The climb up the hill felt like a mountain trek. To my ten-year-old, malnourished body, the incline was a torture rack for my lungs. Every few steps, my vision would wobble, dark spots dancing in the corners of my eyes.
Don't pass out, I scolded myself. If you pass out here, you're just a corpse that hasn't stopped breathing yet.
I reached the "manor." To a reader's imagination, a noble's house is grand. In the reality of The Blight of Astraea, the House of Valerius was a glorified stone farmhouse. The walls were weeping with moss, and the perimeter fence was made of sharpened logs, some of which were starting to rot at the base.
This was the "Low-Ranking Noble" life I had written. I wanted Kael to have a humble beginning so his eventual rise would feel more dramatic. Now, looking at the crumbling masonry, I cursed my love for "gritty realism."
I circled to the back. There it was. A small wooden gate used by the servants—or the one servant the family could still afford.
I sat by the well near the gate and waited.
I knew the schedule. Lord Hestor von Valerius was a man of habit. Every evening, he would check the perimeter himself because he no longer trusted the village guards. And every evening, he would bring a small pouch of copper or leftover crusts for whichever village kid was "diligent" enough to be hauling water.
It was a pity system. And I was going to exploit it.
I grabbed the heavy wooden bucket by the well. My arms felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets as I lowered it and hauled it back up. One bucket. Two. My breath came in ragged wheezes.
"What are you doing, boy?"
The voice was like grinding gravel. I froze, my hands stinging from the rough hemp rope.
I turned slowly. Standing there was a man who looked like he was carved from old oak. Hestor von Valerius. He wore a simple linen shirt and trousers tucked into boots, but the way he carried his shoulders screamed "Soldier." His eyes were a piercing, cold blue—the same eyes I had given Kael.
"I... I heard the Lord pays for water," I said, pitching my voice to sound as pathetic and small as possible. It wasn't hard. I was terrified.
Hestor frowned, looking at my skeletal frame. "The village children usually come in pairs. Where's your partner?"
"Dead," I said. It was a gamble. In my notes, Oakhaven had lost three orphans to a fever last month. "I'm the only one left in my hut."
The man's expression softened for a fraction of a second—a flicker of the "noble heart" I'd written into his character. He sighed and reached into a small leather pouch at his belt, tossing a stale piece of rye bread toward me.
"Eat. Then fill the trough for the horses and leave."
I caught the bread like it was gold. I didn't care that it was hard enough to break a tooth. I shoved a piece into my mouth, the dry grain tasting like life itself.
"Thank you, My Lord," I muffled.
As I worked, I felt another pair of eyes on me. I looked toward the manor's porch.
A boy stood there. He was about my age, maybe a year younger. He had messy black hair and an oversized wooden sword strapped to his waist. He was watching me with a mixture of curiosity and the typical haughtiness of a noble child who had never known a day of actual hunger.
Kael von Valerius.
In the novel, he was the "Sun of the Empire." Right now, he just looked like a lonely kid with no one to play with.
I ignored him.
Rule number one of surviving a protagonist: Don't try too hard. If I ran up to him and started acting like a fan or a prophet, I'd be kicked out as a freak. I needed him to come to me. I needed to be a "curiosity."
I finished the trough and started on the second one. My muscles were screaming, but I didn't stop. I used the "Author's Sight"—a mental overlay of the world's mechanics—to check the time.
[Estimated Time until 'Blight-Wolf' Breach: 62 Hours, 14 Minutes.]
The clock was ticking.
"You're doing it wrong," a voice piped up.
I stopped. Kael had walked down from the porch. He was standing five feet away, his nose wrinkled.
"You're spilling half the water because you're swinging the bucket," he said, crossing his arms. "Commoners are so clumsy."
I wiped the sweat from my eyes and looked at him. I didn't bow. I didn't tremble. I just stared. "If you're so good at it, Young Master, why don't you show me?"
Kael blinked. He clearly wasn't used to a "slum rat" talking back. His face flushed. "I am a Noble. I don't haul water."
"Then you don't know if I'm doing it wrong," I said, turning back to the well. "You just know what it looks like from the porch. There's a difference."
I heard him stomp his foot. "I know everything about this estate! My father says a Lord must know his lands!"
"Knowing the land isn't the same as feeling the weight of the water," I replied, my voice calm. I was using my adult mind to manipulate a ten-year-old's ego. It was dirty, but I wanted to live. "Go back to your wooden sword, Young Master. The sun is setting. It's getting cold."
"I'm not cold!" he snapped. But he didn't leave. He stood there, watching me struggle with the last bucket.
I intentionally let my knees buckle. It wasn't a total act—I really was at my limit. The bucket clattered, water splashing over my rags. I slumped against the stone well, breathing hard.
Kael hesitated. He looked at the back gate where his father had disappeared, then back at me. Slowly, he walked over.
"Fine," he grumbled, reaching for the bucket handle. "I'll show you. But only because I don't want the horses to go thirsty."
He pulled. His face turned bright red. He wasn't much stronger than me, despite being better fed. We ended up hauling the last bucket together, four small hands gripping the handle, dragging it toward the stable.
When we finished, we were both panting, sitting on the dirt floor of the stable. The smell of horse manure and hay was thick.
"You're... you're really weak," Kael wheezed.
"And you're... really loud for a noble," I shot back.
He laughed. It was a small, genuine sound. It hit me then—this was the boy I had described as "The Cold Blade of the North." The man who would eventually execute thousands of monsters without a flicker of emotion.
I did this to him, I thought. I'm the one who wrote the script that takes this laugh away.
A wave of genuine guilt washed over me, replacing the cold logic of survival for just a second.
"I'm Mikhail," I said, holding out a dirty hand.
Kael looked at my hand, then at his own clean ones. He hesitated, then shook it. "Kael. Kael von Valerius."
[Alert: Relationship with 'The Protagonist' has been established.]
[Fate Correction: 0.01%]
I didn't care about the percentage. I cared about the fact that I now had a reason to stay on the grounds.
"Kael!" Hestor's voice boomed from the house. "Inside! Now!"
Kael jumped up, dusting off his pants. He looked at me, then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, polished wooden marble—a toy. He shoved it into my hand.
"Come back tomorrow," he whispered. "I'll show you how to swing a sword properly. You look like you need to know how to defend yourself."
He ran off before I could answer.
I looked at the marble in my hand. Then I looked at the dark forest looming over the village. Somewhere in those trees, the Blight was festering. The wolf was coming.
I'm in, I thought. But 'In' isn't 'Safe'.
I spent that night sleeping under the eaves of the stable. I didn't go back to the village. I needed to be here when the first howl echoed through the valley. I needed to make sure Hestor didn't die. Because if the father died, the Hero would break. And if the Hero broke, the world would follow.
And I really, really didn't want to die in the final arc.
Status Check
Current Identity: Mikhail (Stable-sleeper)
Location: Valerius Estate (48 Hours until the Breach)
Relationship: Kael (Acquaintance/Playmate)
Inventory: 1 Stale Bread (Consumed), 1 Wooden Marble.