The stars watch him like silent judges.
Kaelen sits near the outskirts of the village, back against a crooked tree, the Hollowed Spine resting across his lap. He's sharpened it three times already edge still jagged, still unforgiving. But he sharpens anyway. Out of habit. Out of memory. Out of something else he won't name.
Laughter and conversation drift from deeper in the village. Pots clatter. Firewood cracks. A baby cries, then quiets. Life. Normal, uneventful life.
He doesn't move.
The boy approaches him again barefoot as always , steps soft in the dirt. The same wide eyes. The same lack of fear. He stands close, watching Kaelen for a long moment.
"You don't like beds?" the boy finally asks.
Kaelen doesn't answer.
The boy shifts awkwardly. "My mom made stew. She said we should bring you some." He holds out a wooden bowl with both hands. The stew's scent floats upward ,meaty and thick with roots and spice.
Kaelen looks at it but doesn't take it. The boy hesitates, then steps forward and gently tugs on Kaelen's hand.
And Kaelen flinches.
Just for a moment. His breath catches.
Because in that small hand, in that child's face, he sees it again...the burned streets of Bhuddha. The charred bones of children still clutching toys. Screams that never stopped ringing. A world that begged for peace and was crucified for it.
He jerks his hand back. The boy startles, stumbling a half-step.
"I'm sorry," the boy says quickly, lowering the bowl.
Kaelen exhales slowly, blinking once than twice. "You didn't do anything wrong."
His hand trembles slightly as he takes the bowl. Not from fear. Not from rage. Just… fatigue. His body had taken more than it should've and given more than it had. The cracks weren't always visible, but they were there. Beneath the flesh. Beneath the will.
The boy smiles anyway. "You know my house is right over there." He points to the home tucked beneath the trees that he ate his first meal in a days. A crooked chimney leans like it's listening. "You can sit on the porch if the bugs are too loud."
Kaelen doesn't answer, and the boy runs off, satisfied all the same.
He watches the family from a distance. The boy enters the house. The woman tired but smiling ruffles his hair. She coughs into her sleeve when she bends over. The man, tall and weathered, quickly moves to lift the pot from the fire in her place. The boy helps too, dragging a bucket bigger than him to the corner.
They move like people who have lost before. Who know sickness and quiet funerals. And yet somehow they smile. They laugh.
Kaelen looks down at the untouched stew. The warmth of it seeps into his hands, but he doesn't lift it to his lips.
He leans his head back against the bark.
He used to dream once. Of what could've been. Of kingdoms that stood, of lives that weren't lost, of nights where he didn't keep one eye open. A past long gone, left....in the ashes.