The wind bit at Kyle's cheeks as he walked with a determined pace back to the place he had scavenged that morning. The battlefield had quieted, the sounds of crows less frantic now, the feast nearly over. He moved quickly, stepping around stiff corpses and dried blood, already beginning to brown. The morning was still young, but the sun above brought no warmth, only a dull light that revealed the full cruelty of what had occurred.
He reached the slope, boots crunching over cracked helmets and dented armor. Kyle knelt beside the half-buried man whose finger had started it all—now just another body. He didn't linger. There was no time for reflection. No more thoughts of burnt hands or whispered words. He scavenged.
Rings. Daggers. A half-broken blade that still looked usable. A small copper medallion that may hold some value. Anything not rusted or splintered went into his pouch. He moved like a shadow, glancing over his shoulder every few minutes, the image of his father's twisted body burned into his vision. He didn't have the luxury of safety anymore.
When the pouch was full and the crows had grown bored of him, he turned and made his way back to the market. The gate loomed ahead—stone and iron, a relic of a better time. Passing under it, he walked the now-familiar street until the stall with the old vendor came into view.
The man raised an eyebrow. "Back again?"
Kyle dropped the pouch onto the table with a muted clink. "I've got more."
The vendor opened it, sifting through the items. His hands were careful, calculating. "Most of this's junk."
Kyle said nothing. He didn't care about fairness. He cared about moving on.
The vendor nodded and slid a few coins forward. "Eighty-four copper."
Kyle took them, counting his total quietly. Along with what he had left, it brought him just over two silvers worth of coin. He handed one hundred copper back. "Exchange it."
The man grunted, flicked him a silver coin, and Kyle pocketed it with the other.
He stepped away from the stall and looked around. Merchants barked their offers, the air thick with smells of stale bread and sweat. He clenched his jaw, turned sharply, and headed toward the stables.
The building was modest, wood-paneled and old, but the scent of hay and manure gave away its purpose before he even reached the door. A man stood near the entrance, brushing down a tired-looking horse. His hands were thick and calloused, his sleeves rolled to the elbow.
Kyle approached. "You take people out of the city?"
The stablekeeper looked him over. "Depends. Where to?"
Kyle paused. "The nearest village outside the gate."
"Velden's Rest," the man said without missing a beat. "Few hours by carriage."
"How much?"
"Two silver."
Kyle didn't hesitate. He pulled both coins from his pouch and held them out.
The man shrugged. "Alright. Hop in back. We're leaving in ten."
Kyle nodded, climbed into the back of the carriage—a wooden structure with an open side and burlap sacks stacked in the corner—and sat down. The wood creaked under him. The sky above was growing cloudy.
As the carriage rolled forward, passing under the same gate that had marked his entry to the market, Kyle leaned against the wall and let the rhythm of the wheels lull him into sleep. Exhaustion pulled at his bones. For the first time in a day that felt like a lifetime, his eyes closed willingly.
He didn't dream. Only darkness welcomed him.
When he awoke, it was to the sound of reins snapping and wheels grinding to a halt. He blinked at the afternoon light spilling through the cloth-draped entrance. The carriage had stopped in front of a quiet little village nestled against a low hill. Smoke curled from a few chimneys, and the smell of firewood replaced the stench of city waste.
"Velden's Rest," the stablekeeper said over his shoulder. "End of the line."
Kyle climbed down and looked around. The village was peaceful, too much so—it made the ache in his chest throb harder. He nodded to the man and handed him the two silver coins, his pouch now lighter than ever.
"No refund if you change your mind," the man muttered, taking the reins again.
Kyle turned and watched the carriage roll away down the road until it vanished behind a bend.
He stood in the village square, unsure of what to do next. His stomach growled violently. His legs ached. And now, he had nothing. No money. No plan. Only a name to bury and a secret he didn't understand burning behind his eyes.
A nearby home caught his attention. Modest. Worn. A garden of yellowed herbs lined the side. The kind of house that might not ask too many questions.
He stepped up to the door and hesitated before knocking. There was a long pause before footsteps approached, and the door creaked open.
An old woman stood in the doorway. She was small, hunched, and wore a shawl over her thin shoulders. Her face was weathered, but her eyes were sharp.
"Yes?"
Kyle lowered his gaze. "I… I'm sorry to bother you. I'm just passing through. I don't have any coin left. Could I—do you have any food to spare?"
The woman studied him for a moment, then glanced down the road as if checking to see if anyone was watching. She stepped back from the door. "Wait here."
She returned a minute later with a small piece of bread wrapped in cloth. It was rough and dry, but the scent made Kyle's mouth water.
He reached to take it, but she stopped him. "Eat it inside. You look half-dead."
He blinked. "You're… inviting me in?"
Kyle hesitated, but the warmth spilling from the doorway and the memory of flames licking his father's skin made him nod.
"Thank you."
She led him to a worn table in a small kitchen, and he ate in silence as she watched him from across the room.
"What's your name?" she asked after a while.
"Kyle," he said between bites. "Just Kyle."
She nodded. "Well, Kyle. You're welcome to rest for a while. This village might be small, but we take care of our own… and the lost."
He said nothing. He was too tired to say no. Too haunted to believe he deserved kindness.