Time lost meaning in the Forest of Death.
Days, nights—he stopped counting them. The sun rose, the sun fell, and Steve moved somewhere between them, neither alive nor dead, just existing.
His wound had started to heal, though every movement tugged at the scab like punishment for still being alive. He'd bound it tightly with torn fabric, changed it when he could, and used herbs he vaguely remembered from his studies. Pain became background noise—constant, dull, but no longer shocking.
The forest was merciless. Every shadow hid something hungry, and every sound meant either prey or predator. He didn't know which one he was yet.
His cave, a shallow crack in the cliffside, stank of smoke and damp earth. Still, it was home. Shelter. His fire barely lit more than a few feet around him, but the warmth felt like a small victory against the dark.
Some nights, he'd wake up gasping, heart pounding, reaching for a name that no longer belonged to him.
Lealaine.
He didn't cry anymore. The grief was too heavy for tears—it had sunk deeper, solidified into something quiet and cold.
He didn't wonder why anymore. The questions were pointless.
All that was left was the reality that she did it… and that he was still breathing.
That had to mean something.
He sat by the fire, sharpening a stick into a crude spear with a rock. His hands trembled from fatigue. He hadn't eaten properly in days. Bitter roots. A few wild fruits. Sometimes insects. His body protested every movement, but stopping felt worse.
"You won't die here," he muttered to himself, voice hoarse. "Not like this."
He repeated that every day. A small thread of defiance that kept him moving.
Once, he had dreamed of this kind of world.
Adventure. Fantasy. Power.
He used to imagine being the hero.
Now he was just a boy in rags, fighting to survive his own wish.
The irony almost made him laugh. Almost.
Still, something inside him refused to fade. A stubborn ember—the part of him that refused to die quietly.
The part that said: If the world wants you dead, then make it regret failing.
He looked down at his reflection in the stream the next morning.
The face staring back wasn't the same one that smiled at Lealaine months ago.
The softness was gone. His eyes were sharper, colder, but alive.
That was the difference now.
He scavenged for stones, tried shaping tools, practiced setting traps.
Failed more often than he succeeded.
But every failure taught him something: which branches snapped too easily, which herbs numbed the pain, how to spot movement in the corner of his eye.
He learned how to listen—to the rustle of leaves, the wind shifts, the silence before danger.
He wasn't a warrior yet. Just a survivor.
But survival, he realized, was the first step to power.
At dusk, as crimson light bled through the trees, Steve sat by his campfire and tightened the wrap on his wound. It no longer burned.
Maybe it was healing.
Maybe he was, too.
The night air was cold. The forest whispered.
Somewhere in the darkness, something howled.
He didn't flinch.
He just stared into the flames and said quietly,
"Tomorrow….Let's move from this cave."
And for the first time since his fall, the words didn't sound hollow.