The old wagon creaked, letting out groans of frailty as it inched along the gravel path. Pulled by a spotted and elderly carthorse, it was driven by a young farmer, carrying with him a variety of harvested goods. Bales of hay, oats, milled grains, and earthy roots filled the wagon’s trunk. Something else resided in the way-back as well, something that didn’t belong back there at all. A young man, parched and starved, was curled up between the piles of produce, dressed in a burnt set of nightwear with countless wrappings adorning his arms and head. Having fallen asleep, his snores were interrupted by fits of coughing and wheezing, a result of his lack of hydration. The dry sounds of rest blended with the tranquility of the forest around them, which hummed with the tunes of freshly awoken birds and the rustling of greenery. 

It had been a full day since the fall of Sylrel. Ander, having escaped the blaze by a hair, had no option other than to continue down the small gravel road into the forest. Without a map, guidance, or even a general sense of direction, there was nothing he could do but pray the path would eventually lead to civilized lands. The road itself was seldom trodden upon by travelers or merchants. Nor even the soldiers moving towards the northern front from the capital. It was a miracle in and of itself when he came across the young farmer. The man claimed to have business in Sylrel, but after the revelation of its downfall, and Ander’s subsequent emotional breakdown, he offered the lad a ride to Ver Del.

Ver Del was a small trading village to the southwest of Sylrel, known to few for being a hub of largely traveled roads and paths. It was the very same village Mr. Alchov had expected a delivery from, but alas, Ander could only assume the man never received his shipment. At the mention of their destination, vivid memories of the fires consumed him, bringing him to weep before collapsing into the arms of sleep. He had walked a few dozen miles before resting for the night, waking to find the farmer stopped before him, looking him over with a worried gaze. As he should have, considering Ander’s soiled attire. The blood from his burns had seeped into his brown cloth tunic, mixing with the dirt and soot already stained on it. On the topic of his burns, they had grown yellow and purple, tender to the touch while seeping with pus and oftentimes blood. 

Before loading into the wagon, the farmer had insisted on tending to his wounds. He had with him some water and cloth stowed away in the front compartment of the cart, and thus used it to clean his head, and parts of his arm, saving the rest for the boy to guzzle down. There wasn’t much cloth to go around, and thus the farmer used it on the young Idris’ head burns and the more serious ones of his right arm. It didn’t cover everything, but it did offer relief. The middle part of his arm, which was the least covered in marks, did have something rather peculiar stamped on it. It seemed as though the rune in the center of the grate door - the rune of Sylrel - had made contact with his arm just above the elbow, permanently marking him with the crest of his decimated home. He would forever wear it; a badge of survival, and a badge he would soon come to despise.

An hour passed as the morning stretched to midday, and after running over a sizable rock, the young man was jolted from his sleep. Ander looked around, rubbing his dry eyes as the light from the sun bore down on him. The feeling of its warmth across his skin agonized him, just like the sensation of the iron door or the flames of the courtyard. He yearned to cry again, his emotions still as raw as ever. But he didn’t, he had too few tears left to shed, and so instead he shifted himself upright to collect his bearings. In an instant, quiet panic set about him as he patted himself down, digging a hand into his pocket before relaxing. The portrait was still there.

“Do you know anyone in Ver Del, young man?” The farmer, having picked up on the sounds Ander made in his awakening, called out to the boy.

“...” Silence is all he replied with, looking far out into the distance ahead. The gravel path had stretched into a wider, clearly more trekked-upon road. He had to imagine they weren’t far from Ver Del, seeing as the farmer had departed the town for Sylrel just that morning. 

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” he said, meek. “No, I don’t believe I do…”

“I’ll drop you off in center square, I’d bet you could find some help there,” the farmer reassured him, chancing a friendly glance back at the pale boy.

“Thank you…” His voice barely carried over the creaks of the cart, echoing with the aridity of his throat. A day without water, or food for that matter, was just another ailment to add to the tally.

Reclining back into the bundles of hay, he watched the passing trees flutter with life. True to his assumption, it wasn’t long until the outer homes of Ver Dell appeared to him, along with the modest men and women who roomed in them. Children, always the curious creatures, followed the cart that carried the injured man, eyeing him up with uncanny glares. He shrugged them off, his lack of water and the consuming hunger of his stomach were much more pressing than the eyes of misfits.

A few minutes after passing through the start of the town, he felt the cart rock as they reached their destination. It wasn’t nearly as urban as Sylrel, lacking any looming structures. There were plenty of people, however, all strolling about, minding their morning business. He shifted to hang his legs off the side of the cart, unable to bring himself to stand proper.

“Here we are!” The farmer called, having stalled his horse. “You sure you’re fine on your own.”

“*Grunt*,” Ander heaved as he hopped off the cart, readjusting to the sensation of standing on two legs. His long hike from yesterday had worn him down, making his knees ache, springing blisters on the back and sides of his feet. “I’ll manage.”

“Thank you, sir. I think… I think you may have saved me back there.”

“Don’t mention it, lad,” the man gave him a thumbs up as he took up the reins of his horse. As the wagon began to creep away, he shouted out his final goodbye. “You oughta find something to eat, kid. I’ll be seeing you around!”

And with that, the farmer departed, blending into the rows of merchant wagons and pedestrians. Compared to the folks around him, he stuck out like a sore thumb. The center square seemed to be a place for the middle if not even the upper class. Thus, with his torn nightwear and wounds, it was clear how one could assume he didn’t belong. Passerbyers sent cautious stares in his direction, avoiding him as they passed with their small children. He began to stagger down the length of the street, looking about for any semblance of food, or water. On the side of the road was a small trough filled with liquid, currently being drunk by a stationary horse. He had half a mind to dunk his head into it and join the stallion in drinking his fill, but upon second thought, he held off.

Soon enough, as he continued to walk, he picked up on a sweet aroma permeating the air. It was the very same delightful smell he would be greeted with in Mr. Alchovs’ shop, that of an operating bakery. Reminded of the late man, he steeled himself not to tear up in public, not that his image could fall any further. Following the smell, he was led to a small store with a glass partition where assortments of goods were displayed. Roars bellowed from his stomach. He had to eat.

The door to the bakeshop swung open as he entered, looking around at the people within. He was relieved to see that they hadn’t noticed him, all seemingly intrigued by their own devices. The one man who had noticed him was the shop clerk, who put on a worried expression as he eyed the boy.

“By Essa! Are you alright, lad?” He leaned over the shopfront, concern bleeding in his voice.

Ander paced forward, trying to hide the worst of his form from the man. He knew just how unlikely it was to get a free meal from the man, but after having received such kindness from the farmer, he did have hope.

“Hu… hello,” he croaked, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Umm, ahh. Would you by chance have any, ahh, any water?”

“Well sure I do, mate. And you look like you could use some, don’t you,” came the man. Ander tried to smile at the man’s comment but instead entered a coughing fit which he just barely subdued.

“Hey, you stay right here, I’ll be quick and grab you some,” the clerk pounded an open palm onto the wooden counter before trancing off into the backroom. Once again, juxtaposed to his battered and unsavory presentation, his request for aid had been delivered by a random stranger. Even in the state he found himself in - a zombified husk barren of emotion, having buried a great amount of his raw pain deep down in his soul - he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of hope brew within him. With all the wickedness of the world, who am I to fall upon the good-hearted folk?

“Oi, what’s that?”

The voice came from behind him, booming over the hushed dialogues of the store. He turned to his right, being greeted by the image of a man standing above the folks, pointing a finger in his direction. 

“P-Pardon?”

“On yer arm! What’s that?”

Others began to murmur as the man repeated his question, contempt growing in his voice. Just then, from the small door to the side of the shopfront, the store clerk reappeared, carrying with him a mug of water. He entered the room with a small smile, but after his eyes fell upon Ander, the grin collapsed entirely. The sounds of shattering glass echoed through the store as the clerk dropped the container, making Ander wince. Nervousness brewed inside the boy. Beneath his skin, there resided two halves: A dead shell of sorrow, and a raging storm of emotion and pain. Uncertain of what had happened, cracks began to form in the husk, and the sounds of a brewing storm echoed in his head with vivid memories, sounds, and burning flames.

“Is that - That’s the crest of Sylrel!”

“Sylrel?”

“Surely it’s not.”

“Omen!” As more denizens of the shop stood up to point at Ander, a young woman cried out a single word. “He brings bad omen! He wears the mark of Sylrel.”

“He brings an omen of the gods; out with him!”

“The gods brought Sylrel down. He seeks to bring such trouble to Ver Del!”

“Out, out with the damned!”

“Out we say!”

The store clerk had no mind to intervene as men rushed forward to grab Ander, snatching him by his arms, and lifting him off his feet as they continued to shout.

“Omen!”

“Throw him out! Out the cursed!”

“Omen, I tell you!”

“Be quick with your life, boy! Bring no harm to our home!”

The men kicked open the front door, and with a small swing, they tossed Ander face-first onto the cobblestone path. His form rag-dolled as he hit the ground, wheezing and coughing after the impact. He rejected the cries of pain and exhaustion all about his body. More harsh words came his way, kicking the boy verbally even when he was cast to his knees. The cracks in his detached state broke open entirely, manifesting tears from his eyes as he began to weep, the storm of pain and misery tearing him apart from within. The onlookers did nothing but walk by, wanting no business with the boy, especially after the people of the bakery marred him as a dark omen of the gods.

“Omen?” He wheezed, trying desperately to contain his cries. “Cursed? Damned? I was right, who am I to imagine people would accept a husk like me.”

“Hey, boyo. Over here!”

From across the street came a raspy voice, followed by the sounds of a hand knocking against wood. Ander, having been consumed by the dark thoughts buried deep within him, didn’t even hear the voice as it called to him.

“Hey, lad! Can you hear me, lad?”

But again, the words were ignored by the boy, who continued to shake on the ground, doing his best to restrain his tears. That was until a small pebble made contact with his head, letting out a sharp *doink* as it hit him. He looked up, crimson painted in his eyes and cheeks with tears streaming down his face. Ahead of him, leaning against the stone foundation of a shop, was an old man. He was dressed in an amalgamation of clothes, all sporting distinct styles, yet universally worn and old. He was partially bald but wore an endearing smile as he held a second pebble, ready to throw it at the boy if he was ignored for a third time. 

“Did you hear me, boyo? Com’ere!”

Resisting the urge to crawl on his hands and knees, Ander stumbled to his feet to drift across the busy road. His sobs took no recess, still making him shake as he limped towards the old man. 

“Siddown, would ya?”

Upon reaching the other side, Ander collapsed against the wall, sliding down to compress himself on the floor. The fall he had endured had re-awoken the injury buried in his left knee, the one he had sustained during his escape the day prior.  Even sitting beside him, he didn’t dare look up at the man. There were a great many reasons for this, chief amongst them being the copious tears falling from his eyes. Every few seconds he would let out a sob, followed by him shuddering as he suppressed the ardent urge to give in to his traumatic thoughts. Eventually, something did pull him out of this trance. Something made contact with his left arm, the same direction the old man was sitting.

“Here, eat.”

The mention of food made the boy perk up in a flash, looking at the man through the sea of tears welled in his eyes. In the elder’s hand was half a loaf of bread, not a large loaf, but enough to fill up his palm.  It called out to him, every fiber of his being pleading with his mind to take the food. The piece was gone in an instant as the boy shoved it into his mouth, gnawing at it with his parched lips.

“There you go. Eat up, boyo,” the old man said with a smile, watching the young Idris shred the bread apart with a rabidness unseen in his fellow man. 

“You need a drink as well? The bread’s a bit stale, so I can only imagine it’ll leave you quite parched.”

By the time the man ended his sentence, the loaf of bread was long gone, torn apart by the starving boy. Ander was again tapped by something, this time a large cantine seemingly made out of the bladder of a boar. The old man removed the cover from its lid, pushing it into Ander’s chest as he spoke, “I got a second one, you drink the rest.”

With wide eyes and quick hands, Ander swiped the cantine and began downing its contents, taking breaths now and again as the water was slowly depleted.

“You mind telling me your name, lad?”