Chapter 7: The Path of Thorns

Caelan Veyne's POV

The world beyond the village was nothing but mud and memory.

I staggered forward, each step slower than the last, each breath a struggle against the cold that gnawed at my bones.

No food. No shelter.

Only the wind — sharp and cruel — and the hunger twisting my gut into knots.

By the second night, my vision blurred. Shapes shifted in the mist around me, and every shadow looked like a blade waiting to find my back.

Still, I kept moving.

Because what else was there?

If I stopped, I'd die.

If I turned back, I'd be killed.

It was on the third night that I saw them — glints of fire through the trees, like embers in the dark.

Campfires.

I crouched low, crawling toward the light, every muscle screaming in protest.

Maybe they were travelers.

Maybe they'd share food.

Maybe I'd be a fool for thinking anything good still lived in this cursed world.

I crept closer.

And I saw them.

Five men.

Bandits — it was written in the way they lounged, in the bloodstained armor they wore like second skins, in the way they laughed over a pile of stolen trinkets.

One of them held a necklace up to the firelight, admiring the way the gems caught the flames.

Another sharpened a blade already slick with something dark.

My stomach twisted.

I should have turned away. I should have crept back into the woods.

But the gnawing hunger, the burning rage, the hollow ache inside me — they wouldn't let me.

They took from others what they wanted. Like the village took from me.

I gritted my teeth.

I had nothing to lose.

I slipped a hand into my jacket, brushing against the pendant my mother had given me.

A faint warmth pulsed from it, like a heartbeat — or maybe I was just imagining it.

I took a deep breath.

And I stepped out of the trees.

"Who's there?"

The nearest bandit barked, rising to his feet, a hand dropping to the hilt of his sword.

I said nothing.

I only stared at them across the campfire, the smoke stinging my eyes.

They laughed when they saw me properly.

A boy. Alone. Tattered. Half-starved.

"Lost, little bird?" one jeered.

"Looks like fresh game to me," another said, grinning wide enough to show rotting teeth.

The one who'd spoken first — taller than the others, with a jagged scar across his nose — strode toward me, sword in hand.

"Strip him down," he ordered. "Might be he's got something tucked away."

I tensed.

The air around me seemed to thicken, pressing close against my skin.

The pendant at my neck burned hotter.

A word surfaced in my mind — a word I didn't remember learning.

Primordial Shroud.

A breath.

A whisper.

I didn't understand it.

I didn't know how to use it.

But desperation has a way of making you leap without looking.

I clenched my fists and willed myself to vanish.

Hide.

The world shuddered.

For an instant — just an instant — my form flickered, becoming translucent like smoke caught in moonlight.

The bandit hesitated, frowning.

"What the—?"

The magic faltered.

I snapped back into sight, gasping, dizzy.

Too slow.

The man's blade slashed toward me.

I stumbled back — not fast enough — the sword grazing my arm.

Pain flared, white and blinding.

Instinct roared in my veins.

I lashed out blindly with my hand.

A ripple of force — weak, unfocused — burst from my palm, more like a shove than an attack.

The bandit staggered, cursing.

He wasn't hurt — just surprised.

"Little wretch's got tricks!" he snarled.

The others were moving now, surrounding me.

Five against one.

I backed up fast, heart hammering.

I tried to summon the shroud again, tried to hide —

But the magic stuttered like a dying ember.

I had no control.

Only instincts. Only fear.

Another bandit charged.

I ducked his swing, clumsy but desperate, and slammed my shoulder into his gut.

He grunted, stumbling.

I grabbed his dagger as he fell — a wicked thing, notched and bloodstained — and whirled to face the others.

Move, Caelan. MOVE.

They rushed me.

I dodged the first strike by sheer luck, the blade hissing past my ear.

The second caught me across the ribs, shallow but burning.

I lashed out with the dagger — a wild, ugly slash — and caught a bandit across the face. He screamed, clutching his eye.

Blood sprayed hot and dark across the firelight.

The others hesitated, just for a heartbeat.

And in that heartbeat —

The pendant around my neck flared.

The ground under the bandits' feet cracked, a shudder running through the earth.

A pulse of energy — clumsy, raw, but powerful — knocked two of them sprawling.

I staggered too, barely keeping my footing.

What is happening to me?

The scarred leader cursed loudly.

"He's a witchspawn! Kill him!"

No time to think.

No time to plan.

Just survive.

I darted forward, knife flashing, and drove it into the thigh of the nearest man. He bellowed and fell.

Another tried to grab me — I twisted, elbowed him hard in the throat.

He choked, stumbling back.

The leader came for me then, sword raised high, rage twisting his face.

I barely had time to react.

I flung up my arms — not knowing what I was doing — and shouted the first word that came into my mind:

"Hide!"

The shroud flickered again.

Not perfect.

Not enough to vanish.

But just enough to blur my form — a ghostlike smear of motion — confusing his swing.

The sword missed by inches.

I darted low, slashing across his calf.

He screamed, staggering.

The fight didn't last much longer.

One by one, bleeding and panicked, the bandits broke and fled into the dark.

Cursing.

Howling.

Leaving behind only the dying fire and the wreckage of their camp.

I stood there, shaking, covered in blood that wasn't all mine, panting in the smoky air.

The pendant's glow faded slowly.

The world settled into broken, battered silence.

I didn't feel triumphant.

I didn't feel strong.

Only tired.

Only hollow.

I scavenged what I could from the bandits' camp — a waterskin, a crust of bread, a thin cloak patched with old bloodstains.

It wasn't much.

But it was enough to keep moving.

I wrapped my wounded arm as best I could and stumbled back onto the road.

The path ahead wound into thicker forests, darker lands.

Places where only desperate souls dared tread.

Perfect.

I was nothing if not desperate.

As I limped forward into the night, I could still feel it inside me —

That strange power.

Dormant for now.

But alive.

Growing.

Hungering.

Waiting.