Mary found Henry standing at the edge of the trees, away from the glow of the campfire. His shoulders were tense, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon. The night wind tugged at his cloak, but he didn't flinch.
"You didn't have to follow me," he muttered without turning.
"I know," Mary said softly. "But I did."
Silence hung between them before Henry finally spoke, his voice low and bitter. "He's supposed to be an Ancestor… Did you hear that?" nonsense.
Mary said nothing.
"If it's true," Henry continued, "if he really was meant to be in the Ancestral Realm… then why was he pushed in here? "Why is someone like him thrown into our world, while we're still stuck fighting monsters just to stay alive?"
He turned sharply, eyes burning. "I've trained my whole life here—bled, killed, clawed my way up for a chance. A chance to maybe escape this cursed world someday. To matter.
And then he shows up—clueless, confused—and somehow, he's already stronger than half the warriors I've ever met.
His fists clenched. "It's not just unfair—it's insulting. And to top it off, he's walking around with Kweku Ananse like it's normal. A super shade creature. Like it's nothing."
Mary stepped closer, her voice quiet but unwavering. "So what, you're jealous?"
Henry gave a hollow laugh. "No. I'm angry. People like him get handed power. People like me—we have to kill for scraps of it."
Mary's gaze didn't waver. "Maybe. But don't let that bitterness blind you. He didn't ask to be here. He didn't ask for any of this."
Henry didn't respond, but the tension in his jaw said enough.
She went on, softer now. "You and I… we ended up here because of what we did in the past. This world, this punishment—it's the price we're paying, even if we don't remember the crimes."
She looked at him, firmly. "But him? If what he says is true—if he really was meant to be in the Ancestral Realm—then he doesn't deserve this. Not the pain. Not the fear. Not even your hate."
Henry stared into the dark, his fists slowly unclenching.
Then, without looking at her, he muttered, "Maybe not. But I still don't trust him."
Henry stared into the darkness, Mary's words echoing somewhere far behind the storm in his head.
His mind drifted—unwillingly, uncontrollably—back to a time that felt like a different lifetime.
He remembered laughter. A small house in a quiet village, tucked between gentle hills and tall trees. He remembered the scent of his mother's stew bubbling over the fire, his father's booming laugh as he lifted him onto his shoulders. They were just three—Henry, his mother, and his father—but it was enough. More than enough. They didn't have much, but they had love. Safety. Peace.
Then came the night that stole everything.
The sky was black with smoke before he ever saw the flames. Screams tore through the village like wild dogs, followed by the thunder of boots and the clash of steel.
Raiders.
His father had pushed him behind a stack of crates, whispering, "Don't move." Don't make a sound. But Henry had peeked out.
He watched his parents stand between the invaders and their home, weapons trembling in their hands.
The leader of the raiders was tall and grinning, his blade already wet with blood. "Step aside," he'd said. "This doesn't have to be messy."
But his father had refused. Fought. And died.
Henry didn't hear the scream, but he saw the way his father fell—like a tree felled in a single stroke.
"Run!" his mother cried, eyes locked on him. "Run, Henry! Don't look back!"
He ran.
But he looked back.
And that's when he saw it.
The raider leader's face twisted into something between joy and madness as he stabbed Henry's mother—again and again—each motion slow and deliberate. There was amusement in his eyes. Pleasure. Like he was savoring every moment of it.
Henry couldn't move. Couldn't scream. The world blurred as the tears came, but the image burned itself into his mind—his mother's body collapsing, the blood on the man's blade, the fire in the raider's eyes.
Then the village was set ablaze.
Hours later, when the smoke had thinned and the invaders had vanished, Henry returned. Stumbling, shivering.
There was nothing left.
The homes—ashes.
The bodies—charred, twisted, unrecognizable.
He was the only one left alive.
The only one cursed to remember.
For days, Henry wandered the wild roads alone.
Barefoot. Starving. Lost.
The ashes of his village clung to his skin, a reminder he couldn't wash off. His stomach twisted in on itself, gnawing at emptiness. He scavenged what he could—roots, leaves, anything that didn't taste like death. But it was never enough.
His small hands trembled as he dragged himself forward, legs weak and bruised. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care. The world had already ended. He was just walking through the ruins.
Then… nothing.
His body gave out, crumpling onto the dirt path like a rag doll. The sky above spun, the trees blurred, and the cold finally pulled him under.
When he opened his eyes again, it wasn't to darkness or fire—but to a ceiling.
A roof.
A room.
He blinked, confused. Soft cloth covered him. A warm blanket. And the smell—meat stew. Real food.
"Ah… you're awake."
A man stood at the doorway, older, strong-shouldered but kind-eyed. A simple hunter by the look of him, with leather boots and a bow slung across his back.
"I found you lying in the road," the man said, stepping closer with a bowl. Nearly frozen. Starved too. You're lucky I came by.
He set the bowl on Henry's lap and offered a gentle smile. "Eat. Slowly."
Henry's fingers shook as he picked up the spoon. The first taste brought tears to his eyes. He hadn't realized how close he'd been to the end… or how much he'd missed the warmth of kindness.
That night, under a roof not his own, Henry slept without dreams for the first time in days.
The next morning, the man returned with water and a loaf of bread. Henry had barely sat up when the man spoke.
"What were you doing out there, boy? Passed out in the middle of the road like that?"
Henry looked down at the bread in his hands. For a moment, he said nothing. Then the words spilled out—broken, heavy, raw. He told him everything. The village. The fire. The raiders. His parents. The smile on the killer's face.
The man didn't interrupt. He just listened, arms folded, jaw tight.
When Henry finished, silence filled the room. The man finally let out a low sigh and rubbed his chin.
"You're not the first," he said. And you won't be the last. This world doesn't care how old you are—it takes what it wants.
He stood and walked over to a worn wooden chest. Opened it. Inside were tools, ropes, blades, and… things Henry couldn't yet name.
"I don't farm," the man said. "Don't hunt often either. What I do… I take. I watch. I steal."
Henry blinked.
The man turned, not ashamed. Just honest. "This village looks peaceful on the outside. But peace is expensive. And the ones with power? They make sure the rest of us pay."
He pointed to himself. "So I survived. I take from those who won't miss it—or who deserve to lose it."
Henry said nothing, eyes still locked on the chest.
"If you want to survive here, boy… I can teach you. How to move without being seen. How to take it without being caught. How to make sure no one ever puts a knife on your back again."
He knelt before him. "You've already lost everything. That pain? That fire inside you? Use it. Let it make you sharper."
Henry hesitated. But deep down, something in him stirred.
Not vengeance. Not yet.
But the beginning of something else—survival.
And in that quiet, flickering room—with a stolen meal in his hands and fire still burning in his chest—Henry took his first step down a path he could never return from.