The village did not know why it existed.
It had no founding myth worth remembering, no hero carved into stone, no banner that meant anything beyond trade and shelter. It clung to the edge of the forest like a thought that refused to finish forming. Cradlings passed through it, settled for a season, then moved on when the soil thinned or the rumors thickened.
That was how most places on the Cradle survived.
The hooded man walked into it just after midday.
He did not hurry. He did not linger. His red hood was pulled low, its color muted by dust and time, and his boots bore the long wear of roads taken without companionship. He moved like someone who had learned that urgency attracted attention and attention attracted death.
He was looking for two things.
A woman.And a boy.
The village smelled of bread, sweat, and old wood. Merchants lined the central path with carts and cloth awnings, their voices rising and falling in practiced rhythm. Children ran barefoot through the dust. Dogs slept in the shade.
Nothing here felt important.
That did not mean it was safe.
The hooded man scanned faces as he walked. Mothers. Laborers. Old men whose eyes still measured weight and threat. None of them were who he sought.
Then he saw the boy.
He was small for his age, maybe ten or eleven. His clothes were too thin for the season, patched in places where the fabric had given up long ago. His hair was white, not the white of age, but the pale, ashen white of something born wrong in the eyes of the world. It caught the light like frost.
And his eyes
Ash-gray.
Not bright. Not glowing. Just… old.
The boy stood near a fruit cart, pretending to examine a bruised apple while the merchant argued loudly with another customer over coin. The boy's posture was casual, almost careless, but his timing was precise.
When the merchant turned his head
The boy's hand darted out.
An orange.Small.Quick.
The hooded man did not move.
The boy slipped back, already turning away, already melting into the flow of people
"HEY!"
The merchant's shout cracked through the village like a snapped branch.
The boy ran.
He was fast, but not fast enough.
The hooded man watched as the merchant shoved past his customer, fury red in his face. Two thick-armed men peeled away from a nearby stall and followed without being told. Goons. Not uncommon. Hunger breeds cruelty faster than loyalty.
The boy cut left, then right, ducking under a hanging cloth, nearly colliding with a woman carrying grain. He didn't apologize. Apologies wasted breath.
The hooded man followed at a distance, never hurrying, never drawing attention. He already knew how this would end.
Villages always corner children.
The chase spilled into a narrow alley between two stone buildings. Crates blocked one end. A wall closed the other.
The merchant stepped into the opening, chest heaving, a grin curling his mouth.
"Thought you were clever, didn't you?" he sneered.
The boy stopped.
He did not cry. He did not beg.
He looked down at the orange in his hand.
Then he looked up.
"Is there a way," the boy asked, voice steady despite the blood pounding in his ears, "to sort this without violence?"
The merchant laughed.
One of the goons cracked his knuckles.
"You steal from me," the merchant said, "you pay."
The boy tightened his grip on the fruit.
"I can give it back."
"That won't be enough."
The first blow came fast.
A fist to the ribs.
The boy staggered, breath leaving him in a sharp gasp. The orange rolled but he snatched it back instinctively, curling around it as another strike landed across his shoulder.
The hooded man remained still.
This was not the moment.
The goons didn't aim to kill him. They aimed to teach him what hunger cost. A knee to the stomach. A boot to the thigh. The boy went down, dirt scraping his cheek, but he did not release the fruit.
"Stubborn little bastard," one of them muttered.
A kick caught his side. Another to his back.
The boy grunted, vision blurring, but his arms stayed tight, protecting the orange like it was something sacred.
When they finally stopped, it was not mercy that ended it. It was boredom.
"Next time," the merchant said, spitting near the boy's head, "we break your hands."
They left him there.
The alley fell quiet again.
Slowly, painfully, the boy pushed himself up. His lip was split. One eye was already swelling. His hands shook not from fear, but from exhaustion.
He looked at the orange.
Bruised now.
Still edible.
He wiped dirt from his face with his sleeve and turned away from the village.
The hooded man followed.
The path out of town narrowed into a trail, then thinned further as it slipped beneath the trees. The forest rose around them, tall and old, its roots knotted like sleeping beasts beneath the soil. The air changed here cooler, heavier, quieter.
This was the boy's world.
He walked without hesitation, limping slightly, the orange tucked into his coat. He did not look back. He never did.
The hooded man noted the way the forest seemed to accept him. Branches did not snag his clothes. Roots did not trip him. Even the birds fell quiet as he passed, not in alarm, but in recognition.
At last, the boy reached a small house half-swallowed by trees.
It was little more than a cabin, its roof sagging, its walls darkened by age and smoke. Moss crawled up its stones. A crude wooden door hung slightly crooked in its frame.
Home.
The boy stepped onto the threshold and pushed the door open.
The hooded man slowed.
That was when he felt it.
A presence.
Low. Heavy. Wrong.
He shifted his gaze to the side of the doorway.
A beast stood there.
It was crouched low, its form pressed against the shadows, claws digging into the soil. Its hide was dark and ridged, like bark fused with bone. Breath steamed faintly from its mouth. Its eyes were fixed on the open doorway.
Waiting.
Poised to enter.
The hooded man's hand moved just slightly toward the weapon hidden beneath his cloak.
Inside the house, the boy disappeared from view.
The beast tensed.
And the forest held its breath.