The forest was not kind.
By the second day, Araz's legs ached from running, his throat burned, and hunger gnawed at his belly like a living thing. He stumbled over roots and rocks, his shoes worn thin, the hem of his tunic torn by thorns. The pendant his mother had given him swung from his neck, bumping against his chest with every step, a reminder that he could not stop.
But survival was harder than he imagined.
He found berries once, red and clustered, and ate them greedily until his stomach cramped. Later he learned they were not meant for eating—his lips blistered, his throat tightened, and he lay for hours by a stream, shivering with nausea. Only the cold water saved him.
Nights were worse. The forest grew alive with sounds that chilled him: the distant howl of wolves, the hiss of unseen snakes, the snap of branches as creatures moved just beyond sight. Araz huddled beneath trees, arms wrapped around himself, sleep coming in short, terrified bursts. When he dreamed, fire and screams always followed.
On the third day, hunger drove him to risk more. He had seen his father set snares for rabbits, simple loops of twine tied between branches, but Araz had no twine, only the belt from his tunic. He fashioned a crude trap and set it near a rabbit trail.
Hours later, he returned to find nothing but disturbed earth. His stomach twisted with disappointment. He threw a stone at the trees, rage spilling from him in a hoarse cry. "Why did you leave me?" he shouted, voice breaking.
The forest answered only with silence.
That night, weakness nearly overtook him. He dreamed again of the village, but this time the faces of the dead turned toward him, mouths moving in silence, eyes filled with blame. He awoke with a sob, clutching the pendant until its edges cut his skin.
I will not be helpless again, he swore to the trees, to the stars above. Never again.
The next morning, danger came on four legs.
Araz had been crouched near the stream, cupping water in his hands, when he heard the growl. Low, guttural, close. He froze.
On the opposite bank stood a dog—or what had once been a dog. Its fur was matted and patchy, its ribs stark beneath the skin. Its eyes glowed yellow, wild with hunger. Saliva dripped from its bared teeth.
Araz's heart thundered. Slowly, he stood, clutching a fallen branch like a spear. The animal snarled, muscles bunching.
Then it leapt.
Araz screamed and swung the branch. The impact glanced off the dog's shoulder, enough to knock it sideways but not stop it. The beast lunged again. Araz stumbled back, heels sinking into mud, until his hand brushed the rough bark of a tree. Instinct screamed—climb!
He scrambled upward, fingers clawing at the bark, legs kicking desperately. The dog snapped at his heels, teeth grazing fabric as he hauled himself higher. At last he collapsed onto a branch out of reach, chest heaving, hands raw and bleeding.
The dog circled below, snarling and snapping, for what felt like hours. Finally, when the sun dipped low, it slunk away.
Araz remained in the tree until darkness swallowed the forest, too afraid to descend. His body shook with exhaustion, but inside him burned a single, fierce thought: I survived.
That night, as he clung to the branch, memory came to him like a voice carried by the wind.
His father's voice.
"Do you know why we are Zoryan, Araz?" Toren had asked once, as they sat by the fire in the harvest season. Araz, younger then, had been playing with carved wooden animals.
"Because our people came from the valley," Araz had answered, repeating what he had been taught.
Toren had smiled, eyes reflecting the firelight. "Yes. The valley was ours, given by the First Sun. The soil fed us, the rivers quenched us. But the Varnesh wanted it too. Long ago, there was a truce. We would share the valley, tend it together. But they broke their word. They burned our fields, drove us into the hills. Since then, there has been no peace."
"Why don't they give it back?" Araz had asked.
"Because greed is a fire that never dies," Toren said. His face had grown dark. "Remember this, my son: the Zoryan people endure, no matter what is taken from us."
Araz blinked in the dark, the memory fading. The Zoryan endure, he repeated to himself, gripping the pendant. So will I.
By the fifth day, his body was failing. His lips cracked, his stomach hollow, his steps unsteady. He drank from streams but found little to eat. Once he discovered mushrooms sprouting at the base of a log, but fear of poisoning kept him from touching them.
His vision blurred. The forest seemed to shift around him, shapes bending into shadows. He heard voices sometimes—his mother calling his name, his father urging him on—but when he turned, no one was there.
At last, his legs gave out. He collapsed by the stream, face pressed to the mud. The pendant slipped from his fingers, lying on the ground beside him.
"Not yet," he murmured, though the words were slurred. "I have to live…"
Then the world went black.
When he woke, it was to gentle hands on his face and the cool touch of water on his lips.
"Drink slowly," a woman's voice urged. It was calm, steady, nothing like the screams that haunted his ears. Araz blinked, vision clearing enough to see her: a woman with dark hair streaked with silver, her skin weathered by sun and travel. She wore loose, earth-toned robes, and a pouch of herbs hung at her side.
"You're lucky I found you," she said, lifting his head to pour water between his cracked lips. "Another day and the forest would have claimed you."
Araz tried to speak, but only a croak came out.
"Shh," she hushed. "Save your strength. My name is Seline. I am Mirani."
Mirani. The name sparked a flicker of recognition. Traders, healers, wanderers—his father had spoken of them once, saying they belonged to no land but the roads, swearing loyalty only to peace.
"You're safe now," Seline continued, dabbing his forehead with a cloth. "Rest."
Araz wanted to protest, to say he could not rest, that the Varnesh might find him. But his body betrayed him. His eyes slid shut again, and this time the darkness was not so heavy.
When he awoke once more, it was in a tent of woven cloth, the air filled with the scent of herbs and smoke. He lay on a pallet of furs, a blanket draped over him. His wounds—scrapes, blisters, raw skin—had been cleaned and wrapped.
Seline knelt beside him, stirring a pot over a small fire. When she noticed him awake, she smiled. "Good. You're stronger already."
Araz stared at her, suspicion and gratitude warring within him. "Why… why help me?"
Her smile softened. "Because you needed it."
"They'll come," he whispered. "The Varnesh. They'll kill you."
Her eyes grew distant. "The Varnesh kill many. But we Mirani do not choose sides. We heal. We protect the lost." She met his gaze again. "You are lost, child. But you are not alone anymore."
Tears welled in Araz's eyes, hot and sudden. He looked away, clutching the pendant to his chest. He wanted to believe her words, but in his heart, the fire of his vow still burned: Never again helpless.