The forest had barely swallowed its echoes when the men moved. Arrows hissed, sharp as whispers of judgment. Wolves fell in heaps of fur and broken bones. Relief should have come with the sight of the beasts dead, but it did not. Not for Ares, not for Eliza. The men moved with an authority the forest had never granted them, and each step they took carried a weight that could crush the life out of anyone small enough to see it.
Ares had seen death before—he had seen the twitch of a rabbit caught under a trap—but this was different. These were men, and yet they were not human in any comforting sense. There was no mercy in the swing of their axes, no hesitation in the way they handled their prey.
Eliza's hands clutched him tighter. "Keep your head down," she whispered. Her voice was steadier than he expected, though the tremor beneath it told him that her mind had already measured the cost of survival.
The wolves were gone. Their absence made the silence heavier. Ares could smell blood—not just from the animals, but from the humans caught in the grip of these men. Their scents were mingled with iron and smoke, with something darker he could not yet name. Fear, certainly. Power, absolutely. And cruelty—an inescapable, deliberate cruelty that made the hairs on his arms rise.
One of the men, tall and broad, stepped forward. He was the captain, though the title didn't matter yet; the command in his eyes was enough to make the world tilt. He surveyed the fallen wolves and the trembling humans alike, lips curling in a small, controlled smile. "They don't even know what luck is," he said, almost to himself.
Eliza flinched, but did not speak. She pressed Ares closer to her side, and he felt her heartbeat—a frantic, uneven drum. His own chest ached in sympathy. This man, this camp of men, held no place for the weak. And yet they survived. That was the first lesson Ares would not forget: survival was not about kindness, it was about ruthlessness.
The chained humans watched silently. Their eyes were hollow, devoid of hope, and yet they moved when ordered. They moved because they had to, not because they wanted to. Ares did not yet understand why, but he filed the sight away. Later, he would recognize it as complicity—the kind of silence that permits evil to persist.
One of the men approached Eliza and gestured toward the chains he carried. There was a casual cruelty in his movement, the way he handled the metal as if it were a toy rather than a weapon. Eliza's jaw tightened. Ares could feel her tension coil like a spring ready to snap. "Don't touch him," she said, voice sharp, eyes wide.
The man chuckled. "We're not here for play," he said, and the words slid over Ares like ice water.
Before either of them could react, he struck. The rope wrapped around Eliza's wrists like a second skin. She struggled, but the men were faster, stronger. Ares wanted to scream, but he remembered his mother's words: keep your head down. So he pressed himself against her, letting her strength shield him, as the men dragged them both toward the camp.
The camp itself was a grim spectacle. Firelight danced across faces that were hard, sharp, and devoid of kindness. Tools of authority—chains, whips, knives—hung everywhere. Slaves shuffled silently, heads lowered, bodies slack with exhaustion and fear. Ares noticed the way some of them glanced at Eliza, then looked away, as though looking could bring punishment. There was nothing heroic in their inaction, only a learned obedience to cruelty.
The captain surveyed the newcomers with a careful, measured eye. "Bring them in," he said. "The boy stays with her."
Eliza did not respond. She pressed Ares closer, murmuring fragments of instructions he did not yet understand: observe, survive, remember. Each word carried weight. Each pause, silence.
Night fell, and the firelight painted their captors in sharp, dancing relief. Ares's small body ached with exhaustion. His arms ached from clinging to his mother. His stomach growled, but the thought of eating was swallowed by the tension in the air. He could feel the weight of every gaze, every measured step the men took.
He began to notice the patterns. The captain moved with authority, the others obeyed without question. The slaves carried out their duties mechanically, their faces pale with the knowledge that any misstep could bring pain or death. Ares's mind worked faster than his body could. He cataloged every movement, every sound, every shadow. He would remember it all.
Eliza whispered again. "Do not trust them," she said, so softly that only he could hear. "Not one."
Ares understood instinctively that the forest had not saved them. These men were worse than wolves. At least wolves were honest. At least wolves killed quickly. Humans could prolong suffering, manipulate fear, and enjoy it.
As he pressed against her side, he saw a figure move among the shadows—a slave, kneeling slightly, hands fidgeting. Ares could feel the unspoken question in his eyes: Do we intervene? Do we resist? The answer was already written in the silence. They would not.
Ares's chest tightened. He tasted a cold clarity for the first time: the world would not protect him. The world would not care. And if he wanted to survive—or to punish—he would have to become something else entirely.
The fire crackled, and in the distance, a wolf howled. It was far away, but its sound carried through the trees and across the camp, sharp and haunting. Even the men paused, heads tilting, eyes narrowing. Something primal had returned to the edges of the world.
Ares's mother pressed him closer, whispering fragments of guidance and fear, and he felt the weight of her despair settle into him. He did not yet know how to name it, but he understood it: the world had begun to teach him its first lesson in cruelty, and it was one he would never forget.
The howl grew nearer, rising in pitch and intensity. Firelight danced over the men's faces, and shadows stretched like claws toward the trembling captives. The night seemed to lean in, listening, waiting.
Ares felt a shiver run along his spine. Something in him had shifted. He was no longer merely a boy fleeing the forest. He was a witness, and witnesses carried memory, judgment, and, eventually, the weight of action.
And from the darkness beyond the firelight, another sound answered the first: the unmistakable chorus of teeth and hunger moving through the underbrush.
The camp went still. Even the slaves stopped their mechanical motions. The fire's glow trembled. And for the first time, Ares understood that survival would demand more than obedience. It would demand cunning. It would demand ruthlessness.
And perhaps, one day, it would demand vengeance.
The howl rose again, nearer still. The shadows shifted. And the world seemed to hold its breath.
Ares's hands tightened around his mother's, and he realized he was ready to see everything—to learn the cruelty of men, and the cost of standing still.