, "now or never."
Aiden looked back once.
His parents stood together, arms around each other, faces tight with equal parts pride and fear. Lyssa lifted a trembling hand. Joren's jaw clenched so hard the muscle twitched.
Aiden swallowed hard and raised his hand in return.
Then he stepped forward.
The gate closed behind him with a deep, resonant thud.
The sound felt final.
Permanent.
Aiden inhaled, the air sharp and cold against his lungs.
The wilderness greeted them instantly.
The marshlands whispered with unseen creatures. Birds flitted overhead, their cries thin and wary. Strange insects clicked beneath the brush. Caravans creaked along the muddy road, hunters marching beside them with wary eyes.
Myra nudged Aiden. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he lied.
"Liar," she said, but her voice softened. "We'll get through this. Together."
They walked.
Hours passed.
Mud clung to their boots.
The road wound between thick reeds and ancient trees.
The sky brightened, then dulled again as low clouds drifted overhead.
At midday, the caravan stopped to rest.
Aiden set down his pack and stretched aching muscles. Myra plopped down beside him, her energy finally faltering.
"I miss my mother already," she admitted quietly.
Aiden stared at the marsh reeds swaying in the wind. "I do too."
She glanced at him, surprised. "Really? You never talk about that stuff."
He shrugged. "Maybe I should."
Before she could reply, the System stirred.
[Emotional anchor severed.]
[Host entering independent survival phase.]
[Instinct calibration increasing…]
Aiden exhaled through his nose.
So even the System recognized what leaving meant.
The afternoon wore on.
They resumed walking.
Hunters murmured about fresh beast tracks on the road.
The caravan grew tense, eyes scanning the tree lines.
By dusk, they reached a small clearing where they would camp for the night.
Hunters lit a fire pit. Caravanners set up tents. The marshland dimmed into a world of whispering shadows.
Aiden crouched near the fire with Myra, preparing a simple meal. He took out a small bundle of dried beast meat and began slicing it with Joren's old cooking knife.
"You're cooking?" Myra said. "Since when do you cook?"
"Since always," he said. "You just never noticed."
"Rude." She grinned.
He tossed meat strips into the pan, letting them sizzle over the flames. The aroma rose—rich, smoky, tinged with a faint energy that made his skin prickle.
Myra inhaled deeply. "If you keep cooking like that, everyone at Ironwake will line up for you."
He snorted. "Doubt it."
But inside, warmth bloomed. Not from the fire.
From the feeling of doing something useful.
System text flickered faintly:
Minor temporary buff gained:
– Endurance +1 (short)
Aiden hid a smile.
Night settled.
The fire crackled, pushing back against the encroaching dark. The marshes whispered with distant rustles—too rhythmic to be wind.
Aiden felt eyes on the camp.
Not hostile.
Just watching.
A flicker of blue light glowed briefly between the reeds.
Myra stiffened. "Did you see—?"
Before she could finish, a hunter barked, "Lights out! Half of you take first sleep. The wilds get curious at night."
Aiden crawled into his bedroll, heart still beating too fast.
He shut his eyes.
But the image stayed.
Blue eyes.
Low to the ground.
Watching them from the marsh.
Not a threat.
Not yet.
Just a presence.
Something small.
Something alone.
Something curious.
Sleep crept in slowly.
The last thing he heard was the distant crackle of electricity from the reeds.
And the quiet whisper of the System:
[Unknown beast detected.]
[Affinity anomaly — Target: Myra Lynell.]
[Outcome: Unclear.]
Aiden's eyes snapped open.
But the night was silent.
The blue light was gone.
And morning would bring new dangers to the road ahead.
The Academy was still days away.
And the wilds were just beginning to take notice.