The first thing Kaden knew was light. Too bright, stabbing past his eyelids like knives of fire. He groaned and turned his head, but that only made the light stronger.
The second thing he knew was pain. Not sharp, not burning — but a dull ache deep inside his bones, like he'd been trampled by a herd of oxen. He tried to move and felt every muscle complain.
The third thing he knew was a voice.
"Don't thrash, boy. You're alive, against all sense. No need to prove me wrong."
Kaden forced his eyes open. A low timbered ceiling swam above him, herbs strung from beams, their bitter scent thick in the air. The walls were bare wood, smoke-darkened. A single fire crackled at the far end of the room, its warmth faint against the chill.
The infirmary.
"Hells, I thought the afterlife would smell less like goat piss." He blinked and tried to sit up. The world tilted, spun. A hand — surprisingly strong — shoved him back against the furs.
"Rest," Kerrin, the healer, muttered. The old man leaned close, his white beard tangled, his eyes sharp as icicles. "You've been out three days. Don't make me start binding you down."
Three days.
Kaden swallowed, throat raw. "What… happened?"
Kerrin's stare could have frozen the fire. "You tell me. They found you at the village gate, bleeding out. Four gashes across your chest — deep enough to scrape bone. I stitched you myself. Expected you gone by dawn."
Kaden frowned. His hand went to his chest automatically, fingers fumbling at the collar of his tunic. He pulled it down, expecting bandages, scars, something.
Nothing.
Skin. Whole. Smooth.
"No," he whispered. "That's not—"
"I don't like it either," Kerrin snapped. "A body doesn't knit itself back together overnight. Not with wounds like that. And now you sit here without so much as a scratch." His gaze narrowed. "There are words for things like this. None of them end well."
Kaden's heart pounded. He remembered the bright blue eyes. The roar that shook his chest. The claws tearing across him. The burning pain, the cold rushing in. He remembered dying. He was certain of it.
But here he was.
Alive. Whole.
By the time Kerrin grudgingly let him rise, Kaden's legs trembled like a newborn fawn's. He pulled on his boots slowly, hands unsteady, and stepped out into the cold air of Frostvale.
The village stopped.
Not completely — wood still cracked under axes, smoke still curled from the forge — but people looked. Heads turned. Voices hushed. Mothers pulled children closer. A boy pointed before his father dragged his hand down.
Kaden felt the weight of their eyes. Suspicion. Fear.
Someone muttered, "Unnatural."
Another: "I saw the wounds. Should be in the ground."
A third voice, low and harsh: "Cursed."
The words cut sharper than claws. Kaden forced his feet to move, his shoulders straight even as his insides twisted.
"Mira," he called, because he needed her steadiness more than air.
She came from the green, her braid whipping in the breeze. When she saw him upright, color drained from her face. She hurried over, eyes wide.
"You shouldn't be walking yet," she said.
"I'm fine," he lied. His voice cracked. "Why are they staring?"
Mira hesitated, then leaned closer so only he could hear. "Because of how they found you. At the gates. Your chest torn open — four gashes, deep. We thought you'd…" She swallowed. "But the next morning the wounds were gone. Completely. Not even scars."
Kaden touched his chest again, half-expecting the flesh to split open beneath his fingers. Smooth. Warm. The pendant under his tunic pressed against him, steady as a heartbeat.
"I don't understand," he whispered.
"Neither do they," Mira said. "That's the danger."
He forced a laugh, brittle. "Well, at least they haven't thrown me out yet."
"This isn't a joke, Kaden." Her eyes locked on his, fierce and steady. "Something happened out there. You can't laugh it away."
He looked down. He wanted to tell her about the eyes in the dark, about the ruin, about the necklace that hadn't left his chest since he found it. But the words tangled in his throat. Some instinct screamed that if he showed her the relic, something would change — and he wasn't ready for that.
Not yet.
Mira exhaled slowly. "Go home. Your parents have barely slept."
The longhouse smelled of smoke and stew when he pushed through the fur curtain.
Astrid dropped the ladle she was holding. It clattered to the floor as she rushed across the room. "Kaden!" Her arms wrapped around him, fierce enough to steal his breath. "By the gods, I thought—" Her voice broke, and she buried her face against his shoulder.
Kaden held her tight, his throat burning.
Erik rose from the bench by the hearth. His father's expression was as unreadable as stone, but his eyes betrayed him — wet, tired, full of a relief so heavy it hurt. He crossed the room and set a hand on Kaden's shoulder. The weight of it steadied him more than words could.
"I don't know what happened," Kaden said, voice hoarse. "I… I thought I was dead."
Astrid pulled back, cupping his face in her hands. "You're here. That's all that matters."
Erik's grip on his shoulder tightened. "Rest. Eat. Whatever took you down won't get you while you're under my roof."
Kaden nodded, blinking hard. He lowered himself onto the bench, the warmth of the fire seeping into his bones. For the first time since waking, he let himself breathe. His parents weren't looking at him with suspicion or fear. They were just looking at him. Their son.
The whispers of the village still rang in his ears, but in here, in this place, they couldn't touch him.
Still, when he lay down on his pallet later, staring at the rafters, he couldn't escape the memory of those pale eyes.
And the thought that whatever had happened in the forest hadn't ended.
It had only begun.