Mavin had been with the bandits longer than he could remember clearly.
He knew there had been a before. People told him that much. They said he wasn't born into the group, that he'd been found. The details never stayed the same when they talked about it, and he learned early not to push for them. Asking questions made people impatient. Impatience turned into anger, and anger was dangerous.
So he took what he was given.
The bandit group didn't have a name. They never bothered with one. Names were for things that stayed in one place, and they never did. Tents were packed and unpacked so often that the fabric never fully cooled from the sun. Fires were small and temporary. Trails were used once and abandoned.
Mavin grew up inside that rhythm.
He learned how to tie knots before he learned numbers. He learned how to tell when someone was lying by the way they stood, not by what they said. He learned when to keep his mouth shut and when it was safer to speak first. Hunger came and went. So did cold. Bruises were normal. Cuts were normal. Pain was something you worked around.
He had been small when they found him. That was the part everyone agreed on.
Jorren once said he fit in the crook of one arm. Someone else said he wouldn't stop screaming. Another claimed he went quiet the moment they picked him up, like he'd already learned no one was coming.
Mavin didn't remember any of it.
His earliest memories were movement. Walking until his legs burned. Being handed things that were too heavy and expected to carry them anyway. Falling asleep to arguments and waking up to silence because the camp had already started breaking down around him.
The bandits weren't gentle, but they weren't careless either.
If someone hit him, it was because he'd gotten in the way. If someone yelled, it was because time mattered. When he got sick, they fed him broth and waited. When he broke a finger, they splinted it and told him not to complain.
That was care, as far as he understood it.
The leader had always been there.
Virel.
She didn't shout unless she needed to, and she rarely needed to. She didn't waste energy proving herself. People listened because ignoring her led to problems that didn't need to happen.
Mavin remembered watching her when he was younger, copying the way she moved. How she stood still when others paced. How she watched faces instead of hands. How she never reached for a weapon first, but always knew where it was.
The first time she had spoken to him directly, he had been five.
He'd dropped a crate while unloading scrap. Glass shattered inside it, sharp and loud. Everyone froze, waiting to see what would happen next. Virel had crouched in front of him and asked a single question.
"Did you mean to do that?"
He shook his head.
She nodded and told him to pick it up and be more careful next time.
No yelling. No threats.
From then on, he understood what she expected.
Now, walking west with the rest of the camp, Mavin stayed several steps behind her. His back still pulled when he moved too fast. The scars there felt thick, like old bark stretched over muscle. He adjusted his pack when it shifted and kept going.
They stopped near a dry ravine by midafternoon.
Wind cut through the rock, carrying dust and the faint smell of old water. The ravine offered cover without trapping them, and Virel chose it without hesitation. Tents went up quickly. Watches were set. The camp settled into a low, tense quiet.
Mavin dropped his pack where he was told and sat down, rolling his shoulders carefully.
Jorren passed by and paused. "You're not limping."
Mavin shrugged. "Not much."
Jorren studied him for a second longer than usual, then nodded and moved on.
People were watching him more now. Not openly. Just enough that he noticed. They tracked how fast he recovered after long marches. How he didn't flinch the way he used to. How his breathing steadied quicker than it should.
No one said anything.
That was worse.
As the sun dipped lower, Mavin helped secure tent lines and gather brush. He kept his shirt tight against his chest, movements controlled. Pain made that easier than it should have been.
Virel called his name once.
He straightened and walked over.
She stood at the edge of the ravine, arms folded, gaze fixed on the land beyond. For a moment, she didn't look at him.
"You've been quiet," she said.
Mavin waited.
"You always keep up," she continued. "That hasn't changed. What has is how fast you recover."
Mavin chose his words carefully. "I don't feel different."
Virel finally looked at him. Her eyes were sharp, assessing. "People rarely do at first."
His chest tightened.
"We survive by noticing things," she said. "And by deciding when not to act on them."
Mavin nodded.
"I'm not asking you anything," she added. "Not yet."
Relief and unease mixed in his stomach.
"Go eat," Virel said, already turning away.
He did.
That night, Mavin sat near the fire, picking at his food while conversations drifted around him. People talked about routes and supplies. About patrols near the Safe Zones. About Ruin-marked heroes spotted on walls miles away.
"They shine when they use it," someone said. "Like the air bends around them."
"Doesn't matter," another replied. "You don't get close enough to see."
Mavin stared into the fire, watching embers shift and collapse.
Heroes.
Protectors.
People with power who were welcomed instead of hidden.
No one told stories about kids raised in moving camps, learning to steal and run and survive without choosing any of it.
Later, in his tent, Mavin lay on his side listening to the wind scrape through the ravine. The camp felt smaller here, tighter. Every sound carried.
The mark rested heavy beneath his shirt.
He thought about how he'd come to be here. About being carried instead of left. About growing up with people who took what they needed because no one gave it freely.
He didn't know what the Ruin meant yet.
He knew what the bandits did to survive.
And he knew that whatever he was becoming would be shaped by where he had started.
Outside, someone laughed quietly, then stopped.
The camp settled.
Mavin closed his eyes and let the movement of it all pull him under, already aware that staying alive had never been about being good or bad.
It had always been about being useful.