The forest swallowed them.

  Maruzan pushed through the undergrowth, branches snagging his cloak, while Velthur trudged behind. The boy’s steps dragged, his boots caked with mud. The sun rose through the trees in pale shafts of light, striking the damp moss that covered the rocks. Birds darted overhead, their cries sharp and unbothered.

  It could have been a peaceful morning. It was not.

  Maruzan had not spoken since they left the riverbank. He listened instead to the groan of his own tired body, to Velthur’s uneven breaths, to the silence that grew whenever he thought of Elzibar. His mind circled back again and again. Flames leaping above roofs. Rinia’s eyes catching his own as the boat pushed away. Her hand gripping their mother’s arm. The moment she vanished into smoke.

  He wanted to think she had survived. He wanted to believe the boats had reached safety. But he knew better than to cling to wishes. Wishes did not end hunger pangs. Wishes did not keep kobolds from finding you.

  Velthur stumbled on a root and nearly fell. Maruzan turned, “Careful.”

  The boy straightened without meeting his eyes. His face was gray with exhaustion, his lips dry. He was holding himself together, but barely.

  “Sit,” Maruzan said, pointing toward a fallen log. “We stop here.”

  Velthur obeyed without complaint. He sat stiffly, arms wrapped around his knees, staring at the dirt.

  Maruzan crouched beside him.

  Velthur spoke, his voice cracking. “Do you think they made it?”

  Maruzan did not answer right away. He sat back, watching sunlight shift across the leaves. He wanted to lie, to give the boy comfort. But Velthur’s eyes searched his face too hard. He could not bring himself to share false words.

  “I do not know,” Maruzan said finally. “I hope so...we will find them.”

  Velthur nodded once, quick, as if he had expected no more.

  They sat in silence for a while. Somewhere above, a woodpecker hammered at a tree. The sound was steady, almost soothing, until it ended in a sharp crack.

  Velthur spoke again, voice soft. “Why would kobolds come there? They never come that far.”

  “I cannot answer that either.”

  “Maybe someone made them.”

  Maruzan frowned. “Made them?”

  “Like sent them,” Velthur said, still staring at the ground. “To hurt people.”

  Maruzan’s chest tightened. The thought had crossed his own mind, but he couldn’t reason for it to make sense. The boy was sharper than he looked.

  “Perhaps,” Maruzan said slowly. “But even without a master, kobolds are dangerous. Do not think they are only beasts. They can plan. They can strike when we are unready.”

  Velthur’s gaze lifted for the first time. “You think they will come here too.”

  “I think,” Maruzan said, “that we must keep walking.”

  They rose together and set off once more.

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  The forest thinned by midday, giving way to open fields. Grass swayed in the wind, pale green stretching toward the horizon. Here and there, farmhouses stood abandoned. A broken cart leaned against a fence, its wheels half buried in mud. Laundry still hung from a line.

  Velthur slowed as they passed. His eyes lingered on the empty doorway. “Do you think they ran?”

  “Most would,” Maruzan said.

  “And if they didn’t?”

  “Then they are gone.”

  The boy fell silent. He kicked a stone down the path, watching it bounce.

  Maruzan’s thoughts slipped inward again. He remembered his father speaking of this road when he was a child. Harbinth was three days’ march from Elzibar, a city of stone walls and crowded markets. His father had sold leather there once, returning with coins and stories of guildhalls bigger than any hall in their village. He had promised to take Maruzan one day. But promises had faded, as promises often did.

  Now Maruzan would see Harbinth at last, but not as a trader. He would see it as a man carrying a child with no home.

  By late afternoon, their legs ached. Velthur’s steps faltered more often. Maruzan guided him toward a stream where the water ran shallow over smooth stones. They crouched to drink. The water tasted clean, cold enough to sting their teeth.

  Afterward, they sat in the grass.

  “Do you think people in Harbinth will take us in?” he asked.

  “They will let us enter,” Maruzan said. “It is a city. Cities take in everyone, for a price.”

  Velthur frowned. “What price?”

  “That depends. Work, coin, sometimes both.”

  “I do not have coin.”

  “Nor do I,” Maruzan admitted. “But I have hands. And you will learn. Work earns food, if nothing else.”

  Velthur twisted the grass tighter until it snapped. “I don’t want food if they’re not there.”

  Maruzan stared at him. The boy’s voice was too steady, too flat. It was the voice of someone holding grief like a stone in his chest.

  “They may be,” Maruzan said gently. “Some boats escaped.”

  “You do not believe that.”

  The words struck harder than Maruzan expected. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. At last he said, “Belief does not change truth. But hope can keep us walking. And right now, walking is what we must do.”

  Velthur dropped the grass and said no more.

  The sun dipped low as they pressed onward. The fields gave way to rolling hills, shadows stretching long across the path. In the distance, smoke rose from a cluster of chimneys. A village.

  Maruzan hesitated. Villages meant safety, sometimes. Other times, they meant questions, stares, demands. He studied the smoke for a long moment before leading Velthur down the slope.

  The village was smaller than Elzibar had been, only a dozen houses around a single square. Chickens pecked at the dirt. A dog barked once, then vanished into a barn. People paused to watch them enter, eyes narrowing.

  Maruzan kept his shoulders straight, his grip steady on Velthur’s arm. He guided the boy to a well in the square. “Drink,” he said softly.

  An older man approached, his beard gray, his hands rough from years of work. “Strangers,” he said. “Where from?”

  “Elzibar,” Maruzan answered.

  The man’s brow furrowed. “We have heard. Is it true?”

  Maruzan nodded once. “It is true.”

  Murmurs spread among the villagers. A woman covered her mouth. A boy ran to fetch someone from a house.

  The old man studied them. His eyes lingered on Velthur. “How many?”

  “Too many,” Maruzan said. His voice cracked despite his effort. “Hundreds gone. Some may have escaped by boat.”

  The man exhaled, his shoulders sagging. “By the gods.” He motioned toward a bench. “Sit. Rest. You can share what you know.”

  Maruzan and Velthur sat. The villagers gathered slowly, listening as Maruzan spoke in simple words. He told of the walls falling, of kobolds swarming, of fire spreading faster than anyone could stop. He described the boats, but not Rinia. That pain he kept for himself.

  When he finished, silence hung over the square.

  “They were not supposed to come this far,” a woman whispered.

  “They will come further,” another muttered.

  The old man raised a hand. “Enough. These two need rest. We will give them food, and in the morning they will continue to Harbinth.”

  Maruzan inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  That night they slept in a hayloft, warm and dry for the first time since the fire. Velthur curled against the straw, breathing slowly and evenly. Maruzan lay awake, staring at the rafters, listening to the soft murmur of voices outside. He thought of the road ahead. He thought of Harbinth’s walls.

  He wondered if they would be enough.