Chapter Seven: The Kind and the Cruel

The road was unkind to those without coin. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, and sleep came only in stolen moments—behind barns, beneath bridges, anywhere the cold wouldn't sink its teeth too deeply.

The people I met along the way were as varied as the lands I crossed. Some looked at me with pity, offering scraps of bread or a few coppers before hurrying away, as if kindness itself was something to be ashamed of. Others weren't so kind.

I learned to keep moving. To never stay in one place too long.

One night, an old woman found me curled near the embers of a dying fire outside a village. She didn't ask questions, didn't pry into my past. She simply handed me a bowl of stew, thick and hot, and sat beside me as I ate.

"You've got lost eyes," she said after a long silence.

I didn't answer.

She smiled, but it was a sad thing. "The lost ones are always the most dangerous."

She left before dawn, disappearing into the woods without a trace, as if she had never been real to begin with.

But not all strangers were kind.

Days later, in another nameless village, a group of men followed me down an alley. They reeked of ale, their laughter sharp and cruel. I had seen men like them before. I knew what they wanted.

I didn't scream. I didn't run.

I simply waited.

When the first one lunged, I sidestepped, driving my dagger into his ribs. His breath hitched, eyes wide with shock. The others hesitated—but only for a moment.

They should have run.

By the time I was done, the alley was painted red, and the last man's dying gasps faded into the night. I felt nothing. Not rage, not regret. Just the familiar emptiness that had followed me since the fire.

I wiped my blade clean and walked away.

The villagers would find the bodies in the morning. By then, I would be gone.