He wandered through the charred fields until the ash gave way to stubborn grass and the dark fringe of trees. The forest was alive with distant birdsong and the occasional rustle in the underbrush, but to him it felt vast and hollow. He walked with no direction, only the gnaw of his stomach and the burning in his throat pushing him onward.
By midday the heat grew heavy. He wiped sweat and ash from his face with a trembling hand. His lips were cracked, his tongue dry. He hadn't eaten since before the attack, when his mother had set a bowl of stew in front of him, smiling as always.
The memory hit like a knife. He stumbled against a tree, sliding down to sit with his back pressed to the rough bark. His spear fell from his hand, clattering softly against roots. He pressed his face into his knees and tried not to cry. He failed.
Time slipped by. The forest shadows shifted. The boy dragged himself up, wiping his eyes with dirty fists. He could hear a stream somewhere—a faint trickle. He followed it, crawling at times, until he found the water winding between stones. He drank greedily, ignoring the cold shock in his stomach. He splashed his face, gasping at the sting.
His hunger remained. He searched along the banks and found nothing but reeds and bitter roots. He gnawed on them anyway, chewing slowly, pretending the bitterness was spice. He chewed until the sky began to darken.
A rustle in the distance made him freeze. He crouched low, gripping his spear. A rabbit darted from the ferns, nose twitching. His heart thudded. He shifted his weight, careful not to snap a twig.
He lunged. The spear struck earth where the rabbit had been moments ago. The boy cursed softly, scrambling after it, but it was gone. He stood panting, the spear tip shaking in his hands.
As night crept in, the forest filled with new sounds—low hoots, distant howls. He found a hollow between roots and curled there, shivering. His stomach growled painfully, and he pressed a hand to it, trying to will the sound away.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine home. His father laughing as he lifted Leya onto his shoulders. His mother humming as she kneaded dough. The warmth of their little fire in the evenings.
When sleep came, it was heavy and full of ghosts.