Beneath the Mas

Twilight cloaked the forest in deepening shadows as Caelan stumbled onward, driven by adrenaline and fading echoes of his parents' desperate words. Eldric had vanished hours earlier, his mana finally spent, leaving Caelan utterly alone in the wilderness. Branches clawed at his skin and clothing, tearing fresh wounds atop existing cuts, but the physical pain barely registered amidst the relentless ache within his chest.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook his grief. Caelan collapsed at the base of a gnarled oak, the massive tree shielding him beneath a leafy canopy. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision, threatening to pull him under, but he resisted, gripping consciousness desperately. His mind raced, replaying the palace siege, his parents' bravery, and his harrowing escape.

"I must survive," he whispered harshly into the shadows, a vow spoken more to convince himself than anything else.

Three days had passed since the devastating attack on Elmsward Palace, home of the royal family of Caerwyn. Dawn found him shivering, hunger gnawing at his belly, though the thought of food brought only nausea. Each time he considered eating, the memory of his burning home surged vividly, twisting his stomach into knots. Still, driven by determination, Caelan forced himself onward, staggering through dense undergrowth until voices drifted softly through the trees.

His breath quickened anxiously. Peering cautiously from behind thick brush, he spotted a small caravan resting near a winding road. Several travelers huddled around a cookfire, laughter and casual chatter a sharp contrast to the terror he'd fled. Drawing in a shaky breath, Caelan adjusted his clothing, hiding the royal insignias and smearing dirt across his face, hoping desperately to disguise his true identity.

Approaching slowly, heart pounding, Caelan forced a weak smile. "Please," he rasped hoarsely. "I'm lost and in need of help."

The travelers turned, startled yet compassionate. An older woman stepped forward, eyes softened by maternal instinct. "Poor child, come. You're safe here."

The relief was overwhelming, yet caution held him back from complete trust. He joined the caravan quietly, eyes always watchful. When offered food, however, Caelan politely declined, stomach twisting painfully at even the thought. Days passed slowly, each moment weighed down by grief and guilt. He barely drank water, refusing meals despite concerned glances from the kind-hearted travelers. His dreams were plagued with visions of his parents and kingdom reduced to ash.

One evening, as the caravan rested by a gentle stream, Caelan overheard hushed voices speaking urgently by the fire.

"Did you hear about Elmsward?" a man murmured solemnly. "The entire royal family, gone. Assassins struck the palace—they say no one survived."

"Impossible," replied another traveler, her voice filled with disbelief. "The royal line has always been protected. How could they have fallen so swiftly?"

"I don't know," the first voice continued gravely. "But the capital city lies in ruins. Whoever survived the attack has fled—or worse, has nowhere left to run."

Caelan's heart clenched painfully, tears stinging his eyes as he clenched trembling fists. Their words tore open wounds still fresh, yet beneath his sorrow, his resolve hardened further. He must reach the academy, grow strong, and reclaim all that had been stolen.

Days blended into nights, Caelan's strength fading steadily. The caravan's destination was a small village called Whistlehollow, a restful waypoint before the travelers continued further north. He barely registered their arrival, leaning heavily against the wagon's wooden side, vision blurred and unfocused.

"We're here, lad," one of the caravan drivers called gently. "You can stretch your legs."

Caelan nodded weakly, attempting to step out onto firm ground. His limbs trembled uncontrollably, and as he tried to steady himself, darkness surged swiftly, swallowing his sight completely. His body crumpled, unconsciousness finally winning.

Aleron stood near the edge of Whistlehollow's bustling market, laughing softly at something Corvin said when a commotion near the arriving caravan caught his attention. A boy, roughly their own age, collapsed to the ground, drawing gasps from nearby villagers. Without hesitation, Aleron rushed forward, kneeling swiftly beside the unconscious figure.

"Is he alright?" Eira asked urgently, appearing beside him.

Aleron gently lifted the boy's head, noticing the pale, gaunt features beneath layers of grime. Sakura sniffed curiously, concern flickering in her intelligent eyes.

"He's exhausted—and starving," Aleron answered gravely. His heart twisted painfully as he studied the stranger's haunted expression, sensing a deep tragedy behind the fragile mask.

Carefully, he lifted the unconscious boy, determination hardening within him. Whoever this mysterious traveler was, Aleron would ensure Whistlehollow offered him sanctuary. He sensed their paths had crossed for a reason far greater than mere coincidence.