A month passed since Ander’s time with Nina: a precious, fleeting moment that was. She stayed with him always, waking with him at every new day's dawn, and falling asleep by his side as they watched the stars. There was no physical form for her to possess, but he knew she was there, watching him from the world beyond his own. Her presence had been personified in her knife, the only token he had to remember her by. Ander had grown quite fond of the blade. It had a great deal of uses and came in handy quite often. It was kept clean and dry by his hand, leaving it in good condition every time he used it. It, alongside his well-preserved portrait of his family, were the only possessions he felt a strong connection with. This, in nature, made the two items double-edged swords. Both were great for use, but both would plague him with painful memories.

A great deal had changed within him after his night with Nina. His blocked emotional canals had become unclogged, and he was finally able to begin properly mourning those he lost. He imagined if Elara or his parents were with Nina in the world beyond, hovering near him always. Thoughts of their spirits huddled around his ragged body as he slept in the snow were common in his mind. He could only imagine what his mother would say about his first love. What a beauty she is, Ander,  he could hear her cry from the ethereal veil. What gorgeous hair. What striking eyes!

His tally wasn't perfect, but by his estimate, it had been six months since the fall of Sylrel. Six months since he was forced to flee his home. Six months since he was stripped from everything, and everyone, he ever loved. Soon enough, winter would begin to melt and pass into spring, making way for warmer weather and surely better times. The arrival of the warmer months had already begun manifesting in Vimbaultir, as merchants from all across the Pact of Aeon began to descend on the city. Being known for its exports of fish and general products sourced from the river Brux, it was a jewel for merchants of every trade. A great pilgrimage would soon befall the city as all who sought out riches would flock there, ready to profit off its marinas and seaborne cargo.

His days, being long and cold, gave him room to lose himself in thought. Buried beneath his winter layers, his mind toiled away to make sense of his existence, to make sense of the countless losses he had endured, to make sense of his endless struggles. He thought long and hard, not just about himself, but of the world surrounding him. What kind of plan had been designed for his life that required so much pain, so much agony? Who, mortal or immortal, was the architect of his existence? Could a cause be found for the wickedness plaguing his existence, and the existence of his fellow man? To him, no matter what angle he approached it, all of his conclusions shared a like ending. His life, and every other mortal life like his, had been designed and sculpted by the gods. The roots of his labors, the progenitors of his suffering, were undeniably the immortals who ruled over him.

The longer he processed his emotions, the more they began to change and evolve. It didn’t take long for his woes to manifest as anger and hatred. Hatred for the world that stripped so much from him. Hatred for the ones who destined him to lose everything he held so dear. He knew it was wrong to think this way. The gods, by principle, lived to have passion for the mortals of their world. Surely, they held no disdain for him, nor grievances they purposely inflicted upon his sorrowful flame. But if that were the case - if gods only existed to love the mortals, and nothing more - then why were they fine with their creations enduring so much hardship?

He had a great many questions, but thus far no answers. There was one thing he was quite certain of, however. Whether his heart bled with sorrow or hatred, he never shook the notion that he had to keep breathing. If not, what would all of the loss have been for? What would his family's deaths have been for? What would Mr. Etro's words, and Nina’s struggle, have been for? His time in the gutter taught him not just how to survive, but that he had to survive, especially for all of those who he knew that had failed to do so.

These many thoughts, whether it was about his will to survive or his hatred for the natural world, were often pastimes for the boy. Thus, during the weaning hours of a cold, and rather unextraordinary day, he found himself snug beside the large stone wall of a merchant shop, lost in his memories and fixations. He was on the edge of waxing into sleep, filled with a blurry consciousness as a light flurry fell upon him. As late as it was in the season, it would surely be the last snowfall. The idea that it brought a bit of comfort to him. Soon the town would be reborn, and he would be free to work to regain his savings. Due to unforeseen troubles, his diet kept him just above dying from malnutrition. His concept of starvation from a year back was his everyday norm now, but for not much longer he hoped.

He began to flutter his eyes, yawning as he relaxed against the warm heat vent in the side of the building. Ander didn’t often choose to settle in the alleyways of central Vimbaultir. Being a place for the wealthier members of society, there was a greater chance he would find himself at the mercy of the city guard, who frequently made a game of chasing and antagonizing the homeless. But whenever he did choose to settle there, it was always a much grander experience. Vimbaultir, because of its status as a semi-major settlement, had advanced heating systems in the central city, keeping the cobblestone perpetually warm and barren of snow. It was a comfort to him, as it allowed him to strip off some of his heavier layers, but not all of them seeing as it was, at that time, snowing.

That was when he noticed something rather peculiar lurking in the dark shadows at his side. On top of the building facing him, squatted along the edge of the overhanging roof, was a figure cloaked in darkness. It would stand still for a moment, before making quick, snapping movements with what Ander assumed was its head. Held out from the mass was what appeared to be the outline of a curved object, unmistakably a bow. It was fitted with an undrawn arrow bearing no tension from the string, yet the shadow kept a firm grip on the bolt’s fletching. This raised a red flag inside the young Idris. Weapons were strictly forbidden from being carried inside of Vimbaultir, save for soldiers and sanctioned guards. The form, being veiled in secrecy, clearly belonged to neither of these sects. There was only one reasonable option left for Ander to consider: he was in the presence of outlaws.

His breathing quickened, yet he made sure to stay silent. If the shadow hadn’t noticed him thus far, there was a chance he could skate by the whole interaction without being detected. Armed with the goal of staying hidden, Ander sunk into the light layers he had on, trying to contain himself in the dark space provided by the merchant shop behind him. That was most likely their target if they were, in fact, outlaws. Thieves weren’t especially rare, but they were notorious for leaving no witnesses.

Ander found himself unable to turn his gaze away from the shadow, too intrigued by its mystery to properly hide himself. He was well aware of the risk he put himself in, yet his inner curiosity got the better of him. No matter how much the gutter changed him, his old soul was still buried in him.

*Woosh*

The heat vent behind him let out a large burst of air, creating muffled howls as it entered the alley. The second he was made aware of the gale, it was already too late. The shadow, once distracted by several objects that weren’t him, promptly turned its head to face the vent, and by extension, Ander. It perked up as it noticed the boy, dropping the bow onto the roof to fiddle with something strapped to the figure’s side. It pulled out a small flute-shaped device and proceeded to fit it into its mouth to blow into it. Yet when it did, it made no noise, almost like a muted jester putting on a show. It only went to further stir up Ander’s nerves. He was a witness to an outlaw, a grim title that few alive bore in Vimbaultir.

As the figure finished blowing into the whistle, it retrieved its bow, and disappeared from Ander’s view completely, sinking off into the shadows of the overhanging roof. He was left alone, without a soul to comfort or frighten him. For a moment, he questioned if it was all but a mirage, a trick played by his weary mind. A minute passed, and still there was nothing, the air only hosted the gentle breeze of the night, and the light glow of the stars above.

“*Sigh*, maybe it was just a tri- MHHH!”

From behind him, a bag was thrown over his head, as were a set of hands to silence his mouth and hold down his neck. Other sets of hands took hold of him, restraining him to the ground as he tried to call out. His weariness was whisked away in a split second, yet his attempts to fight against his assailants were fruitless. As he fought, he overheard the voices of his kidnappers.

“Really, Scout? A homeless? You were caught by a homeless?” Came a stern voice, echoing right next to his ear.

“I’m sorry, I am! I didn’t see him, I swear!” There sounded a faint voice from nearby.

“Damnit, you had one job!” The voice spoke again, subdued yet bellowing with strength. “What use is a scout if you can’t scout anything?”

“Point, lay off him,” a feminine voice rang out, quiet as all the rest were. “We all make mistakes.”

Silence followed the feminine voice, before the one named Point sighed and spoke, all the while Ander continued to struggle. “If it were a mistake, you best learn from it, Scout. Snipe, you’re on disciplinary when we get back.”

“Understood, Point.”

“Alright, Soul, Fangs, get him on a horse, we’ll make for ‘The spot’ before heading home.”

“Must we kill him?” Came the voice of Scout, to which Point replied.

“Of course we have to kill him! We can’t risk word about us hitting Monrose getting out, and he’s heard too much to either way.”

Hearing this, Ander ramped up his thrashing, trying desperately to break free of the bonds imposed by the outlaws. There came a swift strike to his head, which instantly knocked the fight out of the malnourished boy. His head filled with dazed thoughts as his body went limp, being held up by the outlaws

“We’ll be doing him a favor anyway, the kid looks like he’s hanging on by a thread.”

“Put him on Scout’s horse, we oughta make this into an actual learning experience,” called out Snipe, followed by the echoes of numerous muted footsteps. Ander, in his hazy state, felt himself rise off the ground as his abductors hauled him up by the arms. He was dragged for a short while, before being hoisted over one of the individual’s shoulders.

“This one’s so light, he must be starving,” came a new voice, one much deeper and almost monotone. Based on how easily he was positioned on the man’s shoulder, Ander assumed he had to have a right stature, unlike him.

“Yeah, we all know what that feels like,” replied the distant voice of Point. The group continued to walk under the veil of the night, giving the young Idris time to recollect himself. His body had been overcome with a sudden frigidness, concentrated around his arms and head. His winter layers, of which he had only a few on, had been stripped off him to make transporting the boy an easier task. In his state, all he had on was his old pair of nightwear - the same he had worn during Sylrel’s destruction - and his brown coat bought from Ver Del. Panic rose in him, but it died down as he felt the outline of his knife in his back pocket, as well as the portrait at his side.

“Alright, put him down. Scout, go fetch some rope from Fang’s horse!” The order came from Snipe seconds before Ander was dropped to the ground. He wasn’t tossed from the man’s shoulder, rather he was placed down somewhat gently. His arms and head were still held down, but after a few minutes, he was fully bound, unable to move freely. Again he was hoisted into the air, and placed face-up on a soft, sloped surface, before being tied down to it as well. It didn’t take him long to reason he was on the back of a horse, tied to a saddle strapped on the beast. It moved slightly, and then in a great amount as its driver saddled up. 

“Soul, take front, Fang and Blade in the middle, keep an eye on the haul.”

With a grand chorus of reigns being whipped, Ander felt himself begin to move as the group began to ride off. The ride was quite rocky, keeping him constantly fearing he would fall off the back of the horse. He still had absolutely no idea as to where he was, or where he was going, other than the faint mention of ‘The Spot’. Throughout it all, he was thoroughly terrified. That sensation was common amongst those who had just been told they were about to face execution. 

“I’m sorry.”

The words flew by him, sourcing from the master of the horse he was strapped to. It was Scout, the person he assumed had spotted him next to the air vent. He - assuming Scout was a male by how his voice carried - was the shadow posted on the overhanging roof of the alleyway, and the person responsible for his current predicament. Ander had no words for the man. He was still in shock, unable to process what was happening.

The frozen wind continued to bite at his feeble form, making him shiver profusely as the ride continued. The sounds of horseshoes against cobblestone had morphed into the sounds of crunching gravel and snow, signaling their departure from Vimbaultir. They had crossed into the woods, marking the boy’s first time out of the confines of the city since his arrival during early Autumn. The course being taken by the thieves had its fair share of turns and maneuvers, being a rather long trip in its entirety. Eventually, the death march ended, and the whole brigade came to a standstill.

“Here we are. Dismount!” Point, the presumed leader of the outlaw gang, no longer spoke in a whisper. Ander could only assume they were deep in the woods, with no other sapient person around for miles, and thus no need to conceal their activities. “Drop him.”

The bindings attaching him to the horse were cut, and thus he toppled off its back, landing face-first into the snow. His face was still covered by the brown bag, as were his hands and legs tied up with ropes.

“Cut him loose,” commanded Point, standing near the bound boy. “Sit him upright, too.”