The wasteland was not entirely empty. At its edges, where the dust thinned and the cracked earth gave way to stubborn grass, scattered villages clung to survival. The wanderer rarely ventured near them — but supplies were running thin, and Kael was growing.
On that day, she led him down the narrow path toward one such village. Kael, now ten, carried a small satchel on his back, his eyes wide with curiosity.
"Stay close," the wanderer said firmly.
He nodded, though his gaze darted eagerly to the clustered huts, the smoke of cooking fires, and the laughter of children running barefoot through the dirt paths. He had never seen so many people at once.
For a moment, wonder filled him.
But wonder did not last.
The villagers' eyes turned toward the strangers. Their gazes lingered on the boy with his silver-gray eyes and the faint glow that sometimes flickered beneath his shirt where the sigil lay hidden. Whispers spread like wildfire.
"Look at his eyes…"
"Too bright… not natural."
"Could it be…?"
The wanderer's shoulders stiffened. She quickened her pace, ignoring the stares, but Kael heard every word.
They entered the market square. The air smelled of bread and roasted roots. Kael reached out instinctively toward a stand piled with fruit — but before he could touch one, the vendor's hand shot out, slapping his away.
"Don't touch that!" the man hissed, eyes wide with something deeper than anger. "Monster."
Kael froze, the sting on his hand nothing compared to the sting in his chest.
The wanderer stepped forward, her presence sharp as a drawn blade. "Careful with your words."
But more villagers gathered, drawn by the whispers. Mothers pulled their children back, shielding them. Old men muttered prayers under their breath. One woman dropped her basket entirely when she glimpsed the faint shimmer at Kael's collarbone.
"It's him," someone whispered. "The cursed one."
Kael's throat tightened. His fists clenched at his sides. "I'm not cursed," he muttered, too low for most to hear. But the words tasted hollow.
The crowd swelled. Fear turned to hostility. Stones clattered at their feet, thrown not yet at them, but near.
"Leave this place!" a man shouted.
"We don't want your curse!"
"Get out before you bring ruin upon us all!"
The wanderer's hand went to her sword, but she did not draw it. Instead, she stood tall, her voice cold and commanding. "Remember your fear, but do not mistake it for courage. If you raise your hands against him, you raise them against me."
The threat hung heavy in the air. The villagers faltered, their shouts softening into uneasy silence. None dared challenge the steel in her eyes.
She turned sharply, gripping Kael's arm. "We're leaving."
Kael followed, his steps heavy, his head lowered. The stares of the villagers burned into his back until the huts were nothing but dots behind them.
Only when the wasteland swallowed the village from view did Kael speak, his voice raw. "Why do they hate me? They don't even know me."
The wanderer was silent for a long time. Finally, she said, "People fear what they do not understand. And fear turns to hate."
Kael's chest ached. He remembered the laughter of the children, the smell of bread, the sound of voices that had almost felt like home. Then he remembered the word that cut deepest of all.
Monster.
"I'll prove them wrong," he whispered fiercely. "One day, I'll make them see I'm not what they think I am."
The wanderer's gaze softened as she studied him. In his pain, she saw the spark of defiance that had carried him since the night she found him.
"You are Kael," she said firmly. "Remember that. The world will call you many names — cursed, monster, outcast. But your name is your own."
Kael lifted his chin, his fists clenched, and though the mark on his chest pulsed faintly, his eyes burned with something stronger than fear.
Resolve.