The morning came bright, sharp, and cooler than the day before. Isaac dressed slowly, pulling on the wool socks and lacing the new boots. The leather creaked stiffly, but the fit was good. He studied himself in the cracked shard of mirror propped against the wall—shirt tucked, hair combed back with his hand, cap snug on his head. For a moment, he almost looked like someone who belonged.
Paul was waiting in the kitchen, a satchel slung over his shoulder. "Morning," he said warmly. "Boots fit?"
Isaac nodded, tapping a foot against the boards. "They feel… strange. But good."
"That's how new boots are. By the time the day's over, they'll know your steps." Paul set a loaf of bread on the table, wrapped in cloth. "Eat a little now, save the rest for later. We'll be out most of the afternoon."
Isaac chewed slowly, the crust rough but filling. Paul poured them both water, then ruffled Isaac's hair lightly before he could duck away. "You'll get used to it," he said with a smile, "having someone to walk beside."
Isaac lowered his eyes, but this time not hiding the grin tugging at his mouth.
They left late in the morning. The path wound past quiet fields and into the trees. The air smelled of damp leaves, the ground soft from yesterday's rain. Isaac walked carefully at first, testing the boots, but Paul matched his pace without comment.
Birds flicked through the branches above. Isaac found himself pointing one out—a jay, bright and quick—and Paul nodded as though it was worth the notice.
By the time they reached the stream that curled toward the mill, Isaac's steps had grown easier. He even kicked a stone once, sending it bouncing ahead of him.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" Paul said, hands tucked into his coat pockets. "Stretching your legs."
Isaac nodded with a smile.
They sat on a log near the water and ate their bread. Paul told another small story—this one about a man who once dropped a wrench into the river and spent an hour fishing it out, cursing the whole time. Isaac laughed, surprising himself with how natural it felt.
Paul's eyes softened. "See? That laugh's worth more than a hundred stories."
The warmth of it clung to Isaac as they set off again, the mill's roofline just visible through the trees.
The path narrowed. Isaac felt the shift before he saw it—the silence pressing in, the air heavier. The birds had gone quiet.
Then men stepped from the trees. Four, maybe five, rough-looking, their clothes dark, their faces shadowed by hoods and scarves. They spread in a slow half-circle, cutting off the path ahead and behind.
Isaac froze. His stomach dropped, boots suddenly too heavy.
"Stay behind me," Paul said quickly, his arm pushing Isaac back. His voice was sharp, but not frightened. "Don't move unless I tell you."
One of the men stepped forward. "Nice stroll," he said, his tone mocking. "Shame to end it here."
Isaac's chest tightened. His eyes darted around for escape, but the woods pressed too close.
Paul squared his shoulders, fists clenched at his sides. "Leave the boy out of this. Whatever you want, take it from me."
The first blow came fast—one of the goons slammed a club across Paul's ribs. He staggered but didn't fall. The second came harder, smashing into his jaw. Isaac cried out, but Paul only turned, spitting blood, and shoved Isaac back further.
"Run!" Paul barked.
Isaac couldn't. His legs locked as he watched them descend—fists, boots, wood striking flesh. Paul fought back once, catching a man in the gut, but another blow sent him crashing to the ground.
"Stop!" Isaac screamed, tears burning his eyes. "You'll kill him!"
The men didn't stop. Paul curled around himself, arms up, blood dripping into the dirt. His voice cracked, hoarse: "Isaac—go!"
Two of the goons grabbed Isaac before he could move. Their hands were rough, binding his arms, dragging him back. He thrashed, screaming Paul's name, but the grip only tightened.
"Let him go! He's hurt—please, let him go!"
Paul's face was a mask of blood, his breaths ragged. He tried to push up once, collapsed again, and Isaac's throat tore with the sound of his own crying.
"Move," one of the men ordered, hauling Isaac away. He fought, but his strength was nothing. The woods blurred as they pulled him from the clearing. His last sight of Paul was his body sprawled in the dirt, red smearing the ground around him.
When Isaac was gone and the forest had swallowed the boy's cries, the goons lingered.
One knelt by Paul, pressing a hand to the broken skin. He muttered something low, and a faint glow flickered beneath his palm. Flesh knitted. Bruises faded. The blood dried and flaked away.
Paul coughed, rolling onto his side, then pushed himself upright. The glow dimmed, leaving only the natural brightness of the woods again.
"You played it well," the healer said.
Paul wiped his mouth, the last trace of blood gone. His voice was steady, almost calm. "He believes it. That's what matters."
---
Paul lingered in the clearing a moment longer, flexing his hands as the last of the magic settled into his skin. The ache faded to nothing, leaving only memory.
From the shadows beyond the trees, a familiar figure stepped forward—the gaunt man in the patched coat, eyes gleaming in the half-light.
"You played your part well," he rasped, voice carrying the same hunger as before. "The boy cried for you. That is good. His blood will mean more now."
Paul's jaw tightened. "I know how to do my job."
The man's lips curved into something too sharp to be a smile. "Ephesians 5:2," he recited, lifting his hand as though in benediction. 'Walk in the way of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.' He leaned closer. "But what is love without loss? What is sacrifice without blood?"
Paul said nothing. He only adjusted his coat and looked once more toward the path Isaac had been taken down.
"The days are evil," Paul whispered, almost tender. "And we've wasted one of them."