His hands still warm from the freshly baked bread.
Kael staggered along the zigzagging alleys, the baker's outraged bellows and guards' angry roars still echoing in his mind. His lungs burned, his legs shrieked, but still he didn't let up until the rooftops of the cramped houses opened into the green fields. Then he collapsed into the tall grass, clutching the stolen loaf against his chest as if it were gold.
For what seemed an eternity, he stayed there, panting, the iron flavor of blood warm in his mouth. His jaw throbbed where the baker's fist had struck it, his ribs ached from the guards' boots, but none of it mattered. He was alive.
Alive, and fed.
Kael tore at the bread with shaking fingers, swallowing so fast he came close to choking. Crumbs stuck to his lips, his throat swallowed greedily, his stomach cramped in relief and pain. He hadn't eaten in two days—maybe three, he'd lost count—and now each bite was a struggle between hunger and exhaustion.
But the words never stopped.
Thief.
Vermin.
Witchspawn.
That last one hurt worst of all.
Kael parched his lips with the back of his hand, staring at the loaf as if the loaf had betrayed him. He hadn't meant to employ the shadows. He never did. But the moment the guards' boots had come down, the mark had flared, and darkness had streamed from him like water from a broken jar.
He gazed at his arm. The veins remained palely black, the surrounding skin soft and tender, pulsating with a rhythm that was not his own. The shadows had fallen silent now, but not removed. Never removed.
"You did this," he panted coarsely, as if the brand could hear. "You made them think of me in this way."
The veins throbbed once, a slow, steady pulse. Not a refusal. Not an answer. Only a reminder: we are here.
Kael recoiled and covered his hand with his sleeve. He forced himself to consume the remainder of bread, though its taste had become ash in his mouth.
When his hunger finally went away, it was replaced by exhaustion. He crouched among the grass, trying to be small. The stars wheeled slowly above him, cold and distant. He thought of his village—the smoke that had filled the air, the screams, the laughter of the soldiers. He thought of the scrolls his mother read to him, of heroes and kings.
No scroll ever told such a story.
Sleep stole up on him like a thief. Yet in sleep, he was not free. In his dreams, he dreamed of shadows rising in a tide, devouring towns whole. He dreamed of faces weeping his name in terror. He dreamed of fire, of broken swords, of thrones made of bones.
When he woke, the sun was just rising. His throat was dry, his stomach cramped, but worse than hunger was the cold certainty settling in his bones.
The rumor would get around.
Someone would talk. By nightfall, every soldier for ten miles around would be following the witchspawn boy who ordered living shadows.
He could not stay here.
Kael stumbled to his feet, trembling legs. He buckled the strap of his worn satchel, readjusted the torn cloak over his shoulder, and gazed out into the distance. He didn't know where he was going, only that he couldn't stay.
The world had labeled him. Now it would chase him.
And he would run, for as long as his legs could go.