Zaedric hesitated, his grip tightening around Lyria's hand as the cloaked figure stepped closer, the dim lantern glow casting flickering shadows on the forest floor. Trust was a luxury they could not afford, but exhaustion and desperation pressed heavily upon him.
The stranger lowered their hood, revealing a weathered face with sharp, watchful eyes. A scar ran down their left cheek, a silent testament to battles fought and survived. "You look half-dead," they said, their voice rough but not unkind. "If you want to live, come with me."
Zaedric swallowed, glancing at Lyria. Her small face was pale, her eyes hollow with grief and fatigue. He had no choice. They needed shelter, food, and answers.
"Who are you?" Zaedric finally asked, his voice hoarse.
"Deyvar Kryn," the stranger replied, motioning for them to follow. "You're lucky I found you first. Others are searching for survivors, ones who wouldn't be as kind."
A cold dread settled in Zaedric's gut. He didn't need to ask who 'they' were.
With a silent nod, he lifted Lyria into his arms and followed Deyvar through the tangled underbrush. The journey was treacherous, roots and thorns threatening to trip them at every step, but Zaedric pressed on. The scent of damp earth filled his lungs, masking the lingering stench of fire and blood that clung to his clothes.
After what felt like hours, they reached a concealed clearing, where a small, weathered cottage stood nestled between ancient oaks. Smoke curled lazily from the chimney, the promise of warmth and respite beckoning them inside.
Deyvar opened the heavy wooden door, ushering them in. The interior was modest rough-hewn furniture, shelves lined with dried herbs and jars of preserves, and a sturdy fireplace crackling with life. Zaedric set Lyria down by the fire, rubbing her arms to warm her frail frame.
Deyvar rummaged through a chest and tossed him a blanket. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we talk."
Zaedric didn't argue. As he wrapped Lyria in the thick wool and pulled her close, his eyes grew heavy. He didn't know if he could trust this man. But for now, they were safe.
For now, that was enough.
The morning arrived with the scent of simmering broth and the soft crackle of the fire. Zaedric's muscles ached as he stirred, the memories of the past days pressing down on him like a weight. Lyria was still asleep, curled beneath the thick blanket, her breath steady but shallow.
Deyvar sat at a small wooden table, sharpening a dagger with slow, deliberate strokes. "You're awake," he observed without looking up. "Eat. Then we talk."
Zaedric pushed himself up and moved toward the table, eyeing the steaming bowl of broth placed before him. He hesitated only for a moment before picking up the wooden spoon. The warmth spread through him with each sip, a brief comfort against the uncertainty that loomed ahead.
"Why did you help us?" he finally asked, setting the spoon down.
Deyvar leaned back, folding his arms. "Because I know what it's like to lose everything. And because I need to know who you are. Survivors don't last long unless they have a purpose."
Zaedric exhaled, glancing toward Lyria. "My purpose is keeping her safe. That's all."
"That's not enough," Deyvar said bluntly. "Not in a world like this. Sooner or later, survival isn't just about running. It's about fighting. And I can teach you."
Zaedric studied him, suspicion and curiosity warring within him. "Why would you do that?"
A shadow passed over Deyvar's face. "Because something far worse is coming. And whether you like it or not, you'll have to be ready."
The weight of his words settled deep in Zaedric's chest. He had spent his life as a simple man, but simplicity had been burned away with the fall of Varethia. If he was to protect Lyria, if he was to survive he would need to change.
He clenched his fists, jaw tightening. "Then teach me."
Deyvar gave a small nod, a knowing look in his eyes. "We start at dawn."