Kael woke before dawn with his hand clenched around the knife.
He didn't remember reaching for it in his sleep. He only knew he had it when he opened his eyes and found the handle biting into his palm, his fingers stiff as if they'd turned to bone.
The fire had dwindled to a dull orange smear. Frost clung to the grass around the camp, turning every blade into a thin white needle. The air was so cold it hurt to inhale.
Across the dying embers, Rothmar Vale sat with his back against a tree, eyes open.
He wasn't watching Kael.
He was watching everything.
Kael pushed himself upright, wincing as the bandage around his ribs pulled tight. His whole body ached in a way that wasn't sharp anymore. It had become an old, steady pressure—like a weight that would remain until he learned to carry it without complaint.
Rothmar spoke without moving his head. "You slept."
Kael swallowed. "Barely."
"Good enough," Rothmar said. "Stand. We're moving."
Kael rose, shoulders stiff, and followed as Rothmar extinguished what was left of the fire with a handful of dirt. No smoke. No lingering glow. The camp vanished as if it had never existed.
They moved through the trees as the sky slowly lightened.
Kael tried to remember the lessons from the night before, but his mind kept circling back to blood and blank armour. The smell of smoke still clung to his hair. Every time a branch snapped underfoot, his heart jumped.
Rothmar walked with the same steady pace, unhurried yet relentless.
"You're listening too loudly," Rothmar said suddenly.
Kael blinked. "What?"
"You're trying to hear danger," Rothmar said. "So you hear everything. That will exhaust you."
Kael frowned. "Then what should I do?"
Rothmar's gaze slid to him briefly. "Learn to hear what matters."
Kael didn't understand, but he nodded.
They left the woodland late morning and took a narrow path that cut through open hills. The land rolled in long, pale waves of grass, broken by scattered rocks and the occasional stunted tree. It felt exposed. Too exposed.
Kael kept glancing at the ridgelines.
Rothmar did not.
He walked as if the hills belonged to him.
By midday, they reached an old road—cracked stone half-swallowed by weeds. It led between two low cliffs where the terrain narrowed into a natural corridor.
Kael's skin prickled.
The space felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still.
Rothmar stepped onto the road.
Kael followed, knife tucked into his belt where Rothmar had told him to keep it.
They were halfway through the corridor when the first arrow struck.
It didn't hit either of them. It hit the stone two steps ahead, burying itself deep with a hard thunk. A second arrow followed, slamming into the ground behind them.
The message was clear.
Stop.
Kael's breath caught. His instinct screamed to run.
Rothmar stopped, calm as ever, and looked up at the cliff on their left.
"You're late," Rothmar called out, voice carrying easily. "If you wanted a kill, you should have taken the shot."
A laugh drifted down—thin and mocking.
Figures appeared along both cliffs, emerging from behind rocks and scrub. Not armoured like the killers from the town. These wore mismatched leather and cloaks, faces wrapped in cloth against the cold.
Bandits.
At least eight.
Maybe more.
Kael's stomach tightened.
One of them stepped forward, bow lowered. "Hand over your coin, old man. And the boy."
Rothmar tilted his head slightly. "No."
The bandit's laughter vanished. "Then we take it."
Kael felt Rothmar's presence shift, like a door closing.
Then Rothmar stepped back—behind Kael.
Kael froze, confused.
Rothmar's voice was low, close to Kael's ear. "This is yours."
Kael's throat went dry. "Mine?"
"You want to live," Rothmar said. "So live. Move."
Kael's pulse slammed in his ears.
The bandits began to descend from both sides, some scrambling down the rocky slope, others taking the narrow paths that cut between boulders. Two remained above with bows.
Kael's hands trembled.
He tried to remember what Rothmar had said.
Hesitation is death.
Kael drew the knife.
The steel looked small in his hand compared to the distance and the number of enemies.
A bandit reached the road first—a broad man with a short axe.
"Boy first," the man snarled, grinning beneath his cloth.
Kael's mind went blank.
The axe came down.
Kael moved—barely.
He stepped to the side, the blade missing him by inches, and the swing carried the bandit's weight forward. Kael struck on instinct, driving his knife into the man's forearm.
The bandit roared, axe dropping.
Kael yanked the knife free and stumbled back, heart hammering.
The bandit clutched his arm, eyes wide in shock more than pain.
Kael stared at the blood.
He had done it.
He was alive.
A second bandit rushed in from the right—this one with a spear.
Kael's fear surged again, but it no longer froze him. It pushed him forward.
The spear jabbed.
Kael ducked, feeling the tip slice a line through his hair, and surged inside the spear's reach like Rothmar had made him do a dozen times the night before. He drove his shoulder into the bandit's chest, knocking him off balance, then slashed upward with the knife.
The blade caught cloth, then skin.
The bandit screamed, stumbling back.
Kael didn't chase.
He remembered another lesson—one he hadn't realised Rothmar was teaching.
Don't get greedy.
Kael pivoted as another bandit closed in with a short sword. Steel flashed. Kael raised his knife awkwardly, the impact jolting up his arm like a hammer blow. His grip nearly failed.
The bandit grunted, pressing forward.
Kael's ribs flared with pain. His breath hitched.
The bandit's blade slipped past Kael's defence and nicked his shoulder.
Warm blood ran down his arm.
Kael's mind screamed.
Not again. Not like last time.
He stepped into the bandit's space, shoulder-to-shoulder, too close for a sword swing. He slammed his forehead into the bandit's nose.
There was a crunch.
The bandit reeled back, choking.
Kael stabbed once, hard, into the man's thigh—deep enough to make him collapse, but not deep enough to trap the blade.
Kael ripped the knife free and backed away, breathing hard.
Two down.
But the others were closing.
The bandits above shouted, loosing arrows.
Rothmar moved then—just a step—raising his hand.
The arrows froze mid-air, trembling as if caught in invisible tar, then dropped harmlessly to the road.
The archers stared.
Rothmar didn't look at them.
He looked at Kael.
"Breathe," Rothmar said calmly. "You're holding it."
Kael realised he was.
He forced air into his lungs.
The world sharpened.
The slope on the left—two bandits descending close together.
The one on the right—hesitating, unsure whether the boy was truly dangerous.
Kael moved towards the hesitant one.
The bandit raised his dagger too late. Kael kicked his knee sideways. The joint buckled and the man fell, howling.
Kael didn't stab him in the throat.
He stabbed the hand holding the dagger.
The dagger clattered away. The bandit screamed again, clutching his mangled fingers.
Kael stepped back, knife up, chest heaving.
He felt something strange then.
Not triumph.
Not rage.
Control.
The last two who had reached the road circled uncertainly now, eyes flicking past Kael to Rothmar, then back.
"Why's the old man just standing there?" one muttered, voice shaking.
"Doesn't matter," the other said. "Kill the boy. Take him."
They rushed in together.
Kael's instincts screamed to retreat, but the corridor left him nowhere to run without exposing his back.
So he stepped forward instead.
He struck the first one—low and fast—slashing the inside of the wrist, making the man's sword drop. Before the second could capitalise, Kael threw the knife.
It was sloppy.
It wasn't elegant.
But it struck.
The blade buried into the second bandit's shoulder and he cried out, staggering.
Kael lunged at the disarmed one, grabbing his collar and slamming him into the stone wall. The man's head struck rock with a hollow thud and his eyes went unfocused.
Kael snatched the dropped sword from the ground.
It was heavy. Too heavy.
But it was steel.
He turned as the injured bandit tried to pull the knife from his shoulder.
Kael stepped in, sword raised—
—and hesitated.
Just for a heartbeat.
He saw the man's eyes.
Not blank like the armoured killers.
Terrified. Human.
Kael's hand trembled.
Rothmar's voice cut through his hesitation like a blade.
"Hesitation is death."
Kael's breath went cold.
He lowered the sword.
Instead, he kicked the bandit's knee hard enough to make him collapse, then struck the hilt of the knife with his palm, driving it deeper—not to kill, but to disable.
The bandit screamed and went still, shock swallowing him.
Kael staggered back, chest rising and falling in ragged gasps.
The remaining bandits on the cliffs stared down, suddenly uncertain.
They had expected a frightened child.
They had found something else.
Rothmar finally stepped forward.
He looked up at the cliffs, eyes calm.
The bandits flinched.
"Leave," Rothmar said.
No threat. No raised voice.
Just a statement.
The bandits scrambled back, vanishing over the ridgeline in a disorderly retreat.
Silence returned to the corridor.
Kael stood in the middle of it, blood on his hands, on his sleeves, on the borrowed sword he couldn't stop holding.
His legs shook violently.
Rothmar approached slowly and took the sword from Kael's grip without resistance.
Kael blinked up at him, still trying to understand what had happened.
Rothmar studied Kael's face. "You didn't freeze."
Kael's throat worked. "I… almost did."
"But you didn't," Rothmar said. "That matters."
Kael's gaze dropped to the bandits on the ground—alive, wounded, moaning softly.
"What happens to them?" Kael asked.
Rothmar's eyes were empty of warmth and empty of cruelty. "That depends on whether you want to be hunted by them later."
Kael stared.
The question was simple.
So was the answer.
Kael looked away from the injured men and forced his voice steady. "They won't hunt me."
Rothmar nodded once, as if he'd expected that.
"Good," Rothmar said. "Then finish it properly. Quickly. No theatre."
Kael's fingers tightened around the knife's handle as he stepped towards the nearest bandit.
His heart hammered.
His stomach churned.
But his feet did not stop.