Rain fell in thin, cold needles.
It soaked Aren's cloak and turned the forest path into black mud. His boots slipped with every step, but he did not slow.
Lysa walked ahead, silent as ever.
"Tonight," she said without looking back, "you hunt alone."
Aren tightened his grip on the dagger.
They reached the road at dusk.
A merchant caravan had stopped near a broken stone bridge. Three wagons. Six guards. A fire burning low.
Too many.
"Pick the weak edge," Lysa whispered. "Not the center."
She faded into the trees.
Left him alone.
Aren waited.
Breath slow.
Heart loud.
He watched patterns.
Two guards patrolled.
One slept.
One drank.
The last stared into fire.
Weak.
Aren crawled closer.
Mud stained his hands.
Cold bit his skin.
He reached the nearest cart.
A sack of grain.
He cut it open.
Grain spilled softly.
A distraction.
A shout followed.
"Rats!"
A guard moved.
Aren slipped behind the wagon.
A crate lay half-open.
Inside: bread. Dried meat. Silver coins.
He grabbed what he could.
Turned.
A boot struck his chest.
He fell.
A sword flashed.
"Thief!"
Aren rolled.
The blade missed.
He slashed with his dagger.
The guard screamed.
Blood sprayed.
Another rushed forward.
Aren froze.
Fear surged.
Then Lysa's voice echoed from the dark.
"Move!"
An arrow flew.
The man fell.
Silence followed.
They ran.
Branches whipped them.
Dogs barked behind.
Horns sounded.
Too close.
Aren stumbled.
Lysa grabbed him.
Pulled him over a ravine edge.
They slid into cold water.
Hidden.
Shaking.
Breathing.
Alive.
Later, beneath a rocky shelter, Lysa examined his bloody blade.
"First cut," she said quietly.
Aren stared at the red stain.
"I didn't mean—"
"No," she interrupted. "You meant to live."
She met his eyes.
"Never forget that."
He nodded.
But inside, something had changed.
He had crossed a line.
There was no road back now.
Only forward.
Through blood.