They found him days later, long after grief had hollowed him out and survival had become instinct rather than choice.
Logan could no longer measure time. The sun rose and fell, the forest shifted from gold to shadow and back again, but the days blurred together in an endless cycle of hunger, exhaustion, and fear. His body moved because it had to. His mind remained trapped in the burning village, replaying screams he could not silence.
He survived on rainwater caught in trembling hands, bitter roots pulled from the soil, and the occasional field mouse snared through desperate patience. Sleep came in jagged fragments, broken by nightmares that left him gasping and soaked in cold sweat. When he woke, he reached for his parents out of habit—and remembered.
Each time, the pain felt new.
He carried a rusted knife scavenged from a fallen soldier. Its edge was chipped, its handle loose, but it was steel, and steel meant survival. He talked to it sometimes in whispers, as if it were the only thing that listened. His clothes were torn, stiff with blood and dirt. His feet were cracked and bleeding. His eyes, once wide with childhood wonder, had hardened into something sharp and watchful.
He had buried his parents with his bare hands.
The grave was shallow, marked only by stones stacked in uneven silence. Logan had knelt there long after the last clump of earth was placed, waiting for guilt, forgiveness, or madness to claim him. When nothing came, he stood and walked away, carrying their deaths inside him like a second heart.
The mercenaries arrived at dawn.
Logan sensed them before he saw them. The forest changed—birds fell silent, the wind stilled, and the air grew tight. His hand closed around the knife. He crouched behind a fallen tree, breath shallow, eyes scanning shadows that moved with purpose rather than chance.
Steel whispered free of scabbards.
A shape lunged between the trees.
Logan reacted without thought.
He leapt forward with a raw scream, slashing wildly. The attack was clumsy but fueled by terror and fury. The blade scraped armor. A mercenary cursed as the knife nicked his forearm. Another struck Logan across the face with the flat of a sword. White light exploded behind his eyes, and he crashed into the dirt.
Hands seized him. A knee pinned his spine. A boot pressed into his wrist until his fingers went numb and the knife fell free. He snarled, bit, and clawed like an animal, earning laughter, bruises, and a broken tooth for his effort.
They dragged him to his knees.
The mercenaries formed a loose circle—men and women of different ages and origins, their armor mismatched and scarred. These were not soldiers bound by banners or honor. These were survivors. Killers. Professionals shaped by war and paid in blood.
The argument began immediately.
"He won't last a week," one said.
"He'll drain supplies," another growled.
"Put him down," a third muttered. "Mercy killing."
Logan lifted his head and met their eyes, blood trickling from his mouth. He said nothing. Words had failed him long ago.
One mercenary crouched and studied him. "Still fighting," he said with a crooked smile. "Got fire in his eyes."
The circle parted.
A woman stepped forward.
She was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved with quiet authority. Old scars traced her face and neck—clean wounds, earned and survived. Her hair was bound tight, her sword worn but perfectly balanced at her side. Her eyes were colder than the steel she carried.
This was Vesha.
She looked at Logan the way a smith looked at raw iron—not with kindness, but with consideration.
"He lives," she said.
Voices erupted in protest.
"He's a liability."
"He's a child."
"He'll get us killed."
Vesha raised one hand. Silence fell like a blade.
"Or," she continued evenly, "he dies trying to keep up."
That was her compromise.
They cut his bonds, but never their watchfulness. For the first week, Logan slept on the edge of the camp with a blade always within reach—and another never far from his throat. Food came in small portions, measured and deliberate. Hunger sharpened his focus. When he stole, he was beaten. When he succeeded without being caught, nothing was said.
Work broke him before training did.
He carried packs heavier than his body should allow. He scrubbed armor crusted with blood and gore. He dug latrines, fetched water, and ran messages through hostile territory. His legs trembled constantly. His hands bled. When he collapsed, they kicked him upright. When he cried out, they mocked him until shame sealed his mouth shut.
Then the real lessons began.
Training was relentless.
Blades too heavy for his arms tore muscle and tendon. Wooden staves cracked across his ribs. He learned to fall without breaking bones, to roll with impact, to rise even when his vision swam and his lungs screamed for air. Mistakes earned pain. Improvement earned harder challenges.
Pain became his teacher.
Discipline became his prayer.
Rage became his fuel.
They taught him how to kill quickly—where arteries lay, how to strike once and end it.
How to kill quietly—how to breathe, how to move without sound, how to let death arrive unnoticed.
How to kill without thinking—how to let instinct replace hesitation and conscience.
They taught him that mercy was a luxury paid for by the dead.
That trust was a weakness waiting to be exploited.
But amid the cruelty, something else took root.
Loyalty.
Not the soft loyalty of stories and songs, but a hard, unyielding bond forged in shared danger. They fought for one another because no one else would. They bled together. They survived together.
Logan clung to that truth because it was the only thing that kept him standing.
Seasons turned.
The boy he had been—laughing, innocent, whole—was burned away by sweat, scars, and steel. In his place stood something leaner, colder, and far more dangerous.
The mercenaries' forge had done its work.
And Logan was no longer merely surviving.
He was being made into a weapon.